‘I need to see you,’ I insist. ‘We need to talk about this.’
‘Rachel,’ he says at last. ‘This is not what I wanted.’
‘Oh, I know that—’ I stop. Andrew is coming out of the living room; I hear the flick of the light switch and the closing of the door as he goes into the downstairs loo. ‘I want to see you tomorrow,’ I whisper.
‘Rachel, I’m busy—’
‘You can’t just abandon me!’ I hear the loo flush, one door opening and another close. I hear the echo of my voice, too loud. ‘This is your problem, too!’
‘Maybe we could meet after work,’ Simon says reluctantly. But just so that I should know where I stand he adds, ‘I won’t have long, though. I’m going to a client dinner at eight.’
We arrange to meet at that same bar, by the Festival Hall. I wonder if there is some irony in his choice, or if it really is just convenient. Also, I wonder why it wouldn’t have been just as easy for me to go to his flat, but of course, really, I know why.
He is there before me, sitting at a table on which he has placed two small glasses of wine. He rises when he sees me, and he kisses me on the cheek, as if we are friends.
And then we sit, and the first thing he says is, ‘Do you know what you are going to do?’
‘No.’
He looks at me, as if waiting for me to say more. And when I don’t, his expression turns incredulous. ‘Rachel, you know what you have to do,’ he says.
He is wearing a dark-grey suit, with a slightly lighter grey line running through it, at approximately one-inch intervals. His shirt is blue, the same shade as his eyes, but it is cleverly woven so that where the light catches it, it seems darker, almost two-tone. His tie is blue too, with a solid diagonal grey stripe. He certainly knows how to dress.
‘Rachel,’ he repeats emphatically. ‘You do know what you have to do.’
I am strangely detached, from myself, from all of this. I think of Jono; he will have finished his homework by now. He will be ensconced in front of the TV. Tell your dad I’ve just popped out, I said, if he’s home before me. I was too fraught to think of any proper excuse.
‘See your doctor,’ Simon tells me now. ‘He’ll put you in touch with the right person.’ And when I do not respond he says, ‘For God’s sake, Rachel, I cannot do this. I cannot be . . . involved.’
‘But you are involved.’
I watch the colour creep into his face. I remember how he used to blush when he was a boy. Leave my brother alone, Vanessa would laugh, batting his flirtatious tormentors away. He’s far too young.
He isn’t too young now.
He clears his throat. ‘Rachel,’ he says tightly, ‘I do not blame you. But this is not part of my plan.’
He had a plan? I look at him, curious. I thought it was all easy come, easy go. That, I thought, was part of the appeal of the Reibers. I thought it was only uptights like me who needed plans.
More people arrive to join those already at the table beside us; they greet each other in a noisy burst of screeches and laughter and calls for drinks. Simon glances sideways at them, irritated, and then shoots his wrist out of his cuff and checks his watch.
He leans towards me across the table. ‘I did not expect this to happen,’ he says.
And I say, ‘I know, Simon. But it has happened.’
I am not making this easy for him, but why should I? Who, after all, is going to make it easy for me? He is looking agitated now. He studies me with what appears to be annoyance. Certainly it isn’t affection. I stare back at him and there are tears prickling at the backs of my eyes.
‘What do you want from me, Rachel?’ he says, but it isn’t a question. He doesn’t really want to know what I want from him. Oh no. He doesn’t want an answer at all. It’s more of a dismissal, a command, a sort of Stop wanting from me, Rachel.
So I say nothing and the tears begin their watery descent down my cheeks.
The flush on his face deepens. He’s afraid I’m going to make a scene. Or is he thinking, as I am, of that other occasion when we were here in this bar? Then, when I cried, he took my hand. Forgive me, he said so earnestly, so romantically, and took me back to his flat.
He bites his lip. His hand, on the table, twitches nervously. ‘You have to get rid of it,’ he blurts out in exasperation. ‘Of course you do. I cannot be any part of this, if you are stupid enough to choose otherwise.’ He stops. He frowns. He shifts in his seat, clearly discomforted by his outburst. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, but that’s the way it is.’
