The Missing World

by Margot Livesey

  She broke off. Now, who had an answering machine and wouldn’t mind getting calls? Her first thought was Jason, who’d sprung for lunch as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but she felt reluctant to muddy the clear waters of his enthusiasm. As for Ginny, in their last conversation, just before the phone was cut off, she had let fly a volley of reproaches about Richmond. “I recommended you over all these other people and you didn’t even have the decency to show up. I don’t know why I bother. The same thing happened at the King’s Head.”

  When at last Charlotte managed to tell her about Struan, Ginny, far from being mollified, had reacted like Bernadette. “Films,” she snorted. “I mean, if it works out, great, but you need a job right now.”

  The conversation had left Charlotte with a sick, shaky feeling. She paced back and forth amongst the newspapers until she remembered the bottle of vodka jammed at the back of her fridge. Armed with a glassful, she climbed onto the futon and, a stroke of luck, A Man for All Seasons was on the box. By the time she fell asleep, her own struggles were subsumed in those between church and state.

  “Do you have a light?”

  Charlotte looked up to find her face mirrored in an absurd pair of rose-coloured spectacles which exactly matched their wearer’s velvet coat. “Probably,” she said.

  “Do I know you?” said the second girl. Unlike her vivid companion, but like Charlotte and almost everyone else in the pub, she was dressed in black.

  Fans, thought Charlotte, feeling what could be a box of matches. “Maybe you’ve seen me in something.” No, a sewing kit. Then came the familiar questions, and she was all becoming modesty, explaining that she was the person having a haircut in Pie in the Sky or the third patient in Casualty.

  “I was sure I knew you,” said the one with ridiculous glasses. “I never forget a face.”

  “Bollocks,” said her friend. They began to argue about each other’s mnemonic powers just as Charlotte’s fingers closed around a box of matches.

  “Here.” She handed it to the nearer girl. “Can I ask your advice?” For a moment they looked uneasy, as if she were turning into a Scientologist before their eyes, until she told them about her flat and showed them the ad so far.

  “Whereabouts is it?” said the first girl.

  “Why not say you’re an actress?” said the second.

  An hour later, as Charlotte rode the bus north, both the envelope and the final bill were covered with their suggestions. Perhaps it was their youth that had reminded her of Cedric. She had been neglecting him lately. True, she’d left several messages on his answering machine, but of course he couldn’t call her back. Briefly she considered phoning now, from the call box at the bus stop, then decided to take her chances. Her optimism was rewarded. As she turned into his street, a light shone in the window of his bed-sit, like a good deed in a naughty world.

  “Who is it?” called a muffled voice.

  “Charlotte.” A prolonged silence greeted her name. “Come on, Cedric. It’s bloody freezing out here.” She jiggled from foot to foot, wondering if he might have someone with him. No, more likely he’d been asleep or doing some drug he didn’t want to share. Cedric had a dog-in-the-manger side she was finding increasingly hard to ignore.

  The door opened and there he was, looking ravishing in a red silk dressing gown. He had the longest neck Charlotte had ever seen and a coltish, Modigliani body. He can’t possibly be straight, her friend Luke had insisted. Well, she’d said, he certainly goes through the motions with enthusiasm. Now she smiled warmly, wondering if he would kiss her.

  “Why the hell didn’t you phone like a normal person to say you were coming?”

  “I didn’t know,” said Charlotte, breezing past. “I was at the bus stop and the first one came right by your door. I took it as a sign.”

  “No bus comes right by my door.” He followed her into the room. “Here.” He moved some books off the sofa and straightened a cushion. She took off her coat, sat down in one corner, and stretched her toes towards the gas fire. Lovely. Cedric’s room, though not much larger than hers, was so warm and tidy. She waited eagerly for him to offer her a drink. He usually had a bottle of plonk on the go.

  “So.” Cedric stood over her, hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. “How are you?”

