by Kate Eberlen
Inside it is much darker than she anticipated, a vast greeny-grey Gothic vault. Her eyes take a moment to adjust. The only natural light filters through stained-glass windows projecting their brightly coloured images onto the gloomy columns. Letty gazes up, thinking about how miraculous it must have been to see the sun shining through the stained glass for the first time, how it would make you believe that God was anointing the building with his blessing.
Sometimes she wonders whether if she had faith, her life would be simpler. Her grandmother went to mass every Sunday and she always feels closest when Letty is in a church. Did Marina really believe, she wonders, or did she simply find it comforting, as she does, to reflect quietly in a peaceful space filled with centuries of reverence? It’s strange how when someone dies, there are all sorts of questions that you never thought of asking.
Letty remembers sitting in Santa Croce in Gerusalemme on her first day in Rome, not even a month ago. She is a different person now.
It is as if part of her has been freed by love and yet part of her is still paralysed by fear, and she cannot find a balance, constantly trying to stop herself tipping between delusional joy and hopeless despair.
Sometimes, in her anonymous hotel room, she wonders whether she has dreamed it all.
These facts are certain.
She went to Rome. She fell in love with Alf. And she was sure that he loved her back.
Then Spencer appeared.
It was definitely Spencer, or Stuart, or whatever his name really is. He was staring straight at her as he approached with a horrible smile on his face, relishing her fear.
And Alf knew him.
Her only choice was to run away.
Why Spencer was there, how he knew she was there, is a mystery. Alf told her he had things to sort. She presumed a girlfriend. Was that the blonde woman who was holding Spencer’s arm, but kissed Alf as if she owned him?
Whatever narrative she invents to explain the collision of the four of them there in that sunny Roman street, changing it, in a second, from Paradise to Hell, all lead to the same conclusion: her relationship with Alf is over. Alf knows Spencer and, whether he was part of a plan to lure her, or whether he was an innocent pawn in whatever game Spencer is playing, he will discover what sort of woman she really is, and he will not want her after that.
The last thing left to do in Milan is go up on the roof terraces of the cathedral.
There’s airport-style security at the entrance, a queue for the lift, a walk along the gulley beside grey Gothic buttresses, then a narrow staircase up to the highest terrace, where Letty steps out into a place of such light and serenity she feels almost airborne. Stretching before her is an avenue of delicate spires, dozens of them, all pointing towards Heaven, each impossibly narrow spindle of stone topped with the statue of a saint, ornamented and delicate, like white lace against the sky.
She notices that visitors fall silent as they arrive, the beauty literally breathtaking as they struggle to comprehend the skill and devotion of craftsmen centuries before. She sits on a stone ledge feeling totally safe in this celestial place, never wanting to leave.
Far below, the tiny figures of pedestrians traverse the geometric patterns of the square, going about their daily lives. Down there in the human realm, life weighs heavily, whereas here among the saints she feels light and insubstantial, as if the burdens have been lifted.
Letty wonders if everyone who looks down thinks about jumping. It would be so easy to end all the pain. Just one step, one leap, to disappear forever.
35
FRANCES
The view from the warehouse apartment is breathtaking: the City skyline directly opposite; below the balcony, the Thames. It’s high tide. A tourist boat passes by, snatches of the commentary blowing in on the breeze.
Living here would be energizing, Frances thinks. There’s a kind of rhythm to the river flowing past. With boats going back and forth all day, it would be like living on the heartbeat of London.
Each flat she has seen offers her a different future. There’s a part of her that would like to spend the rest of her life viewing properties, imagining how she would look in them. Like trying on clothes.
‘Great for summer parties,’ says the estate agent, who’s called Ben. He’s in his early thirties. She’s cheered by the fact that he thinks she’s the sort of person who has parties – which, after all, she is, or was, or will be, anyway.
Ben’s been showing her flats for the past couple of days. They’ve developed a bit of a flirtatious relationship.
