by Voss, Louise
I examined Ivan’s apparel (a shellsuit, ugh) and his facial hair (sideburns), and decided the photo was probably taken some time during the mid-nineties – Ivan hung on to those ridiculous sideburns for years, until after we split up. He only cultivated them after he began to go bald, in a somewhat futile attempt at proving he could still grow hair, even if not in the preferred location. So the photo couldn’t be more than about ten years old, although it looked older. He’d had a full head of hair throughout the Eighties.
I flipped it over to see if there was a date on it. There was, in faint grey print at the top: ‘02/06/95’, but it was the handwritten message underneath which made my voice catch in my throat as I tried to speak.
‘What is it?’ said Corinna, alarmed at the sight of me.
I cleared my throat, too loudly. ‘It’s …probably nothing.’
June 1995, the summer he was coaching at that academy in Hungary, with Rachel. I looked at the photo again, as if somehow I had mistaken this skinny blonde for my tall, dark daughter, who, even at thirteen, was ten stone of pure muscle. No. Definitely not Rachel. And she certainly would never have written what was on the back of the photo …
‘What?’
‘Um …what do you make of this? “Dearest Ivan, to the best coach ever in the world. You teach me so much things and not just about tennis.” Five, no six exclamation marks …“Nobody tell me it could be so great. All my love, Tasha”. Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss, all in capitals.’
Corinna stared at the message. ‘It might be innocent,’ she said doubtfully.
I snorted. ‘Sure.’
‘Look at her, she’s only a kid. Perhaps she had a crush on him. Must happen all the time.’
‘Yeah. But looking at Ivan’s face in this photo, I’d say it was him who had the crush on her …And it was when we were still married …’
Outrage drained out of me as I felt suddenly overwhelmed by betrayal: the revelation that Billy was probably not the first partner who had cheated on me.
From where I was kneeling in front of the boxes, I slowly bent forwards until my forehead touched the floor, wrapping my arms around my head. I hated Ivan more than I’d ever hated him, so why did it hurt so much? It shouldn’t make any difference, what Ivan had got up to when we were married – and if Billy and I had still been happy together, I couldn’t have cared less. But Billy was gone, and I didn’t even have the comfort of complaining to him about Ivan’s betrayal, because Billy’s own betrayal was ten times worse. I’d loved Billy, and trusted him. Ivan, I had always half expected it of. But not Billy.
Corinna tentatively rubbed my prone back. ‘You don’t know for sure,’ she said again. ‘Surely he wouldn’t have kept the photo if he thought it would incriminate him.’ She didn’t sound as if she was even remotely convincing herself.
‘He’d hidden it in that book,’ I said, with a muffled voice. My nose was pressed against the weird leather floor, and it smelled like a big new shoe.
She sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’m not sure if I should tell you this,’ she continued, and I unwrapped my arms from around my head – despite not being sure if she should tell me, either. ‘Do you remember the Harmonic Convergence, that summer in Lawrence, a couple of weeks before I flew home? Some hippy thing, meant to herald the start of a New Age, or some such nonsense. We all got up at five in the morning and sat on Calvin’s balcony to watch the dawn break.
But we all felt really ill because we’d spent the day before drinking all day – all except Ivan, of course, Mr “My Body is a Temple”. I can’t remember why, some gig or other – no, I know, it was the Fiddling and Picking Contest in South Park, do you remember?’
I frowned. A Fiddling and Picking Contest – no wonder we’d all got drunk. I had a vague memory of sitting on a rug in a park, worrying about whether there were chiggers in the grass waiting to dig their way into my ankles and give me whatever disease it was that they imparted, and watching men in dungarees with too much facial hair showing off with banjos. It had got unutterably tedious after the first half-hour – I mean, I liked ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ as much as the next woman, but I didn’t want to listen to it all day.
‘Oh yeah. Vaguely. I can remember the Harmonic Convergence better – mostly because absolutely nothing happened. I’m not sure what we were expecting, though.’
