Love-40

by Anna Cheska

  Michael had a feeling that she understood. And he was thoughtful as he made his way through the archway towards the bar and Suzi.

  ‘What happened?’ Suzi handed him his pint. ‘I thought you’d lost it back there.’

  ‘I was thinking of incorporating it into the act.’ Michael took a large gulp of Best. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. ‘Lee Evans type of humour, you know. Slapstick music.’

  Suzi seemed doubtful. ‘It makes you look –’

  ‘Stupid?’

  ‘Unprofessional.’ Suzi swung her bag on to her shoulder and led the way back to the small circular table in the corner. There was an orange wall light burning just above her and it lent her skin a kind of fiery glow. She sat down on the seat cushion of the bench. ‘But it’s up to you,’ she said. ‘It’s your life.’

  Michael felt as if the table was a million miles in diameter. How had they travelled so far apart? And what the bloody hell did she mean by that remark?

  * * *

  The night before the dress rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet, Liam was at home in his garret flat when he received a phone call from Amanda Lake. He had, he realised, very mixed feelings about her. When he was with Amanda, he always felt something was expected of him – that he should be more confident, more worldly wise, richer or better looking. That he should, perhaps, take her in his arms and make passionate love to her.

  One of the reasons that he hadn’t done this was the mixed signals he was getting. He looked at the tuna tagliatelle for one that he was about to shove in the microwave. It contained fresh basil and parmesan apparently, but did not fill him with desire.

  At times, Amanda almost threw herself at him, showering him with compliments, every word an innuendo, every look a flirtatious one. But at other times she was an indifferent ice maiden. And another reason, the bigger reason he knew, was Estelle.

  He looked gloomily around the narrow galley kitchen. Estelle who had made every meal time an occasion – even a take-away from the chippie down the road had been loaded with salt, vinegar and fun, with Estelle. Estelle, who had kept the flat clean(ish) and tidy(ish) and been there for him every night to smooth out the wrinkles of his day. God, how he missed the woman.

  With some difficulty, he dragged himself back to the conversation with Amanda. What was it with her? She hadn’t exactly been making a nuisance of herself. But she kept appearing – driving past the school gates in her red convertible just as he was leaving, sounding the horn, calling, ‘Darling, how are you? Call me!’ Before tearing off again. It wasn’t doing a lot for his street cred with the kids.

  He had phoned her a couple of times – more through guilt than a desire to see her, and listened to her ansafone before hanging up. But he was always slightly relieved that she wasn’t there. Perhaps, he decided, it was simply that he knew he wasn’t in her league – and nor did he want to be. She did, after all, compromise his Socialist principles.

  ‘Darling,’ she purred over the telephone line. ‘I haven’t seen you for yonks.’

  Liam winced. Grabbing a fork, he stabbed the polythene cover of the tuna tagliatelle. A cream and orange mushy mountain – piled on one side of the tray only – stared back at him. Liam almost chucked it straight in the bin. ‘I’ve been busy,’ he said, ‘You know, the play and everything.’

  ‘The play!’ Amanda made it sound like arts production of the year. ‘Heavens! I’d almost forgotten.’

  Liam wished he could forget. He also wished he hadn’t just reminded Amanda. He put his gourmet meal in the microwave and pressed the right buttons.

  Sure enough, ‘You will get me tickets? Two tickets?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Please? You did promise me, darling!’

  Liam wasn’t sure that he had, but he also couldn’t see how to get out of it. ‘It’ll bore you to death,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ve got lots more interesting things to do.’ Like cocktails with Fenella whatshername or something? He watched the thing that was gradually resembling tuna and custard rotating in the machine, more unappetising with every spin.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Amanda became brisk. ‘And you can give me the tickets the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow?’ What now? Had he forgotten something that he shouldn’t have? Was his life slipping out of his control? Had it in fact ever been in his control in the first place?

  ‘We’re going to have dinner together,’ Amanda told him in a voice that would accept no argument. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  Liam knew he was being weak and pathetic, but he couldn’t think of an excuse, let alone how he was going to pay for the sort of swanky place she’d want to go to. She probably had no idea of a teacher’s salary. The microwave let out a smug pinggg.

