by Adele Geras
The worst thing, though, the second thing, was what happened to me after the abortion. When I first discovered I was pregnant, I was surer than I’d been of anything in my whole life that I was doing the right thing in having an abortion. So where did the guilt come from? Because it came, and back then it was like a creature fastening itself to my heart. I began to look at babies. Little kids too. I started to imagine what this child of mine might have been like. What sort of a mother would I have been, given the chance? It was easy to spend hours tormenting myself. In the end, the guilt faded, but I was left longing for a baby. Whoever I fell in love with, he became a part of the fantasy of our future: the children we would have together. Now Simon was having a baby and not with me. He’d dumped me, and that was bad enough but he also destroyed my dream of a child. I felt despair mixed in with the guilt. Mostly, I managed to live with it, not notice it so much, especially when I was happy with other parts of my life. One way I did this was by keeping it secret. I’d never told a soul about what happened to me when I was sixteen. It was my private pain and I wasn’t about to share it. Even Jay didn’t know that about me, though I’d often been on the point of telling her. Until the other night, I really thought I’d beaten those feelings into a kind of submission, but here they were again and I suspected they’d keep on coming back.
I bought lipstick and walked home. I was determined to take pleasure from my article.
I read it. Then I read it again. Then I sat at the table with lipstick spread out flat in front of me and read it for a third time. My first paragraph wasn’t there. It had been cut. The second was there, but all through the piece, small groups of my words had been altered. Anyone else, maybe even people in the office who’d seen the original article, wouldn’t even realize that things had been changed. He (I knew at once that it must have been Simon) hadn’t rewritten my article from scratch, he’d done something much subtler, the kind of thing which he could justify by saying he’d edited it. A phrase added here. An adjective put in there. A trite, much-used expression substituted for one I’d tried to make fresh and original … I was stunned and even wondered whether I was the one who was mistaken. Maybe I had written this dross, because that was what it felt like to me. Not mine any longer but ordinary, boring, media-hype kind of dross.
Check, Megan, I told myself. Before you start going ballistic, just check first. I opened my laptop and went to my Eva Conway file. I was right. I’d known I was right from the moment I’d started reading. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down again, trying to think straight, working it out. Today was 12 October. The magazine went to press two months before publication day. So … 12 August. If he’d made changes to my text, he’d have done it before that date. Bastard, I thought. He must have worked it all out. Changing my piece before then meant he had two months and not a day more before I discovered the extent of his editing. Why hadn’t he told me how much he’d changed it? Perhaps it was Felix who’d done the editing but I remembered him okaying the piece. I rang him.
‘No,’ he said, sounding very confident about it. ‘I sent it through to Simon with no changes. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing, Felix. No worries … I’ve got to go. See you soon.’
So Simon had changed it. He’d edited it after it had been passed by Felix. Well, he was the editor, but why hadn’t he discussed it with me? What was he afraid of? He was my boss … It was his job to make everything that appeared in lipstick as good as it could possibly be and if a junior reporter had cocked it up, there was nothing wrong with him saying so and making some agreed changes. But I hadn’t cocked it up. He’d told me how good my story was. He hadn’t needed to say that, but he’d said it. He probably thought I loved him so much that when the magazine came out, he’d have been able to convince me that everything he’d done was an improvement. He hadn’t told me two months ago because it was easier not to say a word. We’d been happy together in August. Why rock the boat? We’d been closer to one another than ever. We’d gone to Paris for the weekend. Gail was away at a conference and I could hardly believe my luck. I’d thought that those two days were the best days of my life. I’d come back to London quite sure that our relationship was not common or garden adultery, but a true love affair which would end with Simon and me, together for ever. 4ever, like something scrawled in black marker pen on a filthy wall.
