And then as I lie there—not knowing, despairing—a thought sidles into my mind. That there’s someone else I could go to, someone who should be helping me. I think of Dr. Strickland saying, Her father’s family? What about them? and remember the shame I felt when I said I didn’t know. I realize I am going to do the thing I vowed I’d never do. There is knowledge he has that might point me in the right direction. I have to try this, for Sylvie’s sake.
I ring him from my cell phone just after I’ve dropped Sylvie off at Little Acorns, before I drive to the flower shop. A nervousness like nausea surges through me.
It’s a woman’s voice I don’t recognize. He must have a different assistant.
“I want to speak to Dominic Runcie,” I tell her.
“And you are?”
“My name’s Grace Reynolds,” I tell her. “He’ll know who I am.”
“I’ll see if he’s available.”
There’s silence for a moment. I hear the thud of my heart.
“Just putting you through,” says the woman brightly.
I have a sense of shock. That this is so easy—that he is there, at the other end of the line.
“Grace. What a surprise.” His voice moves through me.
“Yes, isn’t it?” I say stupidly.
“You’re well and everything, are you?” he says.
“Yes, thank you. And you?” I’m very polite and careful.
“Absolutely flourishing,” he says. “Yes, really very well indeed. So, what can I do for you, Grace?”
I hear the wariness underneath his words. I know I have to reassure him.
“I wondered if we could maybe meet up. For half an hour or so. There’s something I need to talk about with you. It won’t take long, I promise.”
Dominic says nothing.
I think how when we loved each other, when we would speak on the phone, sometimes we wouldn’t talk for a while and I’d hear his breathing down the line. I always loved that, the way his breathing quickened when he wanted me. But now there’s just silence between us, like an absence.
I try again.
“Would that be possible, do you think? I’d be so grateful.”
He clears his throat. “I don’t see why not,” he tells me. “As long as we can keep it brief . . .”
“Thank you.”
Happiness floods me. That I am going to see him—be close enough to reach out my hand and touch. For a moment that cancels out everything else.
“There’s a café near the flower shop,” I tell him. “Or maybe you’d like to suggest a place.”
“No, that should do nicely,” he says. “I’ve got a space tomorrow. Half eleven tomorrow morning.”
I tell him this is perfect—that it’s really completely ideal.
All day the world seems bright to me. The shop is full of spring flowers, and their colors thrill and dazzle me—tulips of bright toy-soldier red, a basket of planted-up bluebells like a little scrap of sky. An elderly man as thin as a crane fly chooses some roses for his wife. The blooms all have to be perfect, and I think how loving this is. There’s a little thought that dances in the margins of my mind, twirling and waving and luring me on, a thought I try not to respond to. I push it away, but it goes on smiling, smelling of sherbet and waving its veils. That maybe this is all meant—that all this has happened to bring us back together again. Part of me knows this is nonsense, that I’m being overexcited, manic, and yet I can’t stop thinking it.
At the end of the day I pick up Sylvie. She has five pictures she’s drawn, all houses and all identical—a roof, a door, four windows—and each with a border of blue. She gives them to me to carry.
“She had a good day,” Beth tells me.
Of course she did, I say to myself. I tell myself it will all work out now. Dominic will solve this for me. Dominic has the key, the explanation. Everything will be different now. He always gave me the sense that he could sort everything out. At least until it all went wrong—but now I’m not thinking of that.
“You’re singing, Grace,” says Sylvie as we walk toward the car through the thickening dark that tonight has a scent of pollen and changing weather.
“Was I? I didn’t realize.”
I’d been planning all the things I have to do this evening—whether my prettiest clothes are clean, and I’ll need to straighten my hair . . .
“Why are you singing?” she asks me.
“I guess I just feel happy today,” I tell her. “People sing when they’re happy, don’t they? Like you when you hum to yourself. And sometimes you don’t know you’re doing it . . .”
“You don’t often sing, Grace,” she says.
17
I GET THERE far too early and choose a table by the window. I took ages getting ready: I put on lots of mascara, and I’m wearing my bilberry cardigan and a very short velvet skirt, but now I worry I’m too dressed up, that I look like I’m trying too hard. The day has clouded over, and a little rain is falling. You can hear the rush of raindrops on the pavement by the window, like many hurrying footsteps.
I see him coming through the door. My heart pounds. I try to smile, but my mouth feels stuck. He comes straight up to the table and smiles and kisses the top of my head. The scent of him fills me with longing.
“Grace. How are you? You’re looking well.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “Well, sort of.”
He sits, leans a little toward me. It’s a long time since I’ve seen him this close. I can see how the years have marked him—his hair rather paler and growing more thinly, the skin around his eyes more creased.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet,” I say.
He nods. His eyes are scanning my face, and I wonder what he sees.
The waitress comes. She has a beguiling French accent and pointy leopard-skin boots. He gives her the exact same smile he gave to me—easy, lightly flirtatious. He orders for me without asking me first—a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat. I can see how he still likes knowing about me, knowing what I would choose.
“You had something you wanted to talk about,” he says then.