  ‘Good,’ Amanda said. ‘And I’m so looking forward to the play on Saturday. In fact, I can’t wait.’

  Liam could, though. He opened the microwave door and surveyed this evening’s gastronomical delight. He could wait for ever if necessary.

  Chapter 20

  Estelle wasn’t sure how Suzi had got her here in the foyer of the Arts Centre. But here she was, clutching a concert programme, her bag and the ticket Suzi had given her. She wasn’t even that much of a fan of the Blues Sisters. But when she’d tried to get out of it, Suzi had become quite narky.

  ‘It’s the least you can do, Estelle.’ She had stood, legs planted slightly apart, her small frame upright (and uptight, Estelle thought) hands on hips, fierce eyes blazing.

  Estelle knew perfectly well what had rattled her cage. ‘He asked you first,’ she pointed out. ‘And you said, no.’ What had got into Suzi? If she fancied Josh Willis, why didn’t she just go for it? Obviously it wasn’t that easy, and she’d have some sorting out to do, but if she didn’t think she had any future with Michael, then why the heck had she let him move in? Estelle was fond of the guy, but he and Suzi were hardly a match made in heaven.

  And if – and it seemed a big if right now – Suzi didn’t fancy Josh Willis … Estelle adjusted the shoulder strap of the long indigo dress she was wearing with soft leather sandals and a blue and white wrap-over coat. If she didn’t fancy him, then why had she minded Estelle accepting his invitation? It was only to celebrate the roadshow day after all. He wasn’t exactly Estelle’s type. But then again, who was, apart from Liam? And she thought Suzi was confused?

  ‘I’m not interested,’ Suzi had snapped.

  ‘Even if I told you he talked about you all evening?’

  ‘Even if he did a handstand on the table.’ But Suzi’s expression softened. ‘So what did he have to say?’

  That she was impossible and infuriating and a hopeless business woman. That he had no idea what she wanted and suspected that she had no idea either. What he hadn’t said and what was obvious, was that he fancied her like crazy. ‘I thought you weren’t interested,’ Estelle had teased.

  At that point, Suzi thrust the orange concert ticket towards her. ‘I bought this weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Just go – will you?’

  Now, Estelle showed her ticket to the usher and followed him to Row C. She located her seat and noted that the place next to it was empty. She supposed it would be occupied by Michael, which was OK, though Estelle didn’t know why Suzi had to be so secretive about it – unless she was seeing Josh Willis on the sly and wanted to keep Michael preoccupied elsewhere. That didn’t sound like Suzi, though – she was not the conniving type.

  When the lights went down and the band came on stage, there was still no sign of him. Estelle sighed. What had she let herself in for? Was she so desperate to get out of the flat?

  Then various occupants of the row began rustling sweet packets and moving coats, getting to their feet to allow a latecomer to make his way through.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he muttered as he eased past. Until, ‘Bloody hell. What are you doing here?’

  Estelle cursed Suzi. She should have known. Maybe Suzi was the conniving type after all. ‘The same, I would imagine,
’ she said tersely to Liam as people around them started ssh-ing and sighing, ‘as you.’

  * * *

  All through the set, Liam was conscious of Estelle’s body next to him, in a way he was sure he’d never been conscious of it when they were together. She was wearing one of his favourite dresses, her auburn hair a thick loose mist around her shoulders and she smelt faintly of musk. Just enough, Liam thought. Just enough.

  Her bare arm lay flat on the arm-rest between them, the palm slightly raised, as if threatening a clenched fist in the future. He smiled. Estelle’s armour. The trouble was, she had so much of it, he didn’t know where the accessible bits began. Her arm could be accessible, he wasn’t sure. He burned to touch it, hardly heard the music from the band on stage, focused as he was on the warmth that seemed to radiate from her. Estelle …

  At the interval, the house lights went up and Liam continued to stare, hypnotised, at the fine golden haze of hair on those pale arms, as she clapped her palms together. He felt like he was falling in love with her all over again.

