by Julie Cohen
Or was I? I was pushing him away. I was saying his name. I was going to tell him to leave. I was going to pull him closer. I was entirely myself.
I can still feel his hands on my skin. With Quinn looking at me like this, I feel as if the places that Ewan touched me, kissed me, are glowing red.
‘I love her,’ Ewan says. ‘She saved my life.’
‘You’re in love with my wife,’ Quinn says, in his new quiet, dangerous anger.
‘He’s not,’ I say. ‘He might think he is, but he’s not. Ewan, go away. Leave us alone, please.’
‘I am,’ Ewan says. ‘I’m in love with her.’
It’s the last straw. I kick Ewan in the shin. I’m barefoot, and the impact is enough to make me wince.
‘Flick! What the—’
‘I need you to go. Now.’
He looks from me to Quinn. Quinn’s eyes have narrowed to dark slits.
‘He isn’t going to hurt you, is he?’ Ewan asks me.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Just go.’
The two men stare at each other for a long moment and my crazy mind, chasing itself, thinks that they are going to start fighting. Launch into a brawl right here in the middle of Lauren’s Canary Wharf flat, knocking over furniture, sending papers flying. But these things don’t happen in real life.
Quinn’s fists are clenched.
‘I need to speak with my wife,’ he says finally, in this new voice. Ewan keeps steady for another minute, and then he shrugs. He pulls his shirt over his head.
‘I’ll call you,’ he says to me. ‘I love you.’
Under Quinn’s gaze, I wince.
Ewan walks past my husband without giving him another glance. He slams the door behind him. It echoes and then it’s quiet.
‘Quinn,’ I say. ‘We didn’t sleep together. We kissed, and that was it. It was a mistake, a very bad mistake. I was just about to tell him to leave.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
I’m still holding my blouse together with my hand. I button it, my fingers trembling.
‘It’s been going on since you left. Or before?’
‘Nothing’s been going on. It – this just happened.’
‘I’m stupid, Felicity, but not that stupid. Not any more. Do you know what I thought? I actually thought you might be ill. I thought you might not be taking care of yourself properly. Now I know better, don’t I?’
He is still straight, his full height, no smile, no tenderness in his eyes. He is a stranger, more of a stranger than he’s ever been, even when I didn’t know him. There’s a button missing from my blouse.
‘I trusted you,’ he says.
‘Nothing’s happened.’
‘He says he loves you.’
‘He’s crazy.’
‘Did you leave me because of him?’
‘I did have to work. And I did need to think.’
‘Did you leave me because of him?’
‘Partly,’ I whisper.
‘Who is he?’
‘I knew him ten years ago.’
‘You were lovers?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now?’
‘No. We’re not, Quinn.’
‘You are. If you haven’t actually had sex, it’s just a technicality.’
‘I was about to tell him to stop.’
He makes a sound of contempt. I can’t argue.
‘Do you love him?’
‘No. I don’t know.’ He waits. ‘Sometimes I think that I do.’
‘I’ve loved you with everything I have in me,’ Quinn says. ‘I’ve given you everything that matters. And it was never enough for you. I don’t know what would be.’
‘It’s not that it wasn’t enough. It’s that it was too much.’
‘How could I love you less?’ he cries. ‘Was I supposed to hold something back? Was I supposed to lie to you? Cheat on you? Find an old friend? What do you want, Felicity? Do you want me to do what you’ve done to me?’
‘No, I—’
‘Ever since I’ve known you I’ve done nothing but try to please you. I thought that if I could make you happy enough, you’d keep loving me. And this is what you wanted? Someone else?’ He’s shouting now, gesturing at the door that Ewan has closed behind him. I’ve never heard him shout before.
‘I don’t—’
‘Everyone said it. Not to my face, but I knew they were thinking it. She’s not going to stick around for long, mate. She’s too different. Doesn’t fit in. She’ll find someone else, someone to suit her better, someone who won’t tie her down in a tiny village.’ His face twists as he says it. ‘When you left, I said you were working. Everyone knew, but I thought they were wrong. I said …’ His voice falters.
