Sisters

by Prue Leith

  Angelina, her face earnest as she looked up at Karl, chipped in, “But the zebras can’t gallop about like at Kaia Moya. And wild monkeys travel miles every night through the trees. It must be horrible to be shut up in a little space.”

  “But nice not to be eaten by lions, don’t you think? And to have big fat bananas all the year round, rather than an uncertain supply of tiny green ones?”

  Angelina didn’t look satisfied by this, so Karl patiently rehearsed the arguments for science, for breeding in captivity, for public education, as if he was talking to an adult. Angelina looked at him with adoration.

  Karl channeled the directionless excitement of the children into concentration on the Web of Life displays: ants carrying leaves and petals along ropes to their nests and stock-piling them for others to process; tarantulas cleaning their hairy legs.

  Poppy watched Karl with her children a little sadly. He was so much better with them than Eduardo. It was ages since Eduardo had taken them anywhere. When the elephant keeper assumed Karl was the children’s father, Poppy was oddly pleased.

  Then on Friday Poppy went shopping with Karl. He wanted presents for everyone at Kaia Moya. They ended up with dinky double-decker buses and London taxis for the camp children, Liberty scarves for the women, Aquascutum ones for the men. Hardly original, but the tourist tat was unbearable, and Poppy enjoyed the unwonted stroll down Regent Street.

  Karl’s interest in her opinions and his laughter at her jokes made her feel good, like a tonic. Just what the doc ordered, she thought. She would miss him. But it wasn’t just that: over the last week she’d found herself stirred by his arm round her shoulders, the smell of his aftershave, his quick kiss hello or goodbye.

  She was attracted to him and she was sure the feeling was mutual. He’d not said or done anything and neither had she, but she knew they’d both felt it. Following his springy step as he weaved through the crowds, Poppy could not stop thinking how easy an affair would be. And why not? Eduardo hadn’t been held back by any loyalty to her. Maybe she owed it to herself. She could do with just such an ego-booster; and where would be the harm? Karl was going back soon and then she’d be able to hug to herself the knowledge that she was still desirable, that she wasn’t just a betrayed wife, that she had the courage and the verve for an adventure.

  And she’d be even with Eduardo. Even if she never told him—and she never would—she’d feel less raw, less exploited. She’d have built herself some protection.

  Heading home in a taxi, Karl looked at her solemn face and asked, “Tired?” She shook her head but didn’t smile. She looked ahead at the back of the driver’s neck. Dandruff, she thought with a small section of her mind. The other, more important bit thought that Karl was leaving in two days, and he’d said nothing about tomorrow.

  “What’s up?” He put a hand round her neck and rocked her slightly.

  “I was thinking that you’re leaving on Sunday.” She turned her face to his, and said, “I’ll miss you.” She liked his hand there, light but warm. She could feel the heat even when he took it away.

  “I’ll miss you too. The week has flown.” He frowned, suddenly serious, then said,

  “I need to talk to you, Poppy.”

  Her heart squeezed, then thumped. Oh God, thought Poppy, he’s going so say something. Do I want him to? Yes, yes, too right I do.

  “Yes?” Her eyes searched his face, ready for his. But he kept them on his shoes, and said, “Tomorrow. Can I come tomorrow? I need more time than we’ve got now.” He looked up and grinned. “I know you. You have to get home for the children’s tea now.”

  Poppy was tempted to say, “You don’t know me. Forget the children. Say it now.” But she didn’t. Her heart was still banging in her chest.

  He said, his eyes earnest, “Can I see you alone?”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course. Come tomorrow. About eleven?”

  The taxi swung into Paddington Wharf and the next minute she was out on the pavement, giving a cheerful wave as it bore him off to his hotel.

  Her mother was in the kitchen, she had come for tea with Adrienne. Oh God, I’d forgotten, thought Poppy. Just what I need. Lucille was trying to put Lorato’s right shoe on her left foot. Lorato pulled her foot away and offered the right one. Lucille’s face registered the familiar look of confusion and offense. She said, “Oh all right, if you know best. And whose smart little girl are you? One of the servants’, I suppose. Are you the cook’s?”

