Before I Knew You

by Amanda Brookfield

  ‘Thank you, dear, that would put my mind at rest. How’s William?’

  ‘Oh, he’s wonderful … apart from being in London. His eldest is playing up – remember I wrote you about it?’

  Diane said she did, but sounded uncertain.

  ‘The kid is just pushing buttons, of course, but William can’t see it.’

  ‘Dear William,’ Diane cried. ‘I’m sure he does his best.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘And being a good father isn’t just about being around, is it now?’

  ‘No, Mom, it certainly isn’t,’ Beth murmured, with some surprise: even such oblique references to her own early upbringing were extremely rare.

  ‘Was there anything else, dear?’

  Beth hesitated, detecting the familiar swift emotional withdrawal, the tacit desire to be allowed to put down the phone. There was something else, of course. There had been for most of her life, but she couldn’t say it. She could never say it. And her mother’s memory, she had noticed during conversations lately, was getting so patchy anyway. Who knew what she really remembered – or, indeed, what she had ever really known?

  ‘No … except, that is, without William I guess I feel kind of spare,’ she gushed. ‘I love him so much, Mom, and he just left me the dreamiest message from England, saying how he couldn’t live without me –’ Beth broke off, not at all sure what she hoped to achieve by these disclosures, other than the need to hear them out loud herself. Her mother, she was certain, had never known such love. The years of drink had seen off any possible suitors. Now she lived off investments that Uncle Hal had made for her, in a condo that forbade pets, filling her time with medical appointments, magazines and the occasional game of bridge with neighbours, many of them with far narrower lives than she had.

  ‘So you just make sure you hang on to this one, you hear?’ Diane quipped, using a hateful, scolding, jocular voice, which made Beth wish she had kept her mouth shut.

  ‘You bet I will. Goodnight, Mom. Don’t let the bugs bite. I’ll email tomorrow.’

  After clicking off the phone Beth remembered to take one of the pills that now lived in the bathroom cabinet, instead of her bedside drawer, before putting out the light. She had thrown up her supper in one of the nicely sealed roomy bathrooms on the lower ground floor of the Mexican restaurant where she had gone with her girlfriends, but still liked the idea of keeping her digestive system on its toes, letting these metabolic enhancers zap calories that might have got left behind. She took a half sleeping tablet too, with just a sip of water to preclude any need to visit the bathroom during the night. Before closing her eyes she kissed William’s pillow and then placed both the handset of the house phone and her cell side by side on top of it, wanting to be sure that either ring would penetrate even the soundest morning sleep.

  As things turned out she was halfway through a banquet of a breakfast when William called: chocolate yoghurt, lox, bagel, cream cheese, blueberry muffin and coffee, served French style in a wide cup with steaming milk. Her stomach was so full it ached, but being able to binge openly was such a treat that Beth was determined to make the most of it. And the scale had been a joy that morning too – another two pounds lost in spite of the popcorn, the bulging fajitas and guacamole thick enough to stand a spoon in. It had to be the yellow pills, Beth reflected happily, conveniently forgetting the many mornings over the months when she had silently cursed the same tablets for making no discernible difference. She was still licking sugary muffin crumbs off her fingers as she picked up the phone. ‘William, honey, I got your message, I miss you too … sooo much.’

  ‘Are you okay? You sound like you’re eating.’

  ‘I am. A late breakfast. I’m being such a bad girl – neglecting my chores, just eating, sleeping, missing my baby …’

  ‘What was the film like?’

  ‘Oh, fine … you know the kind of thing, two girls, one guy, a dog … which was cute actually, except Patty says they used thirty different animals for the shoot – can you believe that? Anyway, then we went to Juanito’s and then I came home. Mom called again – worried about snow this time, if you can believe it. She’s definitely getting worse. I am looking forward to her visit and Thanksgiving and all but, I swear, the moment she steps off the airplane she’s going to start driving me crazy for all the same old reasons. But, hey, that’s moms and daughters the world over, I guess … But how are you, honey? How are things over there?’

  ‘Mixed, to be honest … There’s a bit of news, some good, some bad …’

  ‘About Harry?’

