Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  ‘Water’s fine,’ says Nats, amused. ‘I read your blog. Or I did. You haven’t posted much recently.’

  ‘Revision,’ says Ben glumly, filling a glass. ‘Haven’t cooked anything for weeks.’ That’s not strictly true: he’s cooked plenty of workaday meals recently but nothing that he feels warrants an audience. ‘Here. Have a seat.’

  Nats downs the water in one long uninterrupted gulp. ‘That’s better. Okay. Lou says you need a babysitter Friday—’

  ‘Shh!’ hisses Ben, glancing towards the lounge.

  Nats glances in the same direction, pulls a face. She lowers her voice. ‘Okay. So. You want me eight thirty to, what, eleven thirty?’

  ‘’Bout that.’

  ‘She said Pellington?’

  ‘Yeah. That a problem?’

  ‘No. Got a bike.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  Nats looks put out. ‘Old enough to ride a bike!’

  ‘No, I meant your parents—you know, you out at night . . .’

  ‘It’s cool. They’re off to this dance thing.’

  ‘Great!’

  Nats shoves the glass across to him for a refill. As he gets up, she says, ‘Okay, then. Twenty quid.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘To sit.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Twenty.’

  He stops, glass halfway to the tap, while she stares up at him, mouth set.

  ‘You’re kidding, right? You thought this was a freebie? No way, José! Don’t tell me Lou promised—’

  ‘No, no,’ says Ben quickly, flushing.

  ‘But you assumed.’

  ‘No, no I didn’t,’ he stammers, face aflame. ‘I just—’

  ‘Yes you did. Don’t bullshit me. Anyway, that’s my rate. Take it or leave it. And since chances are you’re not the dad, I’ll want to meet the parents and the baby first.’

  ‘Meet . . . like, face to face?’

  ‘I’m looking after someone else’s kid, numbskull. Would you want some random girl you’ve never met looking after this Milo?’

  Ben shakes his head, realising that he most certainly wouldn’t. ‘Thing is—’

  Nats groans theatrically and drops her head onto the table, allowing Ben to marvel at the extraordinary symmetry of her rows. He looks away embarrassed when she raises her face to him, eyes flinty behind her glasses. ‘Why do I get the impression that, as per, there’s something my darling sister hasn’t told me? I thought it was a bit odd from the off, you booking me. What’s the deal?’

  And Ben has no choice but to tell her.

  ‘So,’ reflects Nats, draining her second glass of water, ‘basically, you want me to be complicit in this conspiracy? Right?’

  Ben hears the strains of the BBC Ten O’Clock News from the lounge; any minute now his mum’ll be coming through to make tea . . .

  ‘It’s not a—’

  She bats away his denial. ‘Whatever. Way I see it, you’re deceiving your aunts, deceiving your parents and deceiving this poor Milo’s mother. Nice. And all so’s you can get in Lou’s good books. Or into something else. Are you crazy or what?’

  ‘I’m not trying to—’

  Nats inspects the ends of one of her braids. ‘I can tell you now you’re on a hiding to nothing.’

  ‘A what?’ This girl does use the weirdest vocabulary.

  ‘With Lou. You’re going nowhere.’

  Blotches of colour spatter Ben’s neck and cheeks. ‘What do you know?’ he snarls.

  Nats laughs. ‘What do I know? That my sister —whom I love dearly, though that doesn’t prevent me seeing all her many faults—is what in common parlance is called a prick tease. That she would no more look at you than she would eat meat.’

  ‘She’s a vegetarian?’ says Ben, bewildered, certain that he once saw Louisa chomping a huge bacon butty in the café near school.

  ‘This month,’ says Nats sourly. ‘Driving the rest of us up the wall. Anyway . . . what I’m trying to tell you is that Lou will do whatever it takes to get what she wants. Which in this case, by my reckoning, is not your lanky, somewhat spotty self—have you tried toothpaste, by the way?—but the chance of a—’

  ‘Toothpaste?’

  ‘Yeah. Supposed to dry them out. Leave it on ten minutes, they say. But I’m telling you, all she’s really after is a party. So don’t get your hopes up, sunshine.’

