Atlantic Shift

by Emily Barr

  I squeeze her arm. ‘You like me because you know that an insecure little girl is hiding behind the façade. You like me because you know one of my secrets.’

  She laughs. ‘One of them? I hope you don’t have too many others in that vein!’

  While I am boiling the water for a cup of tea, Sonia listens to the messages on the answer machine. ‘Evie!’ she calls. ‘I don’t believe this! Three messages, and they’re all for you!’

  The first message is from Ian.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hope we’re all right from last night. No hard feelings, yeah? Kate’s leaving the clinic tomorrow. Just wondering if you wanted to come with me to pick her up? In fact, I should rephrase that. Hoping we can use your car to go and pick her up. Call me at the hotel. Cheers.’

  I nod. I’ll fit my new practising and fitness regimes around that trip.

  The second, gratifyingly, comes from Jack.

  ‘Hello, Howard and Sonia,’ he says politely. ‘It’s Jack, calling for Evie. Just wondering how you are and if everything’s OK. Call me or drop me an email if you like. Bye.’

  I want to run upstairs and email him at once. I only feel secure if I know that Jack, my reserve team, is in place.

  My final message, unexpectedly, is from Megan. My heart sinks as she begins to speak.

  ‘Hello!’ she says, sounding slightly uncomfortable speaking to a stranger’s answer machine. ‘This is a message for Evie Silverman. If this is the wrong number, I’m sorry, please ignore me. It’s Megan. I’m still in Bristol and I’ve decided to leave my job for now. It’s time to move on. And I hope you don’t mind, but Guy found me a return to New York for a hundred and fifty pounds on the internet. Is that OK? I thought I might come out for a week or so. Only I’ve never been there and I’d like to see you. And we’ve got some things to talk about. Call me back if you can, or else email me, OK? Thanks. Bye.’

  Sonia is looking back at me with raised eyebrows. I haven’t told her or Howard about the letters, though from the way they are treating me I suspect that Mum mentioned them on the phone before I came. All Sonia knows is that I used to live with Megan, that I upset her by being rude about Guy, and that our flatshare arrangement was abruptly terminated.

  ‘Is this welcome?’ she asks tentatively.

  No! I want to say. No, it most certainly is not. I am sick of Megan. She doesn’t like me and she is the last person I want trailing around New York in my wake.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say instead, heading back to the kitchen to make our tea. ‘Last time I checked, Megan didn’t like me much. She was glad to see me go and she regretted ever inviting me to move in with her. She said so. I’m not sure why she feels the need to leap on a plane and follow me out here. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.’

  ‘She didn’t mention when she was arriving.’

  ‘Or where she was planning to stay.’

  ‘She can stay with us, if you’d like her to. Or not, if you wouldn’t.’

  I look at Sonia. Having Megan about would, I suppose, provide me with another distraction. It wouldn’t make me happy, but neither does anything else. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask her. ‘It’s been just you and Howard for years, and suddenly here I am moving into Howard’s study, and then my flatmate turns up too. It’s only a little house, I know that. Why don’t I book her a room in Kate and Ian’s hotel?’

  ‘This is a three-bedroom house, and it’s been a long time since it’s been used as such. If she’s going to be here a week, and if you plan to spend time with her, she must stay with us.’

  Sonia knows about the letters. She wants me to have company. I take the milk from the fridge and pour it into our cups.

  ‘If you’re positive.’ I hand her a mug. She takes it.

  ‘I’m positive.’

  chapter fifteen

  Late March

  I feel nervous on Meg’s behalf, because the afternoon she lands is the first stormy day since I arrived in New York. I drive to JFK through torrential rain, hoping my car will not be struck by lightning, and wondering whether the rubber tyres will really stop me being electrocuted if it is. The sky is black, and I hope her flight is delayed, for her sake. I imagine Meg’s plane skidding on the runway, and smashing into another one, and bursting into sky-high flames.

  In my head I replay the conversation I had with Jack at lunchtime. We spoke for over an hour. It was a comfortable conversation which reassured me that we do have things to talk about. We can be easy with each other. Things do not have to be dramatic. If I crack up any further, I can go back to him. I don’t want to have to do that, but I know that he will be there if it becomes necessary. I trust Jack.