  Angelina, ever patient, replied, “Gran, Lorato’s my sister. She’s adopted. And we don’t have any servants.”

  Lucille looked from Lorato to Angelina, irritated.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Everyone has servants. And you aren’t allowed to adopt black children. It’s against the law.”

  What with putting her mother right about the New South Africa and explaining they were in England anyway and then helping Angelina with her project about cereals (Angelina had designated Coco-pops the commonest British crop), then getting to the theater and through the performance, it wasn’t until she got home that she could think about Karl.

  Eduardo was in Spain, which helped. Poppy poured herself a whisky, sank into the sofa and stared at the ceiling. If Karl was going to make a proposition, she needed to be ready for it. Which meant she needed to know if she wanted to sleep with him or not.

  It didn’t take much thinking about. She knew what her answer was. Yes. An unequivocal yes. But with no strings, no commitment, no after-life. She just wanted a carefree exhilarating affair. She was sick of being the goody-goody, sensible wife and reliable mother. She wanted sex in the afternoon and no hang-ups. She almost welcomed the fact that it was likely to be a one-night stand—or a one-day stand. That way she could do something reckless but without the danger.

  Like the time Carrie had blown kisses to a young guy on the top deck of a passing bus from the safety of the top deck of their bus, going the other way.

  Chapter 22

  When Carrie opened the door that evening she felt sinking dismay. Karl had arrived for supper in his bush shorts, veldskoen and short-sleeved khaki shirt. It was one thing for him to look like Crocodile Dundee in Mpumalanga, or even with the Santonlinis’ who understood South African ways, but in front of her friends? Joan and Paul Bakstansky were New Yorkers in the music business and just about as cool as you could get, Richard had the designer-style of the hip and successful and even Lulu looked a knockout when not in chef’s gear.

  He might have tried, she thought. Even that awful suit would have been better than the shorts.

  “Sweet Jesus, Karl. Do you think we are going on safari?” she said, trying to make a joke of it, but not succeeding.

  “Oh Carrie, I’m sorry,” he said, following her into the kitchen where everyone was standing about, drink in hand. “I’d forgotten you had company.”

  “Had company,” she thought, dismayed. He’ll be saying “pardon me” next. She introduced him to the others with a “Karl is South African and lives in the bush. You’ll have to excuse his gear. He doesn’t differentiate between London in autumn and Africa in summer.”

  But as the evening progressed Carrie realized that, far from finding Karl a country hick, her friends really liked him. And she was surprised when he talked easily about modern art with the Bakstanskys; and over the pudding he and Karl had a long discussion about Frank Lloyd Wright. Karl had been reading a new biography and had visited the architect’s house outside Chicago. Carrie didn’t even know Karl had ever been to the States.

  She was also a little mortified that Lulu elicited more information about Karl’s own family and childhood than she knew. Carrie had known him all her life, but she did not know he’d been brought up in the little Karoo on an ostrich farm, that his father had been drowned fishing off the rocks in Hermanus and that he’d run the ostrich farm at 16, only selling up when his mother died and his sister married. />
  As Carrie watched Karl talking quietly and at ease, the unpleasant thought occurred to her that the reason she knew so little of Karl was that they always talked about her, never about him.

  Lulu handed Karl a cup of coffee. She looks like a cat with the cream, thought Carrie. It was obvious she fancied Karl. She could not have made it clearer if she’d told him so. Carrie felt put out and jealous. Karl was her property.

  But it was a good evening. The food—whole baby beetroots and slices of mozzarella with a rocket salad and balsamic dressing, with her own wholemeal bread for mopping up the juice, old-fashioned fish cakes but with a coriander and mango salsa, and gooseberry fool with ginger biscuits—had all been delicious. They’d drunk four of the six bottles of Roodeberg that Karl had brought her from South Africa and the fifth was going down fast. They’d moved to the sitting room and now they sat on sofa and floor, contentedly passing round some very good weed provided by the Bakstanskys. Carrie noticed that when Lulu took a drag and passed the spliff to Karl, he took it carefully and passed it on to Joan, without smoking it.