  Ben wants to argue, to tell this really irritating little squirt that her divine sister had actually kissed his pustular face, so there! But somewhere deep inside him, the hateful truth has hit home. He could accuse Nats of jealousy—and who wouldn’t be jealous, forever living in the shadow of Louisa’s beauty?—but he suspects she is speaking from bitter experience. Not that he has any intention of giving her the satisfaction of acknowledging that right now. That tip about the toothpaste is a new one, though . . .

  ‘Whatever,’ he mutters with feigned nonchalance.

  Nats impatiently shoves her glasses up her nose, as though thoroughly bored with the negotiations. ‘So. Deal or no deal? Twenty quid and I get to meet Milo and his mum?’

  ‘Deal,’ says Ben, wondering how much money is left in his account this close to the end of the month.

  ‘Cash,’ says Nats, getting up. She gives him her mobile number. ‘Text me tomorrow about when and where. I’m free after school until seven.’

  ‘School? It’s half-term.’

  ‘Rehearsals. End-of-term play. Be done by four.’

  ‘And what happens at seven?’

  ‘Flute.’

  ‘What school?’

  Nats shakes her head in disbelief. ‘You really are a piece of work! Same as you—I’m in the year below you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Not that someone of your exalted status could be expected to notice a mere Year 10. We learn to hug the walls when you go by. Not.’

  The television falls silent: presumably his mother has consumed as much of the world’s awfulness as she can stomach for one day. The lounge door opens. Time to send his visitor on her way.

  ‘We’re done, yeah?’

  ‘For the moment,’ says Nats, making it sound more of a threat than an affirmation.

  Isabelle enters, obviously surprised to find the kitchen occupied. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise . . .’

  ‘It’s okay. Nats is just on her way.’

  ‘Do you live locally, Natalie?’ asks Isabelle politely. ‘Only my husband’s out with the car at a parish council meeting or I’d offer you a lift.’

  ‘No worries, Mrs . . . er . . .’

  ‘Fry.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. Thanks, Mrs Fry, but I’ve got my bike.’ Is Ben imagining it, or is Nats suppressing a smirk? ‘I’ll be on my way. Bye.’

  She follows Ben to the front door.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ says Ben, as he turns the handle.

  ‘Serendipity.’ Nats grins. ‘I just realised. Your name. You had to be a cook or chef or whatever, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘With a name like Fry? Well . . . duh! Nominal determinism.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Look it up. Text me.’ She starts wheeling her bike down the path.

  ‘Oi,’ hisses Ben. ‘How’m I going to explain you to Daria tomorrow?’

  Those perfect teeth gleam under the streetlight. ‘You could always tell her I’m your girlfriend.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Hester watches Lionel over the rim of her glass, taking in his attractive but seamed face (not that she’s in any position to pass judgement, given her own wrinkles), the thinning hair, the soft lips. He looks as she does, as most of their generation do, blurred around the edges, fading into pleated skin too large for their frames. Still a good-looking chap, though. She sits a little straighter, upends the final dregs of brandy into her mouth.

  ‘Better?’

  She nods, not trusting herself to speak just yet, the fury still hot in her breast, but perilously close to tears. She who never cries.
Her ear is cocked for the sound of footsteps down the corridor: surely Harriet will have the decency to come out and face what must be faced? Lionel had stopped her going out into the garden when she had emerged from Harriet’s room, boiling with indignation. Now, calmer, she recognises the wisdom of his intervention. The situation is bad enough; she doesn’t want to exacerbate Stephen’s anxieties with more vituperation directed at the woman whose appearance he awaits. But her head is filled with that lonely figure sitting so patiently in the darkness.

  ‘You’ve done all you can, Hetty,’ says Lionel softly, laying his hand on hers. ‘It’s over to her now.’

  In the garden, the night air is warm on Harriet’s skin. She feels lightheaded, distanced from her surroundings, as though seeing everything through gauze, so that she has to concentrate hard to plant her feet accurately. Every step rings through her, her headache still beating its persistent drum. Her shoes on the gravel sound unnaturally loud in the stillness, despite the thrum of humanity behind her, but the shape in her sights does not move, does not turn. She imagines Hester standing tall and thin like a stork at the hotel window, watching.

