She looked round the kitchen. She could remember where and when they’d bought almost every object, from the large teapot (Devon, when Ethan was a toddler in a buggy and Connor a young doctor) to the green glasses (Prague, two years ago). A door led to the long strip of garden outside; she unbolted it and stepped out on to a carpet of soggy, mottled leaves and damp grass. She registered the signs of her neglect: the grass was long and the last of the roses were turning brown on their stems. Most of the apples had fallen from their branches and lay in a russet circle on the ground. Very different from Nancy’s impeccable plot, she thought sourly, sitting down on the wet bench and pulling out the packet of cigarettes she had bought on her way home. Briefly, she worried about Connor discovering her smoking, which made her give a bark of grumpy laughter. That was the least of her concerns. She struck a match and pulled the smoke deep into her lungs, then let it out and watched it drift towards the empty sky. Her mind was curiously blank. She was waiting to find out what she would do.
Events decided for her. Going back into the kitchen, she noticed that the answering-machine was flashing, and when she pressed ‘play’ the first voice she heard was Connor’s. It made her jump. For a moment, she thought he was going to confess.
‘Hi, it’s me. I’ve just come back from my run and I wanted to remind you that your brothers are all coming round tonight so there’ll be seven of us. I’ll try to get back before they arrive. Do you want me to pick anything up to eat, or have you got it sorted? I’ll get some good cheese, anyway, so you don’t have to worry about pudding. Hope you’ve had a good day. See you later. Oh, and by the way, the car’s ready to collect from the garage in Exeter. But we can discuss that later.’
No, she hadn’t got it sorted because she had forgotten. After an initial spasm of panic – Connor and Stefan at her table together, today of all days – she found that she was bizarrely relieved, even elated. Now she didn’t need to make a decision; she could put it off until tomorrow and spend what was left of the day buying food, having a bath, pottering round the house in her dressing-gown before they arrived. She could avoid Connor without appearing to do so, and comfort Stefan without him knowing he was being comforted. One more evening of pretending that everything was normal. She would drink, laugh, swap ancient family anecdotes, lure them into staying too late. Her spirits rose; she could feel a bubble of excitement in her chest.
She realized she was starving and couldn’t remember when she had last eaten a proper meal. Not today and not yesterday. Maybe she’d become gaunt and tragically glamorous, every cloud has a silver … She pulled open the fridge door and took out a half-full carton of semi-skimmed milk, which she gulped without bothering about a glass. Milk splashed over her coat, and she wiped her lips on her sleeve when she’d finished. She peeled clingfilm off a small bowl on the shelf, picked a meatball that had seen better days out of its tomato sauce and popped it into her mouth. She crunched her way through a carrot that had gone bendy with age. That was better. She peered deeper into the fridge to see what else was in there. Parmesan, the remainder of the rabbit casserole Connor had cooked on Saturday, an egg box with no eggs inside, several yoghurts long past their sell-by date. She peeled the lid off one, dipped in her finger and sucked it thoughtfully. Strawberry-flavoured – horrible. What could she cook? A simple meal for a Tuesday night. A chicken; she was good at chicken. But she’d done chicken last time her brothers and their wives had come, and probably the time before. Fish, then. Did they have fish? She yanked open the door of the small freezer: two salmon fillets, some smoked eel that Connor had put there when he came back from Amsterdam, a bag of peas, ice and various bottles of spirits. That wouldn’t stretch very far. She’d have to go to the shops.
It had turned into one of those flawless late-autumn afternoons, crisp and bright. Gaby walked slowly down the road, relishing the warmth of the sun and the jostle of children who’d come out of school and were now making their way home in noisy groups. She went into the local butcher’s and asked him what she should buy. ‘You know me,’ she said, ‘something simple and foolproof – but not chicken.’
‘Lamb fillets,’ he instructed her. ‘Already marinated. They need half an hour or so in the oven. And here’s some mint sauce to go with them.’
‘Perfect.’
Next door, she bought salad and a bag of limes; at the baker’s, three baguettes. She made her way to the florist and stood in the moist green interior, breathing in the fragrance. There were buckets of roses, chrysanthemums, freesias, dahlias, lilies, irises; green fronds and purple-stemmed foliage. She picked out two bunches of freesias, and another of yellow roses.
‘Is that everything?’ asked the florist.
‘Yes. No. No, it isn’t. I’ll take some bronze chrysanthemums as well. That’s it.’
‘Shall I put them all together.’
‘Oh – and those floppy pink flowers, I never remember their name.’
‘Lisianthus.’
‘That’s it. I love them. Two bunches.’
‘Are you celebrating something?’
‘Not exactly.’
