Before I Knew You

by Amanda Brookfield

  Andrew found William standing forlornly in front of the alarm panel pinned to the wall of the cupboard under the stairs. His overcoat was on the floor next to his feet and he had pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows in the manner of one embarking on demanding physical toil. ‘Christ, I’m sorry. I knew this number once. Although to be honest we never used it.’ He stepped away as Andrew approached, dropping his chin to his chest with a groan of relief once the noise stopped. ‘I can’t apologize enough – and to pass out on your sofa like that … what you must think … Christ.’

  ‘It’s fine. Nice to meet you.’ Andrew grinned, holding out his hand. ‘Not exactly how I pictured our first encounter, but there you go. I’m the one who should apologize, for missing dinner.’

  William gripped his host’s fingers briefly, still shaking his head in mortification. ‘I was trying to leave quietly.’

  ‘And I don’t know what I was thinking, setting the alarm. We never used to bother, but we had this break-in – Ah, you heard about that, of course … but look here,’ Andrew urged, changing tack as William began pulling on his coat. ‘It would be absurd to leave now. We have a spare room …’

  ‘No, I couldn’t, honestly.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. It’s two o’clock in the morning. Get some sleep upstairs. We’ll all be up bright and early tomorrow. And I won’t reset the alarm,’ he joked.

  William dug savagely at his eyes with his thumb and third finger. ‘The jet-lag – I’ve never known it so bad. I can’t think straight.’

  ‘How about a Horlicks or hot chocolate or perhaps some tea?’ interjected Sophie, peering timidly round the banister post. ‘I’ve got some camomile and even rosehip, I think. I’m going to have one,’ she prompted, tightening the cord on her silk dressing-gown as she turned for the kitchen, leaving the men to look at the floor and their watches and then at each other.

  ‘Oh, God, I cannot believe the trouble I’m causing.’ William groaned, dropping his head into his hands. ‘Beth will kill me when I tell her … ’

  ‘Nonsense, it’s no trouble,’ Andrew assured him, a little irritated by such dramatic reactions. ‘We’re in your debt, after all, as I trust Sophie has made plain. A hot drink and the spare bed is the least we can offer in recompense – though I’m going to pass on the tea. Soph always needs it to get back to sleep, but I never do and I’m bushed.’ He offered a hand for a formal farewell, tipping his head towards William graciously. ‘In case our paths don’t cross tomorrow morning, let me say it has been a pleasure to meet you. Our holiday in your house was truly splendid – quite literally a turning point for both of us. Darien, New York … we loved it. In fact, I’m returning to New York in under two weeks.’

  ‘Sophie mentioned that – with your choir. You should look us up if you have the time.’

  ‘I doubt I will, sadly. Maybe you could come and listen to one of the concerts? Get Sophie to give you the website.’

  Andrew was grateful to be able to escape upstairs. Before falling asleep – as he knew he would, instantly – he switched Sophie’s bedside light on for her, taking the precaution of placing it on the floor, well away from the still damp wood.

  16

  Twigs and desiccated leaves dusted the pool cover, fluttering to new positions as the wind gusted round the yard. A few feet behind Beth, across the polished, rug-strewn pine floor, her mother was at full beam, laughing coquettishly at Carter’s jokes and oozing praise for Nancy’s daytime drama, which she had never seen. Preparing for the cocktail party had taken her most of the afternoon: she had retreated to her room after lunch, emerging only once – her thin grey-blonde hair swollen with heated rollers – to ask for a nail file, and then reappearing a couple of hours later, attired in a cream wool skirt suit that disguised the old-lady thickening of her torso while being short enough to show off her still slim legs. She stood with her weight on one foot while she talked to Nancy, sticking the other out with the casual poise of a young girl, belying the discomfort of the narrow pumps, which had been the object of much profanity during the course of their slow walk between the two front doors. The stem of her wine glass twirled between her fingers. No spirits, these days.