Now I could see what a coward he was. He must have thought: Oh, I’ll deal with Megan and any tantrums when the November issue comes out. She’ll forgive me, I’m sure. She’d forgive anything I did. Which was true at the time. He might not have been able to persuade me that his version was better than mine, but he’d certainly have been able to sweet talk me into not caring very much. Now, though, I cared a lot. He was probably heaving a sigh of relief right at this very moment. Thank God I don’t have to explain the edits, I imagined him saying to himself. Megan’s not my problem any longer.
But Eva Conway: what would she say? She’d approved my copy. I’d sent it to her and asked her to change any inaccuracies or mistakes and she’d been very kind. I still have the handwritten postcard. Her italic writing was thick and black on the cream card. ‘This is a very generous and flattering article. Thank you for letting me see it. I look forward very much to reading it in print. Yours ever, Eva Conway.’
There was lipstick, lying on the table. I had nothing to do. I had no work to go to. The walls of my flat were beginning to press in on me. I picked up the magazine and put it in my handbag, went into the bedroom and began to sort through the clothes in my tiny cupboard. It wouldn’t do to go and see Eva Conway in trackie bottoms and a fleece. Making the decision to go and see her didn’t take long. Hadn’t I promised to get a copy to her as soon as it appeared? Now more than ever, I wanted to explain to her how my work had been altered … wanted to reassure her that the changes had nothing to do with me. I’d sent her my original text and she might notice that this version was different. I could drive down to Salix House after lunch and give Eva Conway the magazine myself. I thought, for the millionth time how lucky it was that Dad had left me his old car when he moved to New Zealand. I’d never have been able to afford one on my salary. Simon wouldn’t have arranged for her to get a copy, I felt sure, and she lived miles away from the nearest newsagent. Yes, I’d drive to Buckinghamshire and surprise her. I felt pleased with myself for having sorted out what to do to occupy myself for at least the next few hours.
6
Some days were harder than others. There were mornings when the dreams Eva had during the night stayed with her throughout the morning. Last night, she’d been back there, in the old flat in Berlin, with her parents. With her sister.
1938
From the moment she could understand anything, Eva loved Angelika better than anyone else in the whole world, except Mama. Angelika was four years older and wore her long red hair in two neat plaits tied up with ribbon for special occasions. Eva had red hair too but her eyes were like greenish marbles while Angelika’s were dark brown. Everyone patted Angelika on the head and said, ‘You’re so like your beautiful mother!’ and it was true. Angelika was beautiful and Eva knew she wasn’t. She wasn’t jealous, but she was full of admiration for her lovely sister and tried to imitate everything she did. She knew Angelika hated to be followed around, but Eva couldn’t help it. She added herself to the dolls’ tea parties and came to sit alongside Angelika on the dressing-table stool while she played with Mama’s old jewellery and scarves.
‘Go away, baby,’ Angelika always said, but one day, she actually pushed Eva off the stool and made her cry. When Mama came to see what was wrong, Angelika told her.
‘She’s a baby. She can’t play properly. She can hardly talk properly. You said she’d be better when she got bigger, but she hasn’t got better at all. She’s still a squawky, crying baby. You used to love me and now you don’t. You love her. It isn’t fair.’
Angelika stamped off to the bedroom and Mama went after her. Eva, still following and unable to stop
following, listened at the open door and heard what they said.
Mama spoke first: ‘You should try and understand Angelika, since you’re eight years old, and a big girl. There’s nothing to be sulky about. Eva loves you and needs you. You’re her favourite person in the world.’
‘Well, I wish I wasn’t. You’re always busy with her. When she was a baby you did nothing but feed her and look after her but before that you used to play with me and dress me up and take me to the park and the lake and sometimes to the café. Since Eva was born, you play with me less because you love me half as much.’
‘What nonsense, Angelika! Of course I don’t love you half as much. I love both my children exactly the same but Eva’s younger. She can’t do as much for herself as you can. You have to look after her.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ Angelika whined. ‘And I don’t want her playing with my dolls and I don’t want her following me around. Oh, I wish we lived in a really big house like Inga’s and then we wouldn’t have to share a room.’