  I didn’t let him know what I was thinking. I just chatted to him, and he chatted back to me, and I think we were both happy.

  Jack said he misses me and that, though he is still with Sophia, his heart is not in the relationship.

  ‘You should get out then,’ I told him, grinning to myself. ‘It’s not fair on Sophia.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘You know I’m right.’

  He paused. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  I suppose I am using him, but I don’t care. I have to look after myself right now. There is no alternative. Nothing else matters.

  Meg saunters into the arrivals lounge thirty minutes late, and not noticeably injured or traumatised.

  ‘Megan!’ I call, causing the fat woman in front of me to turn round and look at me.

  ‘Hey!’ she says. ‘I’ve seen you on TV!’

  Out comes my one-hundred-watt smile. ‘You probably have,’ I tell her, ‘but only on an ad.’

  ‘Only an ad!’ She laughs. ‘Well, it sure is great to meet you.’

  ‘I’m Evie,’ I tell her, prolonging the moment.

  ‘You’re British! I’m Ray.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ray,’ I tell her, as Britishly as I can.

  ‘And you! You have a nice day, now!’

  By now Meg is by my side, and I turn to kiss her cheek. I study her face and try to work out why she is here. I trust no one.

  She looks exhausted. Her hair is scraped back from her face, the ponytail down her back makes her look far too young, and she’s wearing no make-up. She has lost weight, too. Her cheekbones jut out and cast shadows over her hollow face.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask lightly. ‘How was the flight? I was thinking of you. What a storm! It must have been horrible.’

  She looks surprised. ‘Oh, that,’ she says. ‘Little bit bumpy. Nothing too bad. I always look at the flight attendants, and if they don’t sit down and strap themselves in I know it’s nothing to worry about. We did take a few attempts to land, though.’ She looks at my face, and away. ‘How are we getting back to your dad’s place? Are you sure that it’s all right for me to stay?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got the car.’

  ‘You drive? Everyone can drive except me. I think I missed my window by not bothering when I was seventeen.’

  I take one of her bags. ‘Oh yes. I am driving like a regular New Yorker these days, as Ian will testify. I scared him rigid the other day,’ I babble. ‘His fingernails were practically bleeding from hanging on so tight. I hope the rain’s let up a bit. I was crawling all the way here.’ When I pause to glance at her, she looks away from me, her face tightly shut. Fine, I want to tell her. You wanted to come. I never invited you. I bite it back.

  It is still raining, but the thunder and lightning are more distant. I concentrate on the road, and try to work out why Megan is here. She is clearly still furious with me. This should make for an interesting week. She sits in silence while I negotiate the wet roads and the evening traffic. I try to blame her unresponsiveness on exhaustion, but nobody invites herself to stay with a friend, then clams up and refuses to speak to them. I ask more about the flight, but she answers with monosyllables.

  ‘Why are you here when you still hate me?’ I ask, not looking at her, but indicating carefully and moving into the lane on my
left.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks, blankly.

  ‘I mean exactly what I said. Words of one syllable. Not difficult to understand.’

  I feel her looking at me, but keep my eyes on the road. ‘Guy said I needed a break,’ she says uncertainly.

  ‘You can’t stay with me if you don’t even want to speak to me.’ I realise how churlish I sound, and try to be more reasonable. ‘Howard and Sonia are looking forward to meeting you,’ I add, more pleasantly, ‘and I thought we could be friends again now.’ I didn’t really. I don’t need a friend. ‘But you are clearly . . .’ I search for a word, and something Sonia says comes to mind. ‘Not OK right now.’

  ‘You sound American! Americans say “not OK ” like that.’

  ‘It’s a funny figure of speech, isn’t it? So bland. I hadn’t noticed that I’d picked it up. I’ve been hanging out with Sonia. She’s lovely.’

  Megan’s voice is taut. ‘You’re right, I am not OK, but it’s not about you, if you can imagine such a thing. Things haven’t been great at Mum and Dad’s, to be honest.’

