Charlotte took a step backwards. It dawned on her that her guest was more than a little drunk. During the chainsmoking session standing at the kitchen door, she had got through most of the first bottle on her own. ‘Supper’s ready.’ Charlotte swiped the note out of Eve’s fingers and stuffed it into her handbag as she led the way to the kitchen. ‘It’s getting cold.’
Eve clung to the banister post for a few moments while her body swayed in search of equilibrium. She had meant to bring things to such a head, but not quite so quickly. Having got back in touch with Charlotte on a spurt of something like nostalgia, a desire to reconnect with her English roots, the news of the separation from Martin had sharpened her focus to the point where a face-to-face encounter had felt imperative. Orchestrating it had been the easy part, she saw now. How to play things with Charlotte actually within her grasp was going to be far harder. Already the note, peeking out at her from the book in the bedside drawer, had almost fast-forwarded everything off course. Not to mention the wine, which – if she was honest with herself – had probably followed a little too closely upon the shots in her cup of tea and the vodka tonic that Tim had poured on his return from work, before pulling her skirt up and spinning her round to take her against his hall wall, knocking pictures and knick-knacks in his haste for release.
In the kitchen Charlotte was doling out spoonfuls of rice and runny mincemeat bobbing with kidney beans. ‘I didn’t know how much you wanted,’ she said briskly. ‘I hope that’s okay.’ She placed the steaming plate of food on one of the table mats, right next to a full glass of water. ‘Please, Eve…’ She gestured at the food – at the water. ‘Sit.’
‘I’ll fetch the corkscrew first, shall I?’ Eve tapped the shiraz bottle so that the rings on her fingers chimed against the glass. She didn’t look directly at Charlotte or at the place setting. The glass of water was like an order, and she didn’t take orders these days, not from anyone. ‘I think it got left in the sitting room.’ She could feel Charlotte’s eyes – still remarkable after all these years, still men-winning – boring between her shoulder-blades as she left the room. ‘In for a penny…’ she muttered, steadying herself with thoughts of Tim (talk about a piece of luck) as she gripped the bottle between her knees. The cork resisted, then popped free with a squeak and such force that an arc of red drops sprayed on to the carpet. The bubbles of liquid subsided into the mottled blue, leaving a line as visible as row of hammered nails. Eve wondered idly whether to drop to her knees and dab at them with a tissue. She hated mess, especially her own. But it was such a horrid old carpet, she reasoned, stepping back over the stains, lifting her pointy shoes very high and with great care, as if the barrier being crossed for her return journey was far more impeding, far more treacherous than a few dribbles of wine.
Sam had no plan. One minute he was on the smooth new black-treacle surface of the compound’s network of roads, the next he was bumping along the dirty, heaving pavement that ran along the main road, keeping a wary eye out for old ladies, as his father had jokingly instructed. There were several as it happened, one with a stick, one in a motorized wheelchair and one funny tottering one who walked sideways and had long hairs sprouting out of her chin and who scared the life out of him by asking for help crossing the road. It wasn’t easy with the bike and the old biddy squeezing his arm while he pressed the pedestrian button. But once he had got her over and watched her scurrying crab-walk into the courtyard of a high-rise Sam felt pretty good, as if his small adventure had been fully justified.
He turned back for the lights, but the road was once again log-jammed, the vehicles bumper to bumper, hissing and roaring like a herd of jostling beasts. So Sam walked on a bit further, pushing the bike, keeping an eye open for a shop in which to blow the fifty-pence piece he could feel jumping around in his pocket. There were none on the main road, but spotting a Walls ice-cream sign down a side-street, he hopped back into his saddle and rode towards that instead. Hopes high, he arrived to find that the sign was a leftover prop of a disused garage. Two boys, one white, one black, who looked a few years older than him, were skateboarding round the forecourt, taking it in turns to try jumps on and off the elevations that had once housed the pumps. They wore tracksuit bottoms and vests that showed off the muscles in their arms. Their wheels rumbled like thunder on the ruptured concrete.
