by Hilary Boyd
Chapter 48
It was two weeks since Lily moved back in. Freddy had tried to make the days into a second honeymoon. He’d taken his wife for romantic dinners; stood on the Norman Foster bridge, gazing at London from the river before an hour at Tate Modern; organized tea in a Thermos and a blueberry muffin in the park; cooked relaxed suppers in the flat, with the hum of the Soho street wafting up through the open windows; drunk exorbitantly expensive cocktails at the Charlotte Street Hotel. All things they had done before, when it had been good between them. Freddy wanted to remind her.
They both worked during the day, Lily setting up her laptop on the small oak-veneer dining table in the sitting room, the kitchen behind her, separated by a shiny, off-white marble work surface. He didn’t stay while she was typing and listening to the tapes, but took himself off to a café or to Max’s office, where he had the use of Julie’s desk – she was rarely there.
It was such a thrill to be with Lily again. Just sitting on the sofa in the evenings, talking, or holding hands in the street made his heart want to burst with joy. It was how it should be. But Freddy was still nervous. Naively, he supposed, he’d thought things would go back to the way they used to be between them. But the truth was that he sensed a distance, a wariness in his wife. Not all the time – her lovemaking had been intense and abandoned, both of them having a constant need to stroke, to kiss every inch of the other’s body, to make the sex last and last as if they feared by stopping something would break. And afterwards the tenderness in her eyes made it clear how much she loved him.
Nonetheless, he worried. Will she stay? he kept asking himself in the moments when she wasn’t in front of him, when his fragile confidence in her love began to wane. He felt he needed her now more than ever before, his hold on his new life so tenuous. Lily had always grounded him – until that time when he had been beyond grounding by anyone, of course.
She has to learn to trust me. I have to learn to trust her, he told himself. Max had said as much: ‘It’ll take time. Don’t push her, Freddy. Isn’t it enough that she came back?’ He’d grinned. ‘Julie would have seen me at the bottom of the sea first.’
He knew this, but he was impatient. Other things were worrying him too. His briefly perfect return had quickly soured as the obligations of his job piled up and the pressure to make Max’s business work began to feel like an uphill task. He didn’t want to tell Max, because his friend was so passionate about the trucks and it wouldn’t do to seem defeatist, but Freddy had received bored feedback – the worst, even negative would have been preferable – from the people he needed to enthuse for the marketing and publicity. More food trucks? had been the general response. He had to make this a success: his whole future – Lily, reputation, money, home – depended on it.
Then there was his father. The hospice to which Vinnie had apparently been admitted on his return from Malta had contacted him the day before. They had left a message saying that if he wanted to see Vinnie alive, he should come at once. Which was not going to happen, of course. But the image of his father lying in a bed, gasping for breath as his corroded lungs finally packed up, was not a pleasant one.
Lily could sense his tension, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. She still thought his father was a nice middle-class actuary from Nottingham, suffering from Alzheimer’s. If he told her Vinnie was dying, she would want to know why he didn’t visit. She would definitely want to come too. Never in his life had he spoken about what his father had done to him, and he couldn’t imagine doing so now, not even to his wife.
And, to cap it all, Shirley had pitched up. Coward that he was, Freddy still hadn’t told her that he wasn’t coming back to Malta. She phoned him regularly, left messages asking for updates about his ‘poor father’ – messages he had relentlessly ignored, assuming she would quickly catch on. But only this morning, when he and Lily were out getting coffee before she went up to Oxford to see the shrink she worked for, Shirley had texted: I’m here, hon! Dying to see you. Met your friend Riz in Malta, he told me all about your awesome project. Ring me xxx
Freddy, taken by surprise, knew he had looked shocked because Lily had immediately asked what was wrong.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he’d replied, ‘just some bad news about the launch venue. The bastards won’t make up their bloody minds.’
She had inevitably asked, ‘Which bastards?’ and he had been forced to make up more lies to add to the already heavy burden in his life.
