by Anna Hope
‘I think we’re too late to go to Whitstable first,’ she says.
He nods. She studies his face in the dark. Something she thought she knew by heart has become inscrutable, opaque.
‘So shall we go straight to the dinner, then?’
‘Whatever you think.’
‘Or maybe we should cancel the dinner? Just go to the hotel?’
‘Won’t Cate be disappointed? Isn’t that the whole point?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ She turns to look out of the window at the 1930s edges of London sliding past. ‘I’ve never been to Canterbury,’ she says. ‘I only know it from Chaucer. The Wife of Bath. A level.’
He changes lanes. ‘I went there once,’ he says, ‘for a conference.’
‘Did you like it?’
She winces. It is as though they do not know one another. Or as though they are following a badly written script.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘From what I saw. It was nice.’
They fall silent. The script has run out. She feels panic rising in her. ‘The hotel looks sweet,’ she says. ‘There are bikes we can borrow. We can cycle to Margate tomorrow. If the weather’s OK.’ She lifts her phone and checks the weather, but there is only one bar of reception. ‘Apparently it’s really up and coming. Margate. There’s the Turner. Opening next year. Turner Contemporary. Someone at work went there last summer. Loved it. Sold up and moved.’ His face. His shuttered face. ‘Or, you know, we could just stay in bed. Sleep. They bring breakfast up to your room.’
What is she? A fucking tour guide? Shut up shut up shut up.
She switches the radio on; the news is full of the tuition-fees story. She leans forward and turns it up. ‘Do we have to?’ he says, leaning in and turning it off. ‘It’s depressing. I’ve heard enough of it today.’
They follow the instructions that Cate sent, but they lead only to a large roundabout, which they go around twice as Hannah tries calling to check, but the phone rings and rings and is not answered. ‘She’s probably busy,’ says Hannah. ‘With her guests.’
‘Right,’ says Nathan. ‘Well, in the absence of any clear directions, shall we stop the car?’ He swings off the roundabout and turns left at a set of traffic lights. There is nowhere to park. She watches the muscle tense in his jaw. ‘There,’ he says, pointing to the sign for a car park.
They go down into the depths of a multi-storey. What if it closes while they are at Cate’s? How will they get to Whitstable? They go up in the lift and do not speak. He looks pale beneath the overhead light. Hannah’s phone buzzes in her pocket – she fishes it out. Finally: Cate with the directions.
‘She sounds happy,’ she says, as she puts her phone back into her pocket.
It is cold on the street in Canterbury, colder than in London. She has dressed too flimsily. She wants to ask Nathan to hold her, but he is hunkered down into his coat. Has she ever had to ask him to hold her before?
He rolls a cigarette and lights it. She bites her tongue. They walk past a small supermarket, and then into a small estate, find number eleven.
She wants to go back to the car. To drive back to safety, to her home, which feels such a long way away. She wants to stop and hold her husband. To shake him until his water runs clear again, until his secrets fall out.
Nathan reaches up and presses the doorbell.
‘Hannah!!’ As Cate opens the door she stumbles forward. Nathan steps up to grab her elbow. ‘Hannah! Nate! Come in, come in!’
Cate is flushed, talking loudly as she pulls them through a narrow hallway, a cramped sitting room, to where expectant faces crowd around a small round table. ‘Everyone!’ says Cate. ‘This is Hannah! And Nate. The best couple in the world!’
Cate
It is going well – surprisingly well – except for the fact that she cannot find her wine glass. She had it a moment ago – did she take it when she went to the bathroom? There it is, on the other side of the table. She reaches for it, but Nathan gets there first and passes it safely back towards her. Mark is talking, something about sailing.
‘The coast is so close. Got a friend with a boat, takes me out sea fishing – you should come, Sam. Next summer. We take some decent wine, cook up on deck. He’s got cash. If you cook like this, I reckon he might be interested in your food too.’