‘Hey, we got ourselves an audience, brother,’ shouted the tallest one, after a couple of minutes. He nodded in Sam’s direction. ‘Shall we charge him or what?’
Sam looked away but didn’t move. He could be quick on his bike, really quick. He felt angry, powerful. He had a mum who screwed other people’s dads and a dad making babies with a woman hot enough to be a model. These two might be older, taller, but they couldn’t touch him. And it felt cool too, to be perched in this strange place with the evening sun warm on the back of his neck, one foot on the pavement edge, ready at any instant he chose to push off. Both the boarders were good, but the smaller dark-skinned one was definitely the best, crouching low as he took off, then flinging out his arms like a ballet dancer as he nailed his landings.
‘Are you watching, or what?’
Sam shrugged.
‘Hey, brother, he thinks he can watch, man.’
Sam hesitated at this, not because the words themselves were more threatening but because they were directed over his right shoulder where he had registered no objects of interest beyond a couple of overflowing recycling containers. Turning slowly, like an animal taking stock of danger, he saw now that there were three other boys, emerging from between the two bins, scuffing heedlessly through the bottles and stray sheets of newspaper as if the debris was of no more consequence than water lapping at their ankles. Their arms hung a little away from their sides, like they fancied themselves as cowboys, ready for a race to a draw. Except there were no holsters, of course, or guns. And this wasn’t the Wild West, but Rotherhithe on a sunny May evening, with people streaming home from work just yards away and his dad and Cindy not much further off, snuggling on the sofa, no doubt, making the most of not having him around.
Sam went for his push-off. He could see his escape in his head, as smooth as a new map: a U-turn, a sprint of acceleration, he would be back at the busy road – visible now like some slice of promised land, at the end of the street – before the five of them had even blinked. But as he started to turn the three boys quickened their pace and stepped into the gap through which he needed to pass. The other two, meanwhile, had abandoned their boards and were walking fast, rolling on the balls of their feet, towards the pavement. In the hand of the taller one Sam saw something flash as it caught the sun. The boy, seeing him look, grinned, revealing a line of messed-up teeth.
Sam abandoned the U-turn and began instead to cycle on past the garage. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of the first two, running now to reach him, slicing the air with their hands for added speed. The taller one was faster, the knife like an extra gleaming finger shooting out of his palm. Sam stood up on his pedals, keeping his gaze fixed on the narrowing road. Much further ahead the street petered out into the shadows of a long low block of tiered flats. But before that there was a turning right; a turning he might be able to reach, if the faster one would only trip or slow down, or if the muscles in his legs could just stop shaking long enough for him to get the necessary purchase for a proper sprint – like the one he had managed so easily the afternoon before, racing against the second hand of his watch as he did the final belt down his street, improving his personal best by almost two full minutes.
Dominic lay on his back with his hands under his head, the points of his elbows just touching the edges of the pillow. The bed was a small double, wedged into a corner of the room to make space for a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a tall rack overflowing with shoes. Even so, the wardrobe doors couldn’t open fully without hitting the side of the bed; efforts to ignore this constraint had left two chiselled, symmetrical grooves in its wooden frame. Dominic had noticed them while he was k
neeling with his head between Petra’s long legs, trying to think about the task in hand rather than the discomfort of the hard floor against his kneecaps.
It had got better, though, much better. Petra, certainly, had seemed satisfied, scattering his face with kisses afterwards and saying, ‘Lovely,’ before springing out of bed to shower. Lying alone, Dominic had counted shoes, then thought about Rose who was on a birthday sleepover with a pretty Nigerian girl called Gabby, a new friend apparently – not displacing Sam, his daughter had explained, with her endearing seriousness, but in addition to him. This second date had been at Petra’s instigation, as had the decision to cut straight to the business of taking off their clothes.
Dominic crossed his legs and looked at his feet, which Maggie had often told him were unusually elegant for a man, elegant and long, she had liked to tease, tweaking his toes. It had been rather lovely having his body known so well, he reflected now, to have it regarded as a terrain that held no secrets, possessed jointly for use and commentary and pleasure.