  I look at her for a moment, to check she’s not crying. She is close to it. ‘No?’ I ask. The last thing I need is Megan landing herself on me with family problems. I came here to escape from things like that, to sort myself out.

  ‘No. It’s complicated.’ We sit in silence for a while. I suppose her parents hate me for bringing a pervert to their daughter’s door.

  ‘Sod it,’ she says suddenly. ‘It’s not complicated at all. It couldn’t be simpler. Dad hits Mum. He beats her up. Quite often.’

  I am surprised. ‘Does he?’

  ‘I think he’s always done it.’ She stops and I hear her take a few deep breaths. ‘I know he’s been doing it at least since I was eleven. That was when I became aware of it. But it’s worse now.’

  ‘Does he do it in front of you?’

  ‘Not exactly. He does it when I can hear. Something will go wrong, something absolutely tiny and utterly insignificant, and if I’m not in the room, he’ll start shouting at her. Or even if I am in the room. Then I walk out because I can’t bear it, and Mum’ll call after me to stay because she knows he won’t actually do it if I’m there. She sounds so desperate, she begs me to stay, but I go. I can’t do anything else. I know it sounds awful, but I can’t get involved or the whole family would fall apart. And next time I see her, she’ll have some insulting, crap story about tripping over a stool, or walking into a door because she hadn’t realised it was shut. I try to confront her, but I see it in her eyes. She’s pleading with me not to talk about it. She puts up with it. She is a stupid fucking bitch. And she thinks I am too, if she reckons I’ll believe her lies.’

  For Megan to swear, I know it must be bad. ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘I’d like to think he wasn’t my dad, to be honest. I’m going to start calling him Oliver, like you do with your dad.’

  ‘For a very different reason.’

  ‘For a very different reason. You do it because you’re friends. I’m going to do it because I hate him.’

  I reach out and touch her left hand with my right hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Meg,’ I tell her. ‘Stay as long as you like.’

  She pulls herself together to meet Howard and Sonia. Megan has a glass of the wine I have bought specially for the occasion. Howard gallantly uncorks it for us, and we both drink quickly and accept refills. Meg assures them, too, that, actually, the flight was fine, that she hadn’t realised how severe the storm was until she had landed.

  I try to read Howard and Sonia’s impressions of this wan, unhappy girl who has turned up on their doorstep, but they are impossible to interpret. Perhaps they are like me: perhaps they present false faces to the world. I know both of them have been through hell, and they never show any scars. So they must be covering them. They both happily describe themselves as ‘recovering alcoholics’, but never talk about what their respective lives were like, back then. I have no idea how Howard used to behave when he was with Mum. Is it possible, I wonder, to keep alcoholism under control, to function as a loving husband and father while dependent on drink? Is that dependence a gradual process, or is there a day when you go from liking a drink to being a booze-fuelled monster? I can’t picture my calm, sane father in a whisky-driven rage. If there is such a thing as a rational, highly functioning alcoholic, then Howard must have been it.

  I wonder whether he started off like me. More and more, when I feel stressed, I reach for a bottle. I am aware of what I am doing, but I cannot tackle it yet. I need my crutch.

  Megan goes to bed early, and I take my cello as far away from her tiny room as possible, and do more terrified practice. Lincoln Center audiences must be among the most discerning in the world, and they will come ready to sneer at me for the fact that I am only known as the Ad Girl. I am uncomfortably aware that I can’t cruise through any more, that no one makes it in America without a reason. Nobody gets there by being mediocre. I don’t want America at my feet, exactly. I just don’t want to let people down. I need to keep my face in the public eye, because I need to keep up the pretence that I am glamorous and successful and in some way enviable.

  Alexis has been calling. He wants to take me out to dinner again. I am back on the publicity wheel. At least my days will be full now. They will be packed. He even offered to rent me an apartment while I’m working towards the concert. If it’s a reasonable size, Kate, Ian and, if she’s still here, even Megan can come to stay with me. I will cram my flat with friends.

