‘What Sonia? Enough of what? We only want the best for you. Me, Harry, Kit.’
‘You discussed my libido with Harry?’
‘No, just the insomnia, mainly.’
‘This insomnia. Where did Harry get that idea?’
Greg has gone out of the kitchen door. He pulls a scarf off the hall stand and wraps it around his neck.
‘Greg, I want to know. What’s he talking about?’
‘He says he saw you wondering around at night. That you’d been out for a walk. He met you here, in the hall . . .’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. What business it is of his if I need a little fresh air at night? But, since you mention it, I have been having trouble sleeping. I could do with something to help.’
‘If it means you’re less touchy . . .’ He whips his prescription pad out of his pocket, scribbles on it and hands it to me. Then he mutters, ‘It’s no wonder Kit wants to get back to Newcastle. That she doesn’t like coming home any more.’
Using Kit is underhand. He knows how to get right under my skin. He turns his back to me as he pulls on his coat, his gloves.
‘Kit doesn’t like coming home when we argue all the time,’ I say to his back. ‘Just let me be. Stop haranguing me about moving.’
‘She doesn’t like it that you seem so on edge. And she hates living here.’
‘She’s left home, anyway, Greg. And if it’s just you and me, well . . .’
‘Well what?’ He turns and stares at me, his eyebrows raised in query.
‘Nothing.’
I don’t want to go down the route that will inevitably lead to the talk of separating. In spite of everything, I want us to stay together. For Kit, mainly, but also because on a certain level it works. Greg knows this. I’m a good wife to him. I give him freedom but make a warm home to come back to. And he’s a provider, and a loving father to Kit. We are an old-fashioned marriage, coupled together for more pragmatic reasons than love. It’s a conclusion we came to that time after the silent holiday in Spain when we almost split up. I thank him coldly for dealing with the window bars, and suggest that if he’s going to sort it out, he should get on with it. The shops will be shutting soon.
‘I’m going,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry,’ and he bangs the door as he leaves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday
Sonia
I pick up my prescription at the chemist and go to Bullfrog in Greenwich to choose Jez’s clothes. It seems like his kind of place – urban, trendy. Though I know it’s hard to get these things right. Kit would often berate me for completely misunderstanding her taste at Jez’s age. I bundle the new jeans, T-shirts and hoodie into my shopper.
‘For my nephew,’ I feel compelled to tell the woman at the cash register. ‘I hope they fit.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Sixteen.’
I wish I hadn’t said anything. She wants to check the sizes for me, but I don’t really want her opinion. I didn’t mean to start a whole conversation. She starts to talk about refunds and credit notes but I tell her brusquely that I’m fine. I feel that she gives me a look as I hurry out of the shop.
Impressively, Greg has already managed to employ the services of the locksmiths, and is supervising them in the living room when I get back. They are drilling at the windows, installing bars and replacing the locks. One of the benefits of a recession, I suppose, is that people are glad of work. If you offer them enough money, as I’m sure Greg did, they’ll do anything for you straight away and without hesitation.
‘There are two messages for you,’ Greg says, coming into the kitchen, The Times under his arm.
‘You failed to visit your mother this morning and it sounds like you’d better steel yourself for the repercussions. And there’s a garbled voicemail from Helen. She sounds pissed.’
I fling my coat over the shopper containing Jez’s clothes, ignore the workmen in the living room and go to the answer-phone. My mother’s voice is curt, full of reproach. She may be forgetful in some areas of her life, but when it comes to my visits she’s got a memory as sharp as a child’s. My Saturday visit has been programmed in and my failure to turn up will be held against me. I’ll have to spend longer with her than I usually do. I’ll take her extra gin, flowers, and cheeses. Whatever she might imagine, I don’t like adding to her misery when she already spends so much time alone. And I cannot take her disapproval. No matter how hard I find it to gain Mother’s affections, I never stop trying.
