by Julie Cohen
‘We only take referrals, I’m afraid.’
I frown at the sofa cushion. What am I supposed to do? Present myself at an A&E here in East London? And say what? I’m getting these weird feelings of being in love?
‘So shall I book you in for the sixth of November or do you prefer to see your GP first?’
‘I … I don’t know. Maybe it can wait. I mean – do you think I need to be worried that it’s happening more frequently?’
‘You’d have to see the doctor, I’m afraid.’
‘But you must see a lot of people—’
‘I can’t possibly comment, I’m afraid. I can only book you the appointment if you want it.’
‘Um … I … yes. Okay. Thank you. The sixth of November. I’ll write it down this time.’
It is wonderful to be in love in late summer.
In the late summer in London with the traffic like a symphony. In the late summer when you leave the broad windows open and rain soaks the wooden floors and the smell is like being in a forest. In the yelling and the screach of brakes and the brave birdsong, in the flicker of shadow cast by a plane tree, in the car radios coming closer and fading away into a series of bass heartbeats. When you’re in love, people smile at you, they walk on their way smiling and the next person catches it, and you spread a ripple of love all the way from your throbbing centre to the next street, to the next one, all the way outwards through E14, across the Thames and into other people’s windows, to the places where they are having their tea, watching television, washing up. It will touch them, your love, it will make them get up from their sofas and join hands with each other, join hands and dance, fling their shoes into the street, throw the soapsuds into bubbles in the air and cry out singing with the rapture of being in love
in love
in love
Chapter Twenty-five
‘HELLO, LOVE, YOU’RE not answering. I hope it’s because you’re sleeping. Anyway, give me a ring, will you? And don’t forget to drink plenty of liquids. Bye.’
‘Don’t you ever answer emails? Listen, I’m in London on a flying visit next week for a meeting, back to Brussels next day. I have a feeling we have to chat. Make sure there’s milk in the fridge. Okay, ciao, call me. And answer emails, dammit.’
‘Oh hello, Felicity? It’s Molly. I just saw Quinn and he says you’re not feeling very well, dear. I wondered if you wanted me to give him some soup to bring to you? I’m sure it would be no trouble for him to pop up to Town this weekend. I shall send you a card in the meantime to cheer you up! Take care and get lots of rest. Maybe it would be more relaxing to be at home in your own bed, do you think?’
‘Flick. I can’t stop thinking about you. Call me.’
‘Felicity? It’s Madelyne, just ringing to see how you’re getting on with the book. Please ring me back as soon as possible.’
‘Hello, love, I’m wondering if you’ve lost your phone? Pointless question to ask, really. Anyway, give me a ring when you’ve got a moment. I hope you’re feeling better. Bye.’
‘Flick, I mean it. Call me. You turn up out of nowhere and then you disappear. You’ve got me worried now. Call me. As soon as you get this. Do you hear?’
Ewan
SURELY THIS WASN’T right. He checked the address on his phone again, and then checked the number of the building. It was the same. He punched the button for the flat number she’d given him and waited for a reply through the intercom. But all he got was the buzz of the door as it opened.
The lobby was ten degrees cooler than the outside, floored in granite, full of mirrors and plants. He’d been in shabbier five-star hotels. It didn’t fit in with what he knew about Felicity at all, that she would live in a place like this. This was the sort of building that wanker City-types lived in, or that sat mostly empty as pieds-à-terre for wealthy foreign nationals.
In the lift going up, he thought again how little he knew about Felicity Bloom. He didn’t know her new last name. He knew none of her friends. Nothing about her current life, really, other than that her mother had passed away a couple of years ago and that she was married to a man she didn’t talk about, and that she drew children’s books. He’d picked one up in a shop a couple of days ago: Igor the Owl and the Earwig Enigma. It was charming, and warm, and funny, and very Felicity in a way that this building wasn’t.
It was probably her husband’s flat. Before the lift doors opened, he fantasized that she was married to some rich arse-hole who had dragged her into this sterile Canary Wharf world, and when she’d come to find him it had been a cry for help. That he was supposed to save her as much as she’d saved him. The daydream lasted for about as long as it took him to step from the lift into the corridor with its thick carpeting, its discreet numbers on the doors, and realize that if this was what Felicity was used to now, he didn’t have much to offer in return. Seeing as he was unemployed and flirting with depression.
And he was only coming to check on her. For a week, since she’d met him in Greenwich, she’d been around nearly every day. Knocking on his door, turning up at odd hours, sleeping on his sofa. And then, for over a week: nothing, aside from a text or two. There was no other way to check that she was all right apart from coming to her flat.
Besides, he missed her.
He rapped on the flat door, only now suddenly realizing that the reason she hadn’t been in touch might be because she was with her husband, and the odds were that the husband would answer the door right now. Typical of Ewan not to have planned for this possibility. He stuck a carefree smile on his face, ready to act airily like the old friend that he was. Only that, and nothing more.
For several minutes, nothing happened. He raised his hand to rap again, when the door opened. Her hair was down around her face, her eyes blinking. She rubbed her forehead with her hand and seemed not to recognize him at first.