  “Oh, the usual. Hectic. I’ve been offered a small part in a film and I’m auditioning for a couple of plays.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Why was he still standing, not budging or offering her a glass? “Yes, the film will make a huge difference. That was one reason I wanted to see you. But were you in the middle of something? I don’t mean,” she offered cheerily, “to be the man from Porlock.” Cedric had pretensions to write poetry, although Charlotte would not have used that word for the verses he’d read to her one slow afternoon at the pub. Still, far be it from her to discourage anyone in artistic pursuits.

  “I was writing a letter, actually, but I can take a short break.” He pointed to the desk and at last focussed on Charlotte and his responsibilities as host. “Would you like a cup of tea? I just put the kettle on.”

  “Lovely.” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  He disappeared into the alcove that served as a kitchen, and she glanced around the room for telltale underwear or surprising publications. A heap of coins glinted on the mantelpiece. She listened to a cupboard opening and closing, then sprang up and helped herself to three pounds, a small gesture towards repaying the many drinks she’d bought for him in palmier days. By the time he reappeared, she was back in her seat. He put the tray on a table between them and settled himself at the other end of the sofa. This was more like it, she thought, eyeing the plate of biscuits—chocolate-coated ginger snaps, if she wasn’t mistaken. She ate three without thinking and was reaching for a fourth when she felt Cedric’s gaze. “I didn’t have lunch,” she said.

  “Comme d’habitude.”

  Quickly Charlotte drew back her hand. She’d forgotten how sharp-tongued Cedric could be. “So how are you?” she said, accepting her tea. “I haven’t been into the Trumpet in ages.”

  “Same old same old. Louis is a drag, but he does let me have the hours I want. I’ve been sending out resumés as hard as I can.”

  “Me too,” said Charlotte, looking longingly at the biscuits. “What we both need is a good agent.”

  “I don’t think stage managers use agents, at least not at my lowly level.”

  “Did you talk to Luke? He’s great on the business angle.”

  Cedric gave a little nod and said Luke had indeed been helpful. Charlotte said she was glad, that he was sure to find work soon; in fact, that was really the reason she’d stopped in. She told him about the film, set near Gloucester. If he gave her a copy of his c.v., she’d be happy to pass it on to Struan.

  “Thanks.” He peered into the teapot and said something about hot water. While he was out of the room, Charlotte ate the fourth biscuit and rearranged the remaining two to look less lonely. Then she straightened her leggings and smoothed her hair. If he asked nicely, she wouldn’t be averse to spending the night.

  Cedric returned. Gazing up at him from the sofa, Charlotte thought his neck seemed even longer and his jaw, as Luke had pointed out, was admirably firm. When he had poured them both more tea, he announced he wanted to ask her something. At once she felt little pricklings of alarm. Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned the film; suppose he wanted a loan?

  “Why did you tell Luke that we slept together?”

  “Oh, he’s such a gossip.” Charlotte giggled. “I certainly didn’t say that. Or at least not intentionally. He’d been trying to reach me one night and I told him I was with you. You know I don’t believe in lying about these kinds of things.”

  “That’s not what Luke says,” said Cedric. “But the point is, we didn’t. Twice you’ve been too drunk to go home and, rather than put you in a taxi, I’ve let you stay.”

  “We shared a bed.”

 
; “Both fully dressed. Listen, you can tell any cock-and-bull story you like about yourself—you’re screwing Charles and Camilla, for all I care—but leave me out. Okay?”

  He was still speaking as Charlotte retrieved her shoes. In an instant, she was slamming the door, fumbling her way down the dark stairs. On the first landing she stopped. Wasn’t that Cedric calling her name, asking her to wait? But no, there was only the echo of her own footsteps. Stupid, she thought, hurrying on, stupid to trust a twenty-three-year-old. Of course he had to impress Luke. How else could a nancy boy like Cedric get anywhere in the theatre, except by the casting couch?

  chapter 7

  Nora was rambling on about their dogs. From across the table, Jonathan eyed the fading bruise on her cheek. He was trying to pin down the colour—olive, ochre, sepia, mauve—when the sense of her words reached him.

  “Of course,” she said, “we hate to leave.” Her hands fluttered above her plate like large moths, as she explained, at arduous length, all the reasons that drew them back to the Lake District: the aforementioned dogs, a frozen pipe, lambing. “We really do have to go,” she concluded. “More chicken?”