‘Dominic, you are handsome,’ remarked Petra, perhaps catching the dreamy look in his eye as she reappeared decked in two towels, one arranged as a turban, the other a mini-dress. ‘I like you a lot.’ She wagged a finger at him as she rummaged in a drawer spilling with underwear. ‘But now I have to go out. It is a party. But only cocktails. I will be back so we can have dinner and sex again. In two hours. If you like?’ She crossed to the bed and kissed him, sensuously this time, wetting his lips with her tongue before pushing her mouth hard against his.
‘Actually, I’d better be getting home,’ Dominic murmured. ‘For Rose,’ he added, surprising himself with the lie.
‘That is very sad. Now I am sad.’ She pouted as she pulled away, then busied herself with fastening her bra, not looking sad at all.
Outside, the sun was a smudge of bloody orange, like a dying ember in a dark hearth.
‘It will rain again,’ announced Petra as they emerged on to the pavement. She tugged up the collar of the black denim jacket that had been pulled on over a glittering silver T-shirt and crisp white jeans, and tucked her long hair inside.
‘I have a brolly – an umbrella – in the car if you want.’
‘No, I am late. I must go now.’ She turned smartly on her heel, then spun back again. ‘I could come to your house after my party, maybe? But no,’ she added, correcting herself in the fraction of a second it took Dominic to hesitate. ‘Your Rose, she wouldn’t like it. Girls who love their daddies – I understand that.’ She was shaking her head in amusement as she walked away.
Dominic drove home slowly, mulling over this parting remark and his needless sequestering of his daughter as an alibi. It bothered him, too, that during the course of their two recent, very intimate encounters, Petra had still told him practically nothing about herself, peppering him instead with questions about the city and Benedict and films, a subject on which she was both well informed and passionate. Whenever he, almost out of a sense of duty, steered the conversation towards Maggie, she had deftly steered it away again, pressing to hear more about his plans for the bookshop and warning him, in her somewhat monotone, textbook English, that he would probably miss the adrenalin of impossible deadlines and mesmerizing bonuses.
Maybe Benedict had given her a thorough briefing on the Maggie front, Dominic mused, fighting a downturn in spirits as he let himself into his empty house and checked for messages. Since their slightly terse exchange outside the café his brother had pointedly made no contact and Dominic was beginning to feel the silence. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry,’ he barked into the phone, after hearing the familiar recording of Benedict’s voice, delivered irritatingly and affectedly over what sounded like a soundtrack of a Bach fugue. ‘You were right. There is something about Charlotte Turner… but, yes, a woman like that would gobble me up for breakfast and spit me out by lunch and I happen to know that she’s quite messed up, so I shall steer well clear. And,’ he continued slyly, certain that the right hook would trigger a response, ‘I have just spent a second delightful afternoon with the delectable Petra… and, let me see, what else? Ah, yes, it’s Rose’s sports day soon – and she’d like you to be there. Your performance in the three-legged in the Home Counties last year remains a vivid and dear memory. Look, just call me, you bugger, can’t you?’
Tucking the house phone and his mobile into his trouser pockets, Dominic prepared himself a tray of cold meat, cheese, olives and bread and settled down on the sitting-room sofa with some paperwork. There was a lot to attend to – a long list of friends and institutions still requiring change-of-address slips, forms from utility companies and a letter from the employment lawyer, expressing an optimistic plan to negotiate a better settlement – six months’ severance pay instead of three – if he could supply the following information…
Dominic had soon abandoned it in favour of the sales figures from Ravens Books. The for-sale sign had triggered a couple of other interested parties, but on the phone that morning Jason, sounding tense and weary, had almost guaranteed the lease was his if he could meet their asking price of sixty thousand pounds. That was for the ‘goodwill’ element of the custom they were passing on. On top of that there would be an annual rent of twenty-five thousand, plus rates, of course, which totalled five thousand… Dominic paused, sucking the end of his pencil and pondering some of the ideas Charlotte had mentioned for rearranging the shop, improving stock and forging stronger links with local schools. No matter. He whacked his pencil against the notepad. He would get Charlotte to leave, he decided, along with the hapless Shona. He would explain that he needed one experienced full-time employee. With Sam in the mix she was bound to refuse. Dominic fetched a second beer to celebrate the decision and settled back on the sofa, giving up on his papers and channel-hopping vainly in search of something to match his mood.