  Lionel places another glass of brandy in front of Hester. She doesn’t want it, but hadn’t the energy to stop him when he got up to go to the bar. Thankfully, he had managed to intercept Marco bustling over to enquire about Signora Pearson and with a brief but courteous update had deflected him. What a comfort it is to have someone else take charge for once. She resists the temptation to go over and look out of the window, afraid that nothing will have changed, that Stephen will still be sitting alone, still waiting.

  ‘Stephen?’

  She has stopped a few yards behind him, her feet unable to carry her any further. She digests the bulk of him, the halo of springy hair. Her voice is weak, tremulous not with age but apprehension. Has he heard her? She tries again, this time with a little more emphasis.

  The man pushes his chair backwards, sending gravel skittering across the path. He gets awkwardly to his feet, steadying himself on the edge of the table, then turns to face her, the light bleeding from the hotel illuminating his face. It’s a plain face, slightly chubby cheeks, a small mouth pursed with anxiety, deep-set dark brown eyes, a smudge of bristles on his jawline. But a kind face.

  ‘I’m Harriet.’ Her name has never sounded so wrong. ‘Hello.’

  The greeting hangs in the air, demanding a response. It is a long time coming.

  What is he expecting? Tears, embraces, excuses? What is she expecting? Stephen seems paralysed, mouth slightly open, breathing heavy and erratic. His lips move, but no sound emerges. An arm swings out so suddenly and violently that she almost flinches, until she realises he wants her to sit. Somehow her feet make it to the table and she thumps down into an adjacent chair.

  Stephen resumes his seat, feeling his way into it, his eyes never once leaving her face, his expression unreadable.

  They face each other like two boxers readying themselves for a bout.

  ‘Some good news at least,’ says Lionel, smiling faintly, his voice a touch uncertain. ‘Well, I hope you’ll think it’s good news. I do hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous, but these last few days . . .’ He waits for some response; when none is forthcoming, he stumbles on. ‘I just thought I’d ask. Alfonso, you know. About next week. It being high season and everything. Well, not quite high season but near as damn it. I thought they’d be fully booked but—’ a little laugh ‘—lucky old me, one room left. Not the one I’m in now, but all the same . . . And, very good of him, no single supplement. Curse of the lone traveller. As we both know only too well. Ha! Still . . .’

  He waits; Hester is looking in his general direction but he sees her thoughts are anywhere but on him. He ploughs on. ‘Phoned the airline, changed my ticket, and—hey presto!—I’m staying until Monday too. So I can help you get to the airport and we’ll have another couple of days together.’

  Silence.

  ‘I hope you’re pleased? I know it might seem a bit . . . sudden. I mean, we only met on Sunday, but . . .’ He trails off, forehead knotted.

  Hester reaches automatically for her glass.

  ‘Hetty?’

  She blinks, starts, recovers, hand in mid-air. ‘Sorry . . . it’s just . . .’ She processes what little she heard of his speech. Manages a feeble, ‘That’s great, Lionel. Really.’ Then, pulling herself together, chastened by his hangdog countenance and aware he deserves better, ‘Forgive me . . .’ She injects a little more enthusiasm this time, manages a smile. ‘That is good news, Lionel, truly, although I don’t deserve your kindness. I’m hardly the best company at the moment.’

  He seizes her hand; for a moment, startled, she imagines he is going to bring it to his lips. Instead he strokes it with warm, dry fingers, looking down, seemingly too shy to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t mind, Hetty. Not in the least. I’m here for you, you know that. Whatever you need.’

  And Hester, who would ordinarily scoff at such an overworked platitude, finds herself deeply comforted by Lionel’s devotion. She squeezes his hand in return, and, neither wanting to be the first to pull away, they remain for some moments thus coupled.

  ‘Forgive me . . .’ begins Harriet, just as Stephen finds his voice to say, ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  They both stop, each willing the other on. Harriet, heart hammering along with her head, holds out longer.

  ‘I was going to say, well, sorry for springing this on you. Your sister explained about the letter . . . I didn’t mean to ambush you like this.’ A pleasantly modulated voice, with a distinct cadence: northern certainly. But east or west? She’s never been awfully good at placing accents. There’s something familiar about it, though, some echo of . . . she’s got it. Landlord at the local pub.

