by Jo Verity
She laughed. ‘I’ve been gone all of half an hour.’
‘That’s as maybe but each time I see you, you’re even more beautiful. I love you so much it makes my heart ache. D’you know what? If the world were to stop this minute, that’d be fine with me.’
‘Don’t say things like that,’ she said. ‘You’re scaring me.’
After they’d eaten, they took coffee and brandy into the living room. While he tended the fire, she studied him. How handsome – ageless – he looked in his white shirt and jeans. He was whistling. In the candlelight, his grey hair might be taken for blond, and he the twenty-year-old Bing she’d lost.
They flicked through the TV channels, pausing to watch snatches of things they’d seen before, eventually switching off and salvaging the half-finished crossword from yesterday’s paper. The brandy had left them pleasantly slow-witted and they made no progress but it was enough to be together on the sofa watching the flickering coals, thoughts in free fall.
‘I’ll sort out a drink,’ he said as midnight drew near. ‘Don’t go away.’
She plumped the cushions and snuggled down. Whatever Bente might think, there was a ‘right person’. And if there were seven million people on the planet, she couldn’t imagine Bente making a mistake, odds were that a handful would, at this very moment, be re-connecting with their soulmate.
Bing returned and set a bottle of champagne and two glasses on the coffee table. She patted the sofa but he remained standing, fiddling around with the fire irons.
‘I’ve been mulling something over,’ he said.
‘Am I going to like it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and held it out for her to see. On the front was written ‘A Brief History of Miriam’. She’d thought it rather witty but before she had time to comment, he turned it over. It was still sealed.
‘You haven’t read it?’ she said.
‘I get why you wanted us to do this,’ he said, ‘but I’ve decided I don’t want to know about you and Siskin. I’m only interested in us.’
With that, he leaned forward and tossed the envelope onto the coals and they watched it scorch, curl and catch fire, burnt shards of paper rising and floating above the coals like black feathers.
Flopping down beside her, he spread his arms across the back of the sofa and let out a sigh. ‘That’s better.’
She waited, anticipating the question that would follow, knowing there was no ducking it.
‘Have you read mine?’ he said.
‘No, I haven’t.’ She pictured his envelope, tucked at the back of a drawer in the spare room. ‘I’m not even sure where it is. I have loads of stuff still waiting to be sorted.’
The fib – the lie – had popped out. So far, she’d felt no temptation to delve into details of his life with Eloise and whatever else he’d chosen to write. In all likelihood she never would. All the same, she wasn’t going to be pressured into emulating his dramatic gesture. His history could stay where it was for the time being.
They toasted the coming year with champagne and kisses, intertwined on the sofa, listening to the whoosh and crackle of fireworks in neighbouring gardens. They lingered in the fire glow finally hauling themselves up the stairs when the embers had turned grey.
When she came out of the bathroom, he nodded towards her phone which was lying on the chest of drawers. ‘It was pinging. Anything important?’
A glance at the screen showed that Frankie and Moat had sent texts. ‘The usual New Year stuff,’ she said.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her. ‘So who’s this Moat?’ he said.
Her stomach flipped. He’d checked her phone. That wasn’t on. In fact it was completely unacceptable. But making a big thing of his invading her privacy would invite too many questions. ‘Moat? I’m sure I’ve told you about him. He’s a painter. Pictures not walls.’ Stop there. ‘He used to come in to the college occasionally. To talk to the students.’ Leave it. ‘He’s quite well-known.’
He nodded and she thought they were done with it. But she was mistaken. ‘Why would he be texting you?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m included in one of those group message thingies.’
She scanned the text. May the coming year exceed your expectations. Moat. Her explanation might have been plausible were it not for his postscript. Don’t forget, if you should change your mind…
‘Tsk. He must have sent it to the wrong person,’ she said. ‘I imagine everyone’s a bit tipsy tonight.’
Slipping off her nightdress, she kneeled on the bed and rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘I do love you, Paul Crosby. You know that, don’t you?’
Part IV
Miriam sat on the stairs ready to greet any late arrivals, making the most of the barely perceptible updraft. The party was well underway and she was contemplating abandoning her post and escaping to her room when the doorbell rang.
A man – dark hair, mid-twenties – stood on the step. ‘Edlin residence?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Taxi for Siskin.’
Crisp white shirt, silk tie. He looked nothing like the taxi drivers she was used to seeing and her misgiving must have been evident.
‘Well, not exactly a taxi,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to pick up my parents.’ He held out his hand. ‘Sam.’
‘Miriam,’ she said. ‘Have we met?’
‘Afraid not.’ He smiled, revealing white, regular teeth. A man not a boy. ‘If we had, I’d surely have remembered.’ He was looking at her with unmistakable admiration and she blushed, flummoxed by this stranger’s openness.
Her father chose that moment to emerge from the living room. ‘Sam, my boy. Come in and join the party. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.’ He inclined his head towards the kitchen door. ‘I’m on ice duty. Mim, why don’t you find our guest something to drink?’
‘I’ve a better idea, Dad,’ she said, ‘why don’t I get the ice and you look after Mr Siskin?’
