‘What d’you want?’
‘I just came up for a wee. But now we’re on our own, I wondered if you were free tomorrow night? If I’d known you went for the older man, I’d have asked you months ago. To tell the truth, what always made me hold my horses was basically the hair department’ – he patted his bald dome – ‘but I see your dear Prince Charming is going the same way. It’ll be toupee-time for him before you can say Kojak. Or perhaps baldies turn you on?’
She slammed the bedroom door, rummaged for a handkerchief – April’s eagle eyes would notice if she returned downstairs without one. She found a lacy hankie in the bottom of her bag – a flimsy, rather useless thing with a small blue E embroidered in the corner. Michael had lent it to her last time she’d been round there; then insisted that she kept it, saying it was high time he made an effort to part with Eileen’s bits and pieces. She’d been afraid he might start offering her a whole load of other things, all stamped and branded ‘E’; was extremely apprehensive about coming that close to death. She noticed, when he’d given her the handkerchief, that he had used the phrase ‘late wife’ – the first time she’d ever heard it on his lips.
Angrily, she scrubbed her eyes. Why in God’s name was she blubbing again? For a dead wife she’d never met, or because she knew now in her bones that her search for his namesake was going to be both cruel and hard, and that she might even have to choose between her mother and a poor balding assistant secretary?
‘Don’t cry.’
Michael’s voice was so harrowed and distracted, he sounded on the verge of tears himself. He and Tessa were sitting in his conked-out car, awaiting the AA. They’d been discussing the disastrous lunch (which had been followed by a mortifying tea), and Tessa’s fury with her mother had suddenly run down, changed to hopeless tears.
‘She was so rude,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ve never known her like it. I feel terribly ashamed.’
‘Well, I can see her point of view.’ Michael took her hand tentatively, as if scared of seeming presumptuous. ‘You’re her only daughter, and a precious lovely daughter, so she’s obviously upset at the thought of your going out with someone almost old enough to be your grandfather.’
‘Yes, but she needn’t have been so horrid.’
‘She’s worried, don’t you see? It’s only because she loves you, and wants you to be happy. She’s probably terrified you’re making a big mistake, which could mess up your whole life. I can understand that, Tessa. She reacted like a mother lion, baring her teeth and unsheathing her claws, to drive off the intruder.’ He gave a hollow laugh, then fumbled in the glove-compartment for his box of paper hankies. ‘I did try to warn you it might not work, but …’
Tessa completed the sentence in her mind: But I overruled you, didn’t I, insisted on having my own stupid selfish way. She wiped her eyes, crumpling up the Kleenex he’d passed her into a damp and soggy ball. ‘Look, it doesn’t really matter,’ she told herself as much as him. ‘Since you’re not my boyfriend, Mum’s no need to get on her high horse. I’d like us to go on meeting – just as friends, I mean – so long as you don’t mind. I’ll simply tell her I’m seeing someone else.’
‘I don’t think you should lie to her.’
‘Well, what else can I do?’
Michael didn’t answer. He had let go of her hand and was staring through the windscreen, his eyes troubled and despondent. She felt a stab of panic. She mustn’t lose this man. He was the path to Michael, the key to her whole future. ‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t want to see me anyway, don’t want us to be friends?’
‘No, of course I’m not. But …’
‘But what?’
They sat in edgy silence, suddenly aware of the sounds outside the car – an old van rattling past; two cyclists shouting directions to each other; the tramp of someone’s footsteps on the pavement.
‘I’d love to go on seeing you,’ Michael said at last. ‘But I think it’s probably wiser if I don’t.’
‘Because of Mum, you mean? That’s stupid! We shouldn’t let her …’
‘No,’ he interrupted, speaking so softly she could hardly make out the words. ‘Because of me.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘Look, it’s … er … getting late, and your mother will be worrying. I think I’d better phone her from a call-box, tell her we’re still …’
‘It isn’t late. It’s only six o’ clock, and she said herself the AA might be hours.’
‘Yes, but she wasn’t very keen on our going off together in the first place – she made that pretty clear.’
