by Hilary Boyd
‘Ted makes me feel like I can conquer the world,’ Sara said softly into the silence.
Lily remembered the feeling well. When she and Freddy had got together it was as if she’d been given a special power, as if anything she wished for she could make happen. ‘That’s the phenomenon of being in love. It doesn’t last, and it certainly doesn’t mean that Ted is The One.’
Sara frowned. ‘That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it, Mum? Wasn’t it like that with Freddy? And that turned out to be true love. Stan and I . . . It was different.’ She let out a long sigh. ‘This feels so good – I can’t stop thinking about Ted.’ She sighed as if she’d suddenly come down to earth. ‘You said you knew the very first second you saw Freddy.’
‘I suppose, yes, there was something . . .’
‘That’s what happened with me and Ted.’
‘But I wasn’t in a relationship at the time. We were both free.’
Her daughter shrugged. ‘You never doubted he was right for you, though. I remember you saying. I thought you were mad – you didn’t know Freddy from a hole in the wall.’
‘I was mad.’ Lily couldn’t help smiling at the memory. So mad that she had been instantly consumed by the unknown Freddy March. His lifestyle was not really compatible with who Lily was; they had no friends for context, no structure to support them. Yet she had felt this absolute certainty about him. It was like a solid thing that sat at the very centre of her being.
‘Well, so am I,’ Sara said, a blissful smile spreading over her face.
Lily was blindsided by her daughter’s elation. ‘Are you going to tell Stan before the wedding? He and Dillon are so close.’
Sara groaned. ‘I know, I know. God, what shall I do? I can’t keep pretending.’ Then all the ebullience disappeared, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. ‘What if I’m making a terrible mistake, Mum?’
‘You’ll just have to suck it up,’ Lily said unsympathetically. She watched her daughter’s face fall. But if she wanted Lily’s approval, she wasn’t going to get it. They seldom argued, and she felt miserable as Sara got up off the bench in silence, hands buried in her pockets, shoulders hunched in anger. But she was not going to condone something she was sure would be a terrible mistake.
The trip to the shops to find some shoes to go with Sara’s dress for the wedding was a tense affair, neither woman’s heart in it. Lily cursed herself. It wasn’t her business. She had moved past Garret, after all. Wasn’t it fair that Sara also let go a love affair begun when she and Stan were almost children, when Sara was still grieving and uncertain after her adored father’s death? But however much she rationalized her daughter’s behaviour, she still felt the shadow of Garret Tierney slipping into history, between the covers of the family album.
Weddings, she thought, after she’d seen her daughter off at the Tube station. They always stir things up. And, not for the first time, she felt tears prick behind her eyes that Garret would not see his beautiful son get married.
*
It was midday before Freddy arrived at the flat the following morning – rumpled and exhausted from the red-eye. He let out a long breath of relief as he dropped his leather holdall on the polished wooden floor, striding over and burying his face in Lily’s hair, hugging her so tightly she feared she would snap. He smelt of coffee, his skin astringent with plane wet-wipes.
Freddy drew back and looked into her eyes. ‘Hello,’ he said, grinning, before kissing her gently on the lips.
‘How did it go?’ she asked, hopeful. Because beyond the tiredness there seemed a new atmosphere about her husband. Was it relief? Reprieve?
He let her go and sighed. ‘Well, I think it went rather well, Lil. The man was a serious weirdo, some school friend of Fish’s made good. His main concern was saving my soul. But he seemed to like the idea of the studio. Fish was sure he’d cough up.’
‘That’s fantastic. When will you know?’
‘Oh . . .’ Freddy waved his hand in the air. ‘He’s going to get back to me this week, when he’s had time to check out all the paperwork I sent him. Bastard made me eat raw meat so he’d better invest.’
Lily laughed, her spirits lightening. ‘Worth the trip, then. I’m so happy for you.’
Freddy yawned and stretched his tall body upwards. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a couple of hours. I haven’t really slept much since I left.’
‘You don’t want something to eat? A cup of tea?’
