The Last Day
Page 23
‘Christ, Colin,’ I say, as the house comes into sight. ‘It’s fucking huge. Why would anyone want to live in something so huge?’
‘It’s just a home,’ he replies. ‘Some walls, floors, windows, a roof. All houses are basically the same, it’s the small details that make them special: the way sunlight stripes a wooden floor, the curve of wood in a banister, a grey marble fireplace against cream walls, the furniture, the things people do and say while they’re living there.’
‘Mmmm,’ I am unconvinced. ‘It still baffles me why some people feel the need to live in houses like this.’
He pulls into a space in front of the triple garage next to an Aston Martin.
‘That’s not his car,’ he says. ‘My client’s, that is. That must belong to a guest. Steve’s got a Ferrari.’
‘How did they make their money?’ I ask as he switches off the engine and I open the door.
‘Care homes, I think,’ he says. ‘Steve set up a business, then sold it to a US consortium. Made a fortune. This is their dream home, or so his wife told me at the start. There’d been an Edwardian house on the site but they had it knocked down, built this in its place.’
Wouldn’t it be odd, I think, if this Steve had once owned Queen Anne’s where Belle had lived until recently? If he had, then in some way, Belle’s money would have helped to pay for some of this usurper house sitting smugly before me in its landscaped grounds.
The house is what I can only describe as a fusion of styles: part flamboyant Art Deco, part restrained Edwardian good taste but, when we go through the front door, I realise that here is where Colin’s talent shines through. On the outside there may be some degree of vulgarity and ostentation in the brickwork, light fittings, exquisitely clipped topiary plants in garish silver pots, but inside the house is all clean lines, balanced spaces and understated elegance.
There’s a double-height lobby just inside the front door which is lit by a massive chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling all the way down to the space above our heads. Four reception rooms lead off the hallway and, so Colin tells me as we make our way through to the kitchen, there’s a games room and gym on the other side of the house, mirroring the wing on this side which houses the kitchen, breakfast and utility rooms. The stairs are at the end of the hallway, dividing when they get to the first floor and, on each side of the house bedrooms lead off both landings. Each bedroom has its own en suite and, he says, there’s a party house and indoor swimming pool in the grounds behind the garages.
‘Fuck me,’ I say under my breath as we walk into the vast kitchen. ‘You could fit my whole house into the utility room of this thing!’
A man is approaching. ‘Colin!’ he says, ‘I’m so pleased you could come.’
‘This is Vita,’ Colin says and I shake the proffered hand. It is warm and large and reminds me of Boyd’s.
‘Hi,’ he says, ‘I’m Steve. This man here is a genius.’
‘So he tells me,’ I say, laughing lightly, wishing I was the sort of person who could get away with saying things like this, but even as the words come out of my mouth I regret them. This isn’t me. Steve’s let go of my hand and so I whip off my glasses and start cleaning them with the hem of my sleeve.
Steve is tall and well-built and obviously looks after himself. He has grey hair, intelligent, piercing blue eyes and looks as though he wouldn’t be afraid of making tough decisions at work.
‘Ah, Vita,’ he says, ‘you’re the artist, aren’t you? Colin’s told me all about you.’
‘Has he?’ I ask. I’m surprised and annoyed by this. How dare Colin talk about me in my absence? What gives him the right? I put my glasses back on.
There’s an awkward pause and then Steve says brightly, ‘You must come and meet the Mrs,’ and he leads us over to the woman who must be his wife. She’s directing a waitress towards a group of guests standing by a set of huge bi-fold doors and saying, ‘Just keep the food and drink flowing, OK?’
He introduces her to us, saying, ‘This is Rachel. The power behind the throne.’
God, how I hate it when men talk about their wives like this. Boyd never did, and he never would, and I’m surprised when Colin laughs politely in agreement.
Like Steve, Rachel is well-groomed and wearing something that’s obviously not off the peg. Her hair, face and nails are expertly done, but she exudes warmth and genuineness and, standing next to her in my denim tunic and cheesecloth shirt, black leggings and DMs, I feel OK, like she and I could be friends. Not that I could be friends with her guests though. The huddle over by the patio doors are all Botox, fake tan and sycophantic laughter. Whereas Steve and Rachel have some undefinable kind of class, their guests certainly don’t.
The only way to cope with this evening is to drink and so, as Colin is taken away by Steve to be introduced to the rest of the guests as the architect of this wonderful house, I hang back, take the glass of champagne the waitress is now offering me and down it in one.
I swap my empty glass for a full one as another waitress skims by, and take another mouthful. I haven’t eaten much today and already the alcohol is making my blood buzz. On the other side of the room Colin is doing what he does best: fitting in, being undemanding, giving me space. He knows I hate small talk and that I don’t actually want to be here at all and have only come as a favour to him. But, as Rachel puts a proprietorial hand on his arm and guides him through the crowds of house-admirers, I feel a stab of something. I assume it’s impatience and annoyance. No way is it jealousy.