  “Not yet, dear.”

  “No, thanks,” said Jonathan. His palms were tingling. Recently he had been afraid Hazel’s parents might never quit his spare room; his vow had been answered—he had got her back—but in the company of two full-time chaperones. Now, like a swarm out of a clear sky, happiness descended. For a moment he was simply dazzled. Then he heard the familiar throat-clearing.

  With the air of a man facing an unpleasant duty, George cast aside his silverware. “Frankly, Jonathan, it isn’t just the practicalities. We have neighbours who would help, but neither of us can handle Hazel. Any fool can see we get on her nerves.”

  “George.” Nora’s hands beat frantically.

  Only that afternoon Jonathan had overheard Hazel berating her. “Why do you have to pretend everything’s all right? I’m ill, for god’s sake. No one even has a diagnosis.” “Darling,” Nora protested, “you walked to the end of the street today.” Hazel muttered something he couldn’t catch, then: “This is like when I failed O-level biology and knew I’d never be a vet. You just wouldn’t admit that I’d messed up. You kept pretending it was a clerical error.” Whatever came next was lost as Jonathan stepped into the bathroom.

  Now he emptied his glass and hastened to support their decision. “You’ve been terrific, absolutely marvellous. I’m sure we can manage, though. Hazel is much better. And Maud will help.”

  “That’s the other thing,” said George. “Nora and I have talked this over. We’d like to pay for a private nurse, two days a week.”

  Christ, thought Jonathan, they haven’t even left and they’re suggesting a substitute. He promised, vaguely, to look into it. But when Nora remarked that he didn’t want to depend on friends, he glimpsed the alternative: an endless parade of people coming by on the pretext of helping. Inevitably, sooner or later, someone would mention the breakup. He could just imagine Diane’s fake solicitude: Hazel, there’s something I think you ought to know.…

  “Of course,” George continued, “this all depends on Hazel. If she doesn’t want—”

  “Want what?”

  Hazel, wearing yellow pyjamas, stood in the doorway, arms braced to either side. Since the accident, Jonathan had noticed, she held on to things, a doorframe, a chair, as if either she or the world needed steadying. He went to her. “Your parents have to go home,” he said smoothly. “Back to Kendall. We were figuring out the arrangements.”

  Behind him he heard Nora’s gasp and George’s shush, but his attention was on Hazel. A little crease appeared between her eyebrows and was gone so quickly he doubted his vision. She let go of the doorframe. “Funny,” she said, “today I was thinking this is the longest we’ve spent together since I got back from India. Or”—she clasped her hands—“that’s what I remember. Is there more chicken?”

  “Plenty,” said Nora. Hazel could have given her no better gift. “Potatoes too?”

  “Please.” She slid into the fourth chair. Jonathan reached to pour her wine, then substituted apple juice.

  “You’re right,” said George. “You stayed with us for a fortnight after India.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Cheers,” said Jonathan. “Here’s to more soon.” With varying degrees of hesitation and enthusiasm, they drank.

  After the taxi turned the corner, Hazel released the garden gate and allowed herself to be led back inside. At the last moment she had clung to George and Nora, her face wet with tears. Thank goodness, Jonathan thought, they already had their tickets. He closed the front door as delicately as the lid on a hive and followed her into the living-room. Seeing her standing in the window, her hair glinting in the light, he wanted to shout for joy and fling his arms around her.

  “Well,” he managed, “they’re in good time for their train. Would you like to go for a walk?”

  “Not yet.” She fingered the cheese plant. “Maybe later.”

  For the remainder of the day, their first alone together in several months, Hazel was restless and fretful. Nothing he could say or do seemed right; she left the room while he was reading to her and apologised, shook off his embraces and apologised, refused again to take a walk and half an hour later insisted on doing so immediately. He was almost relieved when Maud showed up with an Indian take-away.

  “What did you get?” asked Hazel, prying open the containers.

  “Your favourites,” Maud said, quickly adding, “prawn korma, sag paneer, aloo gobi, nan, pilau rice.”