On the phone I apologize and promise I’ll go tomorrow. Then I press the ‘next’ button and listen to Helen’s slurred voice.
‘It was lovely to see you yesterday, darling. Can we meet again soon? Any chance of coming to the Pavilion, tomorrow morning about eleven? Let me know, I need to tell you the next instalment of this nightmare. Please come.’
Before long, there are bars at all the windows, better locks on both doors, and a new padlock on the door in the wall.
‘No one can get in now, Sonia,’ Greg says, happily, when the locksmiths have gone. And presumably no one without a special set of keys can get out either, I think. Greg informs me he’s going to the pub this evening to meet a few old mates, the ones he used to play guitar with in the old days. So I’m free to go back to the garage.
Jez looks up as I lock the door behind me. He complains of feeling achy.
‘Do you feel like eating?’
‘Not much.’ His voice is hoarse and weak.
I put my hand on his forehead. I don’t think he’s running a fever, but he feels a little clammy and says he has a sore throat. I don’t much like the sound of this.
‘I’m nipping home for a few bits,’ I tell him. I rush down the alley to the River House, heat up a tin of tomato soup, pour it into a flask. Then I put a carton of orange juice and some paracetamol in a basket and fill a hot-water bottle.
‘Did you get me that dope?’ He’s shivering.
‘Like I told you earlier, I’m on the case,’ I say. ‘Though smoking isn’t a good idea if you’re feeling unwell. And on top of . . . Oh, never mind. But, look, let’s get you into these new clothes. And here’s some fruit juice. It’ll do you good.’
I help him change his clothes, then I tuck the hot-water bottle under the covers, place his bowl of soup on the old tea chest by the bed and plump up his pillows.
‘Greg’s booked a flight for tomorrow afternoon,’ I tell him. ‘So you’ll be out of here tomorrow. That’s a promise.’
He glances up at me, searches my face for some time, then drops his cheek back onto the pillow. I can hear the breath whistle as it fights its way in and out of his lungs. I remember him saying his mother had moved partly because of his asthma.
‘Jez, come on. You need to keep your strength up. Eat some soup.’
‘I’m not feeling great,’ he says. ‘I may need a doctor, Sonia.’
‘You don’t need a doctor!’ I say, more sharply than I mean to. ‘Doctors don’t help when you feel like this. I should know. Greg’s a doctor. He’s useless when anyone’s ill.’
I hold out my hand, two white round pills in the palm, and offer him the glass of water.
‘How do I know those aren’t some other drug?’ he asks.
‘You can look at them. They’ve got paracetamol etched into them. Why don’t you trust me? I don’t understand it. What’s going on in your mind?’
He doesn’t answer this, but lifts his head, lets me place a pill on his tongue. He takes a slug of water.
‘I can’t get warm,’ he says, lying down again. I see that he’s trembling despite the new hoodie I’ve helped him into, the hot-water bottle and the three duvets I’ve piled over him.
‘Tomorrow, I promise we can start again. I’m not going to gag you any more. Show me I can trust you. Then we can take the duct tape off your arms and legs too.’
I stand up. Move towards the door.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he says, suddenly. ‘Stay and talk to me.’
I tur
n and look at him. He’s shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. There’s a bewildered look in his eyes. Like a child who doesn’t want their mother to go. This fills me with unbearable tenderness.
‘What do you want me to talk about?’
‘Anything. You could talk about Greg. You said he’s home. How did you meet? An actress and a doctor?’
‘I wouldn’t call myself an actress any more.’
‘Helen says you are.’
‘Does she?’
‘Yeah.’
I sit down on his bed. Look to see if he’s really that interested. He’s got his eyes closed, a shallow childish frown line on his forehead. So I start to speak. I’ve never spoken about my marriage in detail to anyone before. I have the sudden urge to tell him everything, while he’s acquiescent.
‘Greg was the professor of my college. I was never cut out to study medicine but it was what my father decided I had to do and I was so frightened of him, I didn’t dare refuse. I’d been to Greg’s lecture. Anatomy or something. I only went for something to do. But Jez, you don’t want to hear this.’
