by Adale Geras
Now, she looked at Adrian’s dark, soft hair and his beautiful blue eyes and remembered how that conversation had come to an end: with him pulling her into his arms and with her forgetting everything, as she always did when she was near him. I’m useless, she thought. However high-minded and principled I’m being, I become soft and giddy when he touches me. I wish we could go upstairs right now. I wish we were both naked. She took a deep breath and pulled herself together. This is not the time. This is my engagement party. I’m going to have the best wedding anyone’s ever had. I’m happy. I wish this moment could last.
*
The royal wedding had been thoroughly discussed, and Camilla’s dress at the Blessing pronounced both elegant and flattering.
‘And a gorgeous colour,’ Maureen added, ‘though I wonder whether it-wasn’t perhaps a little tactless of the Queen to dress in cream, when she must have known, mustn’t she, what her new daughter-in-law was going to wear to the register office? And,’ she went on, ‘didn’t you just adore those blossoming trees in St. George’s Chapel? If you two got married in the spring, Zannah, you could copy that idea, couldn’t you? I thought it looked wonderful.’
‘We’ve set the date, Mum,’ said Adrian, smiling at his mother. ‘Too late for blossom! You’ll have to have some other bright idea. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.’
Charlotte caught the look that Zannah sent in her fiancé’s direction and smiled to herself. Adrian was tucking in to his food and missed it entirely but she’d have bet good money on her great-niece putting him straight as soon as she could. Zannah wasn’t someone who’d allow Maureen to decide on the floral arrangements for the wedding, wherever it took place. We haven’t even begun to discuss the venue, Charlotte was thinking, when the doorbell rang.
‘That must be my husband,’ Maureen announced. ‘Better late than never!’
She’d had a couple of glasses of wine and was smiling a great deal, Charlotte noticed.
‘I’ll go,’ she said. She pushed back her chair, and put her napkin near the plate that now held no more than a few crumbs of pastry from the really rather good tarte au citron. She hurried across the hall to the front door and opened it. Standing on the doorstep was a tall, thin man with wavy, browny-grey hair flopping over his forehead and a smile that, with the hair and his horn-rimmed glasses, made him look boyish.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m Graham Ashton. I expect you’ve all finished lunch ages ago. My apologies.’
He took the glasses off and put them away and Charlotte saw that his brown eyes were flecked with green.
‘Do come in, Dr Ashton. It’s quite all right, really. We’ve kept you some food, of course. I’m Charlotte Parrish, Suzannah’s great-aunt.’
‘It’s good to meet you.’
Charlotte said, ‘We’re all in here,’ and smiled over her shoulder at him as she led him into the dining room.
‘Darling, at last,’ said Maureen, wiggling her fingers in her husband’s direction, sketching out a sort of wave and at the same time calling him to her side. ‘Where on earth have you been? This is my husband, everyone, Graham Ashton.’
Bob, whose chair was nearest to the door, rose to his feet and extended a hand.
‘Very glad to meet you. Do come and sit down. We’ve left room, and I’m sure there’s some food. You know Zannah, of course, and this is my wife, Jocelyn. Joss.’
Charlotte saw what happened next, and yet, later on, when she told Edie and Val about it, and then lay in bed going over the events of the day, she was at a loss to understand the way one thing led to another. Joss’s face: that was what she noticed first. She’d turned quite white, and both her hands were up in front of her mouth. She stood up and muttered something. I must go. I can’t. Charlotte hadn’t quite caught the words.
‘Joss?’ That was Bob.
‘Ma? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’ Zannah and Em, getting up and moving towards their mother.
Isis sat quite still and stared. Maureen clutched Adrian’s sleeve. Graham Ashton remained near the door as though he was never going to move again. He, too, was staring as though he’d seen a ghost. Joss got up from her chair. The French window was open behind her and she ran out on to the terrace and sat down on the top step of the flight leading down to the lawn. Bob moved quickly to follow her, indicating to Zannah and Em that he was in charge; had the situation under control.