  “Prawn korma,” Hazel repeated. “Aloo gobi. Sag …”

  Jonathan looked over from the cupboard, where he was searching for mango chutney; he still hadn’t mastered Nora’s reorganisation. “You might have different favourites now. You can change your mind.”

  She didn’t even glance in his direction. “Sag paneer,” she exclaimed. “Green mush with lumps of cheese. Of course I remember that.”

  “So.” Maud began to divide the rice. “Day one without the parentals.”

  Reaching for the nan, Jonathan heard the muffled threat. I’m here, Maud was saying, and I haven’t forgotten. Please, he wanted to say. I’ll do anything, only please don’t rock the boat. “Would you like a beer?” he offered.

  “Thanks,” said Maud, and to Hazel, “Do you miss them?”

  “I do. The house seems empty. But the thing I realised is that they weren’t helping me get better, because …”

  As he set the beer on the table, he saw her eyes widen.

  “Because,” she went on, “they’re not part of my adult life. It’s you two who know me, who know I like prawn korma.” She turned first to Maud, then to him. “You have to tell me about the lost years, you—”

  The phone cut short her next imperative. “Aren’t you going to answer?” Maud asked after the fourth ring.

  Reluctantly Jonathan rose and went to the living-room. George was on the line. As he described the snow, so deep the taxi hadn’t been able to get up the drive, and the lambs wobbling in Doughty’s fields, Jonathan heard in his voice something that had been missing for weeks. George was back on his home ground. “Let me fetch Hazel,” he finally interrupted.

  The following afternoon he was deep in e-mail, dealing with a query about a burglary, when the doorbell rang. Right on the dot, he noted approvingly as he went to answer; he’d asked the agency nurse to come during Hazel’s nap. On the doorstep, he found a fair, slender woman dressed in crisp slacks, a white shirt, and dark coat.

  “Bernadette Granger,” she said, offering her hand.

  He shook it, wondering why she looked familiar, and ushered her into the living-room. As she listed her qualifications, he realised where he’d seen her before: Hazel’s hospital. He must have glimpsed her in a corridor or waiting room. “I don’t know how much the agency told you,” he began. “My girlfriend—fiancée—has had an accident.”

  “Something about seizur
es?” Bernadette said helpfully.

  Her posture, he observed, was admirable. Sitting a little straighter, he described Hazel’s condition, the treatment so far. Bernadette knew Hogarth. She praised his skill and, producing a notebook and pen, asked about medicine.

  Jonathan recited the list. “None of them entirely stops the seizures. And of course, she sometimes gets in a state about this memory business.” He stopped, alarmed at the gusto that had crept into his voice. Lulled by Bernadette’s attention, he had forgotten his mask of grief.

  “Memory business?”

  “Excuse me.” He pointed to the door as if he’d heard something.

  In the hall he sank down on the first stair. He hadn’t meant to mention Hazel’s amnesia, but maybe this blunder was for the best. After all, he couldn’t control every syllable she uttered. Absentmindedly he plucked a piece of fluff off the blue carpet, one of their last joint purchases for the house.

  Back in the living-room he was pleased to find Bernadette still seated. Such docility seemed a good sign. “False alarm,” he said, resuming his own seat. He explained Hazel’s memory lapses. “Hogarth is very clear that she mustn’t be troubled with questions.”

  “And her short-term memory?”

  “Fine. Occasionally she gets in a muddle but”—Bernadette turned to a new page of her notebook—“that’s probably as much the drugs as anything else.”

  “This must all be very worrying, Mr. Littleton.”

  “Jonathan.”

  As she described a couple of patients who, like Hazel, had suffered head injuries and gone on to make tremendous progress, he studied her long neck and small breasts. Not bad, he was thinking when she asked if she could meet the patient.

  “The patient?” For a moment he had no idea who she meant. “She’s asleep,” he stammered.

  “What a pity.”

  Was that a note of sarcasm, or incredulity? Once again he reminded himself Bernadette was only an employee. They arranged for her to come two afternoons a week, from two to six. “I’ll need to leave promptly,” she said, “to be home for my children.”