‘That really isn’t necessary,’ he countered, appealing to the nurse directly. ‘I think my fiancée would be better with me here, Sister.’
‘Well, actually, I’d prefer you to come back tomorrow, simply for the sake of peace and quiet. And, anyway, all visitors have to leave by eight and it’s already quarter to. Lynne ought to get some sleep, you know, once I’ve done her observations.’
‘I’d rather stay till eight, if that’s no problem. But I can pop outside while you’re with Lynne – maybe make myself useful by finding a vase.’
The nurse frowned in patent displeasure. ‘You won’t find anything big enough for such a huge bouquet. And, in any case, our hospital policy is no flowers in the ward. The water can carry infection.’
‘Well, I can bring in a vase myself, and make sure I change the water several times a day.’
‘Infection isn’t the only risk, so that wouldn’t be much help. Some patients are allergic to pollen.’
Lynne clenched her fists in fury. Couldn’t he see the nurse was annoyed – not to mention incredibly busy? ‘Andrew, I asked you to leave. I don’t want any visitors at all. I don’t even want your bloody flowers!’ Seizing the bouquet, she all but flung it at Andrew – which took effort on her part and tired her even more. He failed to catch it and it fell to the floor with a thud, damaging several of the fragile lilies. All the other patients were peering from their beds in mingled shock and dismay. But, if nothing else, it had the desired effect, because the nurse was already ushering Andrew firmly out of the ward.
A second nurse came over to Lynne, who was now sobbing audibly. ‘It’s only natural you’re upset,’ she said, soothingly. ‘Anybody would be if they had to put off their wedding.’
‘It’s not the wedding. I’m crying for something much worse – something… .’ The sentence tailed away. She couldn’t actually explain that what upset her most of all was Andrew’s skewed priorities: the fact she came a very lame second to some footling sequence of numbers.
‘Lord! I’ve been here all this time, yet I forgot to give you your present.’ Andrew reached for his briefcase and withdrew a gift-wrapped package.
As Lynne undid the silver ribbon, she felt the gnaw and throb of pain vibrating through her leg, and the usual discomfort each time she shifted position. Her next painkillers were almost due and it was difficult to concentrate until she’d swallowed them, but she did her best to take an interest in the glossy hardback book she’d just unwrapped. ‘The World’s Greatest Love Lyrics,’ she spelled out from the cover, with its striking illustration of a single crimson rose.
‘I don’t always have the words, Lynne, to express my love for you, so I wanted these famous poets to do it for me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, warily, unable to forget his visit yesterday – what should have been their wedding day. Instead of commiserating with her about their shared sense of disappointment, he’d continued harping on the abandonment of their ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ date – for him a devastating blow. And that, coupled with his attitude the previous day, had left her shaken and dismayed. Today, however, he seemed completely different and hadn’t even mentioned the subject. Perhaps he felt remorse and was now keen to make amends. He’d certainly been thoughtful in his choice of gift, knowing her love of poetry.
‘Shall I read you one or two poems,’ he offered, ‘to try to take your mind off things? I spent ages leafing through them last night, trying to find the nicest. I even rang a guy at work who used to teach English at Birkbeck, and he advised me to avoid the old chestnuts like Shakespeare’s Sonnets, and pick out something original.’
A definite improvement, she thought, passing him the book: he’d been thinking of her, instead of dates and numbers, and had taken obvious trouble on her behalf.
‘But the ones Ed suggested I hadn’t even heard of, which made me feel a total ignoramus.’
No way was he an ignoramus, but he had never studied the arts, so she was touched by the fact he was endeavouring to build a bridge between their disparate interests and, again, had expended time and effort on the process.
‘After a bit of Googling, I was slightly more clued up, but, even so, that modern stuff doesn’t really appeal. I suppose, if verse lacks shape and structure, it offends my mathematical sense, so I’m much happier with traditional poetry that has metre and a rhyme-scheme.’ Having pulled his chair closer to the bed, he retrieved the book and checked the index at the back. ‘Anyway, I’d like to start with this one, because it’s exactly what I’d write about you, if I only had the talent.’