‘One very spacious bedroom,’ he says, throwing open the door to a room with a huge double bed and a wall of mirror behind.
‘Yes,’ says Frances.
She sees her reflection next to Ben’s. She’s wearing a navy blue sleeveless shift dress. Classically smart. She’s never quite sure that her arms are still good enough, but from this distance they look fine. Her hairdresser says the fringe takes years off her. How many years she didn’t specify.
‘Your problem,’ says Ben, looking directly into Frances’s eyes in the mirror, ‘is you don’t really know what you want, do you?’
Frances wonders if she correctly detects a slight frisson of invitation. How far would he be prepared to go to make a sale?
‘So true,’ she says, returning his gaze.
It’s been quite a shock realizing how little she can get for her budget in any of the central areas. The only thing she knows for sure is that she wants to be able to walk to the theatre; that’s what she likes doing, so why shouldn’t she? But that means sacrificing a bedroom for a view. She thinks she’ll be happier with a view, although she was tempted by a little Georgian attic duplex in Lamb’s Conduit Street, where the neighbourhood is more bookish and Bloomsbury.
‘Thoughts?’ Ben says into the mirror.
‘What do you think?’ Frances says, attempting a coquettish smile.
‘Well, if you were my mother,’ he says, ‘I’d probably say go for the duplex, although with that, there are the stairs.’
In the mirror, Frances sees the smile drain from her face.
She’s almost tempted to put in an immediate offer for the hipper apartment they’re standing in, just to show him how fucking youthful and cool she is.
Instead, she says tightly, ‘I’m going to have to do some thinking. Cast my net a little wider, possibly.’
By which she means to imply leaving him for another estate agent, but she sees that the old-fashioned expression has simply confirmed his view of her. She probably should have said ‘reset her filters’ or something.
‘Not a problem,’ he says.
It’s an expression that makes her furious, with its implication that she has troubled him but that he’s prepared to let it go. It’s his bloody job to show her properties, she wants to scream. And as a matter of fact, it is a problem for him, because she probably won’t be buying through his company now, and the market’s dropping with all the uncertainty and more to come.
‘Can you bloody believe it?’ Frances says to Oscar at lunch.
She’s glad they’ve come to the Delaunay, where the atmosphere is civilized, the waiters professional, the decor reassuringly timeless. It’s balm for her frazzled nerves. The thought crosses her mind that if she bought an apartment in Covent Garden she could come here for breakfast, lunch and dinner if she so pleased. She quite likes the idea of having a table where she always sits.
However, her budget wouldn’t buy her much square footage in this area.
‘To be fair,’ says Oscar, ‘you are old enough to be his mother, darling, even though you’re looking fabulous!’
Frances gives her son’s hand a squeeze across the table.
‘I think it was the mention of the stairs that finished me off,’ she tells him. ‘It was like he was saying, next stop retirement home, you know?’
‘Frances, he’s an estate agent whose ambition is probably to be a contestant on The Apprentice.’
‘He wears loa
fers with no socks.’
‘What more do you need to know?’
‘What is that all about anyway?’ Frances asks. ‘How bad do those shoes smell at the end of the day?’
‘An estate agent with stinking feet! Frances, you can do better than that.’
‘It’s not that I wanted to,’ she says. ‘It would just be nice to feel that someone finds me attractive, you know?’
She knows she shouldn’t be asking her son for reassurance, even if he is gay and nearly forty.
‘Frances, you are gorgeous and Ivo is a sad bastard,’ says Oscar. ‘If you want to find someone, it won’t be a problem. Now, I hardly dare tell you my news . . .’
Frances is grateful for him taking charge. She despises neediness.
‘What news? Tell me something to cheer me up.’
‘We’re having a baby!’
It’s almost exactly the same feeling she had when Oscar brought his first boyfriend home. The moment that the two boys came in and stood together in the kitchen, all she could think about was that she absolutely must have the right reaction. Then she ended up being so over-the-top enthusiastic it looked as if she were overcompensating, as if she didn’t approve, when in fact she was delighted it was all out in the open.
