On Sunday she drowsed in bed late, half asleep in the rumple of her duvet and listening to Connor in the kitchen, clearing up from the night before, then making his way up the stairs to his study, the ping of his computer being turned on. She didn’t need to see him to know how he’d looked as he’d patiently emplied the dishwasher, washed the pans, wiped every surface clean, then gone to his desk with his thin, clever face alert.
When she got up she made scrambled eggs for them both on buttery brown toast, read the Sunday papers, and went to a garden centre where she spent far too much money on tulip bulbs to plant ready for the spring. In the evening, she read Jane Eyre, a novel she’d read seven or eight times before and whose familiarity and suppressed rage gave her comfort. She went to sleep quite early but was woken after midnight by a phone call from Ethan. From the first syllable she knew he was in distress. After he finished the call, she lay awake for a long time thinking about him. Only the sheer impossibility of it stopped her from leaping into her clothes and getting herself to Exeter there and then.
On Monday she went to work early and came home late. Connor was still out and she had a long bath, washed her hair, painted her toenails, drank a spicy tomato juice and sat for a while in the emptiness of Ethan’s room, which still smelt of him even though the window had been left open for days. She went to bed with no supper, curling herself into a ball. Connor always said that nobody liked to lie in bed with their arms outside the covers. He said that everyone needed to protect themselves with their hands as they slept; it was a human instinct.
On Tuesday she took the train to Birmingham and at half past twelve exactly she was standing at the end of platform one.
They sat on hard chairs in the station café, which was half open to the crowded concourse, full of the blue haze of tobacco smoke and the smell of burnt coffee. In the cavernous, echoey space, they had to speak up to make themselves heard, and every so often announcements for trains forced them into awkward silence. Nancy hadn’t taken off her thick coat; above its turned-up collar, her face was pale and wary. Gaby noticed that she had a few grey hairs and that there were little creases above her upper lip, faint brackets round her mouth. How has that happened? she thought. How have two decades gone by so fast? Where are the young women we were just a blink away, the flat-chested girls? Lying in a hammock together in Gaby’s garden, drowsy in the heat, sticky with lemonade, and giggling as they swayed under the green leaves, splashed by the sun. Swapping secrets and making plans; blithe for the future.
‘So,’ she said. She was surprised by how calm she felt, in control at last. ‘Sonia.’
Nancy’s expression didn’t waver. She picked up her orange-coloured tea, then put it down again without drinking any. She thought that Gaby, with her hair pulled tightly back and her face naked of makeup, creased with anxiety and puffy with tiredness, had never looked so striking. ‘I gather you read her letter, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you might have done. You shouldn’t go doing things like that, you know.’
‘I know. But I did. I can’t undo it now or unknow what I know. That’s the thing about time – it’s a one-way road.’
Nancy regarded her steadily. ‘So, then, what do you know, my old friend? That I had a baby when I was young. A very long time ago.’
‘Yes, it was a very long time,’ said Gaby, softly. She was holding off the words for as long as she could, letting herself drift in this curiously restful moment before she took the next step along the one-way road. Out in the station, people hurried past with newspapers, briefcases, backpacks, all on their way somewhere else. ‘Eighteen years.’
Nancy said nothing. Outside, a distorted voice boomed news of a delay. Apologies for any inconvenience this might cause.
‘You could have had an abortion.’
‘I could have, yes.’ Her mouth closed firmly.
‘But instead you chose to escape and have your daughter secretly and give her away.’
Nancy said nothing.
‘I can’t imagine how that must feel. Going through a pregnancy and a birth and then letting her go.’
‘Probably not.’
‘Or, at least, I can begin to – because of having Ethan and even when I was so ill I felt sick and moony with love for him. And then the miscarriages, of course.’ She waited a few seconds. ‘I was pregnant when you left. That day when we met, I was feeling so sick and I thought I might be. I went straight home and did the test and I was. So, for a couple of months we were both pregnant at the same time, though you were further on than me, of course. I’ve been thinking about that.’