He began to read in a deep, solemn voice a poem she knew well and, despite her pain and discomfort, she actually felt herself relax.
She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudy climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes… .
He broke off to exclaim, ‘It’s so right for you, Lynne, isn’t it – the way your eyes are dark and light at once and seem to change from brown to gold?’
‘They’re hazel,’ she shrugged. ‘Not particularly special.’
‘They’re special to me. And so is your hair – that gorgeous tawny colour, which again combines the best of dark and bright.’
Yes, this was the Andrew she loved; praising her, devoted to her, studying her every feature.
‘Anyway, the poem inspired me so much that I had a bash at writing something myself. As I said, I’ve no gift for it at all, so I couldn’t manage any sort of rhyme. In fact, it probably isn’t poetry, by any normal definition, but it was intended as a tribute to you.’
‘Oh, Andrew, how fantastic! Do read it to me – now, before you finish the Byron.’ A personal composition topped even the most accomplished poem in the book.
‘Well, it’s not exactly Shakespeare,’ he demurred, looking uncharacteristically bashful. Nonetheless, he withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket and cleared his throat in preparation.
‘Best read it quietly,’ she advised, aware of the usual scrutiny from her fellow patients. They seemed to have no visitors themselves and thus eavesdropped on her and Andrew, perhaps awaiting (yet dreading) another dramatic incident, to top her hurling of the bouquet.
Lowering his voice, he began to recite:
‘Lynne is fossilized rainbow,
Lynne is throwing a double six,
Lynne is the cherry on a knickerbocker glory,
Lynne is a double-yolked egg.’
‘It’s amazing!’ she interjected. ‘How on earth did you come up with those wonderful images?’
‘Heaven knows! Just thinking about you, I suppose, and how much you mean to me. There are thirty lines, in all, and I felt I could have gone on for ever.’
How incredible that the numerical genius should have become a poet overnight. She could forgive him everything. ‘Well, I want to hear it all.’
‘Just a sec.’ He removed his jacket, draping it on the back of the chair. ‘It’s always frightfully hot in here, especially compared with outside. You may not have noticed, but there were even a few flakes of snow this morning, which inspired one of the lines in my poem. Here it is,’ he said, returning to his script: ‘Lynne is the diamond sparkle in a snowflake.’
‘That’s lovely,’ she enthused. Almost enough to restore her severely damaged sparkle.
‘Shall I go on?’
‘Yes, please!’
Lynne is the filling in a walnut whip,
Lynne is the purr in a leopard… .
As he continued, she was struck by the genuine word-power in the lines, despite his insistence on his lack of talent. Their surprising originality revealed a whole new side to him and, indeed, she almost resented the nurse who’d brought the painkillers, since it forced him to break off. However, she swallowed the pills in two quick gulps, so he could resume his reading straight away – right to the end, this time.
‘Honestly, it’s the nicest present I’ve ever had. In fact, I�
�m going to frame it and put it on our wall, then, if Mum starts having a go at me, I’ll just tell her I’m not all bad!’
‘I suspect your mother’s only … difficult because she wants love herself and feels deprived and lonely.’
‘You’re right. And you’re certainly much more patient with her than I am.’ Her mum had marched in yesterday, fulminating about the aborted wedding – the waste of effort, time and cash – which had resulted in a full-blown row, whereas Andrew treated her mother with diplomatic restraint, never rising to the bait and shouting back. But then wasn’t he always patient, always forbearing and tolerant, except in his obsession with numbers and dates? And was that really so heinous, in light of his general decency and kindness?
‘But that’s quite enough from me! I just hope I haven’t tired you out. How are you feeling now?’
‘Not too bad. I think it helps that I’ve accepted the inevitable, rather than wallowing in self-pity. And my friends have been fantastic. They’ve all sent lovely texts and emails, and most are planning to visit. And even my boss was surprisingly sympathetic, so Nathalie said. When she explained the situation, he just consulted with the others, and they eventually agreed they’d manage somehow – cover for me, if possible, and, if not, call in a temp.’
‘Well, that’s a weight off your mind. I know you feared he’d blow his top.’