‘No, I do. Honest.’
‘Greg was an older man, already turning silver at the temples. I was a little in awe of him. Though I didn’t know him then of course.’
I stop. I don’t want to give Jez the impression that my relationship with my husband is, or ever was, a happy one.
‘Is Greg really clever?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, he is.’
I want to add that being clever does not make him kind or gentle company, does not make him a man of compassion, though I may have thought the two went hand in hand at one time.
‘He doesn’t know about me?’
‘No.’
‘I sometimes look at old people and think I wouldn’t mind being like that,’ Jez murmurs. ‘Not all older people are dull. Like you, Sonia. You’re not dull.’
I glance at him wondering what’s behind these words. But his face gives nothing away, so I continue.
‘Greg told me he would help with the exam marks I was worrying about, to leave it to him, but that I had to go for dinner with him. I was so naïve! No student would let a lecturer do that to them now. I was flattered. But not just flattered. Relieved too. It meant I’d get good marks and escape my father’s wrath. Of course I thought it just required dinner, being a good companion for one evening. But the reality was, the minute Greg got me alone, he . . . well, you can imagine. I was trapped – if I rejected him I might fail my exams. I’d have to face my father and that was a prospect more terrifying to me than sleeping with Greg against my will. So, before I knew it, we were . . . well, we were going to bed together.’ I pause here, wondering whether to explain to Jez how little going to bed with someone can mean. ‘Lo and behold, at the end of my first year I got the highest marks of my year group. I didn’t really question it. Was just pleased I’d found a way to achieve my father’s approval. Though ironically I never actually did receive it.’
It’s odd explaining this out loud, as if I’m piecing it all together in my mind for the first time. Finding links I’d not been fully conscious of before.
‘After my second year, in spite of my soaring marks, or perhaps because of them, I found the courage to tell Greg I wanted to switch to drama college. I thought he’d object, but he encouraged me.’
‘What about your father?’
‘What about him?’
‘Wasn’t he angry that you didn’t keep up with the medical training?’
I look at Jez. I don’t know why he wants this conversation. But it’s just what I’ve always needed, to explain my marriage. To justify it. I’ve often imagined I’d tell Seb this story if he ever came back.
‘My father was dead by then,’ I say quietly. ‘I never saw him after those first-year exams.’
‘He died young, then?’
‘It was suicide.’
‘Oh. God. ’
‘It’s OK, Jez. It was long ago.’
‘But – why, why did he do that?’
‘I couldn’t make things better by passing exams.’ Stupidly, I feel a tear spring to my eye and wipe it away with the back of my hand.
There’s more I could say. A lot more. But there are places I daren’t go, either for my own good or Jez’s. I’m not strong enough to think about them, let alone say them, and I don’t want to put Jez through my own pain. Then he speaks and I’m pleased and relieved that he’s decided to open up to me, so I am able to stay silent.
‘My mum’s divorced from my dad.’ His voice is hoarse. ‘They fucked up big time. It’s pathetic the way they rowed. I only live with my mum because I feel sorry for her. My dad’s got someone new. But out of choice, I’d rather live with Dad.’
‘Why?’
‘My mum never lets up. Sounds a bit like your dad. I have to do this, take that, practise the other. When she found out I was dyslexic she went and bawled out the teachers as if it was their fault. I was so embarrassed. My dad’s got this new wife, she’s Moroccan, a teacher down in Marseilles, and they’ve got a little girl, my stepsister. I like staying there. But it’s unfair on my mum.’
I gaze at him. When I called him conscientious the other day it was an understatement.
‘It’s sweet of you to care for your mother so much,’ is all I can say.
‘I don’t get why my dad had to leave her.’
‘The thing is, Jez, what you might not realize, is that marriage is often more a question of who you meet at the right time, than of falling for the person of your dreams. It’s a question of circumstance. Sometimes those circumstances change and you find you’re left living with someone you no longer care for.’