I stare at him. A tear has turned the corner of my chin and is trickling down my throat. My nose is running too, but I do not stop it. I cannot move. I cannot speak. Vaguely I am aware that the people at the next table are taking an interest in us now; out of the corner of my eye I see heads turning to get a better look. I do not care, but Simon does. Simon is squirming.
‘Rachel, please,’ he hisses at me. ‘Stop crying.’
But I can’t stop crying.
Simon glances at his watch again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I have to go.’ And then he puts his hand to his inside jacket pocket and takes out his wallet. This he opens, and tucked inside is a cheque, already written. ‘Look,’ he says, sliding it across the table to me, ‘this might help.’
I stare at him, appalled.
‘Take it,’ he says. ‘Please. And . . . do what you have to do.’
Whatever I was expecting it wasn’t this: a pay-off. I feel as cheap and dispensable as a whore. And like a whore, I slowly reach out a hand.
As soon as my finger touches that cheque Simon relaxes. The deal is done.
‘Goodbye, Rachel,’ he says and stands to leave. ‘And -well . . . look after yourself.’
I watch as he weaves his way through the other tables and pushes his way out of the door. He walks fast, gone from me. He doesn’t look back.
I sit there a while. Now that there is no one to cry for, I wipe away my tears. I have no tissue and have to make do with my sleeve. I sniff loudly, and a woman on the next table looks around at me, and then looks away.
I know I shouldn’t, but I drink my wine down in three swift gulps. I drink Simon’s too, as he didn’t touch it. The alcohol melts my head and turns my limbs to water. I pick up that cheque and look at it. I think of ripping it up, but who would benefit then? Certainly not my baby, should she ever have the chance to exist. And so I put it in my purse. It will be no great loss to Simon.
Twenty thousand pounds. Not much for a child’s life.
TWENTY-THREE
The train back to Surbiton is packed with people still on their way home from work, but I manage to get a seat by the window, squashed in beside a large man reading a paper; his arms, his newspaper, his legs are all in my space. The man opposite me is also too big for these small seats and his knees knock against mine as the train moves. My feet are cramped between his, pigeon-toed. Repeatedly, obliviously, he treads on my shoes. I feel trapped, crushed, invisible.
I look out of the window and watch the grey of the city chug by. I do not know what I am going to do. I am too miserable to think. Simon’s cheque sits in my purse, which is inside my handbag, squashed on my lap. Its presence is like a dirty secret, a pointed finger; confirmation of my shame. And yet I hold onto my bag tightly, lest I should lose it.
And then my phone rings, its tinny, irritating tune shrieking into my gloom. The man opposite me tuts; the man beside me shuffles his newspaper in pointed, exaggerated annoyance. I dig into my bag, drag out my phone and see Janice’s number flashing up on the screen.
I brace myself and whisper, ‘Hello.’
‘Where are you?’ she demands straight away, and there is something in her voice that sends a flick of alarm snaking its way up my spine.
‘I’m . . . on a train,’ I whisper. ‘Why?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going home,’ I say. ‘Why? What’s the matter?’
For a moment she is silent and that snake of alarm crawls deep
er. And then she says, ‘Andrew phoned me.’
My heart flips inside my chest. ‘When?’
About half an hour ago,’ she says woodenly.
‘What did he want?’
The man sitting next to me shakes his newspaper as if he was shaking a dog and clears his throat noisily. I shift around as far as I can, turning my back to him.
‘He wanted to know if you were really with me on Friday night,’ Janice says.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him,’ Janice says, her voice rising now in indignation, ‘that he should ask you that.’
My heart, now, is pounding. ‘Well, that pretty much answered him, didn’t it?’
‘Well, what did you expect me to say?’ Janice yells in my ear, and the man opposite me tuts and huffs and bangs his knee against mine. ‘I’m not going to lie for you, Rachel.’
‘No,’ I snap back. ‘I know you’re not.’ Then, ‘What else did he say?’
‘He asked if I knew what was going on.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told him to ask you,’ Janice replies, emphasizing each word as if I’m an idiot.
‘Shit!’ I say.