‘Well, I had such a bad hangover that I only managed to watch the sunrise for about five minutes, and then I decided to go and have a bath, so I left you all to it. There was that hippy chick, Heather, who was trying to get you all to chant, remember? I thought I’d throw up if I opened my mouth. Anyway, I’d been lying in the bath for a couple of minutes and suddenly the door opened and in comes Ivan. He apologized, but he was staring right at my tits, you know? I thought he’d leave straight away, but he didn’t. He sort of leaned on the doorframe and carried on staring. I covered myself up–’ Corinna demonstrated, putting one arm across her breasts and the other across her crotch, like Venus ‘–but then he came over and knelt down by the bath. “We should make love some time before you go back home,” he said. “You’ve got lovely breasts.” Then he reached out and touched my chest.’
‘What did you do?’ I said, in a very small voice.
‘Splashed him in the face and told him to fuck off out of it,’ she said briskly, lighting another cigarette. I noticed the nicotine stains on the side of her fingers, so tainted-looking. In my head, I compared this tough, yellow skin with the tender white of her youthful breasts sticking out of the water, luring Ivan towards her like a siren. I hated myself for feeling furious with her, instead of him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was going to. But I left soon after that, and the next time I saw you, you were up the duff, and you were so happy I didn’t want to wreck your buzz. Seemed a bit pointless.’
‘I wonder how many times he cheated on me?’ I looked at the letter in my hand. ‘I wonder how many times Billy cheated on me?’
Corinna patted my shoulder and blew smoke in my face, affectionately. ‘Ivan, lots of times, probably.
Billy? From what you’ve told me about him, I’d put money on this being a one-off. His head’s been turned, that’s all. He’ll work out which side his bread’s buttered on, and come running back, you wait and see.’
I looked again at the back of the photograph, at the girlish, excitable handwriting. ‘What’s her name? Oh, Tasha. Poor little Tasha. He probably shagged all the girls he coached. I could get him put away for this.’
Corinna laughed hoarsely. ‘Go for it, honey. Get your revenge.’
I sighed. ‘No. Of course I wouldn’t, for Rachel and Gordana’s sakes. He’s scum, but they don’t deserve that.’
‘Well, if I were you, I’d keep hold of that picture. It might come in handy at some point.’
‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully, sliding it into the side pocket of my handbag. ‘I don’t know how, but it might.
Oh Corinna, it shouldn’t even matter, not after all this time …’ My voice cracked and I put my head in my hands again.
She stood up briskly. ‘But it does. I know. Right, there’s only one thing for it. We’re going to relive our student experiences.’ She flung me the TV remote.
‘Choose your movie. I’m sorting out the refreshments.’
We didn’t mention Ivan or Billy again that night.
Instead we drank Kahlua, ate homemade popcorn, and watched a vacuous movie on Pay Per View. It was like 1980 all over again. But somehow I couldn’t stop thinking about that young girl, Tasha. What had I been doing when Ivan was, in all probability, off sleeping with her? At home with Rachel, most likely, feeling trapped but being loyal. Supporting Ivan’s career.
And look where that had got me…
Chapter 27
Gordana
I must make some bread – I meant to do it earlier but I was so busy getting ready for my guests. But I think it is important always to have fresh bread. I take the ingredients out of
cupboards and start weighing flour.
‘I can’t believe you’ve still got this!’
Rachel has found an old copy of Tennis Now magazine stuck in between the cookbooks. It is the one with her picture on the front cover. She pulls it out and wheels herself back to the table to study it.
‘I forgot it was up there. How serious you look!’
For a moment I take my eye off the flour I am measuring, and a great lump falls out of the bag and lands splat into the bowl. It makes a big white cloud above the wobbly dial, and some flour dust settles on the cover photograph, which is of Rachel serving. She is stretching up high to the ball, with wide concentrating eyes and big muscles in her arms.
‘It’s an awful picture,’ she says, wiping the flour off it, and I must agree, it is not the best. ‘Look at my boobs. That one’s about six inches higher than the other one! I look positively deformed!’