  ‘Yes, some of it about Harry. He’s moving back home –’

  ‘You see? Didn’t I tell you it would all work out – that there was no need to go flying over there?’

  ‘More amazingly – as I’ve only just learnt – he’s decided to retake his A levels at this crammer place …’

  ‘William, that is fabulous.’

  ‘Yup, I know. He’s still determined not to talk to me but, frankly, if he’s prepared to have another bash at all three subjects I think I can live with being Public Enemy Number One for the time being. What’s truly incredible is that the person we really have to thank for helping to bring about this turn of events is – of all people – one Olivia Chapman …’

  Idly dislodging a blueberry from a muffin with her finger, it took Beth a few moments to absorb the fact that the name, which she had only half registered, was supposed to elicit some kind of a response. Her delight at the Harry turnaround was heartfelt, but sprang mainly from the way it would release William from the draining business of worrying about the boy all the time – thereby releasing her too, of course, from having to deal with the fall-out of that worry. ‘Olivia … what did you say?’ She pressed the berry flat against her front teeth and then rolled it onto her tongue.

  ‘Chapman,’ William repeated, ‘as in eldest-daughter-of-the-Chapmans-whose-house-we-used-in-August. It turns out she and Harry have become friends and the mother, Sophie, teaches at this small sixth-form college that specializes in retakes –’

  ‘Sophie Chapman?’

  ‘Exactly. The very same. Thanks to petitioning from her daughter, she has got her boss to agree to take Harry mid-term with a view to –’

  ‘You’ve met Sophie Chapman?’

  ‘Yes – at least, briefly, last night, but I didn’t know any of this until she phoned this morning.’

  ‘How come you two met? Did you go to the house?’

  ‘No, nothing like that – I was trying to see Harry and then … Look, it’s a long story, but by total coincidence I bumped into her and Olivia – and Harry come to that – in this bar late last night. In fact, on hearing who I was, she took off pretty rudely, but then she phoned this morning to apologize and explain all this business about WFC and how she’s been trying to help.’

  ‘WFC?’ Beth pushed the muffin away, feeling she might do her vomiting there and then, all over the butter dish and the bowl of yoghurt.

  ‘It’s the name of the crammer – the sixth-form college – where Sophie Chapman teaches English. The point is …’

  ‘William, I just feel very uncomfortable with this.’

  William laughed uncertainly. ‘Uncomfortable?’

  ‘That woman …’ Beth swallowed. The old fears had stormed back, worse than ever. She bit her lip. ‘You know I don’t like that woman.’

  William snorted, clearly incredulous. ‘Beth, this has got absolutely nothing to do with what happened in the summer. You haven’t even met Sophie Chapman and, I tell you, she couldn’t be nicer. For a college of that calibre to let someone in mid-term – with such bad grades – is quite something. It was Harry’s idea apparently, wanting to get his act together at last – which is just wonderful in itself – but Sophie Chapman is the one who has made it happen. It won’t be cheap, of course –’

  ‘So how can we afford it, then?’ Beth snapped, pushing off from her chair and striding to the glass-panelled doors. The yard was now a wintry mono
chrome, the grass a dull green, the trees so stripped and skeletal that thick grey slats of the lake were visible between their branches. ‘Or will Susan pay?’

  When William eventually answered his voice was so painfully measured, so imbued with the determination to keep his patience, that Beth wanted to kick herself. Crazy, knee-jerk reactions, when everything between them had been so sweet – what kind of idiot was she?

  ‘I haven’t worked that part out yet. There hasn’t been time. All that matters, as I’m sure you can appreciate, is that Harry appears to have a chance of getting back on track.’

  ‘Of course,’ Beth cried, the yard view dissolving in a blur of tears. ‘Of course. Oh, William, I’m sorry, honey … sorry for being sharp. I just miss you so much. Forgive me?’ She could hear him breathing. She listened hard, wishing he would offer up what she needed to hear. ‘You sound so close,’ she murmured. ‘I wish you were close.’

  ‘But there’s some other news too,’ William continued softly, ‘really bad, I’m afraid … Susan has been diagnosed with breast cancer.’

