Vanessa’s father sank on to the chair, his fingers clutching at the table. His head fell forward until it rested between his hands. She stared at the back of his neck. A line ran round it, like a crossing-point from one territory to another. Above the line the skin was coarse and reddened from exposure to all weathers. Freckles spattered it. One was bigger than the others, the shape of Ireland, he would tell people when he was in the right mood. Below the line, the skin was marble-white, delicate and unbearably fragile-looking. Her eyes followed the curve of his spine, the knotty bones just visible under the woollen material of his shirt. She couldn’t hear him laughing any more, but his shoulders still shook. His head moved from side to side, the rough skin of his hands scratching against his forehead.
He lifted his head and she saw the line of snot trailing from his nose and on to his top lip. He dashed at it with the back of his hand, wiping it clean, like her little brother did, and it was then she realised he was crying.
Six
Cordelia places a glass bowl in the centre of the table. Inside is a pyramid of golden baubles, sprigs of holly set among them. She rummages through the contents of a carrier bag: a jumbled collection of decorations, trinkets and tinsel. She takes out one of her favourites, a Father Christmas from when Savannah was little, made from toilet roll, scraps of material and cotton wool. She can remember sewing a little hessian sack for him and knitting a miniature doll to stuff in the top.
She dips into the bag again and pulls out a small rectangular box: the angel chimes her father bought. His big square fingers looked clumsy as he hooked the tiny gold angels on to their brass holders. He let her light the candles, his hand curled round hers, guiding the match to each minute wick in turn. She sat on his knee and they watched as the angels gradually began to spin. The chimes tinkled as the angels flew round. After her father left, Cordelia wouldn’t let her mother put the angel chimes up.
She opens the box and takes out the pieces. ‘If you don’t get everything in the right place, the angels won’t turn,’ she hears her father’s voice saying. She strikes the match and holds the flame to one of the wicks, then another. The angels begin to move. A chink of sound grows louder and louder.
The front door slams. ‘Cordy!’
‘In here.’
Patrick comes in and puts his arms round her. He feels solid in his sheepskin coat and she leans into him. His face is cold as he nuzzles against her cheek. ‘My mum used to have one of those,’ he says, his eyes on the angel chimes.
Cordelia takes a moment to register: his mum. It’s the first time he’s mentioned her of his own accord. Despite her determined ‘of course I have’ to Vanessa’s question, she never has met his family, and the way it’s going is not likely to. She’s asked him the usual sort of thing – where do they live? Does he see them often? Does he get on with them? She’s kept the questions casual, but as time’s gone on, she’s realised every enquiry is batted away.
He’s staring intently at the angel chimes. The cold air has reddened the scar on his cheek. Most of the time she hardly notices it any more. She bends down to blow out the candles. Gradually the angels come to a halt and the noise stops.
Patrick pulls off his coat and drops it on a chair. ‘You’ve been busy. The table looks fabulous!’ He reaches out as if to smooth a lock of her hair, but instead scoops up a handful. He winds the hair round his fingers and piles it on top of her head. He strokes the skin under her eyes with his thumb. ‘You’ve been doing too much.’
His grip on her hair is comforting. ‘It’s our first Christmas. Special. And Esme will be here, and I need it all to be perfect.’
‘I feel like a big kid,’ he says as he places feathery kisses on her eyes, her cheeks, the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘You smell delicious, all warm and inviting. Have we got time for me to ravish you?’
‘Depends what you’ve got in mind.’
‘Let me see … ‘ He puts his finger to his lips … ‘Run a scented bath … ’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘Undress you slowly … ’
‘Better make a start.’
‘Stop interrupting!’
‘Don’t I get a say?’
‘Be quiet!’ Patrick is stern as a schoolteacher. ‘I’ll kiss every inch of your body … lift you into the bath … soap your arms, your breasts, all the hidden places and … ’
Cordelia’s attempt to keep a straight face crumbles. ‘If the programme’s as extensive as that,’ she says, laughing, ‘it’ll have to wait.’
Patrick frowns. ‘What’s a man supposed to do with an erection this size?’