And Sam is nodding, looking pleased. And the food – they are all eating their food, and it is delicious, really delicious, they are all saying so – and here is Dea, her face intent, listening to something Hannah is saying. And Cate is filled with warmth for Dea – whose idea this was – who turned up bearing cordial, wine-dark elderberry cordial made from her allotment, which Cate stowed in the kitchen for Hannah to drink. But tonight Hannah is drinking – and Cate laughs to herself because it is so good to see Hannah here in her house, drinking wine.
And she looks so beautiful – has obviously made an effort – in that dress, the way her hair frames her face, her face which is flushed from the outside air and the alcohol. And she is so touched that Hannah cares enough to come, to make the journey, that she feels sudden tears in her eyes. She stands up and goes around the table to Hannah, puts her cheek against hers. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘What for?’
‘For coming here. You look gorgeous, Han.’
And Hannah laughs. ‘Thanks. You too.’
And as she circles back to her seat, she catches Nathan and Dea talking together now: ‘They’ve occupied the Senate building. Fifty of them in the War Room. Our VC signed a letter supporting the fees hike.’
And Nathan is nodding. ‘It’s a shit show.’
Cate puts her hand on Dea’s shoulder. ‘I saw them,’ she says, ‘this morning – they were handing out leaflets by the cathedral again. I was looking for that girl. The one with the pink hair, do you remember?’
Dea smiles. ‘I do. She’s inside. She’s in the Senate.’
Zoe leans forward. ‘It feels like the spirit of ’68 or something. Like these young people are being radicalized overnight.’
‘I agree,’ says Nathan. ‘But don’t people always say that? Wheel out the soixante-huitards?’
‘Well,’ says Zoe. ‘If my daughter was old enough, I’d want her to be in there.’
‘Yeah,’ says Nathan. ‘I reckon I’d want that too.’
Cate looks around at her table, at her guests, and she feels happy – suddenly and completely happy. There is no future to fear, no past to regret, only this, only a series of moments, strung along, like lit globes on a string – there is warmth, there is food, there is comfort. Upstairs, Tom sleeps. She is grateful. And she sees that the bottles on the table are empty so she goes back into the kitchen and fetches another from the fridge – it is hard to open – and here is Sam, coming in behind her. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Let me do that.’
She turns around and there he is, her husband – and she leans in and kisses him – not a chaste kiss, and he laughs, pulls her closer, and she traces the rough line of his beard with her tongue.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘You must be drunk.’
She laughs. She has forgotten this, the fizz of his proximity, this man, this bear of a man. Dea was right. This was what she needed to do.
She helps Sam carry the food and the wine back in. They are configured slightly differently now – Dea and Tamsin are speaking together; Hannah, who is not talking to anyone, is looking over at Nathan and Zoe, whose heads are bent, looking at pictures on Zoe’s phone.
‘She’s with a babysitter,’ Zoe is saying. ‘I’m pretty nervous but they seem to be going OK.’
‘She’s gorgeous,’ Cate hears Nathan say.
Cate watches Hannah watch them and feels a sudden spasm of protectiveness towards her friend. ‘Hey,’ she says, nudging Zoe. ‘Hey, you two.’ Nathan and Zoe look up, startled. Now she has said it she doesn’t know what else to say. She claps her hands as Sam puts the fish down on the table.
Hannah
Cate is drunk. She is swaying, holding the plates; Hannah reach
es up and takes them from her.
‘Here, have some water.’ Hannah holds out her glass.
‘I’m fine,’ says Cate. ‘Really, I am.’
Hannah drinks the water herself. She has had two glasses of wine and her head feels fuzzy. She already has a headache beginning at her temples. She is finding it hard to concentrate on the conversation that is swirling around her; she keeps thinking about the car, about how it will be stuck in the car park and they won’t be able to get it out. She needs to call the hotel – she needs to let them know that they will be late, to ask whether that’s OK, whether they need to have a special key. She can’t remember how far it is to Whitstable. Twenty minutes? Maybe more? It is ten o’clock and they are just eating their main course – at this rate, they will be here till one.
The conversation is getting heated now: Dea, Cate’s new friend, and that guy Mark with the big diver’s watch, the one who’s fond of the sound of his own voice. She recognizes him from the wedding – he was Sam’s best man, wasn’t he?