‘Be thankful for your good life, Angelika, and don’t be so unkind. I don’t want to have to tell Papa how you’ve been behaving,’ Mama said, and started walking towards the door. Eva fled down the corridor but she could hear Angelika shouting after Mama.
‘Why is it always me? Why don’t you tell Papa how Eva’s been behaving? I’m always the one to be told off. It’s not fair.’
Mama must have thought Angelika’s behaviour really dreadful because she did tell Papa about it. Eva knew that this meant trouble for her sister. Papa never normally bothered himself with such matters. He was too busy, that was what Mama said. Eva never knew what he was busy with, because he went to an office somewhere quite far away.
‘You are never,’ Papa said to Angelika at dinnertime, in front of Eva and Mama, ‘to be so unkind to your sister again. We’re a family, Angelika, and that means something. Yes, it means something. Promise me you’ll never be so unsisterly again.’
‘I promise,’ Angelika said, and tried to look as though she really meant it, though Eva could tell that she didn’t. Not really.
Even though she was young, she knew something that Mama and Papa didn’t know. Angelika didn’t love her. Not a bit. Not even a tiny scrap. Once, at bedtime, before Angelika came into the room, Eva had whispered to Mama, ‘Angelika hates me.’
‘Oh, my darling child, never say that!’ Mama cried out. ‘I can see that it must look like that to you, Eva, but truly, truly she loves you. It’s just … well, it’s hard for you to understand but before you were born, I used to do everything with her and she’s … she’ll get used to it. She’s not used to sharing me, you see. It’s hard for her.’
Mama passed a hand over her eyes. Maybe, Eva thought, she wants to cry. But I’ll make her feel better. I’ll tell her I don’t mind.
‘Don’t be sad, Mama. I’ll try and behave better. I’ll try not to follow Angelika so much.’
‘Thank you, my baby. You’ve taken a weight off my mind. You’ll grow up together and you’ll be the very best of friends, I know it.’
After her mother left her, Eva considered what she’d said and sighed. It’s not true, she thought. We’ll never be best friends because I know Angelika doesn’t like me. It’s not just that she wants Mama all to herself. She doesn’t like me. I can see it when she looks at me. This thought made Eva feel so sad, so cold and sick, that she started shivering and bit her lip to stop herself from crying out. She pretended to be asleep when Angelika came to bed and she did fall asleep in the end, but it took her a long time.
Then, one day, Mama and Papa called Eva and Angelika to the dining room. The table was spread with a lace cloth. It was Friday and the silver candlesticks were on the sideboard, ready to be lit at dusk. Mama and Papa were sitting in their places, as though they were about to eat.
‘Angelika, Eva,’ Papa spoke solemnly, ‘Come and sit down, both of you. We’ve been thinking very carefully, your mother and I, and we’ve reached a decision.’
Eva listened, and tried to work out what Papa was telling them. She didn’t understand most of it, but in the end she realized that Mama and Papa were sending them away to England. On a train. She and Angelika were to go there without Mama and Papa. Angelika asked, ‘But who’ll look after us there? Till you come and find us?’ Papa had been quite definite about this: they’d only be alone in England for a short while and then Mama and Papa would come and find them and the whole family would live together again, only not here. Not in Berlin. Not anywhere in Germany.
As they lay in their beds that night Eva dared to ask her sister to explain to her once more what was going to happen.
‘You’re a baby,’ Angelika sighed. ‘It’s no use telling you anything. They think we’ll be safe in England and that’s why they’re sending us, only I don’t want to go. How can we live in England? We don’t even speak English. And they say kind people will look after us there but how do they know that? Perhaps the people will be cruel and wicked and lock us up in dark cellars. How can Mama say she loves us so much and then send us away?’
Eva said nothing. She was frightened of stopping the flow of Angelika’s words. This was the first time her sister had ever spoken so many words to her all at once. And not shouting at her, either. Not telling her she must go away and play somewhere else. Eva couldn’t help feeling a little happy, and she fell asleep while Angelika was still speaking.