For a moment he just stared blankly at her, as if he hadn’t heard. Then he said, ‘Not really. I’d love it if you’d come and lie down with me for a while, though.’
Freddy showered, then they both undressed and got into bed. The linen sheets were cool and clean – Lily had changed them that morning – and she heard him let out a sigh of pleasure as he took her in his arms. They didn’t make love, just luxuriated in being close again.
‘You know I love you, Lily,’ Freddy said.
‘I love you too.’
‘You can’t imagine how good that makes me feel, being loved by you.’
Lily wondered at his words. Freddy wasn’t one for sentimentality.
‘You’re the first person in my life I feel loves me for who I am,’ he went on, his words spoken softly as she lay with her head on his chest, ‘not who I pretend to be.’
She glanced up at him, but he was gazing at the ceiling.
‘Me . . .’ he finished.
Then he rolled over to face her, their heads on the same pillow, inches apart. He brushed her hair off her face, tucked a strand behind her ear. ‘Remember what I said, Lil. Promise?’
She didn’t understand what he was talking about, but she nodded anyway and he smiled.
‘Love you so much,’ he said. Then his drawn features relaxed and his eyes closed. Within a minute he was asleep.
For a while she lay beside him and watched him, taking in every contour of his face, the dark lashes resting on his cheek, his full mouth twitching in sleep. She reached up and touched her finger to the wide, triangular scar above his left eyebrow – a bike accident as a kid, he’d told her. She felt a surge of happiness, knowing that they had each other, knowing that things were going to be all right.
Slowly she began to extricate herself from his embrace. Pushing back the duvet, she slid out of bed, tiptoed across the room to gather up her clothes and left her husband to sleep.
Chapter 9
Gabriela’s eyes were flashing, her body buzzing with tension as she stood before him, arms akimbo. ‘He hasn’t paid? Freddy hasn’t paid?’
Dillon took a deep breath. ‘Appears not. They want the money by tomorrow.’
His fiancée threw her arms into the air. ‘Why not? Why hasn’t he paid? How can he do this to us?’ She turned and stamped her bare feet over to the kitchenette of their onebedroom second-floor conversion just behind Holloway Road in north London. The back window looked onto an adventure playground, but it was Monday and it was closed, Dillon knew. The noise of the children’s shouts when it wasn’t could be deafening.
Gabriela grabbed a blue plastic tumbler from the open wooden shelf in the corner and ran the cold tap, gulped down the contents, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before turning to Dillon. Her wide-set dark eyes and full lips – now drawn down in a pout – were framed by light-brown hair, currently highlighted with blonde streaks, which fell down her back in a curtain when it wasn’t pinioned in a plait or a ponytail, as now. She was petite, trim from the dance classes she took, her breasts high and rounded. Dillon thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
‘Well?’ she demanded, holding her hands out, palms up, as if expecting Dillon to produce a rabbit out of a hat. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘I’ve tried calling Freddy so many times, it’s getting embarrassing—’
‘You’re embarrassed? Oh, meu Deus . . .
It’s him who should be embarrassed. Call your mother.’ And when Dillon didn’t immediately reach for his phone, as he’d already left two messages for her, she added, her voice urgent, ‘Now, call her now, querido, before those bastards cancel our wedding.’
Dillon felt a sense of doom as he clicked on his mother’s number.
She picked up on the second ring. ‘Sorry, I’ve just seen your calls – we’ve been at a screening all morning. Is everything all right?’
‘Yeah . . . is Freddy with you?’
‘Sure. Do you want a word?’
‘Please.’
After a second he heard his stepfather’s voice, ‘Hi, Dillon. I know why you’re ringing. The Roof Gardens.’
‘Um, yeah. They want the money by tomorrow, absolute latest, or we’ll lose our deposit and the venue.’ He hesitated. ‘I hate to hassle you, Freddy. It’s just . . . I mean, if it’s a problem . . . I’m sure we could scrape together something . . .’ That wasn’t true, but Dillon hoped his mother would come through. She had offered.