That fucking moron, blabbing his mouth off. What was he doing in Malta, anyway? Freddy wondered. Although Riz was one of those people who turned up like a bad penny. He called himself an ‘entrepreneur and film-maker’, but no one, to date, had ever seen evidence of either. Yet somehow he knew everyone and went everywhere. Including, apparently, Malta. What the fuck should he do? Suppose he bumped into Shirley when he was out with Lily? Central London was a very small place.
*
After Lily had gone to catch the Oxford train, Freddy sat – still in the Rathbone Street café – making phone calls and responding to nearly forty overnight emails and texts. He was on his third Americano, and was already beginning to feel unpleasantly hyped. Things were looking up on the food-truck front – despite his impulsive lie to Lily earlier. The film festival seemed willing to loan the space in the pop-up tent for a couple of hours on a Monday morning – not the most sexy slot, but beggars and all that – and also to consider a food-truck presence in Embankment Gardens for the late-night shows, although where and when had still to be negotiated. Good news indeed. But this morning there was a more pressing problem. Freddy knew he had to deal with it today, while his wife was in Oxford, or not at all.
*
Shirley rose from her banquette seat in the hallowed centre circle at the Wolseley, her face wreathed in smiles. She looked tanned and smart, attractive in a royal blue sleeveless dress he hadn’t seen before, with heavy gold jewellery, a cream and blue silk scarf loose around her neck. Every inch the rich widow.
‘My, aren’t you the elusive one!’ she exclaimed, once they had kissed each other’s cheek and Freddy had taken the seat opposite her.
He’d been prepared for this. ‘I know, I know. It’s been manic since I came home, what with Dad and the new project. It got to the stage where I was embarrassed to contact you after so many missed calls.’
Shirley didn’t look like she believed him, her pencilled eyebrow raked at a slightly cynical angle, but he ignored this and ploughed on. ‘So you met Riz? What was he doing in Malta?’
‘Some business thing. I never quite got to the bottom of it. He talks so fast and seemed to think I knew more about the movie scene than I do.’
‘Riz all over.’ Freddy laughed.
Shirley’s face took on a serious expression. ‘Tell me about your father, Freddy. Has it been a nightmare for you?’
‘He’s in a hospice now. They say he hasn’t long. It’s a horrible way to go, not being able to breathe.’
Shirley reached over to hold his hand. ‘Poor you.’
Freddy, glancing anxiously around, hoped there was no one who might have seen the gesture: it was way too intimate. Unfortunately there was always someone he knew in the restaurant.
They talked about Malta, her flight, her London hotel, the weather, until the two portions of kedgeree and spinach had been delivered, the Chablis poured.
Now Shirley was gazing at him intently. ‘Freddy . . . I thought . . . We had such a great time together in Malta, no?’
Freddy nodded, squirming at the recollection of those strange nights, recalling unwillingly the softness of her silk negligee sliding over his erection.
‘I don’t know . . .’ Her eyes were misting alarmingly. ‘I thought it was more than just a casual thing . . . for both of us.’ She reached for his hand again, making no attempt to start her meal, the food lying untouched in the large white bowl. ‘It wasn’t me you were runnin
g away from, was it?’ she went on, a catch in her voice.
Before Freddy could reply, a heavy hand descended on his shoulder and a loud male voice exclaimed, ‘By Jove, it’s the Fredster! Where the hell have you been, March?’
Turning and snatching his hand free from Shirley’s grasp, he found the familiar figure of Cosmo Gough-Browne beside him, attired in a tailored suit of cream linen, blue shirt and MCC tie, carrying a Panama. He was clearly on the way to a cricket match.
‘Am I finally to have the honour of meeting She-who-must-be-obeyed?’ Cosmo held out his hand, appraising Shirley as he introduced himself. ‘He’s kept you very quiet, my dear. But you’re a brave woman, taking this fellow on,’ he joshed, punching Freddy in the back. ‘You know you can’t trust him an inch? He’s taken more money off me than the bloody tax man.’