‘Perhaps he’s only just realized I’m indispensable!’ She gave a deprecating laugh – the first time she’d laughed since the accident. ‘Anyway, once we’ve arranged another date for the wedding, everyone, Graham included, has promised faithfully to be there.’
‘Actually, I do have another date in mind.’
She tensed, noting the change in his voice. ‘I don’t want to fix it now, Andrew – it’s far too soon. I have to know how well I’m doing before we make an alternative plan.’
‘Don’t worry, darling, this isn’t till April – April the first, in fact. Yes, it may be April Fools’ Day, but it’s also a magical sequence again, or will be if we schedule the wedding for two o’clock. That gives 1/4, for the first of April, another 1/4, for the year 2014, and a third 1/4, for 14.00 hours.’
‘But,’ she said, doing a quick calculation, ‘that’s only three-and-a-half months away.’
‘Well, surely you’ll be better by then.’
‘There’s no guarantee. The surgeon said it can sometimes take longer and, in any case, you can never rule out setbacks or complications. And I’ll need physio, of course, and all that sort of stuff. Besides, it’s not just a matter of recovery-time. The last thing I want is to rush the wedding. I must be totally fit for it, so there’s not the slightest risk of having to cancel again.’
Andrew reached for her hand. ‘But it would mean so much to me, darling. I still don’t think you realize quite how hard it’s been, having to abandon that sequence of 11/12/13/14/15, but at least this new one will help to compensate.’
Angrily, she pushed his hand away, unable to endure more pestering and pressure. Here he was, back to his obsession, and just when their relationship appeared to have taken a turn for the better. Admittedly, she was impressed by his poetic flair but, were he to plough through every poem ever written, in an attempt to share her interests, that would be mere flimsy gauze laid across an iron-and-steel intransigence. This wedding should be a symbol of their union, their mutual love and commitment, not a matter of so-called magical numbers. Perhaps she had been kidding herself all along, excusing his monomania on the grounds of efficiency and order.
‘It’s absolutely crucial, darling, that we don’t choose a date at random. In fact, I doubt that I could go through with the ceremony, unless it was happening on a day that had numerical significance. I’d feel the marriage had got off to a bad start and might actually be doomed to fail.’
Could he be mentally disturbed, she wondered suddenly? Indeed, it struck her only now how few friends he seemed to have. Most of those on their guest-list were her associates, and even his best man was little more than an acquaintance, so maybe people avoided him as a fanatic and a numbers-freak. But avoiding a husband wouldn’t be quite so easy and such fanaticism might constrain many facets of their life together. Suppose he insisted on choosing their children’s names in the same peculiar way his father had, or even try to time their conceptions and births to fit some rigid formula? If a baby was born prematurely, or well past its due-date, would that affect his love for it?
‘Another alternative,’ he said, trying to take her hand again, despite her obvious resistance, ‘would be three-fifteen in the afternoon, on the fifteenth of May, 2015, which provides the sequence: 15/15/15/5/15. But, numerically speaking, it’s far less satisfying, on account of that lurking “five”. Maybe,’ he continued, his entire attention still fixated on sequences, ‘three-twenty on the first of May would work better, giving us 15/20/15/20/15. But, of course, both those dates are a hell of long way off, so I wouldn’t really want… .’
She had actually stopped listening, her mind now veering to a different problem – one more fundamental, since it inhibited their sex-life. Far from diminishing, his need to be in control seemed even greater, invariably holding him in check, as if he were driving a car with the brakes on. Xavier, in contrast, had been unbridled and free-spirited, and his refreshing spontaneity had released in her a depth of passion she never felt with her fiancé. So why was she engaged to him at all? And how could she have failed to see that sexual compatibility was ‘absolutely crucial’, to borrow his own phrase? The fact he had used that phrase about the wedding-date, rather than their intimate married life, meant their priorities were utterly at variance.
‘Time for your observations, Lynne.’ Nurse Bella had breezed up to the bed, with her usual cheery smile.
‘Shall I wait outside?’ Andrew asked the nurse.
Yes, Lynne begged him, silently, longing to be left in peace, free from any more discussion. Her head was aching, as it was, simply from the shock of these sudden demoralizing insights.