When Boyd and I had been together, I’d never had cause to be jealous and, whatever it is I feel now he’s back living under the same roof and has brought Honey with him, that’s not jealousy either. It is, I acknowledge, a huge mix of emotions: it is regret, grief, affection, care, but not jealousy. I help myself to yet another glass of champagne.
A florid, rotund man is approaching with a look of expectancy on his face as if I will immediately know who he is and be dying to speak to him. ‘Ah,’ the man says, ‘are you Mrs Colin?’
‘No,’ I reply, looking down at my feet, ‘I’m not.’
The man, however, must have the hide of a rhino because he doesn’t take the hint. ‘But,’ he continues, ‘you came with Colin the Architect, didn’t you?’ He says it as though the word ‘Architect’ should have a capital A.
‘We’re just friends,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need the loo.’
I leave the man standing there looking foolish but I don’t care. I wander away from the hubbub of noise and activity in the kitchen into the quieter corridors and spaces on the other side of the house. Here, I stare out of the huge windows on to the cleverly lit gardens, the frost is deepening as the evening wears on and the lawns are sparkling with a million pinpricks of silver.
Are we just friends, I wonder? Me and Colin? I can see my reflection in the glass and for the first time I really question what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. Having sex with Colin had seemed an uncomplicated thing before Boyd came back, but now Boyd knows about us it’s starting to mean something different.
‘There you are.’ Colin appears behind me. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. You hate it here, don’t you?’
‘They’re not my kind of people.’
‘Much like they weren’t my kind of people at the art show we went to in London.’
‘Touché,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘But to be honest, they weren’t mine either. I only went because it was expected of me.’
‘I know,’ he says.
I’m not in love with Colin, not in the breathtaking, heart-stopping way I should be, but I admire his intelligence, clear-sightedness and patience. I also know, however, that this definitely isn’t enough. I want more. I’d had it once and thought I could live without it when it went away but, as I stand in this magnificent house in its magnificent grounds, I realise that actually I can’t. And, given all that I’ve convinced myself of lately, this is an awful admission to make.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s get back to it.’
‘We can leave if you like.’
‘I’ll give it another half an hour!’
‘That’s good of you.’
We’re teasing one another and it feels good to do so. I need to make an effort to ensure the pall that settled on me when we arrived starts to lift. It’s not fair on Colin otherwise. He doesn’t deserve it. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘I could use another drink.’
By the time we leave I’ve had too much champagne, said things I shouldn’t have said to some of Steve and Rachel’s guests, dropped a glass onto the slate floor of the kitchen and said, ‘Fuck it,’ too loudly when I did so.
Colin steers me out of the house and the cold air hits me like a fist and I retch into one of the exquisitely cut topiary plants, saying, ‘I think I’m a little bit drunk.’
‘You don’t say,’ Colin replies, opening the car door. ‘You get in. I’ll de-ice the windows.’
And, as I sit there waiting for him to get in too and drive me home, I know I won’t stay the night with him tonight, and that perhaps I won’t stay the night with him ever again.
* * *
The next morning I’m late down and Boyd’s already got the kettle on and is leaning up against the counter, newspaper in hand.
‘You look awful,’ he says.
‘Why thank you. What a nice thing to say!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he smiles at me. ‘It’s just you look tired. Late night last night?’
‘Bit too much to drink if I’m honest.’
‘Ah, that’ll be it. We never learn, do we?’
I’m not sure who he’s referring to with the word ‘we’. It used to mean him and me, but obviously doesn’t any more.
‘Where did you go?’ he adds, reaching round me to grab the mugs out of the cupboard.
‘One of Colin’s clients had a housewarming party,’ I say.
Boyd will know that I didn’t stay the night at Colin’s; would he wonder why?
‘Shall we get cracking on the crossword?’ he asks.
‘Do you mind if I pass? Think I’ll take my tea back upstairs if that’s OK.’
‘Of course. I should get going anyway. I told Trixie I’d be in a bit earlier today. Honey’s staying here, having a day off.’
‘Is she? That’s nice.’
I never was much good at lying and so, hastily grabbing the tea Boyd’s made for me, I drag myself back to my room. As I get into bed, I try very hard not to think of Colin in his room on the other side of the wall, try not think of his firm body, his caramel-coloured skin. I pick up my phone and send him a text. ‘Sorry for last night,’ it reads. ‘I didn’t acquit myself very well.’
He replies immediately. ‘That’s OK. No damage done.’
But I wonder whether actually more damage has been done than either of us appreciates. And, I notice, he doesn’t suggest we see one another today, or later, or even sometime next week.
I can hear the unmistakable sounds of Boyd getting ready for work: his footsteps on the stairs, the way he clears his throat, the mumble of his voice as he says something to Honey. And then, very soon, he’s gone. The front door closes behind him, he’s scraping ice off the windscreen of his car and then his engine starts and he pulls away. I’ve watched him do this so many times that, even though I’m in bed and the curtains are still closed, I can see him as if I am looking out of the window. Doing so is almost like a magic trick.
I’ve finished my tea and lie back and shut my eyes. My head is pounding and the room’s a bit jittery.
There’s a knock at my door.