  Beth squeezed the stem of her own glass, longing for William. Drinks with their elderly neighbours – he would have made it funny, made it okay. She blamed her mother, allowing herself to be yodelled at by Nancy the day before, during the course of her daily ‘constitutional’ round the yard, clad – beneath her dreadful old squirrel fur coat – in boots and sweatpants, as if such clothes assured the modest physical effort the status of real exercise. The summons to a ‘pre-Thanksgiving cocktail party for a few friends’ had been the result – impossible to refuse, Diane had claimed, breathless but clearly delighted as she shook her feet out of her fur-lined boots, as if the stay with her daughter was taking shape at last. Her disappointment at William’s absence had been palpable to the point of insulting. Because she saw so little of the pair of them, she claimed, although Beth suspected darker reasons connected to the myriad deflections that William’s presence provided. His sweet, flattering mother-in-law small-talk seamlessly removed the need for Diane directly to address her daughter, or indeed any other potential awkwardness in the world.

  Perhaps because of her mother’s extreme sartorial efforts, Beth had found herself deliberately dressing down for her neighbours’ party in soft Italian leather slides, loose black velvet pants and a light pink top that was more of a T-shirt than a blouse. Twisting in front of the mirror, she decided she liked the inherent rebelliousness of being so casual, not to mention the chance to show off the new tight toning of her upper arms, the result of some recent nightly workouts that made her mother’s strolls round the yard even more laughable than they were already. The outfit had lifted her spirits, as did a vague curiosity at seeing the lovelorn Carter.

  Minutes after crossing the threshold, however, all the curiosity had evaporated. Carter was sad, fat, old and blighted – or so it seemed that night – with an irritating propensity to tell everyone the same stories. Three times already Beth had heard him regale different guests about the wonderful work he was doing on a once-abandoned script, deploying on each occasion a pretentious quote about being ‘a prophet new-inspired’ while drawing elaborate air-circles with his cigar.

  Worst of all, Carter made Beth think of Sophie Chapman. Studying her neighbour, trying to imagine what possible physical appeal his portly, ageing frame might hold, she decided the Englishwoman had to have been playing some sort of sick game, leading the poor man on, probably. And now she was in London, with William. Since their phone call Beth had worked hard at not minding – not thinking – about William and Sophie’s paths crossing, but it hadn’t been easy. She couldn’t shake off a horrible sense of inevitability about it, a sense of doom. The woman was beginning to feel like gum on the sole of a shoe, sticking fast every time she thought she’d scraped it off.

  ‘Muscle testing, the doctor calls it …’ said the curvaceous blonde, who had been dominating her small group by the patio window. Beth tried to look interested. The speaker had long thick platinum bangs that knocked into fortress eyelashes every time she blinked. Her cheeks were plump and smooth, her lips soft and bee-stung.

  ‘Or quack, depending on your point of view,’ interjected the man standing next to her, whom Beth guessed to be the husband. He offered a companionable wink at Beth, folding his arms in preparation to hear out the rest of the story. He was lean, with the lined ruddy face of a sailor.

  ‘The body holds memories of trauma …’

  He jerked a thumb at his wife, bending nearer Beth. ‘That’s Lindy, I’m Art. She’s big on alternative stuff.’

  Lindy was clearly used to ignoring spousal interruptions. ‘… so they test muscles to see exactly where the trauma is stored. My friend Martha had an aching face so bad no one could help her. Turns out it was all to do with finding her father dead when she was seven.’

  ‘Driven to despair b
y a toothache – well, I think we can all relate to that.’ Art looked to Beth for support at his own wit, drawing a sharp glance at last from his wife. Beth smiled, sneaking a glance at her watch. Twenty more minutes and they would leave. What was she doing with these horrible old people anyway? Darien was supposed to be full of young couples with families, not these has-beens.

  In England, Beth comforted herself, William would already be asleep, getting closer each minute to his early flight back to JFK the next morning. She turned to catch her mother’s eye, but Diane was talking animatedly to a tall, thin man in tartan pants and cream loafers, looking enthralled. There was a strident ring in her voice, loud enough to be heard above the hubbub of the room, loud enough for Beth to know it was time to go home.

