A laugh of disbelief escaped Theresa, not in sympathetic wonderment, as Charlotte understandably supposed, but at the wild, unforeseeable injustice of being presented with such poignant, intimate information at such a moment. On occasions she had been genuinely curious about Charlotte’s past – the pre-Martin Charlotte – but it seemed laughably cruel to have that curiosity satisfied now and so dramatically, just as she was poised with her cudgel, ready to beat out other, fresher and, to her, much more devastating truths.
‘Theresa? Are you okay? I didn’t mean…’
‘No, I am not okay,’ she hissed, letting the miserable anger fill her voice and her expression at last.
‘Oh dear… I…’
‘Your father… what you said… Of course I sympathize… but…’
‘No, I’m fine with it, actually,’ Charlotte stammered, a possible reason for her companion’s miserable bewilderment beginning to dawn. She sat back in her chair, which felt hard and uncomfortable suddenly, all the wrong angles. Up under the curve of their umbrella she glimpsed a dark cloud, advancing upon the clear sky like a breaking wave. ‘Everything sort of makes sense,’ she mumbled, ‘it’s like understanding it means I don’t have to think about it any more.’
‘Oh, good:
Charlotte, hearing the sneer, braced herself. A waiter, who had approached to take their order and sensed the intensity of the conversation, tactfully withdrew to show some more arrivals to their seats.
Dominic hovered under the green and gold canopy, staring in disbelief at the mud-spattered black Volkswagen and its small canine occupant, curled up on a tartan rug on the back seat. There was a chance, of course, that she wasn’t dining at the same venue, that the Fates, though mischievous, were not cruel. Dominic peered hopefully through the glass front of the restaurant, but it was difficult to make out anything beyond the dim outlines of a few scattered diners. He checked his watch. Ten minutes late already – maybe she wouldn’t show. He felt a fresh surge of hope and then a kick of dismay. What was he thinking? Of course he wanted Petra to show. Only an idiot or a creature on the verge of taking holy orders wouldn’t. And being stood up would be pretty shattering too, Dominic reflected, after the phone-tennis and with his ego still shaky from Maggie and lack of practice and being given the boot at work, not to mention being passed over for a fat married doctor with old-man bushy eyebrows…
‘Domineec!’
‘Hey, Petra. I was giving up hope.’
‘Oh, no, I am so sorry. It was the traffic and nowhere to park in this bloody city.’ She kissed him on both cheeks, then ran her fingers through her hair, which had grown considerably since their first encounter and been cut into long, feathery layers that accentuated the strong rounded triangle of her face. ‘It is so good to see you – at last!’ She looped one arm companionably through his, then sprang away, clapping her hand to her mouth. ‘The bloody meter machine – I have forgotten to put in my money. I have to run and come back soon. You go – I am coming.’
Dominic laughed as she took off back down the street. What a great girl. He pushed open the door of the restaurant, pausing to enjoy a final glimpse of the floppy mane of fair hair and the memorable legs moving inside the confines of her tight skirt.
There was no fluency to misery, Charlotte reflected wretchedly; it was only in films and books that suffering people were ever articulate or beautiful. In real life they were like poor dear Theresa now, puffy-faced, tugging at her lips with her teeth, too at the mercy of her emotions to mount her challenge with any coherence. And for her too, waiting with her hands clenched in her lap, knowing now full well what the challenge would be, steeling herself to answer honestly, there was nothing but an overwhelming – guilty – awareness of the ugliness of human weakness and its power to wound those held dear.
‘I know,’ Theresa burst out, after a huge gulp of air, ‘about you and Henry – he phoned you this morning – I know – and you two in Suffolk – how couldyou?’
‘What?’
‘You and Henry –’
‘What?’ Charlotte repeated the word with more force. The incredulity in her voice was not only easy but truthful, she realized. There was no her-and-Henry. Honesty had levels. Wanting life to be black and white didn’t make it so. ‘Theresa, what are you saying? Stop, this instant.’ Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of Dominic – Dominic! – being shown to an outside table on the other side of the patio. It caused her a fresh bolt of energy – of confidence in the path she was taking. And Theresa’s face, that was heartening too, as the puffiness and trembling momentarily gave way to an illuminated expression of pure hope.