‘Do you really want suggestions?’ She allows her fingers to trail down the front of his shirt.
‘You’re heartless.’
‘Esme will be here in a couple of hours.’
‘Does she need collecting from the station?’
‘No, she’s picking up a hire car at Heathrow.’
When her sister emailed from Sydney to say she’d be back in England by Christmas – could they catch up? – Cordelia replied immediately:
Come and stay. We can toast the outbreak of peace properly. Not that I want to talk about what happened. It won’t be the right time. It’s going to be the most magical Christmas ever. C.
Cordelia sets out cups and a plate of mince pies. Charlie leaps on to the table. ‘Get down you naughty boy!’ She gives his bottom a gentle shove. The kettle’s barely had a chance to boil before Patrick’s downstairs again, dressed in jeans and a sloppy sweater instead of his linen suit.
‘That was quick,’ Cordelia says.
He kisses her forehead. ‘Every second away from you is like having my hand in a hot fire!’
‘You’re so silly.’ She pours coffee into the cups and Patrick splashes milk in on top. He picks up the cup and noisily sucks in liquid. She used to hate anything like that; she finished with a boyfriend once because she couldn’t stand the way he licked his top lip every time he had a drink. But with Patrick, it’s different. What do things like that matter, as long as someone is kind and sensitive?
‘You seem happy,’ Patrick says.
She pushes Charlie off the chair next to Patrick’s so that she can sit near him. ‘I am.’
He reaches for her hand and clasps it between both of his. Cordelia stares at their entwined fingers. She cringes at her bitten nails resting against his knuckles. Patrick’s nails are beautiful.
‘I want you to be happy.’
‘I am,’ she tells him again.
‘Happy enough to accept my proposal at last?’
Cordelia feels her chest tighten. There doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen in her lungs.
‘Cordy?’ Patrick’s voice echoes in her right ear. ‘Are you all right, Cordy?’
She nods.
‘You had me worried for a moment.’
She releases her hand from his and runs her palms up and down her thighs. Whatever’s wrong with her? Patrick wants to marry her. She loves Patrick. She should be one of the happiest women alive.
‘Cordy?’
‘I still wish you hadn’t said anything to Vanessa,’ she says.
Patrick wrinkles his nose. ‘No, I screwed up big-time.’
‘I haven’t figured out yet why you told her before we’d discussed it properly.’
This time Patrick takes both her hands. He lifts them on to his lap and grips them, so that the four hands together make one big fist. ‘I was so excited I blurted it out without thinking.’
‘I don’t want you to do things behind my back. I need to know I can trust you.’
‘You can. You can.’ Patrick stands up and swoops down on to his knees. He stares up at her. ‘Please, Cordy. Please say you’ll marry me. I want you, me and Savvy to be a proper family.’
His face is taut with tension. His eyes fix on hers. Windows of the soul, she thinks. If I could see into his … if I could know for sure he’s not going to let me down.
<
br /> ‘I do love you, Patrick … ’
‘Please don’t let this be what I think it is. I won’t let you give me the brush-off.’
Perhaps if she tells him. Explains her feelings to him. ‘It seems a bit soon, that’s all. I get panicky.’
‘Why should we wait? We’re not kids. We love each other.’
‘My parents – ’
‘Look, I’m not your dad.’ Patrick bangs his fists on her knees. ‘I love you. I want you to be my wife. And I’m not going to bugger off when – ’
‘Okay.’ She pulls her hand from his clasp and puts her fingers to his lips. ‘You’ve convinced me.’
He looks at her, his eyebrows raised. ‘You mean … ’
‘Yes. The answer’s yes.’
He leaps up and punches the air. ‘Yeeess!’ His shout fills the kitchen. ‘Yeeess!’
Charlie looks round from his place on the windowsill, ears cocked at the noise.
Patrick grabs hold of Cordelia under the elbows. He lifts her to her feet and twirls her round. Clutching each other, they career around the kitchen, banging into chairs and knocking their hips against the table. ‘I knew you’d say yes. I knew you’d say yes,’ he shouts, over and over again. He’s laughing, his breath fluttering against her cheek.