  Three days in, and the visit from her mother had been following exactly the pattern Beth had jokingly foretold to William: fun at first – chatting over coffee, saying the right things, the novelty of meeting imbuing both of them with a fresh willingness to reach out to the other – until gradually the quieter, tenser business of unsaid things and irritation had begun to exert its hold. After the coffee and a tour of the ground floor Beth had shown Diane to the larger of the two spare rooms, tugging the heavy compact wheeled suitcase up the stairs behind her. Her mother had swooned gratifyingly at the hand-stitched bed-quilt (bought by Beth in a moment of wild, exquisite exuberance the day before) but then looked about her with dismay, rubbing her arms theatrically against the cold. The entire house had been kept at greenhouse temperatures ever since, although Diane had shown little acknowledgement of the fact, spending most of the time wrapped in a voluminous, ugly home-crocheted shawl and making a big deal of pushing her TV chair right up against the radiator. She talked enthusiastically of helping Beth in the kitchen, but would then park herself stiffly on a chair while her daughter did the work, sighing at every glimpse of the wintry windswept garden next to them and throwing out wistful comments on the magical warmth of both the climate and fellow inhabitants of her home state.

  ‘You know, Hal has had both knees done now,’ Diane remarked suddenly, once they were safely outside, wrapped up in their coats and scarves, farewells and holiday greetings completed, offers of chaperoning politely declined.

  Beth adjusted the angle of the flashlight, illuminating the twenty-yard stretch of smooth asphalt drive ahead, the ghostly sentinels of the trees on either side. Halfway down, a speck of something dark floated across the path of the beam – a leaf or an animal it was hard to be sure.

  ‘So it’s difficult for him to get about. And I think he’s lonely in that rest home.’ She had linked her arm through Beth’s, as if they were two companionable old ladies, hobbling home.

  ‘Life is difficult for a lot of people,’ Beth murmured, biting her left cheek till she tasted blood, telling herself that if she waited long enough the subject, like a bad odour, would fade away. Doing the walk the first time, the light had been dusky. Now the dark had thickened. Beyond the beam of the flashlight the drive might not have existed at all. The wind had picked up and the trees were swaying and whispering like a Greek chorus. Alone, she might even have been afraid.

  ‘Now, Beth, that’s just unkind.’

  Her mother, thanks to the wine no doubt, was in no frame of mind to be spooked. The rule about one occasional glass of wine – held to for years (from what Beth had seen and there was no reason to believe otherwise) – had that night been stretched to three or four. There had been another rule too, just as old, which was that Hal never got talked about so directly, that he was for the occasional reference in emails, or in passing conversation – a sub-clause, never the subject.

  ‘I am many things, Mom, but unkind? No, I don’t think so.’

  Diane snorted tipsily. ‘Well, you’re in a strange mood. And have been all week, if you don’t mind my saying. And you’re skinny too, like a stick. Trust me, men – William – they don’t like that.’

  ‘Oh, and you would know what men like, wouldn’t you, Mom?’ said Beth, so softly that when there was no reply she wondered if Diane had even heard. She felt something like regret spill into the silence. The slight crunch of their footsteps sounded desperately loud suddenly – loud and empty. Here was the chance to talk for which a small, deep part of her yearned and yet her first, defensive, reflex had been to shun it. The doubt that such a conversation could ever lead anywhere good was too great; and the reference to her weight had made her mad. ‘William likes me,’ she said in a spiky voice, ‘I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Good, dear. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I’m just tired, I guess … these darn shoes. It doesn’t look that far but it sure feels it.’

  ‘You’re doing great, Mom,’ Beth encouraged stiffly. ‘We’re nearly there. If we cut round through to the yard this way it’s quicker.’ Beth went first, holding branches out of the way. Emerging onto the lawn at last, there was just time for a momentary panic at the sight of the ground-floor lights blazing when a tall figure, moving under a cloud of cigarette smoke, boomed: ‘Are you burglars or my two favourite women in the whole wide world?’

  Beth dropped her mother’s arm and ran. William cast the cigarette away and threw his arms open to greet her, issuing quick-fire explanations of changed plans and flights between kisses.