“I wanted to talk about Sylvie. My daughter.” I clear my throat. “Our daughter. She’s called Sylvie . . .” I have a moment of confusion, not knowing if it’s written on the form he fills in from Child Support, not knowing if he even knows her name. The smell of his cologne makes it hard to think clearly.
He nods carefully.
“Look, I’ll show you,” I say.
I take her picture out of my bag. It’s a photo I love—a little half smile, her fringe falling into her eyes.
I see his throat move as he swallows. I can tell how wary he is. I see that he is frightened of this moment.
He reaches out his hand and takes the picture. I watch him as he looks at it, this image of our child. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. He looks at the picture for quite a long time.
He clears his throat.
“She must be—what—three, now?” he says, his voice a little muffled.
“She’s almost four,” I say.
“The years fly by,” he says.
He passes the picture back to me. I put it in my bag. The waitress brings our coffee and cakes.
“So tell me about it,” he says.
I take a sip of coffee. It’s hot, it hurts my tongue.
I’ve fantasized so often about this moment—the moment when we meet again, after all this time. I’ve worked out all the details: how he comes upon me and Sylvie in some green and elegant place—in my very favorite version it’s some exquisite park in Paris—and Sylvie is at her sweetest and I’m wearing my spindliest heels and our hair is bright and blowing in the sunlight; and he’s smitten by what he’s missing, and thinks how lovely we are. That’s how I’ve imagined it. Yet here I am, exposing all my weakness, showing that both as mother and daughter we have such imperfections. I hate this.
“She’s a wonderful child, and I love her so much,” I tell him.
“Well, of course, Grace,” he says.
“But—she’s not exactly easy. She has her troubles,” I say.
I tell him about her phobias and the tantrums and the nightmares. I don’t mention the strange things she says—not yet.
He listens with a concerned look. Then, when I’ve finished, he reaches out and puts his hand on mine. I feel all the familiar arousal at his touch, everything opening up to him, but with an underlay of weariness—sadness even. As though I live the before and the after at the same time, the yearning to make love with him and the bleakness I’d feel if I did.
“Darling,” he says, and I like him calling me that. As he knows I will. “Darling. You were very young when you had her.”
As though it had nothing to do with him.
I don’t say anything.
“You mustn’t take it all so to heart,” he tells me. “I mean, to be frank, you’ve always been a worrier . . . Children have their ups and downs. It’s probably just a phase.”
“No, really,” I say. “It’s worse than that.”
“Well, maybe that’s how it seems, Grace. But mothers do sometimes get a bit—over-involved. You know, get things out of proportion, when really everything’s fine. Claudia—well, I can’t tell you . . .” He smiles. The thought amuses him. “She’s another worrier. She does obsess about things.”
I haven’t come here to talk about Claudia.
“Her nursery school won’t keep her,” I tell him. “She’s only three, and she’s been kicked out of her school.”
He frowns. I sense the shift in him as he sees that this problem is not as he thought.
“Goodness,” he says. “My poor darling.” I hear all the warmth in his voice. I would like to wrap it around me, like a blanket. “That sounds so tough for you.”
“Yes, it is,” I say.
“If it’s really that bad, you need to get help,” he tells me. “Find someone who can sort this out. You mustn’t just hope for the best, not if things are really that difficult.”
“We did see someone,” I tell him. “We went to see this child psychiatrist at the Arbours Clinic.”
“That sounds more like it. Were they helpful?” he says.
I spoon the froth from my coffee.
“That was why I wanted to see you. There was something he said that I wanted to ask you about. He asked if there was any illness in Sylvie’s father’s family—you know, some kind of genetic thing—that might explain it. Anyone with odd symptoms. And of course I didn’t know. I don’t know anything about your family . . .”
It’s such an awkward thing to ask. But Dominic bursts out laughing. As though he’s hugely relieved now that he knows this is all that I want.
“Well, Ma was away with the fairies before she died, poor old thing,” he tells me. “But apart from that, we’re a pretty boring crew. No one of any interest whatever. No interesting quirks or perversions, not so much as a foot fetish.”
He smiles at me, his sudden smile of startling candor: Sylvie’s smile.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I say.
He shakes his head a little.
“For goodness sake, Grace. I’m just sorry I can’t be more help. You know—come up with some feckless ancestor who gambled away all the family silver or something . . .”
“I thought it was worth just mentioning,” I tell him.
He frowns. “Maybe this Arbours Clinic guy isn’t right for you,” he says.
I realize I am obsessively lining things up on the table between us, like when you’re a child and you rearrange things or take care to step over the cracks. Seeking to avert disaster.
“He wasn’t any help, really,” I say. “He wouldn’t take Sylvie on as a patient. He said she didn’t need it . . .”
“Then you need to go to someone else. Darling, you need to get this sorted. You have to find the right person.”
For a moment I don’t say anything. I sip my coffee and lick the chocolate powder from my lips. Outside the wind is rising, flinging raindrops against the window like a fistful of stones.
“There is someone else I wondered about,” I tell him. I’m eager to demonstrate that I’ve done everything I can. I hate for Dominic to think that I am an irresponsible mother. “There’s this man I read an article about. He works at the university in the psychology faculty. He’s rather unorthodox, though . . .”