‘It was needed,’ Mark is saying, ‘if the markets aren’t going to turn their backs on us. You want to be like Greece? Didn’t you see the note they left in the Treasury? There’s no money left. Idiots. Fucktards.’
‘Sure,’ says Dea, ‘and austerity is going to hit the poor the hardest. What about a tax on the banks?’
‘They’ll just take their business elsewhere.’
‘So they are in charge?’ says Zoe, leaning in. ‘So they dictate policy now?’
Mark turns to Zoe. ‘I’m not sure you quite know what you’re talking about, love.’
‘And why is that?’
‘I mean, you’re American, for a start.’
‘For a start?’ says Zoe. ‘And what comes after that?’
The temperature has dropped a couple of degrees in the room. Hannah stands and quickly makes her way to where Sam is sitting. She leans in and thanks him for the food and asks him if he has a landline. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘it’s in the bedroom, first on the left.’
She kicks off her shoes and goes upstairs. In the bedroom she sits on the bed in the dark. She is breathing quickly. There is a tightening in her skull. Something is troubling her. Nathan – the way he was with that woman Zoe. Their heads bent together looking at her phone, his low exclamation at the sight of her child.
There is a noise beside her and she jumps. At first she does not know what it is, then she understands – it is Tom, he is here, sleeping in the big bed. She can see him properly now, in the small light from the landing, his arm flung out to the side. She lies down beside him. He stirs but does not wake. His breath smells sweet. It is so even. He is so deeply asleep.
She curls up beside him and puts her finger in his grip, tracing the small bumps of his knuckles beneath her thumb, her cells fizzing with a longing that might split her in two.
And she understands something, lying here – an understanding that arrives in her cells fully formed. She has lost her husband – or her husband is lost to her. Something fundamental, some deep river that fed them, has dried up.
For the moment – this small moment, with this small hand in hers – this knowledge does not hurt, but she knows there is pain waiting for her, on the other side of this. She knows it will come.
It is quiet, for now, up here, while downstairs there is music, louder now, and Cate’s voice raised above it, exhorting everyone to dance.
Cate
‘I used to love dancing!’ she yells. ‘Dea, Zoe, come on!’ She pulls them to their feet. Someone needs to change the energy in here – rescue the evening, which is in danger of escaping, of slipping away. ‘Where’s the rest of the wine?’
There is a bottle by Mark, half full. She goes over towards him, lifts it and pours it into a nearby glass.
‘Are you sure you need any more of that?’ he says.
‘I’m sorry?’ Cate turns back to him. ‘What did you just say?’
Something in the way he stands – an ancient violence, simmering just beneath the surface. As though on an unspoken cue, Tamsin moves towards her husband. Behind her, Cate can sense Dea and Zoe. Nathan is sitting watching to her side. Sam to her left. Hannah, where is Hannah? Cate lifts the glass to her mouth. The wine is no longer cold. It tastes tacky, overly sweet.
‘I think your wife might have had enough. Don’t you think?’ Mark turns to Sam.
Cate splutters. ‘Oh my God, you’re not really saying that? I think you’ve had enough, love.’ She is laughing hard now. ‘Oh, wait – you are?!’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re a joke.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re a fucking joke. Look at you, with that stupid watch. You’re not a diver, are you? Wait a minute – shall we see if it works?’
She moves towards him, grabs his hand and turns it over, unclasps his watch, and drops it into her full glass of wine. ‘Oops,’ she says, as the wine sloshes out over her wrist.
The fury on his face. Tamsin, white with shock.
‘You people. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you are? You people,’ she says again, waving her glass at Tamsin and Mark. ‘You’re the problem, do you know that?’
‘Cate.’ Sam steps forward. ‘Mark’s right, you’ve had enough. You’re a breastfeeding mother, for God’s sake.’
‘Oh. Oh, I’m a breastfeeding mother, am I?’
‘You’re tired.’