‘I never meant to hurt you, Quinn. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m so sorry.’
‘Too fucking late.’
I hold out my hand to him, hoping he’ll let me touch him.
‘I know what you think about me, about my job, about my family. You thought our life was too small. You thought I was your … puppy.’ He spits the word out. ‘But you’re wrong. It’s more than you’ll ever know. It’s more than you’ll ever deserve. And I …’
This time he raises his hand to his eyes, and I step away from the sofa towards him, every part of me wanting to comfort him, even through my shame, but when he lowers his hand, his eyes are dry.
‘I deserve more than you,’ he says. Coldly. So coldly. ‘Goodbye, Felicity.’
I watch him walk out of the door. He doesn’t slam it behind him; he closes it, and that’s enough.
I could run after him, try to explain. But everything he said was the truth. I did, sometimes, think that my life with him was too small. I did want Ewan. And Quinn does deserve better.
The puddle under the shopping bag has grown and started to make a small trail of liquid across the floor, like a pointing finger. I get a tea towel from the kitchen and wipe it up. It smells like elderflower, and the broken cordial bottle in the bag confirms it. He’s brought me tea and cordial, cartons of fresh soup and packets of biscuits, a ripe mango and a bunch of sunflowers. There’s a Mervyn Peake paperback in the bag that had the cordial, and a little pocket sketch book of the kind I like. Both of them are wet and sticky from the spill.
I unpack each thing and put it on the floor, in a line. Then I pick the pieces of glass out of the bag and put them into the tea towel. A splinter of glass cuts my finger and I put it in my mouth, tasting blood mixed with elderflower.
I don’t know if I was going to stop Ewan. I’d like to think I was, but I can’t be sure. But whatever choice I was going to make in that moment, it’s now been made for me. I’ve destroyed my marriage to Quinn.
The door buzzer goes. My finger still in my mouth, I pick up the receiver.
‘Flick,’ says Ewan. ‘Let me in.’
‘It’s not a good idea.’
‘I know he’s gone.’
Quinn is gone. I wipe my wet cheek on my bare shoulder. I recognize the sickness in my stomach, the feeling of anticipation.
‘I need some time to think,’ I tell him.
‘But you’ll talk to me? You’ll see me again? I meant what I said.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say.
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know. I have to … I have to work things out. A couple of weeks? A month maybe? Please don’t contact me, Ewan. Let me sort this out, and then I’ll call you.’
‘Is that really what you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘We still have a chance,’ Ewan says. I put down the phone.
And then the sickness in my stomach and in my heart resolves into the scent of frangipani and I lie down on the sticky floor, tears leaking from my eyes, waiting until I feel in love again, until for these few moments at least, I no longer have a choice.
Part Three
You all, healthy people, can’t imagine the happiness which we epileptics feel during the second before our fit … I don’t know if this feli
city lasts for seconds, hours or months, but believe me, I would not exchange it for all the joys that life may bring.
Dostoevsky
Chapter Twenty-eight
IT’S COOLER IN Tillingford than it is in London; the air hangs less heavy and a breeze rustles the leaves. The common has been baked brown and dry. It’s Saturday lunchtime, and there’s a cricket game going on. Derek will be watching it in his portable chair, drinking tea that Molly has made him from a flask. Maybe Quinn’s with him; he joins his father sometimes. If I know Quinn, he will probably want to continue with his normal life, even after what he discovered less than twenty-four hours ago.
But I’m not certain that I do know Quinn.
I hope he’s still angry, though. I’d rather he were angry than sad.
If he’s told anyone about discovering me and Ewan, it will be all over Tillingford by now. Felicity Wickham left her husband for another man after only a year of marriage. They’ll love that piece of juicy news. I spot Irene Miller, the town gossip, leaving the cricket game and approaching me over the green, and I hurry to slip through the gate to Hope Cottage.
