by Robyn Sisman
Now he was in that strange no-man’s-land in the sky, numbed by the drone of the engines, sluggish from poor ventilation, dazed by the flickering images that played out some Arab drama on a screen by the bulkhead. His seat was in a central bank of five, between two voluminous Kuwaiti ladies swathed in shawls. Everyone but himself was Arab or Indian. All the announcements were in Arabic. Thanks to the Muslim code of behavior, the flight would be dry. That meant no alcohol. Great.
He felt tired and sick at heart. Though he longed for oblivion, sleep was impossible. Random scenes from the last few days played over and over in his head. He saw Freya bouncing on the four-poster gleefully hurling pillows; he heard Guy’s dry voice saying, “I’m glad she has someone to care for her.” Most insistently of all, Freya’s words festered and stung. Maybe he deserved her censure; he had made a big mistake. But did he really deserve such ferocious, all-consuming contempt?
She hadn’t given him a chance to answer back. Reeling with shock, he’d packed his bag, propped a brief thank-you note to Guy and Annabelle on the kitchen table, and slunk out of the house like a thief. But now answers and explanations clamored in his head, demanding expression. Jack shifted this way and that on his seat, edgy with frustration. Finally, he reached down for the rucksack he had stowed under his seat, and drew out a pen and his writer’s notebook. He flipped down the tiny plastic table from the seat in front of him, gathered his thoughts and began to write.
Dear Freya,
I know you’ll want to crumple up this letter when you see who it’s from—but don’t. Just for once, listen to what someone else has to say.
Yes, I slept with Tash. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, and I wish I hadn’t. Maybe it’s not an excuse to say that I was angry and drunk, or that she deliberately set out to seduce me, but that’s the truth. I’m not proud of myself. I’m sorry it happened.
But Freya—let’s be honest. Can you give me any good reason why I shouldn’t sleep with Tash, or with any other woman? You don’t want me: that’s crystal clear. You threw me out of the bedroom—remember? So why the big melodrama?
Jack paused, and frowned at the words he had just written. A niggle of conscience told him that something about this was not quite right. But Freya’s words were now flooding back to him in a strong, stinging tide, filling him with rage. For the last few days he had jumped through every crazy hoop she had held up for him, eager and obedient as a show dog, and all she could do was call him a “useless human being.”
The real truth is, your pride is hurt. You don’t want me, but you wanted everyone at that wedding to think that I wanted you. Doesn’t that strike you as a little unfair? Even, dare I say, immature? This age thing is in your head, Freya. The truth is that you’re beautiful and successful and you don’t happen to be “attached” at this exact moment. End of story. The idea that everyone in Cornwall is going around sneering at you shows how self-obsessed you have become.
Why don’t you think about other people, for a change? Your poor father, for example, who obviously adores you and gets the cool Freya brush-off like the rest of us. Are you still blaming him for marrying another woman twenty years ago? What was the poor guy to do—wait until his darling daughter gave him permission to have a life?
It’s tough that your mother died, but it was tough on him, too. He and Annabelle have tried to give you a home—a home most people would envy. But oh no, it’s not your home so you’re not going to enjoy it. Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve lived in crappy apartments. What’s that about? You’re not homeless; you’ve made yourself homeless; you want to be homeless so you can go on feeling sorry for yourself and let everyone see what a tragic victim you are.
Again Jack paused. Freya wasn’t a victim; she was the bravest woman he knew. But he didn’t want to stop and think. Now he’d opened the flood-gates, he needed to let his resentment rush and roar.
And what about me? he wrote, with a fierce, audible scratch of pen on paper. We’ve been friends for so long. I let you stay in my apartment. I came to England with you as a favor, because you were desperate. I thought we were having a good time. Obviously, I was wrong. Your wild overreaction to the Tash episode shows that you were just waiting for an excuse to tell me how very little you think of me.