‘He phoned you just this morning,’ Theresa pressed on, uncertainty clouding her face again, working visibly to push out each word.
At this Charlotte managed a laugh, of sufficient volume and high enough pitch to prompt Dominic to turn round. Charlotte’s heart leapt in response. ‘Your car man, you dope.’ She grinned, almost enjoying herself. ‘Henry phoned me this morning about your arman – Mr Jarvis, under the railway arches. He’d promised to give me the number for the bloody Volkswagen – though, typically, my wilful little machine is now behaving like a lamb.’
‘But Suffolk.’ The tone was dogged now. ‘It was like the two of you arranged it?
‘Nonsense – what nonsense.’ Again, there was sufficient truth in the denial to make outrage easy. ‘You offered that week to me and I felt awful about Henry wanting to work there – awful.’ The waiter, hovering in some desperation, topped up their glasses of champagne.
‘But that business of the keys,’ Theresa persisted, although with audibly less conviction now, ‘all that last-minute phoning when you offered Henry a ride down in your car.’
Charlotte went very still. The keys muddle had been a genuine oversight on her part, but it was Henry who had taken advantage of it, throwing the suggestion of a lift at her, putting her on the spot at the very last minute when he pitched up in the taxi. Which meant he must have lied about the arrangement to Theresa, presented it as her suggestion rather than his and one that had been made before the morning rather than during the course of it. Charlotte could feel her brain tugging at the knot of this tiny conundrum, this fresh need to be false. Meanwhile, a tall, blonde woman was arriving at Dominic’s table, turning heads in a short fitted skirt and a tailored jacket, which she proceeded to peel off – with Dominic’s help – to reveal a skimpy grey linen top and broad bare shoulders. Hanging round her neck was a large, flat, stone pendant on a delicate silver hoop, neatly centred in the strikingly deep cleft of her collarbone.
What a beautiful girl. Christ. So there was no hope, then. Fool ever to have thought otherwise. Thank God she hadn’t said anything to Theresa. Thank God for Theresa, Charlotte reflected, as her companion’s still hopeful expression came back into focus, reminding her that this friendship, in its delicate and trembling state, was still within the palm of her hand to crush or nurture as she chose. And there were other things to rejoice in too, like Sam – always Sam – even in his recent dark mood, and her mad, muddled, spirited mother, with her forgotten cheques and new gentleness and… The girl was patting Dominic’s arm, emphasizing something that was making him shake his head and laugh.
‘Oh, Theresa.’ Charlotte took both her hands this time, cradling the fingers. ‘I just forgot the stupid keys – I really did – and when Henry so kindly volunteered to drop them round it seemed to make sense to offer him a lift. I was being utterly selfish, as it happens – you know me, worried about the directions and the stupid car, of course, which did almost break down and, to be honest, he was wonderful, your husband, then and countless other times during Sam’s and my lovely stay in your cottage, but only to the point where I thought, lucky, lucky you, and lucky Henry, and quite right, too, because you two are so good and deserving and…’
Theresa, visibly embarrassed, unthreaded her fingers from Charlotte’s and clutched her head. ‘Oh, god, sorry, oh, God. You should be angry – why aren’t you an
gry?’ she wailed.
‘Because it’s all too stupid and none of it matters,’ Charlotte replied hastily, ‘and I know you’ve been having a bit of a hard time lately…’
Theresa released her head, staring across the table in astonishment. ‘How do you know that?’
Charlotte swallowed. Not home and dry, then, but soon, if she could hang on, stay focused, not think about Dominic and the girl. ‘On the phone this morning, Henry mentioned you’d seemed a bit down – said he hoped our lunch would cheer you up.’
‘Did he?’ she replied softly, the note of challenge gone. ‘That was nice. Charlotte, I’m so sorry…’
‘Please don’t be. It’s fine. Honestly. Wires get crossed. It happens all the time. I admire you for coming out and asking me straight. Typical you.’ She grinned encouragingly.