Cosmo wheeled about at the sound of his name from across the restaurant. ‘See you at the club?’ he said to Freddy, giving Shirley a gallant salute with his hat before sailing off to greet his lunch companion.
When Freddy turned back, Shirley was looking down at her food, hands clenched in her lap. When she raised her eyes, he could see the cold suspicion as clear as day. Fuck him, he thought, knowing that Cosmo felt he could say these things with impunity since Freddy’s bankruptcy. People like that – who had never had to worry about money – loved to frown upon financial irregularities.
‘What did he mean?’ she asked.
‘Cosmo?’ Freddy tried to laugh, ‘Oh, we’ve had the occasional casino night together, that’s all. And he’s a rubbish gambler, loses a lot. Absolutely nothing to do with me. But don’t worry, he can take it. He’s incredibly rich.’
Silence.
‘Like me, you mean?’ Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her.
‘No – God, Shirley . . . no!’ Freddy was horrified.
She raised a well-shaped eyebrow. ‘Seems like I’ve been a bit of a fool.’
‘I . . .’ He stopped. There was no point in explaining.
‘And your father? Is he really dying?’
Freddy took a steadying breath. ‘I never lied to you, Shirley. I told you my life was a mess and I was broke. I told you I was married.’
‘But you also let me make love to you, Freddy. Was that just expedience?’
‘No, of course not,’ he replied, but he had hesitated for just a fraction too long.
Her mouth set in a tense line, she began to gather up her brown leather Chanel bag from the banquette with a quiet dignity, wrapped her scarf more tightly round her neck and pushed the corner of the table as she eased herself upright. Freddy stood too, moved aside to let her pass.
‘Shirley . . .’
‘You can get this, I assume?’ she said, indicating the uneaten lunch with a sardonic smile that never reached her eyes.
*
Freddy sat there, face lowered, flushed with shame, not daring to glance either side and see the inquisitive stares from the neighbouring tables. He should have felt relief. Shirley was gone. But instead he just felt utter contempt for himself, and the familiar ache of worthlessness, so carefully instilled over the years of childhood by his father, until it was his default position.
*
On his way home, he walked past one of his old dens, the shiny black metal portico with its flourish of a silver logo acting like a beacon in the crowded London street. Freddy didn’t hesitate, just strode towards a moment that he knew would block the recent humiliation with Shirley entirely from his mind.
Chapter 49
‘You know what she’s going to tell us.’ Sara, for once without Ted clamped to her side, was raising an amused eyebrow at her brother.
Dillon frowned. It was teatime and they were waiting for their mother at a table in the Delaunay deli, the Viennese-style café beside the bigger restaurant in the Aldwych. ‘That she’s moving out of Helen and David’s?’ His mother had sounded quite tense when she’d called to make the arrangement to meet up, but he’d assumed that was because of the whole Kit thing. She’d told him things were very tricky with his aunt at the moment.
‘No, dummy.’ Sara rolled her eyes. ‘That she’s having an affair with the doctor-on-the-boat, of course.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sas.’
‘Well, what else could be so important that we both had to see her as soon as possible? Something she couldn’t tell us over the phone.’
Dillon thought about this for a moment, nodded slowly. ‘You think? So soon?’
‘He’s widowed, Mum says, and she really likes him. They spend a lot of time together. Makes sense, no?’
His sister was nodding her satisfaction. But Dillon wasn’t sure he was ready to make friends with another potential stepfather. He hadn’t got over the last one. Before he could reply, Sara looked past him and waved. He turned to see his mum making her way through the tables and thought she looked lovely in her red summer shift dress and sandals, a tasselled leather bag over her shoulder.
They ordered – Sachertorte, two chocolate éclairs, tea – while Lily questioned them about what had been going on in their lives. She seemed bright – maybe a tad over-bright? – and talkative, but he felt the unexplained reason for the summons sitting heavily in the air between them. He wished she would just get on and tell them. Predictably, it was Sara who finally lost patience. ‘Okay, Mum, so why did you want to see us so urgently?’
His mother’s mouth twisted and he could feel her tension. Dillon watched as she took a deep breath and felt his own heart speed up.