  I go to bed pleased with my progress. I am, currently, still playing it like a substandard Jacqueline du Pré, but I’m starting to add some of my own touches. All I ask is that I don’t embarrass myself and Alexis. Day and night, I imagine my disgrace. I picture expensively dressed women standing up in their seats and swishing out of the auditorium in disgust, their men following apologetically behind them. I imagine myself making the final flourish, playing the emphatic final chord of the concerto, and a deafening, crushing silence. Sometimes, in my dreams, I look out and see the audience asleep. Every single one of them, even my friends and my father.

  It is pitch black when I wake with a start. My body goes into panic mode instantly. A floorboard creaks, and, as my bedroom door is opened silently, a little light from the street outside seeps into the room. I hear breathing. The intruder stands on the threshold, looking at me.

  I am sweating and shaking. I have never known how I would react to something like this. I try to breathe silently. I try to think of a weapon. There is a telephone on the desk, but I wouldn’t get to it in time. My best weapon is my voice.

  I fill my head all day long with anything I can think of to avoid having to think about the realities of a stalker. Now there is someone in my bedroom. I have to face it.

  I reach out a trembling hand, and switch on the desk light which is on the floor, by my head. Then I spin round, ready to scream.

  ‘Megan,’ I say, too loudly. My heart is beating so fast, so strongly, that it must be audible to her. ‘Meg,’ I say. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, mildly, and sits down on the edge of my mattress.

  She looks like a Victorian ghost, in a long white nightie. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and falls over her shoulders.

  I check the clock on the desk.

  ‘It’s half past four,’ I tell her angrily. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you. But I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say harshly. ‘You can’t sleep - why should I?’ She smiles, missing my sarcasm.

  ‘I’ve tried reading a book,’ she says, ‘but I can’t get into it.’

  Reluctantly, I move up, and she sits beside me and pulls the duvet over her legs.

  ‘So what’s wrong?’ I decide to be brusque about it. ‘Jet lag or parents?’

  She lies down. Her feet touch mine, deep under the covers.

  ‘Both,’ she says, putting her head on the pillow. She has more c
olour in her cheeks now, and she looks me in the eye as she speaks. ‘Parents, mainly. All those years I ignored it, just pretended it wasn’t happening and got on with my life. But I’ve always known he was doing it. I wish I could still pretend. Your mum and Phil seemed so normal at Christmas. I wish they were my parents. And your dad and Sonia.’

  ‘None of them has had an easy ride.’ I sigh. I do feel bad for Megan over this, so I start trying to say the right things. ‘Do you think we need to encourage your mum to get out? She could go to a refuge or something. I’m sure there are places like that in Bristol.’

  ‘There are. I found the details of Women’s Aid, who have a helpline, and left them out for Mummy, where Daddy wouldn’t see them. Oliver. Where Oliver wouldn’t see them. But she didn’t do anything, and when I asked her, she told me she’d thrown them away and I shouldn’t interfere.’ Meg sniffs. ‘I shouldn’t have deserted her this time, but what can I do?’

  ‘Keep on at her, I guess.’ I want to switch off the light, but I know that if I did I would fall asleep. ‘Make sure she knows there are options when she feels ready to take them.’

  ‘It’s not just Mum and Oliver either,’ she continues, as I shut my eyes and lean my head back. ‘It’s Guy as well.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, in what I hope is the voice of someone who is too tired for any further discussion. I do not want to talk about Guy. In my heart, I know my letters are not from him, that his secret is something entirely different. I cannot really believe he would harm me. That is why he is my favourite potential correspondent. He is the safe option.

  Megan’s words come out in a rush. ‘He was so flipping keen for me to come out here,’ she says. ‘He found the flight, paid for it as a present, made me ring you, got it all sorted. He put me on the plane as soon as I could pack my bag. And I don’t know why. When he told me he’d found a cheap flight to New York, I was over the moon. Because I thought he meant for us both to go, together. We’ve been a bit weird with each other lately, since you and I fell out. In fact he was sending me away. That’s how it feels. He kept encouraging me to get in touch with you. He said you needed me and I had to put aside our differences and be your friend. He has no right to tell me how to be with my friends.’