She meandered home, the shopping-bags in one hand and the vast bunch of flowers held in triumph. Every so often, she stopped to change hands and to bury her face in their smell. A curious smile curled round her mouth. She was thinking of the evening ahead; her heart skipped a beat.
First, she lit the fire that Connor had already laid in the grate. Even so, it took several goes to get it alight, and by then the room was full of smoke and she had to open windows to get rid of it.
In the kitchen, Gaby swept the papers and letters on the table into a pile, which she deposited in a cardboard box, then set seven places – three couples and Stefan, the onesome of every group. She put the flowers in vases and jugs and placed them around the kitchen and living room, then rummaged in various drawers for candles.
A long, hot bath, till her fingertips shrivelled and her head swam. She washed her hair, towelled it dry, scrunching it to make it curl more, then stood at the window in her dressing-gown, gazing out at the fading light; there was a violet streak along the horizon. A full moon, so pale it was scarcely visible, floated in the sky. What to wear? Pulling clothes from her wardrobe, she held them against her in front of the mirror and dropped them to the floor one after another until she was standing ankle-deep in a puddle of garments. She ended up choosing a brightly striped long skirt and a wraparound top with flared sleeves and velvet hem, then festooned herself with bangles and beads that resembled boiled sweets. She looked, she thought, with satisfaction, like a fortune-teller in a circus tent. Nancy would never wear anything like this: she was stern and lean and tasteful. Leaning into the mirror, she drew lines round her eyes, smeared blusher along her cheekbones, squirted perfume behind her ears, on her wrists, down her cleavage, into her damp hair. Lip gloss; she pressed her mouth on to a tissue and saw its red shape blotted into a bold kiss.
She poured herself half a glass of red wine while she prepared the meal. But half a glass wasn’t enough. It only lasted long enough for her to slice the cucumber and shred the lettuce into the salad bowl. She needed more while she crushed the garlic and made the salad dressing. Either she was moving very slowly, or time had speeded up, because now it was half past seven and there was a knock at the door. She knew it was Stefan, because he always rapped out the same rhythm: slow-quick-quick-slow. Was that a fox-trot? He stood on the doorstep with a bemused smile on his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure that he’d come to the right place.
‘Stefan!’ she cried, drawing him out of the cool night into the warmth of her hug. ‘Come and sit by the fire and I’ll get you a drink. Here, give me that coat. What lovely flowers.’
‘You seem to have got rather a lot already,’ he said. ‘And you’re – um – rather festive. I haven’t forgotten someone’s birthday, have I?’
‘Yours is next week.’
‘That doesn’t count.’
‘I thought I could make us a caipirinha.�
��
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s this drink they have in Brazil, with lime and rum and crushed ice. I had it the other week and it was so wonderful I went and bought a bottle of the special rum, but I forgot about it until now.’
‘It is Tuesday today, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It’s just … That sounds a bit Fridayish to me.’
‘Live a little.’
‘All right,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Just a little one. I’m in my car.’
‘Leave it here and take a cab. Or get a lift from Max. You squeeze the limes. They’re over there and the lemon-squeezer’s on the side. I’ll do the ice.’
Gaby snapped the cubes out of their containers and wrapped them in a dishcloth, then took the hammer from the tool drawer and started smashing them vigorously. Tiny dents appeared in the wooden work surface and shards of ice scattered over the floor.
‘Maybe it would be better with a rolling-pin.’
‘This is fine. There’s the door again. Will you get it for me?’
Max and Antony with their wives, Paula and Yvette, gathered round her in the kitchen, taking off their jackets and exclaiming at the flowers and candles. They stood in their sober, weekday clothes and watched as Gaby applied herself to the ice like a blacksmith at his anvil. Her long sleeves dangled on to the wet surface and her hair fell over her flushed face. ‘There,’ she said at last. ‘That’ll do. Bring me those glasses. I think it’s just a handful of ice, like so. Then you share out that lime juice, Stefan. Stir in some sugar – you can add more if you want. And finally,’ she took a slim bottle from the freezer, ‘the rum.’ It was viscous with cold and she glooped it into each glass. ‘Cheers,’ she said. She clinked her glass against the others and held it up.
‘What are we celebrating?’
It was Connor, smiling in the doorway. He was still wearing his overcoat and his cheeks were bright with cold. Gaby thought he looked more handsome the older he got, his hair silvering at his temples, his face thin and mobile. There had been something callow about him when he was a young man but now he was easier in himself and carried himself with a certain authority. She watched as he shook hands with his brothers-in-law and kissed Yvette and Paula.