‘That’s crap,’ he says. ‘I’d never marry someone just because it was time.’
‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘Nah! No way.’
‘What about this Alicia?’
He shrugs.
I see I’ve embarrassed him, probed a bit too close. He’s sensitive. Still such a young boy.
‘I’m not going to mess up like my parents.’
It’s tempting to take a wise mature woman role at this point and say we all think that when we’re young, but Jez does not want to hear this. He thinks, as all young people do, that he won’t make the same mistakes his parents have done.
‘You know when you’re a child,’ I say, ‘and you realize the colour blue may be different to what other people see?’
‘What, like you think it’s blue but maybe someone else sees a colour you never even dreamed of? I’ve thought that.’ He’s talking but not looking at me. His eyes are still shut. He’s enjoying our closeness, but he’s afraid of enjoying it. I understand perfectly.
‘Well, it’s like that with relationships. What one person perceives may be an entirely different thing to the other person. How can you know that? You both assume you’re looking at the same blue and that you’ll be working in parallel, with the same aims and shared values. Maybe your mum and dad thought they’d met someone who saw the same blue,’ I say.
‘They’re adults. They should try a bit harder. Other people manage to stay together. Helen and Mick. You and your husband.’ He gives me an odd look as he says this.
Dare I admit that my relationship with Greg has been a mistake too? That we only stay together for practical reasons? But Jez seems to want to believe that we are, on some level, happily married, so I say nothing. He looks a little better. There’s a faint flush in his cheeks and his breath is flowing more easily. He’s so close, I put out my hand, lift a lock of his hair, move my mouth towards his ear. He jerks his head so violently away from me, I feel hurt and ashamed.
I stand up and go to the door.
‘Night Jez,’ I say.
‘Don’t go!’ he says. ‘Please. Don’t leave me again. I’m sorry about that.’
‘I’m sorry too. But I’m going now. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.’
‘Let me come outside with you.’
I look at him gently. He must realize how much I’d love him to come with me, sit at the table as he did when he arrived on Friday, while I prepare dinner for us both.
‘Have a good night. Try to sleep. I’ll be back in the morning.’
‘Sonia, no,’ he croaks as I reach the door. ‘Please don’t leave me here alone for another night. I’m cold and it’s scary here. And I’m not well. Please.’
But I ignore his pleading, and force myself to walk away from him, out into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sunday
Sonia
At eleven o’clock the next morning I’m settled with a cappuccino at a table on the terrace at the Pavilion Tea Rooms, as they’ve renamed what was once a simple park café. Tiny shoots are just appearing in some of the flower beds around the terrace, but there’s a cold wind. The bare tops of the trees claw at dark scudding clouds.
Helen arrives a few minutes later, like an unseasonal butterfly on this raw day, wrapped in a gorgeous cerise scarf and matching hat, and swathed in a blue-green wool jacket with a hood. Unlike me she is partial to a broad pallet of colour in her wardrobe. It suits her. She kisses me on both cheeks and stares at my coffee.
‘You don’t fancy a drink?’ she says.
‘It’s a bit early for me, Helen,’ I say. ‘But you go ahead if it’s what you feel like.’
I wonder if a better friend would advise against drinking wine at this time in the morning. Might try to persuade her pal to take it easy. But there are two reasons I don’t. The first is that I detest moralizing. After all, who am I to judge another’s vulnerability? Who is anyone? Don’t we all have our weak spots? Isn’t every one of us subject to a failing of one sort or another? Shouldn’t we allow for each others’ weaknesses in order to live with and accept our own?
The other reason is that it is to my advantage to have Helen drunk. It means she becomes looser with her tongue. I can store what she tells me without her noticing my curiosity. So when she suggests wine, I offer to go and get her a glass, a bottle even, if she prefers, and she thanks me and says they do half-bottles and she’ll compromise and have one of those.
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