‘Flick,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Hmm. Asleep.’ She peered up at him. ‘How did you know where I was?’
‘You texted me your address.’
‘Did I?’ She was barefoot, in a sleeveless top and a skirt that skimmed her knees. ‘I don’t remember. When did I do that?’
‘The day before yesterday. Flick, are you okay? You look … odd.’
‘I told you – I was sleeping.’
‘Can I come in?’
She went into the flat and he followed her. The air conditioning wasn’t working as well in here as it was in the lobby and the corridor. Or that could be because the windows were open, letting in the outside air. The living area looked as if a strong wind had blown through it. There was a half-drunk glass of water on the floor near one of the two white sofas and a crumpled knitted throw beside it. A lamp lay on its side. Papers were scattered everywhere; he glimpsed several saccharine greetings cards on the floor. A drawing of an owl with glasses, scribbled out with almost vicious strokes.
He remembered what he’d suspected earlier, from the odd way she could behave, the blissed-out expression she could get. The way she looked now, groggy and disoriented. But there was no obvious evidence of drug use – no powder on the coffee table, no smell, no roaches or gear.
‘Is your husband in?’ he asked.
‘Quinn? You mean is he here? No, he isn’t.’
‘It’s a nice flat.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s customary,’ he said gently, mostly to see if it made her smile, ‘to offer one’s guests a cup of tea.’
‘I don’t think you should be here,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it’s safe.’
He looked around again. No man’s jacket hanging on the back of a chair, no briefcase, nothing particularly husband-like, except for the expense of everything which lay like a gloss over the flat. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s the editor of a newspaper.’
Ah. He could picture Mr Felicity, editor-in-chief: good suit, excellent shoes, hair thinning, belly straining the shirt from too many business lunches. The flat made more sense, now. It di
dn’t explain why Felicity was married to him.
‘Are you expecting him back?’
‘No. I’m not expecting him. Why are you here, Ewan?’
‘Didn’t you get my messages?’
‘I’m not sure where my phone is. Maybe it’s in the bedroom? I don’t know. When is the last time we spoke?’
‘Last Thursday.’
He saw her calculating in her head. ‘That was when we had ice cream for breakfast. Not since then?’
‘Not except by text. Don’t you remember?’
‘I’m a little …’ She rubbed her forehead again. ‘And what day is it today?’
‘Friday.’
‘Of the following week? Oh. Oh dear.’
She didn’t seem distressed, just disappointed.
‘Have you eaten today?’
‘Toast. I’m fine.’
‘You lie very badly.’ He went into her kitchen. There were, in fact, toast crumbs everywhere. There was also quite a bit of uneaten toast, much of it burnt. All of it was cold. The only empty bottle was of Lucozade.
‘I think you should leave,’ Flick said, following him.
‘Why?’ he asked, filling the kettle and switching it on. He looked in the fridge for food: champagne and a jar of jam. The milk was on the counter beside the kettle and it had clearly gone off.
‘I think I might do …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m trying to do the right thing, Ewan. I’m not sure how to do it.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No. No, I’m fine.’ She frowned. ‘Yes, I’m sure I’m fine. Actually, I feel completely normal right now. So that’s good.’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you doing any drugs at all?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t have to lie to me about it. I’ve seen almost everything you can imagine.’
‘I’m not doing drugs. Listen, Ewan, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here.’
‘I’m just doing for you what you did for me. I’m worried about you, and I want to make sure you’re all right. Where do you keep the tea? We’ll have to have it black.’
‘Don’t bother, please.’
‘Just as well – everyone tells me I make a shitty cup of tea. Let’s talk.’ He pointed through the kitchen door to the living room, and she sighed, went to one of the sofas and sat down. She looked small in this big flat, and as if she didn’t belong. He sat beside her. Said, ‘You haven’t changed a bit since I knew you.’
‘I’ve changed in some ways.’
‘Do you love him?’ he asked. She’d been looking down, pulling the throw over her bare feet, but at that she raised her head.
‘I …’
‘I can’t believe you love him,’ he said, surprised at the rush of emotion, the jealousy. ‘If you loved him, you wouldn’t have come to find me.’
‘It’s complicated, Ewan. I don’t think I can really explain it to you. I can’t explain it to myself. But yes, I do love him. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have married him.’
But she sounded uncertain.
‘You told me once that you wanted to be extraordinary. Does he help you do that?’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘If you love him, why are you attracted to me?’
‘I – I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. That’s why you don’t want me here. You’re married to him, but you’re attracted to me. And you don’t trust yourself not to do something about it. Is that why you haven’t seen me for a week?’
Her hands were clenched in her lap. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You can’t deny it, Flick. You know it as well as I do. There’s still something between us. You kissed me.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘But you did. It’s still there. What we felt all those years ago.’
He touched her face, stroked her cheek. He took her chin in his fingers and made her look at him. Her eyes were as he remembered them, soft and green.
‘We shouldn’t have split up,’ he said. ‘It didn’t get us anywhere. We’re not happy without each other, are we? Be truthful.’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what happiness is any more.’
‘I’m sure. Because the only time I’ve felt it lately is when I’ve been with you.’