‘Oh, darling!’ she says now, her eyes welling.
‘Sorry, I should have left it for another day.’
‘No, of course not,’ says Frances, sniffing. ‘It’s nothing to do with me being a grandmother.’
Although of course it is.
‘Are you adopting or getting a surrogate, or what?’ She struggles to find normal questions to ask.
‘Turkey baster with a lesbian couple we know. We’re going to share the parenting.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘About what?’
‘The turkey baster.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I just have this theory that happy children come from great sex.’
‘Well, that’s a bit weird, really, and kind of impossible in this case.’
‘You’re completely right,’ Frances says. ‘And I am delighted. I really am. Do tell Raj I am, won’t you?’
‘I will. It may not happen for years, though.’
‘I won’t start knitting just yet, then.’
For a moment Oscar looks worried, and then they’re both laughing at the joke. Good God, thinks Frances. I really am getting old if he thinks for one millisecond I’m taking up knitting.
‘How’s Letty?’ Oscar asks.
‘Letty seems to be having an absolute ball. She sends me photos, which seems like a good sign, don’t you think?’
‘Great stuff!’ says Oscar, as the waiter arrives to take their order.
‘I’m going to have the chicken salad,’ says Frances. ‘I never usually eat salad out because it’s such a bore dealing with lettuce and talking at the same time. Here they chop everything up into little pieces.’
‘Next stop retirement home?’ says Oscar.
She laughs. Oscar always makes her feel better about herself, somehow. They bounce off one another. He doesn’t tolerate her self-doubt.
‘Letty and I did such a fun thing the other evening,’ Frances tells him, once the waiter has gone. ‘There was a live relay from Covent Garden. I was at the Opera House. Letty was watching in a cinema in Rome. In the interval, she WhatsApped to say that the camera was on the stalls, and where was I sitting? So I went down to the front by the orchestra pit and waved at the camera, and she saw me and WhatsApped that she was waving too! It’s funny – hundreds of miles away from each other, but standing there on my own at the front of the Opera House waving like a mad thing, I felt closer to her than I have in years.’
‘Which opera was it?’ Oscar asks.
‘It was a ballet, actually. Manon.’
‘Letty went to the ballet?’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean. She texted and said, guess what, I’m seeing Manon in Rome. Just wondered if you were there. It’s a good sign, don’t you think?’
Both of them are always cautious about being too optimistic about Letty, because in the past, whenever they’ve thought a problem was over, something worse seems to have happened.
The waiter brings their food, tops up their glasses, then disappears without disturbing them.
Oscar squeezes lemon over his schnitzel.
‘Does she know?’ he asks, allowing the elephant that has been stalking the sides of the room to come charging to their table.
Three and a half weeks ago, the evening after Letty left, Ivo said he wanted to talk to Frances about their future. He made a nice dinner, opened a bottle of wine, then told her that he had been having an affair for the past seven years and would be leaving her once the house was sold.
Seven fucking years. It was the length of the deception that had killed Frances, rather than the deception itself. Ivo’s a good-looking man. Good for his age too. She wasn’t dumb enough to think that he wouldn’t have had temptations, especially since the menopause had put her off sex. But that had only been for the past two years, and she never thought that he’d leave her because of it. Maybe find some other woman for sex – sometimes she’d even felt it would be a relief if he did, so she wouldn’t feel so guilty for always being tired – but not a relationship. Seven years! She’s tortured herself by replaying every single moment that they’ve spent together during that time, in the context of his duplicity and her stupidity.
‘I haven’t told Letty yet,’ Frances informs him. ‘I can’t bear to spoil it when she sounds so happy for once.’
‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Oscar looks concerned.
‘Why should it be me that tells her?’ Frances takes another tack. ‘He deliberately left it until after she’d gone.’
‘True,’ says Oscar doubtfully.
‘He’s moved in with her, you know.’