He laughed as if she’d suggested something preposterous. ‘You’d rather talk to a pretty girl, wouldn’t you, Sam?’
Without waiting for an answer, he pottered off, leaving her no option but to lead Sam Siskin through to the dining room and the remains of the buffet lunch.
‘D’you know my father well?’ she said.
‘We’ve met a few times. He called at the house last week, actually. Some business he and my dad were doing.’
‘Business?’ She frowned. ‘He’s never mentioned you.’
It was Sam’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been working in Amsterdam.’
Now she was supposed to ask what he’d been doing in Amsterdam, and why he’d returned, but she was damned if she’d participate in what was her father’s blatant attempt at matchmaking.
‘Twenty-five years,’ he said, pointing at the cake, pristine amongst plates of curling sandwiches and crumpled napkins. ‘That’s quite an achievement.’
‘Not really. Once you’ve made your bed, you must lie in it. That’s the Edlin motto.’ This explanation of her parents’ stoic and incomprehensible union hadn’t crossed her mind until now but it made depressing sense.
‘I’m not saying they don’t love each other,’ she said, relenting slightly. ‘What I’m saying is, even if they didn’t, they’d rather soldier on than admit it.’
He nodded, an indulgent smile playing across his face, and she wanted to throw the wretched cake at his head.
‘Help yourself to a drink,’ she said, ‘unless you’re in a rush to get away.’
Ignoring the dig, he poured a glass of lemonade. ‘Aren’t you having anything?’
‘I’ve got things to do,’ she said.
Every window in the house was open yet her bedroom, tucked beneath the eaves, was stifling. A mishmash of party food and the sweet sherry Aunt Bea had forced on her had coagulated in her stomach and she was feeling queasy. Taking a book from her pile of vacation reading, sh
e flopped on the bed. But whichever way she turned, however many times she flipped the pillow, she couldn’t get cool or comfortable. Even Gatsby was unable to take her mind off the heat, the twinges in her stomach and her quarrel with Bing.
It had started when he’d got hold of Terry Garner’s picture postcard. ‘Who’s this from?’ he’d said, waving it in front of her. ‘Nobody. He’s in my year,’ she’d said. ‘So why’s he sending you “love and kisses”?’ ‘Don’t be silly. It’s a figure of speech. And who gave you permission to read my mail?’ Like a snowball rolling down a mountain, their bickering had gathered momentum, until finally it careered out of control. That was three days ago and they hadn’t spoken since. He’d better get his act together soon because next week he was off on some stupid family holiday.
The discomfort in her stomach intensified to a griping ache and, easing herself off the bed, she made for the bathroom. Perched on the edge of the bath, she rested her forehead on the cool porcelain of the hand basin. A shiver raised goosebumps on her arms and, dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around the lavatory bowl, bracing herself as she began to heave, each convulsion stronger than the last. She gagged a few times, sweat gathering at the nape of her neck. And then she was sick. But it wasn’t over yet and she stayed there until she’d gone through the loathsome business twice more. When there was nothing left to come, she got to her feet, sweat cold on her back.
‘Miriam?’ Her mother was at the door.
‘I’m on the loo.’
‘Well don’t be too long. Your father wants to cut the cake.’
But what do you want, Mum?
She flushed the lavatory, rinsed her mouth and gargled. She cleaned her teeth and sluiced her face with cold water. When she checked the mirror, her face was pale, her eyes dark-ringed. Brushing back her hair, she caught it in a rubber band, giving an extra tug to ensure it was as straight as it could be. Back in her room, she shucked off her damp, rumpled dress and slipped into shorts and a cotton shirt. She felt lightheaded and her throat burned but she felt much, much better. Laughter filtered in through the open fanlight; someone was playing the piano. ‘Some Enchanted Evening’, her mother’s favourite.
Poor Mum. Miriam had written to Danny begging him to come home for the party, saying how much it would mean to them – and her. He’d replied with a vague and selfish ‘things are up in the air here’. At least he hadn’t given a definite ‘no’. But, as the days rolled by, she’d lost hope. Once again it fell to her to carry the weight of his absence.
The cake had been relocated to the coffee table in the living room and her parents were standing guard alongside it, looking proud yet self-conscious.
‘Here she is,’ her father said.
Heads turned towards her and she blushed as someone she didn’t recognise took a photograph. She must have looked about twelve years old with her ponytail and shorts. Her father beckoned her to join them. From his off-centre smile she could tell that he was tipsy and when the three linked arms, they were almost a family again. Her parents joined hands and cut the cake, the knife blade fracturing the icing like the prow of an ice-breaker forging through the Arctic floe. A cheer went up and cries of ‘speech, speech’. Her father had spent several evenings at his desk preparing a speech but when the moment came, overcome with the occasion, all that came out were sentimental remarks and incoherent jokes.