Our garden is vibrant with splashes of orange, red and purple. Despite the heat and the dryness elsewhere, here it still feels damp. Quinn’s bike rests against the side wall. I haven’t rung to let him know I was coming; I wasn’t sure he’d want to speak to me. Now that it’s too late, I need to tell him the truth, the facts that I was too cowardly to tell him all along.
Somehow I thought that if I could work out who I was truly in love with, if I could work out what the scent of frangipani meant, that everything else would fall into place. I would decide it wasn’t relevant, re-commit myself to Quinn, and everything would be fine. Or I would find bliss with Ewan. It would be cut and dried, no questions possible.
But that hasn’t happened. Love isn’t a single perfect moment, a whiff of scent, eyes meeting. Life goes on. People get hurt, memories are tarnished. There are connections and resentments, friends and families. Maybe every happily-ever-after is someone else’s broken heart. Or maybe that’s too neat, even. Maybe the hearts just get broken, and that’s it.
I need to tell the truth, and say I’m sorry. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t hold out much hope of being forgiven. Maybe I will find Ewan and see if he was right about second chances. But I still wear Quinn’s ring, and I owe him an apology before I do anything else at all.
After only a few weeks away, I feel like a stranger here, but not enough of one to use the front door. I’ve loved this garden. I’ve loved this man. I take a deep breath and walk along the side of the cottage to the back.
The kitchen table has been taken outside and it stands on the overgrown grass. The Wickhams are all sitting around it: Derek and Molly, Suz and Quinn. There’s a bright cloth spread on the table and there are bowls of salad, a bottle of wine, a jug of lemonade. Someone has put tall hollyhocks in a vase. The sunshine pools on the grass, sparkles on the glassware. There’s no fifth chair. Molly, passing a dish of tomatoes, catches sight of me and lets out a little cry, and I know that Quinn has told them everything.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
Quinn stands up. Beside him, so does Derek, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘You have some nerve coming here,’ Derek says.
‘Not very much,’ I admit. ‘I’m scared to death.’
‘You should be!’ screeches Molly and I turn to her, surprised. She’s jumped to her feet too, though she’s still holding the bowl of tomatoes. ‘How could you do this to Quinn? One year – one year! And you’re tired of him already?’
‘It’s not that. I’m not tired of him.’
‘Mum,’ says Suz quietly, ‘sit down.’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt Quinn. I didn’t mean to hurt any of you. I just had these feelings, and I had to follow them. I’ve been a coward. I should have told the truth from the start. It would have been less complicated.’
‘You should have stayed away from my boy!’
Molly’s face is fierce. This soft woman, the woman who chatters about nothing and sends sugar-sweet greetings cards, looks as if she wants to tear my eyes out. Any minute the bowl of tomatoes is going to come flying at my head. I had no idea that she could be so passionate in defence of her young.
Good, I think. Good for you. Irrationally, I want to smile at her and clap my hands.
I bow my head. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t have married Quinn. I thought … I thought I could be happy with him.’
Quinn stands there, silent.
‘You need to get your things and get out,’ says Molly. ‘I’ll pack them up myself, with my own hands, and good riddance.’
Derek takes the tomato dish from his wife’s hand and puts it on the table, saying, ‘Molly, please.’
‘We welcomed you as part of the family,’ says Molly.
‘I know. You’ve been nothing but kind. But you know I’ve never fitted in.’
‘I knew you were having doubts,’ says Suz, ‘but I didn’t think you would do something like this.’
I’ve started shaking. I’m going to take it all, everything they can fling at me, and then I’m going to walk away and I’m never coming back. Quinn isn’t even looking at me. Suz’s disappointment is a heavy weight in my stomach. The scent of the wildflowers in the garden is growing stronger, suffocating with sweetness.
‘I wasn’t one of you,’ I manage. ‘It wasn’t any of your faults. It wasn’t Quinn’s fault.’