‘Perhaps it is your sports bra, darling,’ I say, going back to my bread-making, a bit distracted because from the window I see Ted and Ivan talking in the drive. They have their backs to me. Ted is wearing the expensive overcoat, with cashmere, I bought him last Christmas. It is lovely coat, but on his short body it makes him look a little bit like an Oxo cube. Then they move out of sight, back towards the house. As I put the bread machine on, I wonder why Ivan is not leaving as he said he must. Something about the way their heads are down makes me think this is not normal chit-chat.
‘No, it’s just the angle it was taken,’ says Rachel, although now I am not paying so much attention.
‘Back in one minute, darling.’ I wipe my hands on a tea-towel and leave Rachel turning the magazine around to look at her photo from a different angle. I want to know what Ted and Ivan talk about.
I have a ‘hello, sweetie’ smile for Ted on my face, and I am looking at the huge vase of pussy willow on the plinth in the hall and thinking: I must arrange those again so that they don’t all stick out in one direction like that, as if they have blown there in a strong wind, but then the smile falls off.
Ivan is leaning against the side of the open front door, his back to us, his elbow against the doorframe and his sleeve over his eyes. He is quite still. But it’s Ted I’m worried about first. He looks like I haven’t ever seen him look: grey like porridge, like something has upset him bad. His eyes are big with panic. He puts a hand on his chest and I think: Oh no, no, he is having the heart attack. We can’t both die! I rush to him, wondering if somehow the news of my illness has only just hit him. I hope he hasn’t told Ivan.
Perhaps that’s why Ivan looks so upset.
‘Ted, Ted, what is matter? Darling, sit down here, on stairs. Do you need ambulance?’
He shakes me off, but sits down on the third stair anyway. ‘No, no, I’m not ill.’ But his voice sound funny, gaspy, shocked. He look at me like I have grown extra head. The newspaper is on his lap.
‘What then?’
Rachel wheels herself out of the kitchen. ‘What’s going on? Pops?’
Seeing Rachel seems to make him worse. He lifts his glasses and rubs his hand over his eyes, squinching his thumbs into the corners. Me and Rachel wait, with horror. This is something very terrible.
He pull himself up with a big effort, holding on to banister. ‘Let’s go and sit down in the kitchen,’ he says.
‘Hello, Rachel, my darling,’ he adds, bending to kiss her head, but without the smile he always has for her.
‘Come, Ivan,’ I say, tugging my son’s arm away from his eyes. I half expect to see tears, but he is not crying.
His eyes are blank, but then they flicker with rage.
We arrange ourselves around the kitchen table, me and Rachel with dread, Ted still looking horrified, Ivan looking shocked and also furious. The bread machine suddenly stops kneading the dough, and there is deep silence for the bread to rise into. The only other sound I hear is the kitchen clock ticking, and a distant noise of someone cutting branches off a tree. I feel ill.
Ted puts the newspaper in front of him. Slowly he opens it, and turns to the second page. Clears his throat. Stops. Clears it again.
‘I, er, had a quick flick through this on my way back from the newsagents,’ he says. ‘You know the way I always do when I’m walking back.’
I frown at him. I always tell him not to do this, in case he walk into lamppost or trip over kerb, but he doesn’t listen. I brush a small smudge of flour off my skirt.
‘I wanted to see what was happening in the golf, but…something caught my eye…’ He bit his lip and squeezed my hand with his trembly one.
At first I couldn’t see what he showed us. All I saw was headlines like ‘HOUSES PRICES FALL FURTHER’ and ‘BLAIR TRIES TO END RIFT RUMOURS’. What sort of a rumour is a rift rumour, I wonder? But now does not seem the time to ask. I try to think what else it might be. Perhaps something is wrong with our investments.
Ivan leans back on his chair, looking hard in the other direction, like he doesn’t want to see it at all.
Rachel sees it first. She gasps, and her hands fly to her mouth, pressing hard as if to stop her speaking.
Then Ted’s shaky finger points at another headline:
‘EX-BRITISH TENNIS STAR CHARGED WITH POSSESSING IMAGES OF CHILD PORN’.