‘Gaby, if you –’
‘Sssh. Listen. Of course, when I read the letter from Sonia, I thought about Stefan. I didn’t tell him, though, if that’s what you’ve been wondering. Well, of course you’ve been wondering. Or Connor. Isn’t that strange? The two people I tell everything to. You’d have thought I couldn’t hold it back for a moment. You know that feeling when there’s a secret inside you and you can feel it growing and growing in the darkness until you’re sure it has to burst out of you? That makes it sound rather like pregnancy, now I think of it. Anyway, I’ve had this secret inside me. Your secret. What a secret. Did you tell people? Were there friends after me you could turn to and pour out your heart to? Or were you like King Midas, whispering it to the rushes, and thinking that it would shrink away and one day almost feel as if it didn’t exist? If it had been me, I would have spilled it out sooner or later, but it wasn’t me, and you’re so very different from me. That’s why I loved you so much, I guess. You’re all that I’m not. And you’ve always been good at secrets.
‘Anyway, I didn’t tell them. I still haven’t. Every time I saw Stefan I would feel so scared of what he would feel if he knew, even after so many years. He always wanted children, a family, and there he is, lonely and defeated, and sometimes I think he’s such a sad man underneath the good cheer. It sounds ridiculous, but because I didn’t tell Stefan, I didn’t tell Connor either. Somehow I couldn’t. I felt filled up with this poisonous secret and I didn’t want to pass it on. I didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that I suddenly possessed.’ She gave a giggle and took a gulp of her cool coffee. ‘I tell you, Nancy, it’s been a very odd few weeks. I’ve been like some ridiculous spy, creeping round in disguise, pretending to be me. I can’t believe no one noticed. Maybe nobody knows me as well as I always thought. Maybe I’ve got to stop being so naïvely romantic about human relationships. What is it you always used to say? In the end everyone is alone.’
‘So you decided to talk to me,’ said Nancy, hurrying her along in a clipped tone. She was sitting up straight in her chair, her hands on the table in front of her. To look at her, they might have been in a business meeting.
‘Oh, no. No, that’s not what I did.’
‘No?’
‘No. I went and found Sonia.’
There was a small gasp and the table rocked; tiny ripples spread across the surface of the orange tea. Nancy’s hands clenched. Gaby saw the knuckles whiten. Nancy didn’t speak. Her face had gone chalky and pinched; the lines round her mouth stood out and she looked suddenly older and smaller. Gaby almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
‘I thought if I saw her I would know,’ said Gaby.
‘Know?’ Nancy managed, in a whisper.
‘Yes. Know if she was Stefan’s. I had this belief that I’d be able to tell. Have you met her yet?’
‘No,’ Nancy gasped. She leant forward, her face screwed up in pain. ‘She wasn’t ready. I can’t believe you went and –’
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her who I was or anything. I just wanted to see her. And of course she’s not Stefan’s, is she?’
‘I don’t know.’ The words came out in a croak. ‘I don’t know who the father is, Gaby. I don’t know.’
‘I do. Not Stefan’s, that’s for sure. I should have known all along she couldn’t have been Stefan’s, of course – or, at least, that you weren’t su
re she was. Maybe but maybe not. Is that it? I just wasn’t thinking straight. Why on earth would you have done a runner and cut all ties if she’d been his? What did you say when we met? You felt as if you’d committed a crime.’ She sighed and sat back in the chair. ‘It’s funny, but when I dropped Ethan off at university, we had this lovely talk. Really lovely – the kind you can’t ask for but sometimes just happens and you know even at the time that it’s precious. He said when he was growing up he’d sometimes wished he wasn’t an only child but had a brother or sister to keep him company.’
‘Gaby, please.’