‘This is your own fault,’ she says, starting up on a lecture now. ‘You’ve brought it on yourself. And you can’t expect me to go covering up for you.’
‘Where was he?’
‘What?’
‘Where was he when he phoned?’ I ask. ‘Was he at home?’
‘Well, I assume so. That’s why I called you, on your mobile.’
‘Shit,’ I say again, and the woman sitting next to the man opposite me blurts out, Oh, for heaven’s sake, as if she’s never heard the word ‘shit’ before. ‘Now what am I going to do?’
‘That,’ Janice says ominously, ‘is for you to work out.’ And she hangs up on me.
It’s just gone nine when I get home. The light is off in the living room, but the hall light is on and the upstairs, too. I push open the front door and Andrew’s shoes are on the edge of the mat, lined up side by side; his briefcase just beside them. The house is silent.
All the way back from the station I have been trying to think up lies and excuses, but there are none. The best I could do is bat it back, and blame Janice; say that she’s just making trouble. Of course I was with Janice, I could say. She’s just being awkward. You know what she’s like; any opportunity to stir things.
But it won’t wash, I know it. Andrew is many things, but he isn’t a fool.
And anyway, what is the point?
And so I walk into the house with a leaden sense of fatalism. What will be will be, I tell myself over and over. What will be will be.
He’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table, facing the door; I walk into that kitchen as though into a lions’ den, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. He is sitting with his elbows propped on the table and his chin resting on his hands, simultaneously condemning me, and blocking me out. His eyes are fixed on the table and his mouth is a grim, taut line. I see him like that and I hate him. Who is he to sit in judgement on me, when he hasn’t cared one little bit about the hell that has gone on inside my head for the last however many years? Look at him, sitting there like that; isn’t it a little late to start acting as though he cared in some way? Am I supposed to be afraid, I wonder? I almost want to laugh, but it’s the dangerous, maniacal laugh of hysteria too loose, too close to breaking out.
I go to the sink and pour myself a glass of water, and quickly I drink it down. I place the glass back down on the counter. My hand is shaking. Andrew doesn’t move.
‘Where’s Jono?’ I ask, and there is an echo to my voice. Where’s Jono? Where’s Jono? Always, Where’s Jono?
And what about us? Where are we?
Where is she, who was ripped out of my body nearly ten years ago now, and taken away from me, unseen and untouched, and flung into some hospital incinerator to burn and disappear? Where is she, who promised so much to our small, suburban lives, and destroyed, by her absence, even more?
One, two, three, four seconds pass, then Andrew says, ‘He’s in his room.’ His voice is as tight as the expression on his face.
‘Right,’ I say, and I make to leave the kitchen again, but now he moves. Now he takes his hands away from his face and pushes back his chair, scraping it gratingly against the tiles, and stands up.
And he says, ‘Where’ve you been?’
Where’ve you been? Where’ve you been? Like I’m some errant wife of old and he is my keeper? I laugh, I can’t stop myself; a short, wild, humourless burst. He stares at me, and in his eyes I see all the bitterness that I feel reflected back at me, black and raw.
‘I want to know where you’ve been,’ he says, biting out the words.
But he’s never wanted to know before. Before, he’s never even cared. And so I say, ‘Out,’ and the sarcasm is thick enough in my throat to choke me. ‘I’ve been out. Is that okay with you? And now I’m going to say goodnight to my son.’
I turn and start walking out of the kitchen and my legs are like rubber; clumsy, weak.
‘Don’t you walk away from me!’ Andrew barks behind me, and I can feel him glaring at my back. I can literally feel his anger – and poor Andrew, he doesn’t do anger – but away I walk, and I’m halfway down the hall before he kicks into life and starts following me. He grabs my arm; I try to pull away and he yanks me back.
‘Don’t walk away from me!’ he repeats, and is it fury or desperation that has him digging his fingers into my arm? I turn to face him and his eyes are as hard and dark as stones. Is this the man who blushed and stammered when he asked me to marry him, who’d get so worked up when he made love to me that he’d leave his hand-prints, pink and bruised, upon my skin? Who sat on the bed beside me when we returned from the hospital having left our dead baby behind, and stroked my back, and told me everything would be okay? He lied to me. He lied.