‘Yes?’ Reluctantly, I open my eyes and haul myself into a sitting position.
The door opens and Honey pops her head round it.
‘Hi,’ she says, ‘just wondered what time you want me? In the studio?’
I hadn’t forgotten but had hoped Honey had.
‘What have you told Boyd you’re doing today?’ I ask in lieu of an answer.
‘He’s suggested I read The Magus by John Fowles so I’ve promised him I’ll make a start on that and then stagger around the kitchen and get dinner ready for when he comes home. I feel awful not going into work today, but it’s also nice to have a day off. Can’t remember the last time I did, one that wasn’t caused by this,’ she points to her foot, ‘or Belle.’
‘It was probably the time we started the portrait,’ I say. ‘Your last proper day off, I mean.’
Even in her pyjamas, without make-up, and with bed hair, Honey is still unbearably beautiful. I feel a hundred years old in comparison. Obviously, the hangover isn’t helping.
And Honey seems relaxed today, at ease. It’s been a while since she has been. Honey has become much more twitchy of late, but today she is a like a teenager for whom the sun is shining. You know how teenagers can be: all doom and gloom one minute, all light and laughter the next …
She laughs, ‘You’re right, it probably was.’ And then asks again, ‘So, what time do you want me? It is …’ she hesitates, shifts her foot, clunking the plaster cast up against the door and saying, ‘argh!’ before continuing, ‘… very kind of you to do this for me, for us.’
‘Well, it’s not for “us” is it? After all, Boyd doesn’t know about it.’
‘Not yet, no.’ If Honey’s upset by my tone, she doesn’t show it. ‘But he will. One day, he will.’
‘Shall we say eleven?’ I say, trying to be a bit more conciliatory.
‘Perfect. I’ll see you in the studio then,’ Honey replies, stepping back through the door.
‘Let’s hope the light stays on our side,’ I add as the door closes. ‘The light on these cold, clear days can be great for painting …’
But Honey’s gone, and I can hear her uneven tread along the landing and then the bathroom door closes.
I snuggle back under the covers and let my mind wander.
When William died, I’d really believed that Boyd and I were strong enough to cope. After all we’d had so many years of it just being the two of us that we hadn’t got used to it being any different, not really. William was, of course, all-consuming and the centre of everything, but it hadn’t yet started to feel ordinary, we were still feeling our way. It should have been easy to revert to how it had been before.
And we always believe we will survive, don’t we? When something awful happens, the first thought isn’t, ‘This will finish us.’ It is, ‘I will do what I can to protect those I love from the pain of this.’ Isn’t it?
But in the days and weeks immediately afterwards, I turned away from Boyd, believing it to be a wholly justifiable thing to do because my pain was greater than his. Trixie practically moved in, bringing round casseroles and ironing Boyd’s shirts. She’d leave the office and pop by at lunchtime to make me a bowl of soup or scrambled eggs and I’d stay in bed, where I am now, with the windows closed and the curtains drawn.
Then the weeks turned into months and still Boyd got up every day and went to work; he did the shopping, tidied the garden, replaced broken lightbulbs, didn’t try to touch or comfort me. He’d suggested grief counselling but I’d told him to fuck off and had rebuffed him so many times at night by then that he’d given up trying. And I’d gone walking. I’d walked for miles and miles in the park and around the neighbouring roads and had come home foot-sore and drenched and hadn’t let him comfort me then either. And then one day, the day that, in retrospect, marked the official beginning of the end of us, he came home from work to find me in William’s bedroom, putting baby clothes into bin bags.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
He stood in the doorway, his huge frame sagging with exhaustion.
‘What does it look like?’
‘Isn’t this something we should have discussed? I mean …’ he hesitated, taking one step nearer to me.
I remember feeling a pulse of impatience, as if his presence was sucking all the oxygen from the room.
‘What? What do you mean, Boyd?’
Outside it was raining and I also remember thinking how fucking appropriate it was that it should be. The rain fell in rods from low, dark clouds like it had on the day we’d moved in and like it had at William’s funeral.
‘I mean,’ he tried again. ‘I mean, what gives you the right to do this today? What if I’d wanted to do it months ago but didn’t dare because you weren’t talking to me and I couldn’t check if it was the right thing to do or not? Or, what if I never want to do it but want to keep his things, this room as it is now, for always?’
Of course, I didn’t hear the other arguments, the totally reasonable things he said which were, in retrospect, nothing but a cry for help. No. All I heard was ‘what gives you the right?’
‘The right?’ The words exploded out of my mouth. ‘Because he was my son. I was his mother.’
‘He was my son, too, Vita.’
If I think of all the ways Boyd could have said this, they are countless. He could have been angry, resentful, violent, and would have been totally within his right to be any of these. But he actually said it like he was admitting defeat. His sadness filled the room and I didn’t want it, couldn’t handle it, not on top of my own.
We’d painted the walls of William’s room duckling yellow before he was born, it seemed an absurd colour now he’d gone. I hated it. I carried on stuffing his things into the bags and turned my back on Boyd.
It was a shameful and cruel thing to have done.