The Crystal Cage

by Merryn Allingham

  I was ready for her to start selling me the Eastern European gentleman, but she didn’t. She was careful in fact not to mention work at all, so I thought I’d throw her a lifeline or a grenade. I wasn’t sure which I meant it to be.

  ‘I’ve got some commissions,’ I said brightly.

  ‘That’s great.’ There was a pause. ‘What are they exactly?’ She sounded vague, distracted even. She evidently found me deeply unsettling.

  ‘I used to have my own business in property research, heritage stuff, you know.’ I didn’t know if she did, but I didn’t much care.

  ‘I met one of my old clients quite by chance a few weeks ago and he wanted me to do a follow-up on the report I wrote. He phoned me this morning and he’s passed my number on to one of his colleagues who’s interested in using me.’

  ‘What good news. I’m so pleased. Does that mean you’ll be restarting your business?’

  She was a little too eager. Nick must have been talking, encouraging her to encourage me. Or was I just paranoid?

  ‘I don’t think so—not on a permanent basis. I have other ideas.’ I hoped I sounded mysterious.

  She smiled glassily and as Nick arrived between us with wine and glasses at that moment, I was spared further interrogation. Not for long though.

  ‘Nick and I were talking on the phone the other day, Grace.’ So I wasn’t paranoid. ‘We were saying that it was time we went up to Gloucestershire for a weekend to see the parents.’

  I nodded absently. The chance of a couple of days alone in Thetford Road was appealing.

  ‘We thought it would be a good opportunity for you to meet Mum and Dad.’

  I still nodded absently. I wasn’t really listening. I was busy deciding just how I would spend my two days free of Nick.

  ‘We could go up by train together,’ she was saying uncertainly, ‘or I could drive. That might be the better option. What do you think?’

  I suddenly realised she was including me in the plans. ‘I’m going to be busy this weekend,’ I said quickly.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be this weekend does it, Nick?’

  Nick shook his head vigorously. He wasn’t going to help me out. ‘Next weekend or the one after that is fine. The olds are pretty flexible. You name the day.’

  I looked at their shining faces and felt trapped. If I said no, what would that say about my relationship with Nick? If I prevaricated, they would keep on suggesting dates until they got a definite answer. I was angry with him. He should have discussed the visit with me before letting his sister loose; then I might have been able to explain how I felt, to myself as much as to him. With Lucy smiling benignly a foot away, it was impossible. But I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to meet his parents. It was too soon and too difficult.

  ‘Yes,’ I heard myself saying, ‘why don’t we make it the week after next.’

  When she’d gone, Nick came up to me while I was washing up and put his hands around my waist. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know you’re not crazy about going to Gloucestershire but thanks for doing it for me.’

  I felt guilty. I was doing it because I had no other option. He slid his hands upwards and started undoing my shirt. I felt sore and tired, but I didn’t have the heart to push him away. He was working his socks off and I hadn’t been the pleasantest of companions lately. I abandoned the dishes and allowed myself to be scooped up and carried lopsidedly into the bedroom. We plummeted onto the bed in a tangled heap of limbs, laughing and breathless. This was the person I’d fallen for in those strange two days in Dorchester, a person who nowadays disappeared for increasingly long stretches of time. I wondered how long it would be before the man I hardly recognised returned.

  * * *

  On the following day, I dressed as smartly as I could and sallied forth to meet my new client, who had offices in Bloomsbury. It turned out to be a fairly brief meeting and a fairly sparse commission, but at least it was a start and he assured me that his colleague, Jessica Hanley, would be contacting me in the next few days. With time to spare, I walked to nearby Somerset House hoping to do a small part of the research I’d need to complete the work he wanted done. It would save me a journey later in the week; I was still feeling weary and anything that conserved energy was good. I was beginning to have some unwelcome suspicions and after I’d left Somerset House and was on my way to the bus stop, I dived into a pharmacy. If I could get back to Thetford Road before Nick returned, I’d have time to do the test today. I didn’t want to know the result, but I had to find out. Locked into a string of difficult thoughts, I wasn’t looking where I was going.