  Karl suggested she put on a CD he’d brought her from South Africa. She didn’t want to, fearing some embarrassing South African band, but Paul insisted. Karl explained that the group belonged to the Kwaito movement, a blend of African rhythms and Western music. The African beat was there, but slow. Carrie sat on the sofa, drifting peaceably.

  But when Richard sat down next to her on the sofa and put his arm round her, she soon got up to fetch another bottle. And when she’d topped everyone’s glass up she sat down on the floor next to Karl’s chair, her shoulder against his bare leg.

  She knew Richard was trying to catch her eye, but she felt good where she was, and slightly resented his signals of ownership.

  The Bakstanskys left about midnight, and when she went into the kitchen after seeing them off, she found Karl stacking glasses on the draining board. She looked at his ridiculous short shorts and the long stretch of brown almost hairless legs between them and his socks, and she couldn’t resist.

  She pulled the door to, and went up close behind him. She put her hands lightly on his shoulders and said, “Karl.” He swung round, smiling.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Keeping her hands on his shoulders, she tilted her head back a little so she could look into his face. “Karl, ever since I was 12, I have been trying to get you to kiss me.”

  She slid her arms round his neck and pulled his face down to hers.

  She could feel his initial, quite strong resistance. But she held on. If I am going to make a fool of myself, I might as well go for it, she thought. Then suddenly he stopped pulling back, and she felt him relax, begin to sink into it. Then, in a second, he’d brought his arms round her back, almost lifting her off her feet. His kiss was urgent and hard.

  He pulled back, said, “Christ, Carrie”, his voice low and uneven.

  And then Carrie heard the door open behind her. She didn’t turn round. She didn’t care who it was. She just shut her eyes and cursed her luck.

  But Karl dropped his hold on her and said, “Richard, this is not what you think.”

  Richard said, “I think it is.”

  Carrie stayed where she was as Karl followed Richard out of the kitchen. She told herself she didn’t care. She just hoped Karl would come back.

  He did, but only to say he was leaving. He’d share a taxi with Lulu.

  Carrie tried to protest, but he’d recovered his defenses. His voice was gentle, but very firm.

  “Carrie, you don’t know what you want. And you cannot just jump from guy to guy. Sooner or later you need to be able to bear your own company.”

  *

  It was Saturday morning and Guillia, Eduardo and the children had set off early for Manor Farm. So Poppy could set the scene for Karl.

  She made her face up carefully and then put on her linen-and-cashmere trouser suit. The autumn days were getting cool, so she told herself she had an excuse. But when she looked at herself in the long mirror in Eduardo’s dressing room, she felt a fraud. Karl would take one look at her and know she was expecting a special announcement. And presumably if he found her attractive, he’d done so when she was unmade-up and wearing one of Eduardo’s old shirts.

  So she took the trouser suit off again and restored her jeans and sloppy sweater. She rubbed most of the lipstick off too, but left the eye make-up. It was quite subtle, and it looked good. Then she made a pot of filter coffee and put a couple of frozen Danish in the oven.

  She was very jumpy. She wasn’t sure that she could go through with it. She did want to do something dramatic, to prove she wasn’t completely convention-bound, and was still young and desirable. And a part of her did want revenge. But now she was scared stiff. It was one thing to fantasize. But did she really want a one-night stand? A quick coupling with her farm manager before he caught his plane tomorrow night?

  She’d been so certain she did. She’d even planned her excuses so they could meet again tonight after the last show and spend the night and all tomorrow doing what lovers did. She’d ring Eduardo and say they were called for a technical rehearsal because half the backstage staff had gone down with flu and they had to rehearse another crew. Eduardo didn’t know enough of the theater to question her. And anyway he’d believe her because she never lied.

  She hadn’t planned exactly where this tryst was to take place. But she had an image of a hotel bedroom. Maybe they’d go there now, drink champagne and do it. Then she’d have to go to the theater. Maybe they’d make love in her dressing room between the shows. Then again after supper. And again . . .