I know I’m not perfect. But at least I’m human; at least I reach out to people—in my lazy, wastrel, dilettante way. Whereas you, at the first whiff of imperfection, reject the very people who love you best. Including me.
Okay, I stand rejected. Throw away ten years of friendship if you want. I have other things to think about.
Like what? Jack asked himself, as he stabbed an emphatic, black full stop into the paper. His pen hovered, and then began to race again across the notepad.
I’m sorry you don’t think much of me as a writer. It’s good to know the truth after all these years. Your opinion will be a comfort as I try to finish my book with no income, no publisher and no apartment to write in. Fortunately, I have faith in myself.
Jack stopped again and bit the end of his pen. He could picture the dog-eared folder on his desk that contained the unsatisfactory, incomplete draft of his novel. Would he ever finish it? Perhaps if he switched agents to Leo, he could get a new—and bigger—advance from another publisher. Yes, a fat new contract with lots of zeros: that would show Freya. “Dilettante,” huh? Not a “real” writer. What did she know of the artistic struggle?
You don’t understand how hard it is to write a book—to reach right down into the depths of oneself and—
And in that moment Jack did reach down into the depths of himself. The seconds tolled past while his hand hovered, motionless. Then he slammed down his pen, so hard that the Kuwaiti women jumped in fright, and stared. Let them. He closed his eyes and sank his head back on the headrest.
All he could see was Freya’s crumpled face and the tears in her eyes. He had hurt her. He had made her cry. He could justify himself to kingdom come; he could even be right on every point. But nothing could eradicate the pain in her face and the knowledge that he had inflicted it. Trying to apportion blame in precise measures was as cruel and pointless as Solomon offering to cut the baby in two.
Freya was right. It wasn’t the sex with Tash that mattered; it was his betrayal of Freya. She had trusted him, and he had delivered her into the hands of her bitterest enemy.
And she was right about his book. It was his own fault he hadn’t finished it—not his father’s, not his agent’s, not the lack of money or time.
She might even be right about his talent. When had he last seriously tried to look into the depths of himself—whatever that meant? Perhaps he didn’t dare. Perhaps nothing was there.
“I keep trying to like you, Jack, but I can’t. . . .”
He didn’t blame her. He was a failure. A bum. He had made her cry.
“I never want to see you again.”
Well, fine. She wouldn’t.
CHAPTER 31
Freya had only one thought in her head when she arrived back in New York, and that was to see Cat. Cat would understand. Cat would listen for as long as it took. Cat would help Freya to tear Jack to shreds. Together they would denounce Tash as a slut and a snake. At last Freya would be able to vent the rage and misery that she had been forced to keep hidden.
She had told the family that Jack’s father was seriously ill—a heart attack—and that Jack had flown straight home to be with him. She was almost certain that her own father didn’t believe her, and she saw that he was wounded by her reticence, but she could do nothing. Much as she ached for comfort, much as she burned to expose Tash as the trashy bitch she was, Freya was too enmeshed in her own lies to tell him the truth. Pleading a headache, she had gone to her room and lain curled up in the big bed, reliving the moment of Tash’s triumphant, vindictive revelation. She wanted to sleep, but her eyes remained wide and staring. In his hurry, Jack had missed his pajamas, which were still hanging on the back of the door. Their presence tormented her to the point
where she leaped out of bed, grabbed them off the hook and stuffed them into the wastebasket. They even smelled of Jack.
She had cried practically all the way back on the plane—hating herself for this display of weakness, embarrassed by the curious gaze of other passengers, but too tired and wretched to stop. In a daze, she had taken a cab into the city and let herself into her new home. It was a tiny, charmless apartment in an untrendy part of the Village: two boxy rooms and no view, overwhelmingly silent and empty. The belongings she had brought over from Jack’s last week stood in a forlorn pile on the bedroom floor. There wasn’t a scrap of food in the fridge. Outside, it was raining.