  ‘Grace!’ The man I’d cannoned into was holding out his arms. I blinked. Oliver of all people!

  ‘How wonderful to meet you like this,’ he was enthusing. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch, but I’ve failed dismally. Your mobile doesn’t seem to be working.’

  It wouldn’t, I thought, not from the bottom of Hampstead Pond. The day that I’d cleared my belongings from Lyndhurst Villas, I’d wanted to make a complete break from the past. Oliver had no idea where I was living and, without my old mobile, no means of contacting me.

  He was still smiling fondly, as though he couldn’t quite believe the present he’d been given. ‘Do come and have a drink.’

  ‘It’s three in the afternoon, Oliver.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve just had lunch at the BBC. They’re reduced to bottled water. Tap water next no doubt.’

  I let myself be shepherded into the nearest pub, which smelt so strongly of beer that I almost retched.

  ‘Are you all right?’ His face peered anxiously at me. I noticed then that he’d shaved off his beard.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I took a deep breath. ‘It’s just a bit potent in here.’

  ‘Let’s go into the lounge bar, the air might be clearer there.’

  It was marginally fresher, and I let him order me a fruit juice and hoped I would keep it down.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at the gallery?’ I suppose I had an idea of putting him on the back foot.

  ‘Not for an hour, and I’m so pleased to see you.’ He looked it and I felt my heart soften. ‘So how are you doing?’

  ‘Good,’ I was economical with the truth. ‘I’ve decided to continue the business and I’ve got commissions coming in all the time.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I did wonder—you seemed quite adamant about not carrying on.’

  ‘Words said in haste, and that kind of thing.’

  ‘We both said words in haste, and I’ve been repenting mine ever since.’ He took my hand and held it. His long fingers were warm and clasped mine tightly. ‘I miss you, Grace.’

  I was touched, but I needed to steel myself against any false reconciliation.

  ‘I didn’t value what I had until it was no longer there,’ he was saying. ‘If you would reconsider…’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think it’s ever a good idea to go back, Oliver. I’m sorry that things didn’t work out between us but very pleased to see you again. I hated parting on such bad terms.’

  He clasped my fingers even more tightly. ‘I hated that, too. Don’t think I don’t understand your wish to move on—I do—and I promise I won’t pester you to think again. But I want you to know that you are welcome back at Lyndhurst Villas any time you want to climb the hill. And on your terms.’

  It was a generous offer, but the security he represented no longer looked as enticing. My silence told him that his offer was unlikely to be taken up and he covered the awkwardness by filling me in on the projects he’d been busy with since I left. An hour passed before we said goodbye.

  ‘If you’d care to give me your new mobile number, I could pass it on to anyone I thought a likely client,’ he said diffidently. ‘I promise I won’t call you myself unless it’s business or you call first.’

  Another stroke of generosity. I gave him the number. I hoped he wouldn’t try to resurrect a dead relationship, but he seemed genu
inely to want to help. We parted with light kisses and I walked towards Trafalgar Square with a happier heart. The meeting had been valuable in laying the past to rest, but now I had the future to deal with.

  * * *

  As soon as I reached the flat, I made for the tiny bathroom. I didn’t require much space or much time for what I needed to do, and I had my answer very shortly. Positive. But whose baby was it, Oliver’s or Nick’s? And what was I to do? I sat and thought about it without the obligatory glass of wine. No more alcohol for months.

  If the baby was Oliver’s and I told him, what would be his reaction? He’d want me to return to Lyndhurst Villas; he’d already asked me to, and if he thought I was carrying his child, he would be insistent. Today’s gentle request would become a command. I couldn’t go back. Oliver didn’t like children, but that wouldn’t stop him wanting to control events. I’d escaped once, but with a child dependent on me, I was unlikely to manage it a second time.