‘I thought you were going to talk it through together,’ says Suz.
‘You don’t go running to another man!’ cries Molly. ‘It’s not what you do! Maybe in your mother’s world – that artistic world that’s so much better than ours. But not here. Not in my family, not to my son.’
My stomach’s churning, acid and fire. The ground is unsteady under my feet. The flowers are growing, whitening into frangipani with golden hearts, and I’m becoming lighter somehow, lighter even though I’m burdened with guilt and regret.
‘I’ll just go.’
Lighter, so light I tumble up into the air.
From above, the Wickhams look like an army, foreshortened to dark heads and sun-kissed shoulders. Derek stands near his wife, Suz folds her arms across her chest. Quinn stands straight beside the table filled with glistening food, bright colours, summer. They’re magnificent – the magnificent Wickhams – and I see myself in front of them, trembling, my hair dull in the light.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, though it comes from below me, where I am standing down there. How did I get up here? My lips are numb. Every breath saturated with scent. ‘That’s all I came here to say.’
‘Felicity?’ says Suz. I see her step forward, bumping the table. Her glass of lemonade tips over. I see Quinn push aside his chair. My arms fly out, my legs collapse. I see my eyeballs roll up to where I am above everything, and for a moment I am staring myself in the face. And then I’m absorbed back down into my body and I’m on the grass. There are voices. But as soon as they speak they’re being pulled away from me, drained away into nothing, into darkness, into memories that are gone, a disappearing brush of a finger.
Quinn
THEY’D BEEN TALKING about the weather breaking, about a hosepipe ban, about what was going to happen to the post office. About everything except for Felicity and his ruined marriage, although they were all thinking about her. So much so, that when she appeared in the garden, it seemed as if their thoughts had come to life.
Her hands were shaking; she kneaded them together and he didn’t want to think about how alone she looked. His mother’s voice cracked and rang, full of anger. He remembered a long-ago picnic, some time when he was a child, when his mother and father had argued and he had sat on the blanket, pulling blades of grass from the earth as if it could stop the fear of it all being his fault, of everything being finished. The argument was over quickly but the fear stayed, cocooned inside him, visiting him again at night, waiting for its time in the sun.
He
stood beside the table listening to his mother. He was too old to let his mother defend him, but he didn’t seem to be able to speak. All night he’d been consumed with anger. He’d seen them over and over again: the man on top of his wife on the sofa, his hand up her skirt. Felicity’s arms around him. The blush on her cheeks, her hands on his chest. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see them, or even worse, just afterwards, when Felicity had spotted him and had jumped up, pulling her blouse together, full of panic and guilt and yet still aroused from that man’s touch. That other man. The one she had gone after. The one she wanted more than she’d ever wanted him.
The anger burned at him, gnawed at him. Almost more than what she’d done to him, he hated that she’d made him feel this way.
And here she was, trembling in their garden. He couldn’t quite connect this Felicity with that one in London yesterday. He supposed it was denial. It was habit. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and he wanted to go to her, despite the anger, despite the betrayal. He wanted to forget all about it and carry on as normal. If he looked at her, he would.
So he didn’t look at her.
But out of the corner of his eye, he saw her fall.
She yelled wordlessly, a hoarse sound that was her and wasn’t. He ran forward. He couldn’t catch her before she hit the ground but he caught her afterwards as she lay there. She jerked and twitched, a rag doll pulled by invisible strings. Her eyes blinked, over and over; her mouth worked, as if trying to say something important.
‘What’s happening?’ his mother cried.
‘It’s some kind of seizure,’ said Suz, who was kneeling beside him. Quinn held Felicity against him, cradling her in his arms, shielding her head from the ground.
‘Call 999,’ he said to his sister, and she pulled out her phone. Felicity’s face contorted and her body struck out, heels drumming on the grass his father had watered. One hand, her left hand, the one with his ring, escaped and slapped the side of his arm. It wasn’t puppet strings but his anger making her jerk, helpless, possessed.