Tessa jerked back in her seat. ‘Why the hell did you suggest it, then, if you’re so keen to get rid of me?’
‘I’m not! How can you think that?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I’ve been boring you to death each night, and you’ve had enough – you’re sick of me.’ Her voice was cracking up. She was losing Michael once again. There must be some inescapable law that he would always disappear, or ban her from his house. She could see Michael Edwards roaring up to Newcastle; Dr Edwards slamming his front door; their forms and faces dwindling, fading into nothing; she herself as cold and insubstantial as the thin mist coming down across the rooftops. She peered out at the scene: a dismal suburban waste lit by ugly street-lamps, their unhealthy glow showing up torn posters on the billboards, a broken pram dumped outside a newsagent’s. The shops were closed and shuttered, the rooms above them cramped – mean homes in a mean street. Everything looked stagnant and deserted, as if even tomorrow this place would never spring to life and cast off Sunday’s shroud. It wasn’t just the car which had broken down. She, too, was kaput, waiting for a rescue-service which would probably never come.
Michael’s voice erupted through her thoughts – a heated voice repeating her own words. ‘Boring me to death? You must be crazy! You’re the least boring girl I’ve ever met. I love your visits, look forward to you coming more than anything else in my day. But … but I think now’s the time to go our separate ways.’
Her next words were lost, distorted, as she fought to hold her tears back.
‘I can’t bear to see you cry.’ Michael was shifting in his seat, chewing on his knuckles, then he snatched up his driving gloves and started pulling at their limp and empty fingers.
‘I suppose you were just being kind – taking pity on me.’ Tessa’s voice was muffled still, but accusatory and harsh. ‘You led me up the garden path, pretending that you’d help, but really …’
‘I wasn’t pretending anything. I … I … love you, for Christ’s sake! Don’t you understand that?’
‘What?’
He let out a stifled groan, his face hidden in his hands. ‘I didn’t want to tell you. It isn’t fair – not to you, or Eileen. I’m still missing her and mourning her, totally bound up with her, and yet … I mean, I never thought I’d ever feel the slightest interest in another woman – it would be betrayal if I did – but here I am, unable to stop thinking about you, even dreaming about you at night; resenting every minute of my work because it prevents me being with you; treasuring my golfing jacket because it touched your lovely body …’ He broke off, as if he’d gone too far; gave a sudden bitter laugh. ‘I’m as bad as Jasper, aren’t I? Love at first sight for both of us. Except it’s more excusable in him. He’s only a youngster, not an old dog of fifty-three, and he hasn’t recently lost a very dear and faithful wife. I can’t forgive myself. It seems so disloyal to Eileen, so embarrassing for you. And yet it’s Jasper’s fault, in one sense. I mean, the way he took to you like that, as if you were Eileen in another skin, and the fact that you’re so involved with him, so good with him – a natural. But it’s not just that. You’re … you’re perfect in yourself – the most stunning-looking girl I’ve ever met, and so clever and unspoiled and … I feel quite humbled when I’m with you, imagine everyone must be looking at us, envying me my incredible good luck, wondering why you bother.’ He touched her hand, his voice the merest whi
sper. ‘Why do you bother, Tessa?’
She shook her head, too overwhelmed to speak.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. I was terrified of that – which is why I vowed I’d never say a word. I don’t know what came over me, but I promise that’s the end of it. Forget everything I said.’ He rammed the box of Kleenex back, crossed his arms in front of him, as if trying to hold in his emotions. ‘We can’t meet any more. Your mother disapproves, and can you blame her? I am too old – that’s the plain unvarnished truth, though I’d give anything on earth to be twenty-five again, if it meant that I could stick around.’
‘You can,’ said Tessa softly.
‘What?’ Michael swivelled back to her, the expressive hazel eyes now caught between despair and hope, anguish and sheer longing.