‘Oh!’ She bangs the glass down on to the table. ‘Oh, that’s priceless. Of course I’m tired. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in almost a year. You know. I’m sorry I haven’t got a system, Sam. I’m sorry I haven’t got a functioning fucking system. It’s a form of torture, you know. Sleep deprivation. Did you know that? They break soldiers with it. I mean – you may not be that bright, but at least you can grasp that.’
‘I really don’t think we need to have this conversation here.’
‘Yeah, go on. Shut me down. Shut me up. I shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t even be in this fucking marriage. In this fucking town.’
She looks around at them all, the way they are staring, slack-jawed.
She watches as Mark moves towards Tamsin, as though to protect her, his arm around her, the way she shelters in her husband’s bulk. And she understands, in a pure, clear moment that cuts through the wine, that she hates this man. Hates everything he is and everything he represents. She lifts her sleeve. ‘Shall I show you what I wear on my wrist?’ she says to Mark. ‘It’s a spider. To remind me to keep fighting. Not to capitulate. Not to forget to fight men like you.’
Hannah
She hears Cate shouting from where she lies on the bed. The door banging. Concerned voices. She knows she should go to check, because whatever has happened sounds serious, but she is filled with a great exhaustion, all of her cells heavy with it, as though she has been walking, walking for such a long time, with such a heavy load on her back, and her body is so tired. She just wants to lie here curled beside this child, to feel the warmth of him, and maybe sleep beside him for a while. There are footsteps on the stairs, the door opening a crack.
‘Hannah?’ Nathan’s voice.
‘Yes?’
She does not want this crack of light, this light which is sharpening, filling the room, which carries the future within it, cold and hard and unforgiving. She wants to pull Nathan in here, close the door behind them. Lie down in the darkness together with this baby on this bed.
‘It’s Cate. She’s gone. She’s pretty drunk. I think she might need finding.’
Hannah rouses herself and comes to stand, then follows him slowly back down the stairs, and out blinking into the living room, where people are scattered in small groups.
‘I’ll go and look for her,’ she says.
‘Let her cool off,’ says the man called Mark. ‘She’s pissed. She could do with the air.’
Hannah takes her coat.
‘You want me to come?’ Nathan says.
‘No, you stay.’
Outside it is freezing, and she h
as no idea where to go. She calls Cate’s name and her voice is thin and high. She traces their steps back out to the road, heels percussive on the hard ground, comes to a deserted supermarket car park. She feels vulnerable out here, in these heels, in this dress. ‘Cate?’ she calls. The road is busy, even at this time of night. She has a sudden terrible thought and she starts to run. ‘Cate?’ she calls. ‘Cate?’
And then she sees her. She is standing on a small humpbacked bridge, leaning out over the river. ‘Cate?’ she calls.
Hannah is breathless when she reaches her.
Cate’s eyes, when she lifts her gaze, are hard and bright. ‘I’m leaving,’ she says.
Beneath the bridge the cold black water moves.
‘Cate,’ says Hannah, taking her arm. ‘You’re drunk. It’ll seem different in the morning. I promise.’
‘Don’t fucking silence me. Do you know what you’re like, Hannah? You’re just like all the rest of them. Never mind that you feel like shit. Never mind that they cut you open and didn’t tell you why. You have a healthy baby. Take some fucking pills and shut up. You don’t want to hear the truth.’
And Hannah feels her own cold fury rising now. ‘What truth? What truth, Cate? Come on. Tell me.’
Cate shakes her head, mutinous.
‘Well, I’ll tell you my truth, shall I?’ Hannah speaks quickly, clearly now. ‘My husband is leaving me. Because we can’t have a child. I lost a child. I had a miscarriage. Have you ever had one of those?’
Cate’s eyes in the darkness, all pupil now.
‘Shall I tell you the truth of that, Cate? It’s like this.’ She takes Cate’s hand, lifts her sleeve. ‘It was about this big. About seven weeks old. A sac to hold a baby. It’s fairly monstrous, actually. It’s not the sort of thing that’s supposed to be seen. It’s supposed to stay inside you – to grow and grow and grow until it can’t grow any more. You know what that feels like, don’t you? A baby, growing inside you?’