She stayed only long enough to take a lightning shower and change into clean jeans and a sweater. At the last minute she called Cat to make sure she was home—though where else would Cat be at nine o’clock on a rainy Sunday evening? The number was busy, and Freya was too impatient to wait. Besides, if Cat was talking on the telephone, that meant she was there. Freya threw on her raincoat and plunged out into the street. Cat’s apartment was only a few blocks distant. Freya practically ran the whole way. Finally she pushed through the door to Cat’s building, flipped a hand at her old friend the doorman and raced into the elevator. Sanctuary, at last! Fresh tears welled as she began to rehearse the story she was about to unfold. She longed to hear Cat’s rousing denunciation of men.
She rang the bell. Quick, Cat! Hurry! But nothing happened. She rang a second time, then leaned her cheek against the door and held her breath, listening for footsteps or the sound of the TV. Nothing. She sniffed—and sniffed again. Was that or was that not the pungent aroma of Cat’s legendary spaghetti alla putanesca? Freya rang the bell again, and started to pound frantically on the door. “It’s me!” she yelled. “Let me in!”
Almost at once she heard movements, then the click of the lock. The door opened, and there was Cat—familiar, wonderful Cat. Freya stumbled into the apartment and threw her arms around Cat’s neck. “Thank God you’re here.”
Cat tottered backwards under her weight. “What is it? What happened?” She steadied herself on Freya’s shoulders. Her eyes swept over Freya’s face and bedraggled hair, wide with concern. “You haven’t been attacked, have you?”
“Much worse.” Freya began pulling off her raincoat. “You won’t believe what happened to me in England.”
“But you’re not hurt? I mean, physically.”
“Well, no.” Freya glanced at Cat, feeling that she wasn’t getting the full blast of sympathy she deserved. “But I’ve had the most ghastly time.” She tossed the raincoat onto a chair and swept back her wet hair.
“Freya—” Cat began urgently.
“I hate men, Cat. Don’t you?”
“Well, that’s just—”
“Let’s get a drink, and I’ll tell you what happened.” Freya brushed past Cat, leading the way around the corner of a tall bookcase that screened the entranceway from the rest of the living room.
“Freya, wait!”
Afterwards, Freya recognized that she had absorbed multiple impressions in a single second—the unusually dim, romantic lighting; Cat’s small dining table set for two, lit by a flickering candle; the warm smell of cooking; a sound behind her that was part gasp, part guilty moan; the belated realization that Cat was far too stylishly dressed for a normal Sunday night and had deliberately not answered her door at the first ring. But at the time, all she felt was simple astonishment. There was a man in Cat’s apartment. And that man was Michael.
He stood stiffly between her and the dining table from which he had obviously just risen, for he was still clutching a linen napkin. Yes, she noticed that, too: Cat’s precious, heirloom napkins.
Freya and Michael stared at one another in shocked silence. Freya could not make sense of his presence here. Cat had mentioned meeting Michael in the course of her work, but surely she wouldn’t invite a colleague to her home. They must be discussing her—how humiliating! Then Michael’s gaze slid to a point beyond her, and his expression subtly altered. Freya whirled around, just in time to catch the same expression on Cat’s face. It was a look of complicity—of utter, naked intimacy. Freya’s eyes darted from one to the other, her comprehension as swift and sharp as a blade slicing through a concealing curtain. Cat and Michael. Michael and Cat. Her best friend and her ex-lover: together.
“Whoops,” she said, attempting a laugh, though it sounded more like a sob.
Cat was coming toward her, reaching for her hands. “Sweetie, don’t be upset. Let me explain.”
“We were going to tell you as soon as you got back from England,” Michael added, stepping forward to stand beside Cat.
“The thing is, there was nothing to tell—not at first.”
“I only met Caterina a couple of weeks ago.”
Caterina?
“Everything’s moved so fast.”
“It’s a surprise even to us.”
The word us gave Freya a piercing sense of exclusion. But she mustn’t let them see it.