‘Hang on. Sonia. She’s lovely. She has your eyes, you know. You probably couldn’t tell that from the little passport photo she sent you. And that jaw of yours. I’d have recognized her anywhere from it. I bet she’s stubborn, just like you. I keep on reading pieces in the newspaper about new theories on genetics. I used to believe – because I wanted to, probably – that we can choose who we become, but a lot of scientists say that it’s almost all genetic, as though we’re a computer that’s been programmed, and we’re not really free at all, we only think we are – and even thinking we are is part of the program, if you see what I mean. Before I went into labour with Ethan, my left leg began to tremble violently; when I told my mother, she said exactly the same thing had happened to her with the four of us. Even that tremble was genetic. And Ethan – he used to be so close to me it was as though he was invisible. I was looking into him not at him. But now that he’s older and so much his own person, I can see myself in him quite clearly – or I look at myself and it’s his face, too, that stares back at me. He’s not much like his father, neither in looks nor in character. I used to mind that for Connor sometimes. There were occasions when he seemed the odd one out in the threesome – so dark and precise and intense and troubled and self-contained and needy. You remember.’
She stopped and held her breath. The objects round her seemed clear and yet far off; Nancy herself seemed etched and unreal. She need not speak. She could do as Nancy had done and seal the secret inside her, plug the holes through which it might escape. Until now, a small part of her had resisted the revelation she had had that day in Stratford, turning it into a story, a dream that would fade away on waking. She knew that saying the words out loud to Nancy would move it into the outside world and make it solid, public and inescapable. So she paused. She looked across at Nancy with shining eyes. She felt the words from inside her and she opened her mouth: ‘But Sonia’s just like Connor.’
Into the silence a voice boomed, announcing the late arrival of the train from Worcester. Nancy was absolutely still, as if the words had cast a spell over her. Even her hands on the table didn’t move. Perhaps she wasn’t breathing.
At last she gave a small sigh. ‘Is she?’ she said. ‘Is she really?’
So I’m right, thought Gaby. I thought I knew, but now I know that I know. Not even a hairline crack for hope. I’m right, and my husband and my best friend were lovers. Under my nose, in my house, while I was suffering and they were looking after me and saving me from harm, and of course I never suspected because I loved them, and I knew they both loved me; even now, I can remember them loving me and I know it’s not a lie. They were my safety. They were my home.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said to Nancy, smiling. ‘She’s thin and dark and spare like him. She might have your jaw, but the shape of her face is his, and although she’s got your eyes, she’s got his brows and his long dark lashes. She even –’ Gaby gave a tiny laugh that turned into the start of a sob, which she bit down, ‘–she even pulls at her ear-lobe the way he does. When I saw that … Anyway, it’s more than that – it’s like she’s shot through with Connorness. Once I knew for sure, I could almost feel him in her. The thing that made me fall for Connor, as if I was falling down a sheer cliff, his prickly vulnerability that made me want to hold him in my arms and make him better – she’s like that, I’m sure she is. Wait one moment. Hold on.’
She rummaged in her capacious bag and pulled out a new packet of cigarettes, put one into her mouth and lit it, dragging the smoke deep into her lungs, then letting it out slowly. ‘I’ve recently taken up smoking again. Maybe it makes me feel that I might be someone else, a stranger I’ve only just met. I don’t know why on earth that should be so comforting but it is. Anyway, I’ve really only got two more things to say. Or ask, really. Then I’ve done. All talked out. Was Connor going to leave me?’
‘Gaby, if you had any idea how –’
‘Was Connor going to leave me?’
‘These are the things you have to ask Connor, not me.’
‘Don’t worry, I will. I just thought I’d ask my ex-best friend first. Was he?’
‘No. No. You’re the one he always loved. He never stopped loving you.’
‘Don’t tell me about love right now. The other thing I want to ask is: does he know about Sonia?’
‘No. I promise you.’
‘He doesn’t know he’s got another child?’
‘No. When I left, I hadn’t even told him I was pregnant. I never told him.’
Gaby started to giggle, though it hurt her throat and her eyes stung. ‘Then he’s in for a big surprise. Oh dear.’
‘Gaby.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Please, darling Gaby. It was a long time ago.’
‘I know it was – does that make it better or worse? What’s the point in saying that? Don’t say anything. Don’t talk to me.’