Then he stops, so abruptly Cordelia almost falls over.
‘We must celebrate! I’ve got two cases of Moet for Christmas in the car.’ He rushes out.
Cordelia puts her hands to her head. The kitchen is still whirling and spinning.
Cordelia has never thought she and Esme looked alike as children. But watching her sister across the table, she can see they’ve grown more similar as they’ve got older. Esme is smaller and her complexion is more olive-toned, but they’ve got the same brown eyes and dark hair. Esme’s is curly, like Vanessa’s, and she’s wearing it in tight little braids that snake across her head and end in brightly coloured beads that dance whenever she moves. She laughs at some story of Savannah’s, and Cordelia fleetingly sees her own face in her sister’s expression.
She looks round the table, happiness seeping through her, like warmth from a fire after a cold walk. She deliberately lets black thoughts slip into her mind. The idea that Patrick’s changed his name nags at her sometimes in the middle of the night, but the right moment to ask him about it never seems to come. But no, even that doesn’t affect her, and her upbeat mood seems real, not something she’s put on like emotional lipstick. That sense of hovering at the edge of the game, waiting for someone to ask her to play, is absent. It’s Christmas Eve and she has her daughter, the man who will be her husband, and her sister (in the same room for the first time in three years) around her. She’s made Patrick promise they’ll keep their plans a secret for the moment. ‘Let’s savour it ourselves first,’ she said as they drank their champagne. ‘Not for long though,’ he warned. ‘I want to tell the world you’re mine, so hands off!’
Patrick is sitting at the other end of the table. In the candlelight his features appear softer and more relaxed than usual. His glass is half way to his mouth and, seeing her watching him, he tilts it towards her in a toast only the two of them share. She smiles, allowing the lift to her lips to linger.
He pushes back his chair and stands up. Cordelia looks up at him. ‘What’s going on?’ she mouths.
He winks. ‘I’ve got surprises.’
‘What? What are they?’
‘One or two little presents.’
‘No chance!’ Savannah folds her arms and stares across at Cordelia, her bottom lip jutting out. ‘Mum won’t hear of presents till the morning.’
It’s a battle Cordelia’s had with Savannah before. ‘Just one little thing,’ Savannah wheedled every year, but Cordelia can still remember her father helping her to carry a pillowcase from the bottom of her bed into her parents’ room on Christmas morning, and she can’t bear to give up the tradition.
She looks from Patrick to Savannah. ‘I suppose one present each can’t hurt.’
‘You won’t be disappointed, I promise.’ Patrick goes out to the hall, and they hear the sound of rustling. He returns carrying a pile of presents, and puts the smallest one on the table in front of Cordelia, the next at Savannah’s place, and the biggest one before Esme.
Cordelia eyes the three packages, all beautifully wrapped in gold shiny paper with red tinselled foil tied into a bow on each one. ‘I hope you haven’t been too extravagant.’
Patrick grins. ‘Of course I have. That’s what Christmas is for.’
Savannah is already unwrapping her present. ‘Fantastic!’ She pulls it free of the last shred of paper. ‘That’s so cool. Just the one I wanted.’ She thrusts her present towards Cordelia. ‘Look, Mum. Isn’t it ace?’
Cordelia looks over her shoulder at Patrick; he’s leaning over her, his hand resting on the back of her chair. There’s some sweat on his top lip, and his eyes flick away from hers. Savannah’s been pestering for months for an ipod, and he knows Cordelia’s said she’s got to save at least half the money herself. Cordelia folds and refolds her napkin and slips it into its brass ring.
‘It’s great. Patrick’s been very generous.’ She keeps her voice as steady as she can. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, Esme.’
Esme pulls off the wrapping paper and reveals a silk bathrobe in rich emerald green. White embroidered flowers decorate the front of it. Esme runs her fingers over the silky material. ‘I’ve never had anything so lovely.’ She smiles up at Patrick. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘As long as you like it.’
‘Come on, Mum. Open yours.’