She let her hand rest on his knee, the agitation in her mind beginning to subside. She was no longer anxious and appalled that Michael Chalmers loved her; only grateful to the power which had yoked their lives together, roused this passion in him. She had been made to see in the last few startling moments that his love was an essential part of the predestined bond between them, part of the whole scheme. Because he felt so strongly, he would do anything she asked; would never vanish, as she’d feared, never let her down. There was a symmetry about the situation, a perfect sort of logic. Michael loved her; she loved Michael. The fact that it was another Michael meant that he would suffer, but suffering was unavoidable – for them both. It was up to her to try to ease his pain, make it less unbearable, give him any comfort that she could.
‘I’m in love as well,’ she murmured. She could say it in all truth.
‘Oh, Tessa, you can’t mean it!’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
Suddenly, he kissed her, a kiss so urgent, she was back with Michael in Foxlow Woods, responding to his frenzied greedy mouth.
He drew back just as abruptly, immediately apologizing; alarmed that he’d disgusted her, or taken her by surprise. ‘I’ve never known myself like this, but when you said you loved me … I mean, not even in my wildest dreams could I have ever thought … I want you to understand, Tessa, I haven’t allowed myself the slightest shred of hope, especially when you told me about …’ He swallowed, cleared his throat. ‘About the … father of your child. You see, I knew how much he meant to you. You were shouting for him, for heaven’s sake, the first night I bumped into you. And yet …’ He ran his finger round his lips, reverently and slowly, gathering up the traces of the kiss. ‘Look what happened to me! I was so involved with Eileen, even after she passed away, that no other girls existed as far as I was concerned. But you changed all that – and changed it almost overnight. I think I knew I loved you when we went on that first walk. Was it special for you too, Tessa?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It was.’
‘I kept wanting to ask you more about your Michael, yet dreading what you’d say, knowing he could …’ His voice rose almost threateningly. He controlled it with an effort, continuing more soberly. ‘Even now, I’m not too sure whether you’d rather talk about it, or …’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’
‘Oh, thank God! Forgive me – that sounds selfish – but I don’t want anyone or anything to come between us at this moment – this amazing marvellous moment! I can still hardly believe it’s happening. I’m so worried I’ll wake up and find it‘s just a dream, like the dreams I’ve been having recently, where I reach out to take you in my arms and find I’m holding nothing – only air. Oh, Tessa …’
‘What?’
‘Say you love me again. Say it exactly like you did before, with all that sort of fierceness, so I know you really mean it.’
She wiped the steamed-up window, so that she could look out beyond the dreary street, beyond Surrey, London, and right up to the north. ‘I love you!’ she affirmed, with such force and fire and passion she could hear her words resounding through every street in Newcastle, until at last they reached her true beloved Michael.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tessa stood self-consciously, watching Michael sign the register, wishing his pen seemed a little more assertive. Mr and Mrs Kerry, he had written, in a wavering script, above his (real) address. Kerry was the name of one of Eileen’s dogs – the first Westie that she’d ever owned. They couldn’t seem to get away from Eileen, though the only reason they had come to a hotel at all was to do exactly that.
‘Would you like early morning tea, sir?’ the receptionist was asking.
‘No, thank you,’ Michael muttered. She could feel his tension beginning to affect her as he fiddled with his fingers, fiddled with the pen, made unnecessary adjustments to his tie.
‘And how about a newspaper?’
He appeared unable to decide whether he wanted one or not, turned to her with something close to anguish. ‘Tessa, would you like a paper?’ He made it sound a life-and-death decision, which she alone could settle.
She shook her head, couldn’t imagine trying to concentrate on terrorist attacks in Northern Ireland or bombs in Sarajevo, when she was away with Michael, in bed with Michael; naked, nervous, maybe even panicking.
The receptionist switched on her scarlet smile, to indicate that the registration was over. ‘I’ll get someone to show you to your room.’