  When Karl walked into the room, she was still vacillating. But once he was sitting opposite her, his long brown fingers holding the coffee cup as though it was a mug, ignoring the handle, and his eyes steady and confident, looking into hers, she knew she’d do it. All he had to do was ask.

  He wolfed down a Danish, and she poured him a second cup. There was a natural pause, a gap that elongated into a silence. Here it comes, she thought.

  “Popps, I want to ask you something. I never ever talk about personal things, but I’ve got so close to you this week that I’d feel uncomfortable if I didn’t tell you.”

  Her heart lurched unevenly, then settled to a steady thumping. She didn’t reply, but she nodded yes, her eyes on his.

  “The thing is, Popps, I’m in love with Carrie.”

  The words did not go in. Did not make sense. Poppy frowned and said, “You’re what?”

  Karl stood up and came close to her. He crouched down on his hunkers, put his mug down on the table and took her hand. “I’ve loved her ever since you came home for the summer holidays in your last year at that boarding school. The year you moved to England.”

  Poppy shook her head. Her face registered disbelief and distress. Karl saw it and said, “You don’t think I’d be bad for her? Poppy. You don’t disapprove, do you? Is there something wrong?” He looked into her face, his eyes demanding. She tried to look away, but his gaze held her.

  “But why? . . .Why? . . .” Poppy did not know what she was trying to say, but it was enough for Karl, who launched into an earnest speech.

  “It seems like I’ve always loved her. But at first she was too young, and your mum was ill, and I didn’t have any money. And then she went away, and I thought—I hoped—I’d forget her. But it got worse. Every time she came on holiday, I fell in love with her all over again.”

  Poppy finally made a coherent response. It wasn’t much, but she said, “I never knew. I had no idea.” God, she thought, what a fool I’ve been. To think I . . .

  “No one knew. I’ve never told anyone. Not even Carrie, though last night . . .”

  “Last night?” Poppy’s voice was sharp. She’d spent most of last night tossing and turning, thinking lascivious thoughts about Karl. And all the while he and Carrie . . . She could not bea
r it. Oh God, was there no end to it?

  Karl said, “Last night I kissed her. I couldn’t resist her.” He shook his head, sad at his own weakness. “I shouldn’t have.”

  Suddenly Poppy said, spitting the words, “Why ever not? Everyone else does. In fact, everyone else fucks the living daylights out of her. What makes you so different?”

  Her own venom astonished her, and she jumped up and pushed past Karl, running toward her bedroom, leaving Karl sprawling backward on the rug.

  Poppy ran into Eduardo’s dressing room and then into their bathroom. Then turned on her heel and swung back into the bedroom. She paced about, tormented. She wanted to fling herself onto the bed and sob like a child, but she couldn’t do that with Karl in the flat—he’d probably follow her in and try to comfort her. He must go. He had to go.

  She could not explain her fury or her misery to him. Or even to herself. She’d have to just stuff all that cringe-making desire down inside her again. Pretend it never happened. At least she’d not said anything. At least Eduardo didn’t know.

  She pushed her jaw up, raked her hair off her face with her fingers and pulled in a deep breath. Then she walked, stony faced, back into the sitting room. Karl was on the terrace, leaning over the balcony and looking down into the canal.

  She stepped out into the sunshine. At her step he turned and came toward her, his face clouded with concern. She said, her voice buckram-stiff, “I am sorry about that. But I don’t think I can discuss Carrie with you. I would have thought I could, but it seems not.” As she said it she realized she could make Carrie’s affair with Eduardo a cover-up for her own turmoil, and she continued, “I’m still too raw about Eduardo, I guess.”

  And it was true. She was raw. Raw enough to want to hurt them both, Karl as well as Carrie. She said, “But I should at least tell you that it’s no good. Carrie will never love you. She thinks you’re a joke. A slightly embarrassing family friend who turns up in khaki shorts and carries a clasp-knife in his pocket like Crocodile Dundee. Fine as a ranger in the bush. But love you? Never.”