‘Yes. He told me.’
‘Are you in contact with him much?’ Frances tries to make the question casual, although inside she’s burning with indignation.
‘I’ve spoken to him a couple of times. He asked me if Letty knew,’ says Oscar.
And what else did they say to each other? Did Oscar give his father hell? Or were they perfectly civilized? Man to man. You know how it is. These things happen. A knife of jealousy slices through Frances. What she hates most about the whole thing is how she now feels in competition with Ivo for their children’s love.
‘You do know,’ she says, hot with anger, ‘that what he really wants is for me to tell Letty. Because even he can’t think of a way of spinning that he’s been having an affair for the last seven years – even when Letty was ill, even when she was in hospital – with a woman who’s closer to her age than his. But I’m not going to.’
The tears that are always there these days, particularly, she’s noticed, when she’s decided on a firm, considered position, start to fall, and she’s trying to keep them back with the fingers of one hand to stop her mascara running, like one of those soppy contestants on reality television, while the other hand searches for a tissue in her bag. Not in the Delaunay, for God’s sake!
‘Frances . . .’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, finally locating a tissue. ‘It’s just . . . it’s just . . .’
She knows she shouldn’t say what she wants to because it will sound like it’s all about her, not about Letty, but she can’t stop herself.
‘It’s just . . . I’m terrified that Letty will take his side.’
‘Of course she won’t!’ says Oscar, so emphatically that a piece of the schnitzel he’s slicing flies across the table. ‘Anyway, there really aren’t sides, are there? You’re our mother and we’re here to support you. He’s a lying bastard, but he’s still our father – we’ll just see you separately from now. We’re not children.’
‘She’ll think I deserve it for being such a shrew . . .’ Now the tears are unstoppable. ‘She always thinks I’m the unreasonable one.’
‘Fra
nces, you’re not unreasonable, you’re strong. You’ve had to be. God knows, you had to hold your own with Marina.’
‘Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to act like a docile little Catholic wife,’ Frances sniffs. ‘Not that Marina was ever that herself.’
‘Frances, you’re brilliant in all sorts of ways, but docile wife is not something you’d be capable of for more than a minute. And Ivo wouldn’t have wanted that either. He loved that you were a proper feminist. He was proud of you.’
‘Only because it meant he didn’t have to face any confrontation, or pay the bills. He sub-licensed that to me, while all the time looking like a right-on man. It suited his self-image. He’s always been so vain. And now he’s looking like a man who’s attractive to women half his age. God, it’s such a mid-life fucking cliché!’
‘You were happy too, though. Weren’t you?’
The thing Frances most hates is people trying to make you see the positives when something really awful has happened. She doesn’t want mediation, she wants endless undiluted sympathy and loyal ganging-up. She supposes it’s a natural human instinct to try to heal someone who is in pain. But it seems to have the opposite effect on her.
‘I thought I was happy,’ she concedes. ‘But he’s destroyed that, and I don’t feel like being reasonable and grown up about it. And actually, I would like you to take sides!’ Frances tries to make a joke out of it, while at the same time meaning every word.
‘I’m always on your side, whatever. You know that,’ says Oscar calmly. ‘And Letty will be too. I’m just not sure it’s fair to keep her in the dark, especially when we’re always telling her to be open with us.’
‘But I’m only doing it so she can have a nice time without worrying.’
‘But isn’t that why we all hide things from our family?’ Oscar says. ‘Thinking you know better is where it all starts to go wrong.’
How lucky she is to have Oscar, Frances thinks, as she watches him walking away down Aldwych towards the Strand. She’s thought it since the moment he was born, but at the same time been surprised at thinking it. Growing up she’d never had any strong maternal instincts, but that feeling of being fortunate, blessed even, to have somehow produced such a special being, is as powerful now as it was when she first held Oscar in her arms in the delivery room. He was a tiny infant and she didn’t know what sort of mother she would be, but she always somehow knew that they would get each other through the experience. And that is how it has been.