Cordelia’s hand hovers over the slim, rectangular package. Her fingers pick at the wrapping paper, until Savannah reaches over and takes it.
‘Give it to me. You’ll be at it all night.’ Savannah lifts a watch from the blue-quilted box and passes it over to Cordelia. ‘It’s gorgeous, Mum. You haven’t got any nice jewellery, have you?’
The watch is exquisite – a thin gold bracelet encircling a delicate face. Slivers of gold mark the hours and hands. Cordelia turns it over. The initials C and P are engraved on the back, the lower curve of the C curled through the top half of the P. She feels Patrick’s thigh pressing against her shoulder.
‘You do like it?’
His breath fans her arm, and she feels the hairs on it rise. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Shall I put it on for you?’ He bends down and takes it from her hands.
‘I’ll save it for Christmas morning.’
‘Oh.’
She can see he’s disappointed. He hesitates, and for a minute she thinks he’ll insist. But then he places the watch on the table and straightens up.
‘Right, Savvy,’ he says, his voice all at once energetic. ‘Let’s clear up in the kitchen. These two sisters can have some time together.’
Savannah begins to complain. ‘But I haven’t seen Auntie Esme – ’
‘Don’t call me auntie,’ Esme says. ‘It makes me sound ancient.’ She yawns. ‘Mind you, after that flight, I feel about eighty.’
‘Come on, Savvy.’ Patrick puts a hand on Savannah’s shoulder. ‘I had a chat with a contact in London today that I think you’ll be interested in.’
‘Who was that?’
‘I’ll tell you in the kitchen. Come on.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Savannah gets to her feet.
As the door shuts behind them, Esme holds her hand up, fingers spread wide.
Cordelia recognises the sign and places her hand against Esme’s, thumb to thumb, forefinger, middle, ring, little finger all meeting their partner on her sister’s hand. They fold over their middle fingers and swivel round their hands, so that the fingers stand away from the palms, waving and dancing. They both laugh: it’s a game they’ve played since they were children.
‘It’s great to see you again,’ Esme says.
‘And you. It’s been a long time.’
Cordelia laughs. ‘You mean all those nuisance calls were you?’
Esme screws up her face. ‘I wanted to put things right. But I didn’t know what to say.’
Cordelia pulls her hand back from Esme’s. ‘This is sounding too much like a reconciliation scene in some weepy film. I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘But I need to clear the air.’
‘I don’t want to be difficult, Esme, but your big apology will have to wait. I can’t have anything go wrong this Christmas.’ Cordelia can feel her fists clenching and unclenching under the table, as if they have a mechanism all of their own.
‘But I feel so bad. How could I have read those letters?’
Letters. Cordelia pushes back her chair and gets up. She pulls at her collar. The room is unbearably hot. It slides away from her and back again, the walls looming closer and closer. She closes her eyes and sees the bed strewn with sheets of paper. Page after page of her writing. They were letters, she realised, as she moved closer. And Esme and Savannah were reading them. Flimsy pages clutched, crumpled carelessly, in their hands. And there was laughing. They were laughing, laughing, laughing …
She feels hands clamp on to her shoulders. ‘Cordelia.’ … ‘Cordy!’ The name makes her opens her eyes. Esme is standing in front of her. She’s looking up at her, her brown eyes wide and shocked.
Esme takes her arm. ‘Come and sit down. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She pushes the chair under Cordelia and eases her down. She picks up a glass and holds it to her mouth. It clunks against Cordelia’s teeth, but the cool water feels good as it slips down her throat.
‘Are you okay?’ Esme asks.
Cordelia nods.
‘You scared me for a minute.’
‘Like I said, let’s not talk about it.’
‘No, no. Of course not. We’ll talk about something else.’ Esme looks round, as if inspiration will leap into her hand. ‘Let’s find something else to talk about.’
Cordelia watches her scanning the room for a subject. It’s like some mad version of I-Spy. She’s got me down as a looney, Cordelia thinks. Now let’s play a nice game and then it will be time for your medicine. She takes a big gulp of water. She glances about the room: the walls have settled back into place.
Unravelling Page 6