  And it might well not be his: in fact it was much more likely to be Nick’s. What would he say? I knew instantly—he’d say we should get married. I don’t know why I knew, but I did. He’d fallen into being conventional man just a little too easily. The Nick I’d first met had been an identity he was trying out for a while. The Nick that had emerged in recent weeks looked like the real person, and that person would want to get married. Perhaps ‘want’ was stretching it—inwardly he’d probably be appalled at the prospect—but he’d feel obliged to. And I’d had enough of obligation. The strangest thing was that I never considered ending the pregnancy. I was nearing thirty, but I wasn’t particularly maternal and had little in the way of visible support, yet it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t bear this child. Before Nick got back, I rang for a doctor’s appointment. The test result might prove to be a mistake, but I didn’t think so. In the meantime I decided to keep my own counsel.

  I wandered back into the living room and picked up the post from the mat. I’d been too intent on getting the test done and ringing the surgery to worry about the mail. But right on the top of the pile was an envelope marked Living History. It was quite thin: either it was a rejection without the return of the manuscript or it was an acceptance. There was only one way to find out.

  Nick came through the door as I spread out the one-page letter. ‘It’s been accepted!’ I waved the sheet of paper in the air.

  ‘What has?’

  ‘My article on Lucas Royde and his collaboration with Alessia Renville.’

  He threw his briefcase down on the one empty chair and yawned loudly. ‘I didn’t know you were writing anything.’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘Sorry, other things on my mind.’ His tone wasn’t exactly dismissive, but it suggested quite definitely that my success could only be small beer.

  ‘Living History is taking it.’

  ‘That’s a general interest mag, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I thought you were writing up the findings as an academic paper.’

  ‘I decided to target the lay reader instead. More amusing and it might even pay, unlike academic papers.’

  ‘I guess so, but—’

  ‘But what? The magazine loved it and wants me to do a second article once I’ve completed the research.’

  He didn’t respond immediately but made for the bedroom to change his clothes, a fleeting irritation crossing his face. There was something about the Royde research that annoyed him. Every time the subject came up, he did his best to ignore it. I couldn’t fathom what was going on since initially he’d been the one so keen to investigate. I wondered if it was it because when we’d started out, I’d been in control. My professional expertise had mattered, and he’d been the hanger-on. Now our roles were reversed and I got the impression that he preferred it that way.

  When he reemerged, he was wearing faded jeans and Converse trainers and that always made me feel good about him. But his smile had all the appearance of being pinned on.

  ‘That’s really good news,’ he said a trifle too heartily, ‘about the article, I mean. It will certainly help out until you get something more permanent.’

  ‘Permanent’ was a word I seemed to hear a lot from Nick these days and it jarred. Nothing about me or my life felt permanent: on the contrary both seemed to be in constant flux. It was depressing to feel so little solid ground beneath my feet, but on occasions the uncertainty could be oddly welcome. Nothing was fixed, everything was open. Different possibilities washed around me, often no more than a shadowy sense of what various futures might look like. But that little blue taper was telling me that from now on I needed focus.

  Nick began pouring wine into the first of two glasses.

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  He raised his eyebrows but made no other comment. Instead he dropped a small depth charge. ‘Lucy rang me at work. She’ll pick us up at six on Friday.’

  I’d forgotten about the visit to Gloucestershire, I’d been too busy battling with nausea. Now it was almost upon us, and I couldn’t get out of it. If I pleaded ill health, Nick would want to know what was wrong. There was no escape; I was going to have to brave the weekend.

  I stayed awake for hours that night while Nick snored gently beside me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. Home pregnancy tests could be unreliable, I knew, but I was sure that this time the result hadn’t lied. The thought of a baby terrified and elated me in a single breath. A child of my very own, a small scrap to love unconditionally, but a small scrap wholly dependent on me for health and happiness. I had to get a grip; I couldn’t continue blindly staggering from one circumstance to another and hoping that life might turn out right. When I returned from Gloucestershire, there were important decisions to make.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The trip to the Heyshams was mercifully brief. In the end Lucy had to see a valuable client on the Friday evening and didn’t collect us until the next morning and by teatime Sunday, we were back in Thetford Road. Nick wanted to be bright-eyed for the next day’s work.