They trotted after the porter, whose lovat-green uniform toned in with the wallpaper and the matching thick-pile carpet. The foyer, perfectly tasteful yet impersonal, reminded Tessa suddenly of their local crematorium (where she’d been last year for her Uncle Ronald’s funeral) – the same elaborate flower arrangements, the same pleated Dralon curtains, the same air of hushed solemnity; furnishings and furniture as stiff and artificial as the primped deodorized corpse. She kept seeing corpses in her mind – tiny ones, not embellished by an undertaker, but chucked out with the waste. Today was 1 February – the weekend her baby would have been due – her and Michael’s baby. She stopped a moment, disoriented. No. She’d had the baby, hadn’t she? – held it in her arms, given it its bottle, soothed it back to sleep. It hadn’t been thrown out, but spirited away, like so much else; taken from her, lost to her.
Mechanically she walked on towards the lift, where Michael and the porter were waiting with the luggage. She glanced up at the gilt-framed pictures of ancient sailing ships, the fussy wall-lights with their brass fittings and pink shades. One night at a hotel like this probably cost more than April earned in a whole week. And she doubted whether Michael could afford it. But he was obviously trying to compensate for the fiasco of two weeks ago, when he’d attempted to make love to her, first in his (and Eileen’s) bedroom, then downstairs in his (and Eileen’s) sitting-room. The late wife had never seemed so conspicuous, intrusive, clearly disapproving of everything they did – or rather didn’t do, since Michael had eventually given up the struggle, explaining shamefacedly that he was totally unnerved by the feeling that his wife was watching the proceedings from some realm beyond the grave. She herself had experienced only fear – fear of getting pregnant, fear that they were going too fast; yet she knew she must agree to anything he wanted, for the sake of finding the father of her baby.
She forced a smile as the porter unlocked the door of a low-ceilinged, rather oppressive room with a double bed, and a smaller bed in the corner, evidently for a child. The room was fuggy-hot, yet somehow chilling – everything too formal; nothing shabby, homely, kindly – except Michael. She fought the sense of being trapped, shut up here for twenty-four hours, expected to perform, to be worthy of the decor, the expense. Michael also looked uneasy. He had unbuttoned his thick coat and was fumbling through his pockets for some coins to tip the porter. He was so jittery he dropped them, and a couple rolled under the bed, so he had to crawl round on his hands and knees to gather them all up again. He was crimson with embarrassment, though the porter’s face remained a mask of suave aloofness. Finally, when coins and porter were united, Michael bustled to the door to see him out, as if reluctant to be left alone with the girl he s
aid he loved. Except of course they weren’t alone – Eileen was bound to have scuttled in with them, and had doubtless arranged that second bed so that she could spend the night as chaperone. And what about a third bed – for April?
Tessa drifted to the window, stared out at the floodlit garden. April completed the foursome; had been with them in the car for most of the long journey, not disapproving, just sad. Her mother was as acutely aware as she was that 2 February was B-day – or should have been, if things had gone to plan. She was mourning her lost grandchild; had been depressed and tearful yesterday, even proposed that they went away themselves – took a little break together, braved the wind and sea, stayed in a bed-and-breakfast place somewhere on the coast. Instead, she’d come to Somerset with Michael. She had chosen the location, feeling an urgent need to be in Michael country. Her Michael had been born and bred in the Quantocks, and his parents still had a house there – not that she’d ever seen it, or was ever likely to. Pretty crazy to flog so far for just one night away, but Michael Chalmers had seemed happy to indulge her, perhaps secretly relieved to put as many miles as possible between him and Eileen – who’d been born and bred in Suffolk.
‘Tessa, darling, are you all right?’
He was hovering behind her, solicitous, as always, about her spirits and her health. Perhaps he’d got so used to nursing Eileen that it was second nature for him now to mollycoddle any woman, especially one who’d recently been ill. She had to make an effort not to shake his arm off: his constant fussing was beginning to get her down.
‘What would you like to do, darling? Go and have some tea in the lounge, or take a little walk, or …?’
A walk, she thought, but on my own, or just with Jasper, whose love was less of a burden. Michael’s dog might gaze at her adoringly, try to stay as close to her as possible, pursue her everywhere, but at least he’d never try to mount her, or keep lamenting the huge difference in their ages, wishing he could have his life again, so as to share his puppy-youth with her.
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