Around the table, everyone hovered, uncertain what to do next. Charlotte could see that if she didn’t say something, if she didn’t restore order, everything she’d wanted this day to be was in danger of disintegrating. She said, with a great deal more confidence than she felt, ‘Please sit down, Dr Ashton. And everyone … I’m sure we’ll be back to normal in a minute. Let me get the coffee. Bob will take care of Joss. Don’t worry.’
No one spoke. Maureen whispered to her husband, who had moved stiffly to sit beside her, looking trapped and uncomfortable. Zannah and Em, you could see, were longing to go and find out what was wrong with their mother. Isis said, ‘Is Grandma ill?’ and Charlotte, glad of the distraction, had answered, ‘I’m not sure, dear. Just sit still and finish your tart.’
Then Joss came into the dining room again. Bob stood next to her, with one hand on her elbow. She said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, everyone. I have to go home. I … have a migraine. I must go. Charlotte, thank you so much for everything … I … ’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go upstairs and lie down, Joss?’ Charlotte said.
‘Or I could take you home to the flat,’ said Zannah. ‘You could rest there.’
‘No, really, I can’t. I couldn’t. Thank you, but I have to leave now. I can’t … I want to go home. Now, please. At once. I can’t tell you how sorry … how sad … ’
Her eyes filled with tears and she seemed to be having some difficulty breathing. She was still white, but now two red patches had appeared on her cheeks. Bob put an arm around her and led her out of the room. Charlotte followed them to the front door, and watched as they stumbled down the drive. As soon as the car door slammed behind her, Joss collapsed against the seat and threw her arm over her face, as though she wanted to hide, or not to see, or both. Charlotte waited till the car turned out of the gate and then she made her way slowly inside again. Joss had hardly ever had even a mild headache as far as she knew. The migraine was a lie. Why, Charlotte wondered, did she feel she had to run away? Because that was what she’d done. What could possibly have happened to make her flee her own daughter’s engagement party? It wasn’t a what, she realized, but a who. Joss had been fine till Graham Ashton appeared. She’d been better than fine. Her distress must have something to do with him. I’ll ask her, Charlotte decided, when she’s feeling better. I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation. She went back to the dining room, ready to make light of the whole thing: ready to corroborate the migraine story Joss had produced. She had never suffered from migraines as a child, but must have had a good reason for lying. Charlotte wondered what that could possibly be.
*
Joss was aware of Bob being aware of her, even though he was supposed to be concentrating on the road. She hadn’t opened her eyes since she got into the car and was determined not to speak or move till they reached home. I don’t care if he’s worried, she thought. I’ll pretend to be sleeping. She heard his words as though he were speaking from a very long way away, instead of from right beside her, as though her ears were full of a thick mist.
‘Jossie, darling.’ Years and years since he’d called her that. It made her feel queasy. ‘Don’t worry about anything. You’re tired. We’ll talk later. You sleep.’
He was so kind, so loving, that she felt as though something inside her was being wrenched apart. Now, now would be such a good time to stop everything: to say, There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine. I don’t know what happened back there and end all the speculation that must, she knew, be preoccupying Zannah, Emily and Charlotte, and probably Maureen and Adrian too. Whatever was
the matter with that woman? she imagined Maureen asking her husband and could visualize her expression as she spoke: a combination of curiosity, distaste and an undercurrent of glee at the sight of someone else making a faux pas, putting a social foot spectacularly wrong. Maureen’s husband. Gray. My Gray. More than any other feeling – more than embarrassment, or shame, or sorrow at wrecking her own daughter’s engagement party – was the anguish she felt at his betrayal. He’d lied to her.
Almost as soon as they met, the strange rules that were to govern their dealings with one another had been set out. Other people embarking on a relationship of any kind wouldn’t have hedged it about with such conditions, Joss knew that. And yet for her it was part of the magic, part of the separateness of her feelings for Gray from anything else in her life. She remembered the night she had met him, at Fairford Hall. She’d decided, even before she went on her first course there, that day-to-day Joss would be left behind and Lydia Quentin the poet would expand and grow for once. She’d decided that, apart from the very basic information, married, with children, etc., she wouldn’t tell anyone the details of her life. As it turned out, Gray was the first person to take an interest, to ask her about herself.