  She turned towards him, frowning at his scrutiny. ‘What’s Suzi playing at? And why are you staring at me like that?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t want her to think he’d lost it completely. But by now, Liam, who had called Suzi every unflattering name he could think of in the past hour, as he rushed from the dress rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet – where everything that could go wrong, had – was feeling more cheerful. It did him good, he realised, just to be near this woman. Whyever had he let her go?

  And it was a relief to be away from Romeo and Juliet. It had been a nightmare. Bradley and Jade, who had been getting on so well, had had an almighty slanging match just before the death scene, whereupon the sleeping Juliet told her Romeo (who was just about to kill himself for the love of her) to, ‘fuck off, why don’t you, dick-brain?’ albeit under her breath. A phrase that Liam couldn’t help suspecting had originated from her maternal parent. Romeo proceeded to drink the poison, sinking to his knees with the words, ‘I always knew you was a slag.’ At this, Jade rose prematurely, but instead of stabbing herself to death with a dagger, stepped over her Romeo (treading on his wrist, in the process) and stormed off the stage in a huff. Romeo then indulged in a few unconvincing death throes, the words, ‘blatantly a well-rotten bitch,’ hot on his lips.

  Not quite, reflected Liam, the effect he’d been looking for. Something seemed to happen to year 7s when it came to the summer term, but metamorphosis was far too pleasant a concept. Almost overnight, they looked like teenagers, talked like teenagers, behaved like teenagers, as if the most important thing in their young lives was to leave childhood way behind them.

  Sad really, Liam thought. Though he knew they were just kids underneath it all. Just kids pulling on some armour like most adults did every day of their lives. Armour …

  He forced his gaze away from Estelle and back to the stage of the Arts Centre. Meanwhile, Crystal had lost the music tapes twice – though Liam suspected this to be her revenge for not being picked to play Juliet – Marcus forgot almost all of his lines, and during the final dance sequence, Jade fell off the stage. Her ‘who the fuck did that?’ was almost drowned by the strains of ‘what now, my love?’. But not quite.

  As the applause for the Blues Sisters’ first set died down, Liam tried to remember if a) he’d brought his wallet with him and b) if it contained any money.

  ‘It’ll be all right on the night.’ Suzi had witnessed the last half-hour of the dress rehearsal, but seemed to be a lot less sympathetic to her brother’s problems than usual. ‘Now for God’s sake hurry up or you’ll be late,’ she added.

  All very well for her, Liam had thought, as he threw on a clean, un-ironed shirt and headed for the Arts Centre. She didn’t have Tony Andrews breathing down her neck. Not to mention, of course, the high embarrassment factor of Amanda’s promised presence at the performance proper. Liam had shuddered, groped in his pocket for Suzi’s ticket – still there – thought with trepidation of this dinner with Amanda tomorrow night. Could he cry off? Think of a believable excuse, like he was dying or something?

  * * *

  The wallet was in his back pocket and Liam was pretty sure it contained a tenner.

  ‘Let’s get a drink.’ He grabbed Estelle’s arm and propelled her along the row. ‘We can talk to each other at least.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into Suzi,’ Estelle continued to complain, pausing to apologise to a woman in a scarlet jacket and the bald-headed guy beside her. ‘Why does she have to interfere?’ She went with Liam, but pulled her arm away as she did so.

  ‘Because she loves us?’ Liam suggested. Estelle was narky all right. She did not want to be here and she did not want to be with him. But what could he do about it?

  They walked through the open glass-panelled door and into the bar. ‘White wine?’ he asked.

  She nodded, gazed into his face for a moment, seemed about to say something, and then looked down at her feet. ‘People should be left to sort out their lives for themselves,’ she said at last.

  ‘If they can.’ Liam turned around to order the drinks. There were about thirty people waiting and only two white-shirted barmen doing the honours. He sighed. The question was – could he and Estelle?