  ‘Susan?’ exclaimed Beth, whose few moments’ preparation for yet more bad news had not taken her anywhere near William’s ex-wife. ‘Oh, dear God,’ she murmured, aware of the need to imply sympathy while her thoughts lurched to an ugly certainty that Susan, being Susan, would milk the situation – for sympathy, money and anything else within reach. ‘But at least that’s one of the better ones,’ she managed, doing her best to make the sympathetic tone convincing. ‘I mean, for treatment and all … like with those new drugs and so on.’

  ‘Indeed, it is. Thank goodness.’

  ‘But how terrible for her,’ Beth rushed on, wishing she could erase the insulting carefulness to her husband’s tone, as if he had decided he was communicating with someone who had special needs, ‘and for your kids too, of course.’

  ‘The boys,’ William said thickly, ‘yes … but Susan’s done well there – been straight with them, which can’t have been easy. They seem okay about it. It’s already made Harry sort himself out, which is unbelievable – more than I’ve been able to achieve.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘And she’s no fool, Susan – she’s already got BUPA to agree costs, researched all the options, found a top oncologist and so on.’

  ‘Good … Way to go, Susan.’ Beth bit a piece off her lip and swallowed.

  ‘But the most immediate point, my love,’ William continued, switching suddenly to a much gentler, more soothing tone, ‘as you might well already have guessed, is that with so much going on I see no alternative but to delay my return by a couple of days. I’ve told the office I won’t be in until Friday and I’ve booked myself onto a flight for Thursday –’

  ‘But that’s Thanksgiving –’

  ‘Yes, and it leaves at seven in the morning, so with the time difference I should easily make it home for the meal. I know it’s not ideal, but life throws these googlies from time to time, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Googlies?’ Beth whimpered, dropping her forehead onto the glass pane of the garden door.

  ‘Cricket. A ball that looks like it’s going to do one thing but then does another … The point is, given the situation, the least I can do is be around a bit longer to help out. Susan’s got an appointment at the Parkside on Tuesday afternoon, which clashes with a rugby match for Alfie, so I’ve said I’ll cover that. Then, of course, I need to see this WFC place and get the financing sorted. I’ve also arranged lunch with an old contact in the City – just to put my ear to the ground, see where London is compared to Wall Street …’

  ‘Wow. Busy, busy, busy.’

  ‘Sorry, Beth, but it’s only two extra days.’

  ‘Sure. And you need to be there – I see that.’ When Beth lifted her head she saw that the greasiness of her skin had left an ugly oval smear on the glass. She rubbed at it with her elbow, but it only grew worse.

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  He was so obviously relieved that Beth almost felt as if she did understand. ‘Mom and I will keep the turkey warm, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Sweet girl … sweet Beth … I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she echoed, heartened only because he, too, sounded close to crying.

  15

  ‘We should probably invite the man for dinner or something, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Oh, God, surely not.’ Sophie peered over the edge of her book. Andrew was standing in his boxers and a shirt, riffling with evident disconsolation through their overcrowded shared wardrobe. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘My black tie. Could it be at the dry-cleaner’s?’

  ‘No … at least, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So that’s a maybe, is it?’

  ‘Andrew, for goodness’ sake, it’s eleven thirty on a Monday night …’

  ‘I’d like to track it down that’s all – for the tour.’

  ‘The tour? But there’s still over two weeks to go.’ Sophie returned her attention to her novel, shaking her head. Andrew had been in charge of numerous travelling music extravaganzas in the past – a school-choir competition in Toulouse, an orchestra trip to Hamburg and Munich, another to Russia. New York was obviously up there in terms of importance, but she still could not quite believe how all-consuming the project had become. Since half-term the intense sessions under the headphones, along with mountains of paperwork, had converted the dining room into a no-go area for the rest of the family. In addition, a things-to-pack pile had started growing on the floor of the spare bedroom. Daily, he quizzed poor Milly (inheritor of his own habitually last-minute approach to all matters practical) as to what she might like to add to it.