She swallowed. He felt it through his fingers, all through his body. She’d always shown every emotion she felt, imprinted on her face. He could see the desire there now. The doubt.
‘We hardly knew each other,’ she said. ‘We don’t know each other at all, now. We’ve only spent a few hours together.’
‘So why did you find me, at exactly the right time? If it wasn’t for this?’ He stroked her bottom lip with his thumb.
‘I’m not even sure I like you very much,’ she said. But she was breathless. He could hear it. He knew what it meant.
‘I’m falling in love with you,’ he told her. For a moment, he saw her real answer in her face. Then she shook her head.
‘No. You’re not. You can’t be.’
‘I didn’t care about anything. I’d thrown away everything. But you gave me back my life. You gave it meaning again.’
‘That’s not true. You still have a daughter. You can still have a job if you want it. I’m not the only thing. I’m not that important to you. It’s just—I just happened to be there.’
‘You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.’
She pulled back from him. But she didn’t get off the sofa. ‘If you want meaning in your life, you should get in touch with your daughter. She’s the one who needs you.’
‘It’s too late for me and Rebecca. It’s not too late for me and you. We’ve been given a second chance.’
‘Ewan, I can’t. This wasn’t meant to happen.’
‘I think it is meant to happen,’ he said, and he took her face in his hands again and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-six
I’M NOT FEELING anything but Ewan’s hands on me, his lips on mine. My mind and heart aren’t playing any of their tricks; I’m nowhere but here on Lauren’s sofa, on a Friday afternoon when I thought it was Wednesday. I am in my right mind. I have no excuse.
I kiss him back. I feel the second chance he was talking about: the present, the past, our bodies, no thought of anything else in our lives but each other. He is entirely familiar, and yet he isn’t, and is it the familiarity or the strangeness which makes me wrap my arms around his neck? Which makes me respond to the sound he makes in his throat when he shifts on the sofa so that he can cover my body with his?
I know it was always this way with Ewan, this desire that we could barely control. His hands roam over my body, as if he wants to touch all of me at once. He pulls down my top to kiss my neck, my chest. I can’t breathe, or rather I’m breathing so quickly that I can’t feel the oxygen. I dig my fingertips into his arms and arch up against him, wrapping one of my legs around his. I feel alive. I feel every inch of my body, aware and awakening from what seems like a long sleep.
He smells of sweat and faintly of cigarette smoke, of soap and coffee. He does not smell of frangipani. But my body still burns, and curves up towards him, and tells me yes. And his tongue in my mouth and his breath in my ear, hot shivers as one of his hands strokes up my bare leg underneath my skirt. I want him like I did when I was twenty. And I shouldn’t.
Or is this what it was all for? All the scent and the longing? Back to this, the sound of his shirt tearing as I help him push it off, my body seemingly acting of its own accord to touch his naked chest?
I close my eyes and there he is, in the darkness behind my eyelids, looking at me out of the painting my mother did. The portrait of a young man in love.
I push him away and struggle to sit up. ‘Ewan,’ I say, my lips and tongue clumsy. ‘Ewan.’
The name feels like a kiss. I hear it as if someone else has said it, and can’t work out whether it’s a protest or a plea. His eyes unfocused, he reaches for me again.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I DON’T HAVE time to get off the sofa, to pull away from Ewan. I do have time to think, Please let it be Lauren, and then I hear Quinn’s voice: ‘Hello, love? The door was op—’
He appears, carrying two canvas shopping bags. He drops the bags on the floor. Something breaks.
I scramble off the sofa and hold my top together with my hand. ‘Quinn,’ I gasp. ‘I didn’t—’
Quinn is staring. From me to Ewan, who is still on the sofa, his shirt off. His hair disarranged from where I have tugged at it. His mouth red with kissing me.
‘Who is this?’ Quinn asks.
His voice is not patient and pleasant. It is low and quiet.
Ewan stays on the sofa. ‘Are you the husband?’ He appears to be as surprised as I am.
Quinn does not look surprised at all. He is pale and very still.
‘Ewan,’ I say. ‘You need to leave, right now.’
‘The door was open,’ says Quinn. Beside him, a pool of clear liquid seeps from one of the shopping bags.
‘I can explain,’ I say, although I can’t.
‘I don’t think you need to,’ says Quinn.
‘I didn’t mean for you to—’
‘Then perhaps you should have closed the door.’ He sounds dangerous. I never thought he could sound dangerous. Ewan is still staring, his shirt crumpled on the floor. I scoop it up and hand it to him, but he doesn’t take it.
‘I thought he’d be different,’ Ewan says.
‘Ewan, please go. You’re making this worse.’
‘It can’t get much worse,’ says Quinn. ‘Unless of course you’d like to take your clothes off too, Felicity.’
I have never seen him like this.
‘Is this the first time, or the dozenth?’ he asks us. ‘Have you been doing this the entire time you’ve been gone? Is this the “old friend” you told me you were seeing?’
‘It’s not what it looks like. We weren’t going to …’ My sentence fades away under his anger. I don’t know if we were going to have sex. I was about to stop Ewan.