  * * *

  Back home in bed, Michael tried to make love to her as Suzi had known he would. It was, she realised, watching the shadow of the candlestick on her dressing-table thrown into relief by the bedside lamp, something to do with the performance. With Michael’s performance at the pub tonight, something to do with the high it gave him, the sensation of power. Perhaps, she thought, it gave him the courage he required.

  Did it need courage? Suzi felt Michael’s hands, gentle on her back. The two of them were naked, lying like spoons in the double bed, Suzi facing away from him, towards the window, as she usually did. What, she wondered, would Freud have made of that?

  Michael began with a sweep of his fingers over her shoulders, thumbs soft in the crevice beneath her shoulder blades, and moved down to her waist, his hands a little too unsure, the pressure too light on her skin. Suzi closed her eyes. How she longed for a firm caress. Though maybe – who knew? – a firm caress could become a dangerous one; one that you couldn’t ignore.

  His hand reached for her breast. Suzi tried to relax into him, to go with the moment. This attempt at togetherness had become a rarity; each night he left her alone with her thoughts had become a relief. Not, she reflected, how it was meant to be.

  And yet … His fingers were on her nipples now, stroking, urging her into compliance, into desire. Something stirred within her. Suzi sighed and reached a hand back towards his thigh. A signal. Please, she thought. Please let it work out between them, let her and Michael be content with whatever they had. She didn’t want danger, didn’t want it as part of her life. She was scared.

  She had never, after all, allowed a man so far into her world, into her home, the way she had allowed Michael. Though as a matter of fact – her fingers caressed the length of his thigh, aware of the roughness of the male skin, the coarseness of the hair – it had been Michael who had made it happen, Michael who had given in his notice, arrived on the doorstep of the cottage, needy, like one of the animals she had rescued. Michael, then, who had forced the relationship to change. But Michael would not, she reminded herself, have reckoned on it changing into this.

  Suzi nestled her body closer into his, her buttocks cupped deep into his groin. Her hand rested on the sharpness of his hip. Michael would never have reckoned on Suzi’s reluctance, her resistance, she was sure. She might welcome the needy into the riverbank cottage, but she could no more admit her own need, than fly.

  Michael kissed her shoulder, his lips moving in a predictable pathway down her spine. Suzi groaned. This was enough. Forget Josh Willis – how could she ever be sure of a man like him? She was not, she decided, cut out for love – not at any rate the kind of love that made sane men and women give up everything up to and
including their independence, not the Romeo and Juliet kind of love that she had seen in Liam and Estelle. After all, once you’d had it – look at how hard it obviously was to manage without it.

  No, she didn’t think she was capable of that sort of love, and she certainly didn’t want it. And she wasn’t in love with Josh Willis – like she kept telling herself, she hardly knew the man.

  So Suzi turned to Michael and looked into his eyes. ‘Now,’ she said.

  * * *

  The river was dark beneath them, a fat snake weaving and rippling through the reeds and under the bridge.

  ‘Do you still think about it?’ asked Liam.

  Such was their understanding – had been their understanding – Estelle corrected herself, that she didn’t need to ask him what he meant.

  ‘I still think about her,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  Estelle sighed, leaned more heavily on the blue bridge that was evening-damp under her palms. ‘I still think about the way she did it,’ she admitted. ‘The moment she did it.’ Because Liam was Liam and knew it all – everything, at least, there was to know about Estelle. And because she imagined if she said it starkly and out loud, here, where it had happened, then it might – one day – have the grace to go away.

  ‘And still blaming yourself?’ he persevered, his body dark and stranger-like in the night-time.

  What was it to him, Estelle wondered. He had said and done everything he could over the years, to rationalise why a five-year-old girl could not be held responsible for the death of her own mother. Especially when that mother was a drinker – OK, a lush, Estelle corrected herself again, for what was the point of pretending? Whatever demons had haunted her mother, made her what she was, made her so unhappy that a bottle was the only escape, she, Estelle, would never know about them now. She had not been old enough to offer any comfort, let alone be confided in.

  Until one evening when that mother had leaned too far over the bridge. Or launched herself into the water, Estelle wasn’t even sure. But she did know that even at five years old, she had felt the misgivings of a certain understanding.