“These things happen.” Cat tugged at Freya’s hands, trying to get through to her. “I couldn’t stand it if you were upset.”
Freya drew herself up, tall and dignified. “Why would I be upset?” she inquired, disengaging her hands. “You’re both free agents. It’s nothing to do with me.”
Cat’s eyes flickered anxiously to Michael, and back again. “Of course it’s to do with you. You’re my friend. I love you. Please don’t be like this.”
“Like what?” Freya tried to smile, though her lips felt frozen. “Look, I’ve had a long flight, and I’m tired. And your dinner’s getting cold.”
“Fuck the dinner! (Excuse me, Michael.) Stay and talk with us,” Cat begged.
“Maybe another time, okay?” Freya sketched a stiff wave, took a step backwards, and retreated around the bookcase. She heard a call from Cat, but now she couldn’t have answered even if she’d wanted to. She grabbed her raincoat from the chair, pulled open the door and ran to the elevator, her palm pressed tight against her mouth. Cat’s front door swung slowly shut.
As soon as she reached the lobby, Freya bolted out into the dark street. But having got there, she stood stock-still in the middle of the slick sidewalk, not knowing what to do or where to go. Her mind seethed with questions—about how often Cat and Michael had met, where and when, whether Michael compared Cat to herself, what Cat said to him about her. She pictured the pair of them talking about her now, like concerned parents about a teenager at the “difficult” stage. She imagined all the secrets they would keep from her. Oops, don’t tell Freya.
People streamed past her as she stood in the rain, muttering and shouting at her to get out of the way. Freya looked around her—at the cars, the lights, the buildings that stretched out and out, up and up. This was a big city, full of people. If Cat abandoned her, she could find another friend.
Yet still Freya didn’t move. She had a sudden, fearful vision of this whole, huge sea of humanity receding farther and farther away until she was left standing quite alone, marooned on a desert island of her own making. Freya hugged her coat tight as the rain spattered and bounced. Either she could retreat to her silent apartment and lock herself in, alone and safe; or she could go back up to Cat and Michael, dispel the shadow she had cast on their happiness, and readmit herself into their lives. Which was it to be?
CHAPTER 32
Jack slowed the car on the rutted track, braked to a halt, and reached for the piece of paper on which he had scrawled directions to the cabin. This was the third time he had stopped in the last hour: once to fix a flat tire, once to move a sunbathing turtle gently out of his path, and now to check if he was as lost as he felt.
He’d been to the mountains before, naturally. The Madisons had a place down near Asheville, a summer playground for moneyed Carolinians where Jack had spent vacations swimming and rafting with his brother Lane. As a student, he’d come roistering up here with friends, to ski in winter and hang out in summer, listening to blue
grass and country bands. But he’d never been so far north before, practically within hiking distance of Virginia and Tennessee. And he’d never come alone.
Jack gazed out across the scene with a flicker of misgiving. Blue afternoon shadows lay on the steep, wooded hillsides. Down in the valley the grass looked smooth and soft as billiard-table baize. A dark, snaking line of pine and dogwood marked the course of the New River, and far in the distance he caught the greenish gleam of its rushing passage. The country was beautiful, but wild and lonely. The comfortable, cutesy resort towns had petered out. For the last several miles he’d climbed steadily along winding dirt-and-gravel roads, past apple orchards and Christmas tree plantations, past tiny white-steepled churches and lonely farmsteads with their big red barns and grazing cattle. There didn’t seem to be a lot of holiday cabins, as Jack understood the phrase. Still, he’d burned his boats now. His apartment was in the hands of a realtor; his belongings were in storage—all except the things in the trunk of his car. The car itself he had rented at the airport in Charlotte, and would return to the nearest drop-off point as soon as he found an old jalopy to buy. Studying the map again, Jack concluded that he was on the right road, unpromising as it looked. He pulled on a battered fishing hat to shade his eyes from the sun, and pressed on.