  I’d seen the house in my imagination, fountain and all, but it turned out to be even grander than I’d thought, with room after room of high ceilings and expensive antiques. Nick’s parents were equally grand but very welcoming. Victor Heysham, or Justice Heysham as perhaps I should call him, had crunched his way across the broad gravel drive towards us even before Lucy’s car pulled to a halt.

  ‘Grace!’ I was barely out of the vehicle and he had my hand in his and was pumping it vigorously. ‘How very good to meet you. And good of you to bring our prodigal son home.’

  I was about to deny any responsibility for returning Nick to his ancestral lands when Mrs Heysham emerged from an immense door of studded oak and enveloped me in a cloud of rustling silk.

  ‘Grace! How wonderful that you could come.’ I was beginning to feel a minor celebrity. The welcome accorded Nick and Lucy was noticeably less effusive. I was evidently to be the star of the show.

  All three of us were ushered into the sitting room. At least I imagine it was a sitting room. There were certainly seats, but there were also acres of space, floor to ceiling windows, and a stunning view towards rolling grassland. I balanced uncomfortably on the edge of one of the squashy sofas and sipped my coffee. I was finding it difficult to relax.

  ‘Your job sounds fascinating, Grace,’ Mrs Heysham said. ‘Do tell us how you came to research property.’

  ‘I studied Art History, Fine Art, too,’ I mumbled ‘and it kind of went on from there.’

  ‘How marvellous! And what exciting project are you working on at the moment?’

  What on earth had Nick told his mother? I glanced desperately towards him, but he’d buried his face in his cup while Lucy looked studiously down at her feet.

  Mrs Heysham was smiling eagerly across at me. ‘I think it’s so wonderful, women having careers—and such interesting careers—these days.’

  There didn’t seem much to say to that and I noticed the judge was l
ooking marginally less eager. ‘Even more important for the men, wouldn’t you say?’ He looked meaningfully at his youngest son. ‘Good to see you getting there, Nick.’

  Nick flushed with annoyance, and I could feel Lucy about to step in. Protecting her younger brother was no doubt her role in the family, and she’d probably been intervening on his behalf since childhood. This time, though, she didn’t have to speak. The sound of a car horn distracted Mr Heysham’s attention and sent his wife drifting towards the door, leaving a trail of lavender behind her.

  ‘Martin,’ the judge announced in a satisfied tone. ‘On time, too.’

  There was a flurry in the hall and then a slightly stockier version of Nick put his head round the door and nodded a hello.

  ‘Brought anyone with you?’ Victor asked.

  Martin looked uncomfortable. ‘Just me, Dad.’

  ‘Hmm. We would have welcomed a friend, you know. The door is always open.’

  ‘I know, Dad. But your summons caught me on the hop. I didn’t have time to ask anyone. Not that I’m not glad to be here. It’s great to meet you, Grace.’

  I hoped very much that Martin wouldn’t feel a similar need to quiz me on my mythical job, but I needn’t have worried. From now on, it was legal gossip all the way and it was only Nick yawning rather too loudly that brought the conversation to an end.

  Mrs Heysham looked brightly across at me. ‘We’ve invited a number of friends to dinner this evening, Grace. We thought it would be more entertaining for you.’ Then to her children, ‘You’ll know all of them very well. Martin, I know you’ll be pleased—Judge Dauncey’s daughter is visiting. You remember Marianne?’

  ‘And you’ve invited her?’ Martin didn’t appear that pleased.

  ‘Naturally,’ his father boomed out. ‘Couldn’t leave her languishing at home, could we?’

  I intercepted a conspiratorial smile between the senior Heyshams while Lucy and Nick exchanged a knowing look but said nothing.

  ‘Fine.’ Martin’s tone suggested a shrugging of shoulders, but he said no more, walking back into the stone-flagged hall and picking up the overnight bag he’d abandoned there.