‘No. No. They’ll have the money, Dillon – please don’t fret. It’s my fault, I got hijacked by this trip to Vegas. It sent everything else out of my head. I’m so sorry. Please apologize to Gabriela.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘Just what you both need with all the other strains of a wedding.’
Dillon laughed too. ‘Has been a bit tense this end.’
‘Your mother is more worried about the seating plan,’ Freddy went on cheerfully. ‘She’s saying she doesn’t want to sit next to Uncle Frank.’
‘Really?’ Dillon feigned surprise. This was a family joke. Uncle Frank, Lily’s father’s brother, was one of those people who, through no fault of their own, start boring you even before they’ve opened their mouth. Frank Yeats was in his early eighties now, but his mind was still sharp and he liked to talk . . . and talk, and talk. Mainly – after a long career as a civil engineer – about sewer systems, past and present, locally and globally. He was fascinated by them, each and every one.
He heard his mother saying something in the background, then her laugh.
‘Your mum says it’s Aunty Helen’s turn.’
As Dillon ended the call, after some more banter about annoying relatives, and glanced at his fiancée – whose eyes were fixed on him, their expression tense and almost threatening – he tried to feel relief. Forcing himself to smile at her, he said, ‘Freddy’s sorting it. He said to tell you he’s very sorry. His trip to Vegas made him forget.’
He did sound as if he was telling the truth, Dillon told himself. He hadn’t detected any sliding or evasion in Freddy’s words. In fact, he thought, he sounded more cheerful than he had in a while. Perhaps the trip was a good one.
‘But has he paid?’ Gabriela demanded, her expression far from relieved. ‘Has he actually put the money down on the table?’
‘He says they’ll have it by tomorrow,’ he said, but clearly his fiancée was picking up on his doubts.
She dropped her hands from where they’d been resting on her hips and came to sit beside him on the sofa, curling her legs under her, taking his large hand in her own small one, stroking his skin with her thumb absentmindedly. ‘I have a bad feeling, querido,’ she said. ‘About everything.’
They sat in silence.
‘And Mamãe is going to drive us both mad,’ Gabriela said. ‘You have no idea. Your mum is so reasonable, so . . . quiet.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Dillon assured her, hoping that by saying it often enough it would become true, because she was getting more anxious by the minute about her mother’s arrival from São Paulo. And ten days squashed together in this tiny flat, with a person whom Dillon had not met and even Gabriela described as ‘crazy bad’, was a daunting prospect. They would give Renata their room, of course, and sleep on the new Ikea sofa bed, which was supposedly arriving this afternoon. He was waiting for it right now, working from home today, because his fiancée was scheduled to teach a children’s drama club over in Highgate. But he was not looking forward to his prospective mother-in-law’s visit.
‘I love you,’ he said, drawing Gabriela into his arms, rubbing his palm down the soft skin of her bare arm. Not for the first time, and not without a good measure of guilt, he allowed himself to imagine the bliss of being on the other side of their wedding day, to imagine a morning when they could sit having a restful conversation that didn’t involve how to survive Renata, or which relative could best withstand two hours’ listening to Great Uncle Frank . . . Or if Freddy would come up with the money.
Chapter 10
Freddy had twenty-four hours and a stake of five thousand. The landlord had been sorted, Freddy handing over the money in cash to a surprised letting agent on the afternoon of the previous day. Now the Roof Gardens was his top priority. Dillon’s wedding must go ahead at all costs. He needed seventeen for that, more to survive on for the next few weeks, his target twenty-five grand. Although twenty would do. Luckily it wasn’t more. Feeling flush at the time, he’d given a larger deposit to the Roof Gardens than they’d asked for last year, when the venue was booked.
‘I’ve got to work late tonight,’ he told Lily, as they stood on the busy pavement in Wardour Street after the morning screening. ‘I don’t want you worrying that I’m getting my end away with the lovely Sabrine.’
It had begun to rain, a cold and depressing March drizzle, and they instinctively moved against the building, Freddy waving to various industry mates who had also watched the painful documentary about a Syrian doctor’s family living in Lebanon.