After dinner on the first night, a group of them had sat round the fire. Outside, November frost had iced the grass. They’d drunk a couple of bottles of wine between them, laughed and exchanged gossip and opinions. Then, one by one, the others had gone to bed. A single lamp shed a yellowish light and filled every corner with black shadows. The flames had died into a cluster of embers, which glowed faintly pink. She was on the sofa, and Gray was sitting across from her on a low armchair. When they found themselves alone, he came and sat beside her, closing the distance between them, and Joss could still remember the tremor that ran through her as she looked at him. His thin face was half in darkness. She noticed his long eyelashes, how white and slender his hands were, and that the hair falling on to his forehead was glossy and dark and scarcely touched with grey.
‘Tell me something about yourself,’ he said.
‘I don’t do that,’ she’d answered. ‘I’m anonymous, when I’m here. I like being … well, not myself in some way. Lydia Quentin isn’t my name.’
‘But I like it. I’m afraid Graham Ashton is my name.’
What had made her say what she’d said next? Sitting so close to him on the sofa? The knowledge that he liked her? Admired her? The daring conferred by not being Joss Gratrix but someone freer, braver, more forward in every way? Anyway, she’d said it: ‘I’m going to call you Gray. That suits you much better than Graham.’
It was hard to see in the dim light but Joss thought he blushed when she told him that. He said, ‘Right. No one’s called me that before. And it’s a good word, isn’t it? Gray. All sorts of associations and a colour I like as well. It can be yours alone.’ He bent his head, and Joss could see that he, too, was embarrassed. He went on, ‘What I mean is: I won’t let anyone else call me that.’
A silence fell then. He broke it. ‘Are you married?’
‘Yes, I am. I’m fifty years old. I’ve got two daughters. I’m a librarian. I live up north.’
‘Tell me their names. I want to know about you.’
Joss could still remember how vehemently she’d shaken her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, Gray. I’m not going to say anything. I can’t. This … ’ she gestured to include the whole room, indicating Fairford Hall, everything it stood for, ‘this place is far away from my daily life and I want to keep it separate. I’m so sorry.’
He said, ‘No need to apologize, as long as … ’
‘As long as what?’
‘As long as the important things about you aren’t part of what you call your daily life.’
‘Oh, they aren’t,’ Joss said. The wine had made her feel light-headed, reckless. ‘They really aren’t. This, the way I am here, that’s the real me, I promise. My thoughts, my dreams, my ambitions, my opinions, the whole of my childhood, my memories, my work … everything. I’m happy to … ’ Her courage failed her then. She had to pause to get her breath back before going on. ‘Happy to share all those,’ she said finally, almost whispering out of embarrassment at what she’d just done. What had possessed her? Why did she think this handsome man might be interested in – had she truly said it? How toe-curlingly awful! – her childhood memories?
She began to stand up, confused and wanting suddenly to go, to be in her room and away from his disturbing presence. He took her left hand and held it between both of his. Joss found herself sitting down again, every nerve-end charged with a kind of electricity, wondering what would happen next. The silence was unbearable. She turned to Gray and asked: ‘What about you? Are you married?’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m going to do what you’re doing and keep my real life out of this as well. I’m fifty-one. I live in the south. I work in a hospital. That’s it. We’re going to be friends, aren’t we? Tell one another everything?’
‘Except the facts of our lives,’ Joss answered.
‘Facts! Who needs them?’ Gray said, and smiled at her so fondly, so lovingly that she felt an odd, liquefying sensation in her stomach. She stood up then, needing to be alone.
‘I don’t,’ she said. Then, sounding much too brisk and schoolmarmish to herself, she added, ‘I’m off to bed. See you tomorrow.’
‘Good night,’ he said, and she felt his eyes on her back as she left the room.