By eight thirty Eve had picked at two courses and assailed the second bottle of wine with a speed and determination that seemed to Charlotte almost worthy of admiration. Rather less easy to commend, however, was the sight of her guest sprawling in the upright kitchen chair, tapping the ash of her endless cigarettes into the ruin of her uneaten food and resting her feet on the edge of the recycling box that lived next to Jasper’s bed. The dachshund, after sniffing Eve’s empty suede shoes, had retreated to his third favourite sleeping place, between the coat stand and the doormat in the hall.
A little on edge, thanks to Eve’s outburst on the stairs, Charlotte had found that she, too, had little appetite, either for her chilli con carne or the second bottle of wine. Having to feign an interest in the anecdotes (some on their second outing already) about the glorious life of a self-made mailorder guru, the evening – not to mention the next few days – was starting to look decidedly uninviting. But it was also quite funny, Charlotte conceded privately, to be confronted by this new, extrovert version of her once staid friend. What Sam would make of her she could hardly imagine. And telling Theresa would be enjoyable, too. She swallowed a yawn as she started – with what she hoped was a tactful lack of fuss – to stack their dirty plates.
Eve sprang to life in the same instant, sliding her feet off the box and clutching the edge of the table. Charlotte, imagining she was to be offered assistance, fearing, mildly, for the safety of her crockery, gestured at her to relax back into her seat.
‘Sam fucking Mendes.’
‘Pardon?’ Charlotte paused with her clutch of dishes.
‘Martin… all that university directing… he could have been as good as Sam Mendes.’
Charlotte laughed as she continued clearing up. ‘I’m not sure you’re right about that, Eve, but Martin would certainly be flattered to hear it. That thing in the bedside table, by the way,’ she added, unable to resist the urge to set the record straight, even with someone whom she knew would never again be a close friend, someone manifestly in danger of losing the power to make much sense of anything, ‘it was the end of a long road, of course. Martin had been seeing other women – I’d susp
ected it for years – but that was the first hard evidence. It was a relief, to be honest. The woman to whom it refers is the one he’s living with now. They’re expecting their first child. It took a while, but I’m fine about it now – really fine.’ She straightened from stacking the dishwasher and pulled a face. ‘Marriage, children – nothing but trouble. How wise of you to avoid them.’
Eve frowned, trying to bring Charlotte more sharply into focus. For her the evening had now reached the final, always riveting stage when her mind had broken sufficiently free of her body and the tedious constraints of conscience and social nicety to cartwheel down any track it chose. She needed to grip the edge of the table because, like the other items of furniture in the room, it had started to rise and fall on an invisible sea and she feared that without physical security it might float out of the room. ‘Wise?’ Liking the word, and its effect upon Charlotte, who put down her bundle of knives and at last paid attention, Eve repeated it, more forcefully, flexing her lips like an opera singer. ‘There was only ever one man for me.’
Charlotte picked up her cutlery again. ‘And who was that?’
‘Who do you think?’ she snapped. ‘Martin, of course. But you knew that. You knew.’
Charlotte’s mouth opened, then closed. ‘No, I… at least…’
We’d slept together, did you know that? Before those stupid auditions. Just the once, and it might have been the start of something – but then you came along and he ended it. He was always a one-woman man, Martin… The girl before me – he cut her off too, ruthlessly, the same day he met me. Love, loyalty, till-death-do-us-part – he believed in that stuff.’
‘And so did I,’ Charlotte whispered, appalled but fascinated, as the past she kept trying to understand heaved, reconfiguring itself yet again. ‘I knew that you… I mean, I thought it was a crush. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’
Life Begins Page 32