‘Give me that!’ I shriek, dragging the newspaper over to me. Rachel does not move; she is like statue. Ivan tips his chair legs back on to all fours again and buries his head in his arms on the table.
“Ivan Anderson, 44, from Surbiton, Surrey, was arrested last month on suspicion of offences under the Criminal Justice Act of 1988, specifically of possessing indecent photographs of children ..”.
Oh no, please God, no. Elsie was right all along.
Bloody Elsie. I skim the paragraphs as words like black fleas jump all over me:
Police seized computer equipment from Anderson’s house in a dawn raid …Conditions of bail allowed him to travel abroad for his job as a professional tennis coach, but not to attend the club he owns, the Ivan Anderson Tennis Academy in…appeared before magistrates in Kingston, and has been bailed to reappear at Kingston Crown Court at a later date …
I hear myself groan, long and deep. This will finish us all. And the lump in my breast throbs then, for the first time, like it is a lump of screwed-up newspaper with these evil untrue words printed on it, which some mean person has stuffed into my bosom and sewn in there when I am asleep, where it will fester and grow more poison to put through my body …
‘Mama,’ Ivan says then. He gets up and stumbles towards me, and holds me so tight that it is not comfortable and I must make his arms looser because he’s making my own arm squash against my evil lump.
The lump he doesn’t even know about yet, and I was going to tell him soon, and, oh Lord, how can I tell him now? How can I tell him and Rachel and Susie with all this going on?
‘It’s a mistake. I didn’t do it, I swear. I promise you, Mama, I’ve never downloaded …that sort of stuff on to my computer. I don’t even know how to download anything, you know what I’m like with computers. It’ll all get sorted out. It’ll be OK.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I say, and to my shame I push my boy away from me and leave the room. My heart is beating very fast and I feel my face get red and hot. I go into the downstairs loo and sit on the toilet seat.
The walls around me are all covered with framed photos of Ivan or Rachel playing matches, collecting trophies, signing autographs, meeting other famous players. It is our little Wall of Fame.
I am scared, far more scared than by what Mr Babish told me about my lump. A lump is a lump, it’s my body, and I will make it go away. I will not let its poison stay in my body after it’s taken out. Surely I am in control of that.
But this …I can’t do anything for this. My poor Ivan. And I pushed him away.
Ted comes then, opening the door and squeezing himself in sideways. It is a tiny bathroom, with one of those corner basins which only lets you wash one hand at a time, and Ted’s tummy is qu
ite big these days from too much port and Stilton after dinner. He only just fits, with my knees in his way. I stand up, and we are face to face, as if we are about to dance.
‘Let’s try and keep calm,’ he whispers, although his forehead is covered in sweat. I hand him the little pink towel with scallopy lace edges and he wipes his head with it. ‘We don’t know the facts.’
‘Yes we do,’ I whisper back. ‘Those are facts, in the newspaper.’
‘But it doesn’t mean those facts are true. We have to believe what Ivan says. And he’s got a point – he knows almost nothing about computers. I personally would be surprised if he even knew how to send an email.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ I say, louder, leaning back against the wall. ‘Why did he not tell his mama, before it’s in the paper for everyone to see? Instead he tell me lies about Immigrations people. And he tell Rachel lies about Jehovah’s Witnesses!’
Ted puts his hand on the side of my waist, but I snatch it away.
‘For goodness’ sake, why are we in this toilet? It doesn’t matter if they hear us.’
He opens the door, which means for a moment I must stand behind it like I’m hiding, and then we both come out again. I am still holding the pink towel, which I put straight into the washing machine. I must not forget to replace with fresh one.
Rachel has gone from the kitchen. The back door is open, and she has hopped on her crutches into the garden. She sits down on the iron bench on the patio and I can see she is crying. Ivan is leaning against the kitchen counter, with his hands in fists and his head low.
I take some deep breaths. I must be strong for my family. They don’t even know what other bad thing I must tell them soon.
‘We have family conference, all of us, now.’