‘I don’t have the words –’
‘Then don’t speak. What use are words anyway?’
There were other questions, of course. Even as Gaby sat and stared across the table at Nancy, they crowded into her mind. What would she say to Connor, and what would she do? What would she say to Stefan? Would Sonia want to meet Connor too, and would he want to meet her? And what about Ethan? Should he know? Her heart contracted at the thought of her son. Did he have to know? He had a half-sister now: of course he had to know. What would he say? What would he think? Her old life, which had once troubled her because it was so straightforward and predictable, now seemed sweet. Sweet and false; simple and untrue; happy only because it was complacent and bathed in ignorance.
What else was there to discover? she wondered queasily. For, after all, this was what all life must be, in the end: an elaborate charade in which everyone hides their true feelings and their secret actions beneath the acceptable surface of their public selves. It’s all a necessary fake: we survive by pretending to feel what we don’t feel, like whom we don’t like, desire what we don’t want, be who we aren’t. It’s not just about showing different sides of oneself, depending on whom you’re with. It goes further than that. Gaby thought of the friends she had whom she didn’t particularly like or even wish well; she thought of the times she’d lied to Connor, out of kindness – or, at least, the wish not to be unkind; she thought of the way in which she tried to court the world with her act of spontaneity. All deceit, she thought – and we don’t only pretend to others, but to ourselves, so that we come to believe in the lies and the self-justifications we’re peddling. As she sat at the table, watching a fat pigeon lurch across the concourse outside, the world seemed to drip with hypocrisy and cruelty that most of the time we have to choose not to see, because to see it would be unbearable.
Her best friend had slept with her husband. It was a cliché, a monstrous stereotype of betrayal. Her best friend had borne her husband’s daughter. This happened to other people; you read this story in women’s magazines and it’s a grotty little tragedy, a grim little farce.
‘Gaby –’ Nancy was saying.
Gaby forced Nancy’s stunned face back into focus, wincing. ‘How could you? You were always the moral one. We looked up to you. You were so sure what was right and what was wrong – a bit like Connor, I guess. I was a bit flaky. You could never be sure that I wouldn’t go and do something stupid, but not you. You were the rock, the one we trusted to behave properly. When you left, I thought it must b
e something I’d done. It had to be my fault. I adored you. Then this, this –’ She choked and stopped, then lifted her eyes to Nancy’s. ‘How could you do it?’
Nancy cleared her throat. Her face was working and a small blue vein throbbed in her neck. When she spoke, her voice was dry and husky. ‘I’m not going to ask you to forgive me. What I did was unforgivable. I know that. I’m not going to try to make excuses for what happened or in any way reduce the pain you must be feeling now –’
‘Oh, please get on with it, Nancy. You’re not in a court of law, you know. You don’t have to give a speech on abstract things like forgiveness and guilt, and I’m not a tribunal or a judge or anything. I’m me. Gaby. Remember? We shared toothbrushes.’
‘OK. OK. You’re right. Maybe I sound like that because I’ve been making speeches to you in my head ever since it happened, although I hoped I’d never have to do it in real life. I wanted you never to know. I thought at least I could do that.’
Gaby broke in abruptly: ‘I don’t think I want to talk about all this now. I can’t. I’ve kind of had enough. I need to get away to think.’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t know, Nancy.’
‘You don’t know what?’
‘I just don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. Anything at all. I don’t know what this means. I don’t know what’ll happen. I don’t know who I am any more, or what my life is. I’m tired. I want to go home.’
But the word ‘home’ brought tears to her eyes. It didn’t have the same meaning now, but fell with a soft, drab thump in her heart. Home had always been where Connor and Ethan were. But Ethan had gone – and Connor had changed for her. In her mind’s eye, she saw her husband’s pale, attentive face; the way he looked as he sat at his desk, frowning into the distance; the way he was with a person in pain – expert, but solicitous too. He might be prickly and difficult, but he was kind, he was honourable, he cared about other people, he was true. She’d always felt proud that it was her he had chosen to love.
The Moment You Were Gone Page 19