The sound of the car’s engine brought her back to the present. She half opened her eyes, glanced at Bob’s profile without moving her head and decided to keep on pretending to sleep. She couldn’t think of anything except Gray.
He’d lied to her. He’d deceived her from the start, from that first night. All through the time they’d known one another, he’d never said a single word about a wife or a son. He was single. He’d said as much. Perhaps she should have been more sceptical, asked more questions. Perhaps she ought to have wondered how a man as attractive as Gray had escaped marriage. I didn’t want to look into it too closely, she told herself. His being single was the one thing that kept me going. She realized it now: she’d relied on the knowledge that should she ever dare to go to him, or need to run away and find him, he’d be there for her. He would be waiting and wanting nothing but her. How many times had he said so? Words he had written over and over again came back to her. You’re the only one. There’s no one else. My only only love. For ever. God, how stupid she’d been. Now, her heart was breaking. She fancied she could feel it literally splintering into fragments, just there, under her ribcage, but for the moment everything else was obliterated by the force of a rage of such intensity that she was breathless. She could deal with the pain later on, and there’d be plenty of time to do that, because she had no reason to suppose it would ever stop. Her life, all the various strands of it that she’d managed to keep nicely separated, had come to resemble a mass of knotted threads, like the contents of an old tapestry bag that hadn’t been touched for years. I wish I could cry, she thought, as she listened to the deafening shriek of her husband, her poor Bob, not speaking to her. Not asking her for an explanation. What was she going to tell him? She couldn’t maintain silence for ever.
*
‘You heard what Charlotte said. How she used to have migraines when she was a kid.’ Zannah was lying on the sofa, still wearing what she’d worn at lunch.
‘Then why,’ said Emily, who’d changed into jeans and a sweatshirt the second they’d got home, ‘haven’t we ever seen her having one? Don’t migraines keep happening over and over?’
‘Well, what else could it have been? Ma’d rather die than make a fuss. It must be true.’
‘It’d help if she answered her mobile. They must be home by now, surely. Even stopping off on the way up there.’ Emily stood by the window, looking out at the London roofscape. Zannah knew her sister didn’t think much of the view, even though if you leaned out far enough you got a glimpse of Highgate Wood. Emily didn’t think things were
beautiful unless they were deserts or mountains or countryside. And she’d picked up a love of anything ancient from Pa.
They were very lucky to be living in this flat. It belonged to one of their father’s colleagues, Dr Farraday, who’d bought it more than thirty years ago. He’d arranged to let Zannah rent it after her divorce for a nominal sum while he lived in a whitewashed cottage on a Greek island, enjoying his early retirement. It was much larger than the usual London cubbyhole: an enormous four-bedroomed apartment on two levels in a converted Victorian townhouse. When Emily arrived in London, shortly after Zannah’s divorce, she had moved in to keep her sister company, and each was glad the other was there, even though they occasionally disagreed about how the place was run.
‘Slut and control freak living together,’ Emily used to say. ‘Bound to be a problem.’
Zannah knew that Em was far from a slut and she certainly didn’t think of herself as a control freak but basically that was the way it was: Em was messy and she was tidy and between them they were just right.
But she doesn’t realize, Zannah thought, that I mean it when I say I like what I see out of that window, especially at night. Twilight had washed the sky in mauve and apricot and the edges of the buildings across the road were sharp and black against the pale background. It looked like the paper cutouts she’d helped Year Six to make before half-term: silhouettes of houses and people and animals that she’d spent ages sticking on to a background of orange paper to make a mural for the classroom.
Isis was kneeling beside the coffee table in her pyjamas, drawing on bits of rough paper with her felt tips, and keeping very quiet so as not to draw attention to her presence in case she was told she had to go to bed. She wasn’t interested in what was outside the window, but had covered her paper with more and more elaborate dresses of the bridal variety. Let her stay there, Zannah thought. I’m too worried about Ma to think about bedtime. And it’s Sunday tomorrow. No school and none the next day either or for a whole week. Lovely, lovely half-term.