‘No need,’ the nurse replied. ‘And, I’m glad to tell you, Andrew, that Lynne’s doing wonderfully well. Because she’s young and strong and basically very fit, she’ll heal much faster than older patients tend to do.’
Once the nurse had filled in the chart and bustled off, Andrew returned to the attack, now sounding almost triumphant.
‘You see, she says you’ll recover really fast, which means the April date should be fine.’
Lynne shook her head, wearily. All anger had leached away. There was only deep fatigue, coupled with shame and disbelief at her own obtuseness. April Fools’ Day. She had been a fool all along, blind and deaf to the obvious.
‘And it’ll be spring by then,’ he persisted, ‘which is perfect for a wedding.’
She didn’t answer. Early April could be bitter-cold – as cold and bitter as she felt towards him now.
‘And if you do have any setbacks, darling, there’ll be no real need to worry, because I intend to take on all the rearrangements, just as I did with our original plan. So, even if you’re still limping a bit or whatever… .’
She let him ramble on, making no further objection. He would always want his own way when it came to dates and numbers – that was now beyond dispute – and, since dates and numbers were paramount and could easily extend to a host of different areas, she herself would have little leeway or autonomy. Closing her eyes, she slumped back on the bed, letting his arguments wash over her, until he finally realized she had no intention of complying. In the ensuing silence, she heard the old lady’s pathetic whimpers, and then the tramp of feet as a doctor strode into the ward and on to the bed in the corner.
‘Well, if you refuse to consider April,’ Andrew said, at last, ‘we’ll just have to go for May the following year. At least, by that time, you’ll most definitely be better, even if – God forbid – you suffer every complication in the book.’
‘No,’ she said, opening her eyes, with an effort.
‘D’you mean
no, you won’t be better, or no to the May date?’
‘No to the May date. In fact, no to all magical sequences. No to the wedding itself. There isn’t going to be a wedding, Andrew.’
And that, she thought, with a surge of overpowering lightness and relief, was the most magical thing of all, because – serendipitously and in the nick of time – she had managed to escape an onerous life sentence.
‘Can I have it when you go?’
For Sylvia, my wide-thighed, hot-mouthed, luscious-lipped, silken-skinned seductress… .
Unable to repress a smile, she took in every detail of the inscription: the extravagantly sensuous adjectives, the bold italic script looping across the flyleaf of the book, the dashing signature penned with such panache it ended in an exuberant spray of ink-blots. The sixty years since the affair seemed to contract like an accordion, as she felt Roberto’s mouth again, its sheer seeking, probing, daring, insolent greed.
Leafing slowly through the pages, she remembered how, after they’d made love, he would insist on reading to her, as if, once her body was sated, he must give equal stimulation to her mind. Sometimes, he would read these very lyrics, reciting them aloud in the original Ancient Greek and adopting a lulling, rhythmic voice, very different from his usual staccato tone. Even after all this time, she could still recall how strangely soothing, yet intriguingly exotic, the unfamiliar tongue had sounded, and the way she had tried to catch each syllable as it lilted through the room; each a fragile butterfly that must be captured and preserved.
And here they were still – those iridescent butterfly wings fluttering in her head, centuries after the poet’s death, and a good fifty after Roberto’s tragic drowning, in a shipwreck off Zanzibar.
Reluctantly, she closed the book and transferred it to the ‘keep’ pile, which, she noted anxiously, was already considerably bigger than the pile to give away. She simply hadn’t realized how onerous it would be to reduce her possessions to the bare minimum necessitated by her almost-certain house-move. Her clothes had proved less of a problem. Who needed half a dozen winter coats, least of all at Beaufort Lodge, which, on her two recent visits, had seemed stiflingly hot and airless? And most of her shoes were now too tight or too frivolous, so it had caused only a minor pang to ditch the strappy scarlet sandals and perilously high heels, the splendiferous silver evening-pumps and knee-length calfskin boots. Indeed, they’d been due for the dump an age ago but, somehow, she had clung to them, if only as reminders of her glitzy youth.
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 6