  ‘Oh, I have so needed you,’ she moaned.

  ‘Me too,’ he whispered, transferring her to one arm and then holding the other out to welcome Diane. ‘Where have you been hiding that glorious coat? You look fabulous … and frozen. Let’s get you inside. I found some soup and boiled it – was that okay? I was starving but not sure what I was allowed to eat. I’ve never seen the fridge so full or been more terrified of touching any of it … Food, food everywhere but not a bite to eat. Where on earth have you two been anyway? There I was, imagining my presence might be appreciated, busting to make my arrival a surprise, and you two girls are out – partying, by the look of things … Can’t turn my back for a minute.’

  So William, jovial from the bottle of wine with which he had unwisely fought jet-lag and wiled away the time, herded them gently inside. Thrilled, both talking at once, Diane and Beth unfurled like flowers in the warmth of the kitchen. Beth took charge, laying the table with cutlery and snacks and being so irreverent about Carter and Nancy’s dreadful drinks party that William laughed till his eyes streamed. Watching him, she felt her love swell till the seams of her heart strained to bursting. All the absurd dark fears fell away. Who said absence made the heart fonder? Absence was crap. William made sense of her life. She needed him right next to her, always.

  For the next two nights William slept with an intensity that plumbed new depths, even for him. A dreamless, thick oblivion, he surfaced from among the bedclothes each morning like a diver kicking up for air, gasping, his limbs leaden. Meeting the challenge of Thanksgiving – conversation, merriment, feasting, more feasting – was an act of sheer willpower that never quite reached the point of being truly enjoyable. Having planned to spend Friday in the office, he pulled out, reasoning that the place would be half empty and the week was shot anyway. With all that had been going on, this chance to spend four full days at home felt like some God-given oasis, a beach upon which he could throw himself, while the troubled waters of the outside world lapped at his heels.

  It helped that Beth’s shriek of surprised pleasure in the garden on Wednesday night evolved into a state of loving attention the like of which he had never known. The bad phone conversation had worried him, but there were no difficult interrogations about his time in London, no guilt-tripping. When he apologized for the third night in a row for not yet having the energy even for sex, she responded with a tender stroking massage of his neck and shoulders, saying, what rush was there, after all, when they had the rest of their lives? Every morning – even on the holiday, when there was a lot to do – she let him lie in till eleven and then appeared with a tall glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, a cup of Earl Grey tea and his preferred sections of the New York Time
s. On Sunday these treats were accompanied by a gift, propped against the juice glass, of a small watercolour – smoky rings of oranges, reds and browns circling a gash of blue. ‘It’s called Trees in the Fall. That’s supposed to be the lake in the middle and that tiny smudge down there I’m calling Dido,’ she joked. ‘It was a jasmine bush, but I kind of lost control. You like?’ She knelt down by the bed and rubbed the tip of her nose against his.

  William carefully set the juice and tea out of harm’s way and then pulled her next to him on the bed. ‘I love it and I love you.’ He nuzzled her hair, which felt softer and thicker than he remembered and smelt faintly of peppermint. ‘But I do have one complaint.’ He pulled away to study her face, pretending to look serious. ‘How dare you give me a present when you know I have nothing for you?’

  Beth smiled, nestling closer. ‘You gave me that perfume, dummy.’

  ‘Yes, from Duty Free at Heathrow – it hardly compares.’

  ‘But you missed me – didn’t you? – and that’s like a present.’

  Her breath was warm on his neck. ‘Now that’s what I call being royally let off the proverbial hook.’

  ‘But you did, didn’t you … miss me?’

  William responded by pulling her on top of him, noisily crushing the newspaper among the bedclothes.

  Between kisses Beth peered worriedly through the curtain of her hair at the door. ‘But what about Mom?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Honey, it’s, like, lunchtime – she could come upstairs at any moment …’

  But William wasn’t to be so easily deterred. And what was there to worry about anyway? Beth reasoned, closing her eyes with pleasure in spite of herself as William’s hands began to travel more widely over her body. If Diane was misguided enough to open their bedroom door she would be bound to close it again pretty quickly …