He took Lily’s hand and leaned down to kiss her. She looked tired, he thought, although he’d done his best to make the two days he’d been home as carefree as possible. They’d had Sunday lunch at the Delaunay, one of Lily’s favourite restaurants. They’d bumped into some friends there and sat for a long time, sharing a mellow red, just talking and laughing. Then they’d gone for a walk in a welcome burst of spring sunshine along the South Bank, enjoying the colourful stalls and throngs of people, general hubbub and music from the many buskers. They’d held hands, saying little.
Freddy had felt as if he were in a bubble: a fragile, perfect, transient thing that would pop and disappear at any second. It was like an advert for his life, the way he wished things were, the way he claimed they were, the way they could have been, if only . . . And, as such, he tried to switch off from reality, just live in the moment and savour every sight, sound and touch as if it were his last.
Lily had been very gentle with him, as if she knew he was hurting, and they had made love long into the night, an ebb and flow of lust and tenderness, soft kisses and caresses that seemed intensely satisfying in and of themselves, followed by a sudden crescendo of desire, sinking once again into a sleepy, sensual warmth. Freddy, as he stood there on the wet pavement, heard in his head an echo of Lily’s soft cry as she came. He wanted to be in that place again, just the two of them, where nothing bad could ever happen.
But she knew him too well. Whether she believed his lie that Larry Hedstrom would come through, he wasn’t sure, but the worried frown he’d caught a couple of times, when she thought he wasn’t looking, told him she did not. And it wasn’t actually a lie. He had sent the documents to Hedstrom, as requested, and there might be a miracle: the man might decide the studio – which, until recently, had been a thriving concern – was a good investment. But he doubted very much that he would. If he’s after my soul, Freddy thought, he can have it, tattered as it is. But he’ll have to pay.
*
The night started well: up three grand in less than an hour. The buzz was back and Freddy, after an initial nervousness, was beginning to enjoy himself. He was secure in his favourite Hyde Park haunt, the casino employees welcoming him affectionately, like a trusted family member.
It was around midnight, after he’d availed himself of a club sandwich, sent it back because the toast was soggy, then lost his a
ppetite in his eagerness to get back to the tables, when he returned to find an old casino acquaintance in his seat: Cosmo Gough-Browne.
‘Freddy, old chap,’ Cosmo greeted him, his jowly face, red from all the country sports he pursued in lieu of employment, breaking into a drunken grin. ‘Long time no see.’
Freddy’s heart sank. It was imperative he keep focus tonight. He was on a mission. He didn’t dislike Cosmo, who was affable at best, thick and narrow-minded at worst, but he didn’t have time for banter. For Cosmo, dressed tonight in a dinner jacket from some earlier event, gambling was merely a hobby. He could lose what he liked and still go home to his magnificent Dorset pile without breaking a sweat. Not just that, but Cosmo was in his seat, his lucky seat. He could ask him to move and the man, polite to the last, would probably do so. But had he jinxed his winning position?
‘Come on, Fred, get those chips out,’ Cosmo was urging, pushing a huge pile of his own towards 19 red.
There was only one other person at the table now, the previous group of noisy French footballers having gone to the bar. He was a slim Middle Eastern youth in a black suit and navy shirt, who looked too young to gamble and seemed nervous, holding a handful of chips tightly in one hand and shaking his head when the croupier glanced at him, eyebrows raised, before stating, ‘Rien ne va plus.’
Freddy waited, watched Cosmo lose about a thousand pounds.
‘Bad luck,’ Cosmo said loudly, as if referring to someone other than himself, then prepared another hill of chips for the next spin of the wheel.
Freddy, trying to concentrate, eyed the green baize as the croupier flicked Cosmo’s chips off the cloth and quickly stacked them.
‘Faites vos jeux . . .’ the mechanical chant rang out.
‘Not having a punt?’ Cosmo asked Freddy, nudging him playfully. ‘Come on.’ He lowered his voice: casinos didn’t take kindly to side bets. ‘Let’s make this between us. I’ll bet you a bag I win more than you on the next spin.’