Theresa responded with a steady gaze, some bravery returning now that she had been reassured. ‘He does have a soft spot for you, you know.’
‘Yes,’ Charlotte replied, as lightly as she could, glad the surge in her pulse-rate could be felt by none but her. She had chosen a path of half-truth and would stick to it, not for her own sake but for Theresa’s. Relationships could hang by such threads; one had to protect them. ‘And I for him, come to that. Like I said, you’re very lucky.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Theresa whispered again, aghast. ‘It’s just that… well, to be honest, I have been a bit down recently but that’s because Henry’s been mysteriously distant – just not Henry – and I guess, seeing how well the two of you were getting on, I put two and two together and made –’
‘Five,’ interjected Charlotte, ‘and if we don’t order soon either I’ll fall off my chair from all this champagne or that stormy-faced waiter will kick us out for dawdling.’
It was testimony to their friendship, Charlotte reflected afterwards, walking down to the river with Jasper, the rain bouncing off her brolly, that from the rubble of these exchanges they had managed to construct a genuinely enjoyable time. A bottle of Pinot Grigio had helped, although the food was fussy and sufficiently overpriced for them to agree that it probably wasn’t an ideal birthday party venue after all. Theresa had said she would put her thinking cap on but Charlotte had said not to bother and she might just spend her birthday visiting her mother.
‘ Very nice,’ Theresa had muttered, spotting Dominic and his dining companion as they were leaving. ‘A dark horse, that one – give me the brother any day. Great that Rose and Sam have settled their differences, though,’ she had added, giving Charlotte a final hug before pulling her jacket over her head for the run to her car.
Charlotte peered over the wall at the river. Its surface was murky grey and violently pock-marked, as if under siege from a hail of bullets rather than mere rain. Her brolly was small and no match for the damp gusts driving in horizontal assaults off the water, spraying her face and chest. The backs of her legs were wet already from the walk, while her hair, subsiding throughout the lunch, had sunk into a moist heap at the nape of her neck. In fact, the brolly was no use at all, she decided suddenly, shaking it closed and tipping her face up to the sky. How silly to try to stay dry. How silly! She performed a little skip of a dance with her eyes closed, wondering if she was still a little drunk but not minding much. She had done what she could to make things okay for Theresa, that was the main thing. And all her daft fantasies over Dominic had caused no harm. No one knew. No one need ever know. Charlotte twirled, shedding hair-clips as her sodden bun performed a final collapse.
Waiting at the traffic-lights a few minutes later, her eyes streaming mascara, both arms clasping the squirming muddy parcel of the dog, it was perhaps fortunate that Charlotte did not recognize the occupants of the small black sports car that shot past, spurting an arc of dirty water at her already sodden ankles.
Dominic, who did recognize the bedraggled figure standing on the pavement, shrank a little in his seat, grateful for his Polish companion’s wild driving. As they sped away he kept the image in the wing mirror for as long as he could, wondering, as he had countless times during lunch, at the brazen insouciance of one who could share a meal so enthusiastically with the wife of a lover. It wasn’t his place to judge, of course – as he had said to Benedict – but it was hard nonetheless to discover that there could be such a different, such a harsh side to someone he had thought he might like to get to know. On top of which it had triggered painful memories of stumbling across Maggie’s ‘other’ side and the desolate period that had followed, when faith in love had felt lost along with everything else.
It rained hard in Kent that afternoon, too, bestowing a glossy sheen on the lichen hugging the oldest of the gravestones and the new slate tiles of the church roof. Jean, dressed more sensibly than her daughter, in a mac and wellies, walked slowly down the gravelled path, while Bill, the driver who had been looking after her so beautifully for four days now, kept them both dry under the vast multicoloured umbrella that lived in the boot of his smart silver Audi. He used it for his golf, Bill had explained, during one of their many pleasant exchanges, and for special customers, he had added, offering one of the winks Jean had learnt to look forward to, for the perfect balance they achieved between respect and familiarity.