‘Right. Well, you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.’ She fiddled with the handle of her teacup. Then she looked him straight in the eye. ‘Freddy and I are getting back together. In fact, we have got back together.’
The stunned silence was broken by Sara, who said, almost under her breath, ‘What?’ As if she didn’t understand what her mother had just said.
‘You can’t be serious.’ Dillon was more bewildered than angry as he and his sister stared open-mouthed at her.
‘I know you’ll be furious. And I know why. I know you’ll think I’m mad or weak or both. And perhaps you’re right. But I’m going to give it a few months and see what happens.’ Her gaze flicked between them, her hazel eyes willing them to understand. ‘Freddy isn’t gambling any more. He’s getting help. And Max has given him a job, a flat, paid off some of his debts.’ She dropped her head for a moment, then raised it again, her expression determined, her words no longer containing the previous hint of apology, as she said, ‘I still love him.’
Sara was shaking her head, her face puckered in disbelief. ‘Oh, Mum, really?’
‘I’ve thought about this long and hard,’ Lily went on. ‘I’m keeping my job, keeping my money separate. If it doesn’t work out . . .’
Neither he nor Sara responded. Dillon didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Did his mother really expect them to be happy? Expect them to welcome that man back into the family, after all he’d done to them?
‘Say something,’ his mother begged.
‘Your life, Mum,’ Sara said, shrugging.
Lily was staring at him. ‘Dillon?’
He knew he had to respond, but his bafflement and rage were choking him. Eventually, through clenched teeth, he echoed his sister. ‘Yeah, your life.’
His mother did not look relieved. He hadn’t intended she should.
‘It’s your business,’ he went on, ‘if you choose to be with someone who’s treated you so badly.’ He bit his lip. ‘But honestly, Mum, don’t think for a single second that I will have anything to do with Freddy March. Not now, not next week, next year. Not ever.’
Sara raised an eyebrow, whether in agreement or censure at his rant he didn’t know, didn’t care.
His mother was silent, just nodded wearily. ‘I didn’t expect you to be pleased, either of you,’ she said softly.
>
‘It isn’t about whether we’re pleased or not,’ Sara said, her voice gentle, as if she were talking to a child. ‘As I said, it’s your life, Mum; you can do what you like. But we are worried about you. Quite reasonably, don’t you think?’
Lily nodded again, blinking back tears. ‘Of course. I understand.’
But Dillon, in awe of his sister’s ability to keep her cool, had the sense his mum was waiting for them both to thaw a little and begin to see it from her side. Maybe imagine there might be a time in the future when they could all be one big happy family again with Freddy bloody March. That was not going to happen.
Chapter 50
‘So how’s London?’ Seth asked as they sat in canvas chairs with mugs of green tea on the small deck of his boat. The sun had come out and it was one of those warm, perfectly still August afternoons, when the world seems to be happening somewhere else.
‘Noisy.’ She smiled. ‘You forget when you don’t live there for a while.’
‘I never have. I came here when I was a student and I’ve never left. Bit sad.’
‘I used to like it.’
‘But not any more?’
She shrugged. ‘Freddy has to live there for his work.’
Seth didn’t answer, just gazed at some ducks having a scuffle on the water, over by the far bank.
‘It’s good to be here,’ she said, feeling almost sleepy in the peaceful afternoon sun. They didn’t speak for a while.
‘And Freddy?’ Seth seemed about to say more, but didn’t.
‘He’s not gambling, if that’s what you mean.’ Lily heard the defensive tone in her voice. But it had been hard telling everyone that she was back with Freddy. At the miserable tea with her children the previous day, Dillon had got up, not even finishing his chocolate cake, given her a cold kiss and walked out. He’d hardly spoken a word, except to say he wanted nothing to do with Freddy. Sara, who’d stayed behind after Dillon had gone, had been more measured, but no keener to make Freddy part of her life again. It pained Lily to think of the damage to her relationships – with her son in particular – that her love for Freddy had wrought.