His hand is like iron on my arm.
‘Let go of me,’ I say, and the colour rises in his face. He drops his hand and takes a step back.
‘Tell me where you’ve been,’ he says. ‘Tell me where you were on Friday.’
‘Andrew,’ I say and my heart is racing against my ribs, ‘you haven’t wanted to know where I’ve been or how I feel, or anything about me, for years. Don’t tell me that you suddenly care.’
‘Of course I care,’ he says in a tone that tells me otherwise.
And I say, ‘Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ Then before he can stop me again, I turn and quickly run up the stairs.
‘Rachel!’ he calls after me. ‘Rachel!’
Jono’s bedroom door is closed, but I open it, go straight in and close it behind me. My heart is beating so hard it almost hurts. Jono is lying on his bed in his pyjamas, reading a book. He doesn’t look up at me, but I see a frown of acknowledgement cross his forehead.
‘Hello, Jono,’ I say, doing my best to keep my voice light and steady. ‘Did you finish your homework okay?’
He grunts in reply.
I walk over to his bed and sit on the edge of it, by his curled-up knees. I touch his shoulder and feel his body stiffen. I lean over and kiss his head, and he shrugs me away.
‘I’m reading,’ he says, by way of dismissal.
I sit there a moment longer, ignored. The sorrow in my heart swells and burns.
‘Well. Goodnight, then,’ I say at last. ‘Turn your light out at ten.’ And I stand up to leave.
He doesn’t reply.
I close Jono’s door behind me quietly. Andrew is still downstairs, standing where I left him. I do not know what I am going to say to him, or what I am going to do.
I walk along the corridor to our room, and go in and close the door, and moments later Andrew comes up after me. He enters the room and I see the fury in him, suppressed, buttoned down, as it always is. I am standing by the window, as far away as I can be from him; he stands midway across the room before me with his hands hanging down by his sides l
ike a monkey’s. His shoulders are tense and hunched up, and he is glaring at me in a pitiful mix of rage and impotence. He huffs and he puffs, unable to get his words out.
Seeing him like that, so blustered up and helpless, makes me cruel, makes me want to hurt him. This was his fault, I tell myself; his fault. And so I speak first. ‘Do you know how lonely I have been? Do you know what it has been like for me, living here with a husband who doesn’t talk to me, and a son who doesn’t talk to me, either? It’s like being trapped in an emotional graveyard!’ That familiar look crosses his eyes – that here we go again look, and I never, ever want to see that look again. There is a lid lifting off inside my head. I am done with this. ‘I cook for you,’ I say and my voice is thick and sore. ‘I clean for you. I look after your son. I feel more like your fucking housekeeper than your wife, Andrew. Do you think I could just live like that forever?’
He finds his voice. ‘I am well aware that Jono and I are not good enough for you, Rachel,’ he says, biting out the words. ‘You make that plain every single day.’
‘It’s nothing to do with Jono.’
‘No, it’s to do with you. We’re a family, Rachel. You, me and Jono. But that’s never enough for you!’
‘We’re not a family,’ I rail at him. ‘We’re not a family. How can you call us a family when one quarter of us is dead, and the remaining three are merely forced together in mutual, suffocating misery—?’
He is trembling now; I see how the cotton of his shirt ripples against his skin. ‘Will you never let it go?’ he pleads. ‘Will you spend your whole life hankering after what we lost? Why can’t you just appreciate what we have got, Rachel? You’ll never be happy.’
‘You don’t try to make me happy!’
His hands are clenching and unclenching by his sides. ‘I’ve tried, Rachel. Believe me, I’ve tried.’
‘How have you tried? You don’t talk to me. You don’t make love to me.’ I see the colour rise in his face. Good, I think. Good. ‘You’re so cold to me, turning away from me all the time. Living with you is like a punishment!’
‘You push me away.’ He bites out the words. ‘You are cold. Every day I live with your misery . . . with your resentment. I don’t know what you want—’
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