  All of which was mildly endearing, but also odd, Sophie decided, losing her reading place again at the sight of Andrew balancing on a chair to rummage in the dusty storage cupboards above the rails on which they hung their clothes.

  ‘Ha – found it!’ He jumped clear of the chair, shaking the dust off a suit-carrier. ‘Not the suit,’ he added, in seeing her quizzical stare, ‘but something to transport it in at least.’

  ‘Good. I’m thrilled. Now, how about coming to bed?’

  Andrew sneezed violently – four times in quick succession – at the dust-flurry he had created, then rummaged in a couple more drawers before complying. Once in bed, however, instead of reaching for his own book, A Life of Herbert Howells, recently borrowed from the school library, he tucked his hands behind his head in a way that Sophie knew meant he wished either to think or talk. ‘But you’ll be seeing him tomorrow, won’t you?’

  ‘No, Gareth is seeing him,’ she corrected, a little dismayed that the subject of William Stapleton had not, after all, dropped out of view.

  ‘You could invite him then, I suppose – just for a casual supper by way of a thank-you … We’re not busy tomorrow night, are we?’

  Sophie closed her book with a laugh of disbelief. ‘All this from the father who thought Harry Stapleton was going to drag our daughter into the gutter …’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. I didn’t like the look of the boy. I still don’t. But since it has happily become apparent that Olivia was influencing him rather than the other way around –’

  ‘With my help,’ Sophie reminded him archly. ‘Credit, please, where it’s due.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Andrew rolled over and planted a kiss on her temple before resuming his thinking position. ‘You’ve done well there – very well – reading the situation, staying on top of it, getting Gareth to give the boy a chance.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘But since his father has fallen into our laps, as it were, I don’t understand your reluctance to show the man a little hospitality. It was a hell of a house, after all … and one hell of a holiday,’ he added dreamily.

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Sophie turned onto her side and slipped her fingers between the buttons of his pyjama top, only to realize – when Andrew made no response – that the dreaminess had nothing to do with her. She withdrew the hand gently, marvelling not at the recent dwindling o
f all the rekindled physical intimacy with which they had ended their time in Connecticut but at the mysterious new ebb and flow of such patterns in their marriage, arriving and disappearing like tides, obeying forces that seemed, increasingly, to have little connection to anything over which she had any control.

  A few minutes later Andrew’s eyes had fallen shut while what remained of Sophie’s sleepiness had evaporated under an adrenalin rush of frustration at the Stapletons, popping up every time she thought she had heard the last of them. She had seen Beth off successfully, only to find herself dealing with the messed-up Harry – a source of some worry until it had become sorely apparent that he was as smitten with Olivia as poor Clare was with him. A dear proverbial triangle, which Olivia had bashfully denied and then acknowledged as part of the reason behind her recent campaign to elicit her mother’s help vis-à-vis Harry getting into WFC. It was a way of making up for not liking him more, she had explained. He was a different, interesting sort of friend, but for anything else Clare was welcome, she had added, with enough disgust in her tone for Sophie to know she was being told the truth.

  So why fear William Stapleton? Sophie brooded, abandoning her book altogether and reaching carefully across Andrew to turn out his bedside light. In all their dealings the man had, after all, been nothing but gracious. A poor taste in wives was hardly a crime. And even if Beth had waved Carter’s note in his face, William was hardly likely to refer to it over a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese, not with the Harry business, and being seated opposite the kindly hosts in whose very house he had spent four pleasant weeks that summer. And how distant the whole Carter business had grown anyway, Sophie reflected, hard to recall for anything now except how badly she had mishandled it.

  In spite of such wise thoughts, a certain trepidation accompanied her to work the following morning. Making her way to the staff room after her first class had dispersed, she couldn’t help casting a glance at Gareth’s closed door, wondering if the interview with Harry’s father was still going on or had already finished. It wasn’t until the matter was far from her mind, displaced by a pile of marking, that a knock on the staff-room door was followed by the appearance of William Stapleton’s head round the side of it, his thick dark hair jumbled in what looked like a carefully crafted state of dishevelment, his face flexing with comedic, exaggerated uncertainty.