*
Enough of such thoughts, Eva told herself. What’s the point of going over the past again and again? She sighed and picked up her cardigan from the back of the chair. It was time to go downstairs.
Rowena was standing in the hall next to a tall man. ‘Ma, do you remember Luke Fielden?’
‘Of course,’ Eva said. ‘You were here the other day, viewing the house.’
‘Luke … Mr Fielden … has come to have another look around.’
‘Lovely,’ said Eva.
‘It’s a great pleasure to see you again, Mrs Conway,’ Luke Fielden said. He was probably in his late thirties but looked younger because there was not a single thread of grey in his hair. ‘I’ve admired your designs for years. My mother used to love your dresses. She waited for every collection, to see what you’d do.’
Eva bowed her head and smiled. She never quite knew what to say when paid a compliment. Antoine, years ago, had told her: just thank the person. That’s it. No need for anything else. So obediently she now said: ‘Thank you very much.’
Men could be classified into animal types; she’d thought that since she was very young. Most of them were either bears, foxes, horses or pigs. This one, however, was a wolf: dark with yellowish-brown eyes set at a slanting angle in a dark-complexioned, longish face. A thin nose, which made almost a perfect triangle in profile. Good teeth. She’d often noticed this type of face in the latest fashion spreads. She had determined to be out when people were looking around Salix House but today she hadn’t quite managed it. Was Luke Fielden going to buy it? Rowena said: ‘We must get on, Ma … maybe see you later.’
Rowena was leading Mr Fielden down the corridor to the dining room and drawing room when the doorbell rang again. Eva called out to Phyllis in the kitchen: ‘I’ll get it. I’m in the hall,’ and she walked to the door and opened it.
‘How do you do?’ she said, smiling at the young woman standing in the portico. ‘Have you come to look around the house too? Do come in out of the cold. I’m sure my daughter won’t be long, she’s showing a man round at the moment.’
The woman looked vaguely familiar: dark and pretty, with a good figure and even better skin. Grey eyes. She was wearing a scarf in a pleasing mixture of reds and mauves wound round her neck. It’ll never leave me, Eva thought. This instant weighing up of everything a person is wearing. The young woman said, ‘Oh, no, I’m not here about the house. In fact, I had no idea it was for sale. It was quite … well, it was a bit of a shock to see the board.’
Eva remembered her then. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You must f
orgive me. I’m getting old. You’re the young woman from lipstick. I’m afraid I can’t recall your name, though of course once you started to speak, I knew immediately who you were. Come in, come in. It’s very chilly. I’ll ask Phyllis to get us a cup of tea and some biscuits.’
They went into the kitchen. Phyllis was preparing supper but broke off to say:
‘Oh, hello Miss. How very nice to see you again. Miss Pritchard, isn’t it?’
‘Megan, please,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve come because the issue of lipstick with my article in it came out today. I’ve brought it to show you.’
‘How kind of you!’ said Eva but thought: why has she driven all this way? She could easily have sent the magazine through the post, or rung up and told me about it.
‘I promised I’d bring it,’ Megan said. ‘Do you remember?’
‘That’s true,’ Eva said. ‘Now that you mention it, only you’d be amazed how many people promise things and then forget entirely.’
The woman – Megan – nodded as she sat down opposite Eva at the kitchen table. She said, ‘I came because I wanted to show you what’s happened to the article.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope?’ Eva was surprised at how excited she was. She’d been in magazines all the time in the fifties and early sixties and in American Vogue earlier in the year and yet it seemed as though the thrill never disappeared. I’m still vain, she thought. I still want good press. She knew this article was good because Megan had already sent her the text to approve.
‘Well, I’m cross about it but I hope it won’t spoil your pleasure,’ Megan said. ‘The editor has changed it, altered things without consultation. I wanted to explain before you saw it.’