Bill held the umbrella steady and fixed his gaze over the stone wall of the churchyard while Jean set down her bunch of flowers – her favourites, irises and purple campanula. Using her good hand, she traced her index finger slowly round the letter ‘R’ engraved in the headstone. It felt wonderfully simple, as seemingly complicated things often were in the end. Forgiveness, embracing all the imperfection of the love that had kept her by Reggie’s side for four decades – there was really nothing to it.
‘He was always so kind,’ she told Bill, as they made their way back to the car. ‘So kind,’ she repeated, in a murmur, keeping back the private observation that this was precisely what had always been so hard: how the gentlest handling could feel like an insult to one seeking the reciprocation of something more akin to passion.
Bill held out his arm for her to grip as she levered herself into the car. ‘Back to the hotel, then?’
‘I’d like to sit here for a bit, if that’s all right,’Jean replied, winding down the window.
‘I’ll have a walkabout, then,’ he said cheerfully, pulling out his cigarettes and tapping the earpiece that connected him to his mobile phone. ‘Back in five. Hit the horn if you need me.’ He marched off, balancing the arm of the umbrella on his shoulder while he lit up.
‘Well, well,’ said Jean out loud, shifting her sore wrist so she could get closer to the open window and sniff the wet air. Earth, tree bark, the scent of recently cut grass and the sweet, subtle smell of the rain itself… The layers were endless if one took the time to seek them out. It was noisy, too, an orchestra of drips and drumming threaded with birdsong and the hum of distant traffic from the motorway. It had been raining at Reggie’s funeral, although of course she hadn’t seen any beauty in it then.
‘Sorry, Reggie, not coming before… Sorry, love.’ Jean dusted away a tear, then put on her glasses, wanting a clear, final sight of the top of the gravestone through the slanting rain and the swaying branches. The air was cold on her face but her feet and hands were pleasantly warm. Who would have thought it?’ she exclaimed next, both as a general remark at her circumstances and in a fresh attempt to understand exactly how she had arrived at them. A light, that was it. A light had appeared in her bedroom just as the weary hopelessness was tightening its stranglehold. The pad with the farewell letter to Charlotte – the third attempt – had been propped awkwardly against her knees. There had been ink on the bedclothes, she remembered; terrible black stains, and the galling realization that she had forgotten, after all, to gather up the wretched little stockpile of sleeping pills, that she was going to have to endure the painful ordeal of clambering back out of bed and rummaging for them. And then, quite without warning, there had been the light… or, at least, a warmth, a heat, a glow – something.
Jean waved to Bill as he reappeared among the trees, then wound the window back up. She didn’t believe in ghosts; during the years abroad she had dismissed out of hand any servant tittle-tattle about spirits. But she was in no doubt that something had entered her room that night – some essence, or energy, filling her and leaving her filled, even after it had seeped away. The notion of this private pilgrimage had sprung to mind immediately afterwards, so like a need that the requirement of remaining alive to see it through did not need examining. She had phoned the taxi company that evening, gathering confidence when her tentative suggestion of a driver on a daily rate was so well received, as if people did it all the time instead of just lonely widows with broken wrists following mad ideas about revisiting old haunts.
She had taken the phone off the hook – not told anyone – for fear of losing her nerve. Packing, sorting out her route and accommodation, closing up the house, pushing her arm beyond limits at every turn, Jean had nearly baled out more than once. At times it was the sheer effort it would have taken to unscramble the arrangements that had kept her going, along with self-mocking mutterings about the harmlessness of lank hair and sodden arm plaster. And then Bill had arrived, whistling, smartly dressed, cleanshaven, opening doors, swinging her bags, cracking a joke about the barmy balmy weather and she had felt as irrevocably committed as a shy bride about to be swept off in the back of a limo.
‘Back to the hotel now, please, Bill.’
‘How lucky it was still going strong, eh, Mrs B, after all those years – and a lot smarter, you say?’
‘So lucky… and, yes, a lot smarter.’ Jean leant back against the headrest and closed her eyes, seeing again the grey walls of the poky room where she and Reggie had argued about England and houses and Charlotte… about every subject, in other words, but the one that, for those few weeks at least, had mattered so much: the one called Charity, the girl with the satin skin to whom her husband had, for the first time and unwittingly, almost lost his heart.
Life Begins Page 30