  ‘Liverpool?’ she manages.

  ‘Wha’? Oh, yes.’ His eyes light up momentarily. ‘Hoylake.’ He registers her ignorance, sketches a map with his finger. ‘West of Liverpool, on the sea. But, yeah, Liverpool originally.’ He gives a short laugh. ‘Can’t escape, no matter wha’. You can take the boy out of Liverpool, bu’ . . . et cetera et cetera. Still work there. City not United.’

  ‘Right.’

  A hiatus, as though both have simultaneously registered the incongruity of this conversation mimicking two casual acquaintances passing the time of day. Stephen coughs self-consciously. Harriet waits. He takes a breath, examining his hands on the table in front of him.

  ‘Can I just . . . ?’

  ‘Stephen, listen—’

  He cuts across her interruption. A wave of nausea rises suddenly and she subsides, riding it out. He reads it as a signal to continue.

  ‘Sorry. Look, this isn’t meant to be a confrontation. I want you to understand that.’

  Harriet nods; wishes she hadn’t.

  ‘It’s not like I’ve been wanting to find my . . .’ he pauses; looks at her ‘. . . birth mother all my life. I haven’t. My adoptive parents were wonderful. Brilliant. I had a happy childhood. I was a happy child. I never wondered . . .’ Again, that fleeting glance, the throat cleared. ‘You get dealt a hand. I was dealt a good one. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. But . . .’ She takes a deep breath; her stomach settles, but the dull thud in her head pulses on.

  He nods briefly, satisfied with her acquiescence, hurrying on to silence her. ‘I don’t want to come back into your life, disrupting it or whatever, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  A distinctly challenging note here that pulls her up short. She’s not at all sure how to respond.

  ‘No, I—’

  He holds up a hand. ‘Please . . . I’ve been sitting here for hours thinking over what I wanted to say. So I just want to say it.’ He gestures with both hands. ‘Get it out in the open.’

  He looks at her for a reaction. She inclines her head, manages to restrain herself.

  ‘This wasn’t my idea. You ought to know that. I mean, me, I would have just let things lie. I don’t want you to think my life’s been blight
ed by . . . you know, because it hasn’t. I’m not bitter, I’m not angry, I’m sure there were perfectly valid reasons why you did what you did—no, please, let me say this. But, you see, Mum died last year—I mean, no way would I have done this while she was still alive—and I’m about to get married . . .’

  ‘Oh!’ says Harriet instinctively. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Yeah.’ A bashful smile. ‘Taken me long enough. Emily. She’s a teacher. Bit younger than me. Well, a good ten years, truth be told.’

  ‘My husband was eight years older than me.’ Harriet regrets sharing this even as the words emerge. Why on earth would he care about Jim? ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  He shrugs. ‘Thing is, Emily had a sister who died when she was eight. She had this thing called progeria.’

  Harriet looks puzzled.

  ‘Hutchinson-Gilford progeria syndrome. Horrible disease. I’ve become a bit of an expert, unfortunately. Premature ageing, dislocated joints, heart problems, stroke. Lucky if you make your early twenties. Lucy didn’t. Anyway, it’s made Emily a bit paranoid. I mean, progeria isn’t an inherited disease—it’s just bloody awful luck. But as a consequence Emily’s sort of neurotic about genes and all that. We want to start a family in due course—well, pretty soon, in fact—and understandably she doesn’t want to take any chances. So she insisted I find out everything possible about my birth parents. Just so we can be sure that there’s nothing . . . we ought to be concerned about. Health-wise. You see?’

  Oh, Harriet sees. Of course she sees. Her heart goes out to Stephen and his wife-to-be.

  ‘So you’ll understand why I’ve got in touch after all these years. I think your sister thought I wanted some emotional reunion or something, and I have to say she seemed pretty furious—not with me, but with you—so I’m assuming you never told her anything. Which is . . .’ He falters. ‘I guess you had your reasons.’ He pauses, biting his lip. Decides. In a small voice, trying to sound nonchalant, ‘Have you got any other children?’

  ‘No, no . . .’ Harriet’s heart feels too big for her chest. ‘Stephen, listen—’