He drinks his coffee, his eyes on me.
“Well, if you think it might help, you should go and hunt him out, your unorthodox psychologist. Why not? Unorthodox can be good,” he says.
I take a bite of cake, but it sticks to the roof of my mouth. I swallow hard.
“This man—he’s called Adam Winters—he works at a place called the Psychic Institute. He investigates the paranormal. He says that children like Sylvie could be remembering something—something from a past life.”
Dominic’s eyes widen. “Okay, I take it all back,” he says briskly. “The guy’s a complete flake. Obviously.”
I think that myself too, much of the time, but now I find myself wanting to rush to Adam Winters’s defense.
“But it’s kind of scientific,” I say.
“Grace, you need to be careful.” He reaches out again. He rests his hand on my wrist, slides one warm finger a little way under my sleeve. “You’re so very tenderhearted,” he says. “You always believe the best of people. You’ve got to remember there are lots of weirdos out there. I wouldn’t like to think of you being taken advantage of.”
“He’s a proper psychologist,” I say. “He does experiments. It’s all quite rigorous . . .”
But he’s shaking his head as I speak, as though he can’t believe I’m saying this.
“Look, I know you think this is all really strange, and mostly I think that too,” I tell him. Wanting so much to reach him, to make him understand. “But Sylvie does say such odd things. She’s obsessed with this village in Ireland. I found it, it’s called Coldharbour.”
“Grace, she’s just a little kid. She’s probably seen it on a TV program. Balamory or something. Or is that in Scotland?” he says.
I push my pain au chocolat aside. The chocolate is scented, bittersweet, just on the point of melting, but I can’t face it. I’ve so longed to come into this café, lusting after the cakes in the window, and now that I’m here, I can’t eat.
“There was something else I wanted to ask. If you—you know, your family—have any connection with Ireland? Maybe some Irish relatives?”
“We did go to a wake in Ireland once,” he tells me. “In Dublin. One of Claudia’s many alarming aunts had snuffed it. Well, the Irish know how to do these things, of course. Some very serious drinking went on. But that’s it, really—no other connection at all.”
He’s studying me, but his look is paternal and skeptical, the way a father might look at a mildly errant child. It’s not how I want him to look at me.
“So I can’t help you there. Sorry, Grace.”
I wish I hadn’t raised this.
For a moment we don’t say anything.
“So how’s the job going?” he says then, in an easy, conversational tone. “Are you still working for that woman who looks like she just came from Woodstock?”
“For now. But I’m probably going to lose my job,” I tell him. “Because of Sylvie losing her nursery place.”
“Poor Grace,” he says. “It all sounds terribly difficult.”
“Yes.”
He shifts in his chair. There’s an awkwardness about him.
“I wish I could help out more,” he says. “But we’re pretty hard-pressed at the moment, to be honest. The school fees are eye-watering . . .”
I stare at him, but there’s no irony in him when he says this.
He takes an envelope out of his pocket.
“This is the best I can do,” he says.
I see him quickly glance around to see if anyone is watching; then he pushes the envelope over the table to me. I can see the bunch of notes ins
ide it. He presses the envelope into my hand, closes my fingers down over it.
I suddenly feel anger, a huge, all-encompassing rage—with him, with everything that has put me in this situation. I long to push the envelope back across the table, to tell him I won’t take it, but I could really use the money.
“Thank you,” I say. I put it away in my bag.
The money has made an awkwardness between us. I feel such shame, and perhaps he feels a shame of his own. I’m desperate to move on from here.
“And you’re all okay, are you?” I ask him. “You know, Charlie and Maud?”
He nods, smiles. He’s relaxed at once, talking about his other children.
“Maud’s having harpsichord lessons. They say she’s got quite a gift, which of course we’re all very excited about . . .”
“That’s great,” I say politely.
He finishes his coffee.
“If that’s all, darling,” he says, “I guess I should be going.”
“Yes, that’s all,” I tell him.
He calls the waitress over and pays the bill.
“Right, then,” he says.
He stands, comes around to my side of the table. He puts one finger under my chin, tilts my face toward him. I feel the warmth of his breath on my face. Desire engulfs me.
“So, Grace, you and me,” he says. His eyes looking deep into mine. “We had our good times, didn’t we?”
He’s the only man I’ve ever loved, the father of my child. It’s not the way I’d have put it.
I watch him walk away from me, out the door and down the street, where the rain is coming on heavily now. Walking briskly, as though he’s glad to be gone. The rain that dribbles down the window blurs and smudges the shape of him, the way things blur when your eyes are wet with tears.
18
ALL DAY I have a sense of loss that I can’t precisely explain, as though Dominic has taken something precious from me. I consider ringing Karen, but I know that she’d be horrified. I can hear her voice in my head. No, Grace. Please don’t tell me you’ve gone and seen the Rat again . . . She’d say I was crazy to do this, to open myself to this hurt. And of course she’d be right, but I don’t want to hear it from her. Sometime I’ll tell her—not yet.
Yes, My Darling Daughter Page 10