Uncle Michael – who had been their best man – took over, feigning reluctance whilst pulling his speech from his trouser pocket and she grabbed the chance to slip out of the limelight. Her uncle soon found his stride, listing the (unrecognisable) qualities of Harold and Freda Edlin’s marriage, sidestepping the issue of Danny as if the happy couple had produced only one (perfect) child. He was exceedingly ‘merry’, as were the guests. Loosened ties, rolled shirtsleeves, smudged lipstick, loud laughter – against all odds, it was turning into a jolly affair. She was glad they were having a good time but she felt this celebration had nothing to do with her, and when no one was looking, she escaped into the garden. The shadows were lengthening but it was as hot as ever, the air still and heavy. She sat on a low wall, listening to distant church bells, watching a column of flying ants make its way in and out of a crack in the dusty brickwork.
Something made her look up. At the far end of the lawn, beyond the clump of red hot pokers, a dark-haired man was sitting on the grass, leaning against the trunk of the cherry tree. Raising her hand, she started towards him. ‘Danny?’
But when he stood up she saw it was Sam Siskin.
August hurtled into September, the days clouded by her impending separation from Bing. Every hour became overly precious, burdened with expectation. A misjudged word or a tactless comment resulted in tears or sullen silence. As if that weren’t enough, she had to endure the drip, drip, drip of parental disapproval until she could scarcely bear to be in the house with them.
She and Bing were coming out of the cinema when someone called her name. Sam Siskin was walking towards them, suited and carrying a briefcase. He stopped and she had no option but to introduce the two men. They shook hands and she thought that would be the end of it but Sam fell in with them, chatting as they walked. Had they’d enjoyed the film? When did term start? Would they like a lift? It was no trouble – his car was parked around the corner. Bing draped an arm around her shoulder and snapped a refusal, embarrassing her with his churlishness. But Sam smiled his good-natured smile and wished them good evening. As soon as he was out of sight, Bing gave her the third degree. Who exactly was this Sam? How many times had she met him? Why hadn’t she mentioned him? Did she think him good looking? Worrying away at it until the evening was ruined.
Her parents were more demanding than ever, doing everything they could to ensure she had no time to spend with Bing. And Bing wasn’t helping by going on and on about Sam Siskin. Hard though it was to admit, their attachment was becoming a source of pain as well as pleasure.
‘Let’s drop out,’ Bing said.
‘And do what?’
‘Be together. You and me. Let’s find a place where no one knows us. Where nothing can spoil it.’
She held him close. ‘As soon as I’ve finished college, I’ll find a job in London. We’ll rent a flat.’
‘But that’s two whole years away.’
‘It’s not as if we won’t see each other.’
‘It’s killing me,’ he said. ‘You’re slipping away. I can feel it.’
A few days later, Sam brought some documents for her father. She kept out of the way, spying from the landing window, watching the two men laughing and chatting in the garden. If only her father could be like that with Bing, she could be rid of the permanent knot in her stomach.
No doubt about it, Frankie Slattery was a flaky friend – out of touch for months and when she did show up, making promises she wouldn’t keep. But the thing about Frankie was that she never passed judgement or made assumptions. She had an offbeat take on things. For this reason, Miriam needed to talk to her. There were rumours she was living in Brighton with a man twice her age. Miriam called at the house, hoping one of the Slattery clan would know how to contact her, but the family had upped sticks without leaving a forwarding address.
Two days before Miriam was due back at college, Frankie showed up.
‘God, I need to talk to you,’ Miriam said when the screeching and hugging had subsided.
‘Who is it?’ her mother called from the kitchen.
‘It’s Frankie.’
Her mother had never known what to make of Frankie, clearly on pins whenever the girl was around in case she did something outrageous. (She wouldn’t approve of her current look – improbably blond hair, heavy duty makeup, satin jumpsuit.) But, knowing how ‘difficult’ Frankie’s home life was, she ‘made allowances’, treating her like an animal whose unpredictability was due to maltreatment.
‘Hi, Mrs Edlin,’ Frankie said. ‘What’s new?’
Her mother looked anxious as if she might give a wrong answer.
‘Nothing that I can think of, dear. What are you doing these days?’
Frankie gave a bowdlerised version of her circumstances and as soon as they could, the girls escaped and headed for the park.
‘What’s the problem?’ Frankie said. ‘Tell me you’re not still with Bing.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘God, you are, aren’t you?’
‘Please don’t be mean. We love each other. We’re soulmates.’
Frankie sighed. ‘If it’s all so perfect, why d’you need to talk to me?’
‘It’s really, really hard,’ she said. And it came tumbling out. The pressure of separation. The misunderstandings. The opposition from her parents, and recently their unashamed attempt at matchmaking.
‘Bing’s a sweet guy,’ Frankie said, ‘but there are masses of lovely men out there. How can you be sure he’s the one if he’s the only one you’ve had?’
‘You’re suggesting I put myself about a bit?’ Miriam said. ‘That’s worked for you, has it?’
‘I’m not looking for a soulmate, Mim. I don’t go in for that moon-and-June rubbish. It’s bollocks.’
Miriam could see why someone whose father had walked out would take this line. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I’m feeling a bit raw, that’s all.’
She treated them to choc ices from the kiosk near the park gates and they made their way to the bench where they’d shared so many secrets.