‘You’re just in time,’ she said, as he bent to kiss her. His lips missed hers and grazed her cheek. She smelt his aftershave, felt the fine stubble on his jaw. ‘Here, take your drink. What are we celebrating? Anything. Everything. Do we need a reason? Why don’t you choose something?’
‘Give me a moment,’ he said, putting the bag of cheese on the side and unbuttoning his coat. ‘There.’ He remembered how he had been thinking of Ethan on his run, and raised his glass. ‘To absent loved ones,’ he said, with a half-ironic solemnity, trying to meet Gaby’s eye.
‘Perfect!’ Gaby chinked her glass against his, eyes on his chin, the knot of the tie she’d given him several years ago. ‘To absent loved ones. Wherever they may be. Whoever they may be.’ She felt on fire already, and shouldn’t drink any more. Not tonight. She put the tumbler down carefully out of her reach.
‘Absent loved ones,’ everyone else echoed dutifully.
For the rest of the evening, Gaby tuned in and out like a mobile phone going through dead zones. Later, there were patches of it she could scarcely recall. They’d talked about their mother, of course – they always did nowadays, for Samantha Graham was sliding into forgetfulness. What had seemed for several years like a benevolent vagueness, inevitable in old age, had become an act of disappearance. She was losing parts of herself – whole sections of memory were gone, chunks of vocabulary, all sense of future purpose. Their father insisted that he could look after her, but although he didn’t complain it was evidently becoming more difficult. Gaby didn’t attend to the discussion, but she knew what would have been said, what she herself would have said, because it was the same every time they met. Max thought their mother should, sooner or later, go into a home because before long their father would no longer be able to cope; they should plan ahead rather than react instinctively and chaotically to events. Antony responded heatedly that they couldn’t decide for their parents what was best for them. Stefan listened perplexedly to what each person said and often rephrased it to clarify each position. Gaby insisted they should live with her and Connor whenever it became necessary. She would not hear of her beloved mother going into a home, even if one day she no longer knew where or even who she was. She became angrily emotional and even rude when Max turned over care options, or when Antony pointed out that perhaps their parents wouldn’t want to live with Gaby and, after all, it was up to them. Their partners were on the sidelines, throwing the ball back into play every so often when it was booted out. Everyone knew in advance what would be said, and also that nothing would be settled, but the discussion had to run its course. Connor was always the referee, so Gaby supposed that he was that evening as well. She couldn’t remember. She only knew that he kept trying to catch her eye, but she refused to respond. She served the lamb and watched as Connor poured red wine into everyone’s glass. It was impossible for her to eat: the meat tasted of leather, the baguettes of cardboard, the salad of nothing at all.
It was strange to be there and yet not there, in her body and floating outside it. She knew something that nobody else knew and which, once it was discovered, would change their lives. She could almost feel the secret lodged inside her, ticking away. Every so often she imagined opening her mouth and saying, in a conversational tone, ‘By the way, Connor, I met your daughter the other day.’ What would people say if she did? What would happen to the expressions on their faces? She thought of Stefan’s habitual beam fading and her heart constricted. As the evening progressed she became increasingly terrified that she would actually speak the words; she could taste them in her mouth, and sometimes she almost fancied she was saying them out loud. At last, she was reduced to a paranoid silence, even putting her hand across her mouth to prevent herself blurting out the truth. She sat hunched and still, as feelings strobed through her: fear, rage, misery, guilt, panic, love.
‘Are you all right?’ murmured Connor at one point, as he leant across her to take her plate.
‘Fine,’ she replied loudly and brightly. ‘Just fine. Why do you ask?’
Maybe she should take herself off to bed, she thought, looking at the untouched slabs of cheese on her plate. Maybe she should crumple up and cry and let someone else take care of the sorry mess of it all. She prodded the goat’s cheese with the tip of her knife and felt the words rise once more until they were at the back of her throat, like an unconquerable nausea.
The many candles guttered and threw strange shadows across the faces, making them mysterious. Wax puddled and hardened on surfaces. Then – after the clink of coffee cups and something about when they would all meet again and something about a lovely meal but tomorrow was a working day, and something about the evenings getting even darker, colder, longer than they are now – they were going, gathering up jackets and coats, kissing Gaby, hugging her hard so that for a few moments she felt solid and real again, opening the door.
The night was cold and clear; the moon was high in the sky and nearly full. The world was silver and black. Gaby waved them out, her flared sleeve like a flag and her painted smile wide; Connor came and stood behind her, putting his arms round her waist and his chin on the top of her head as he had done so many times before. She could look back across the years of their marriage and see them standing at the threshold, saying goodbye to guests, then turning to go inside together. Her eyes stung. Fear slithered under her skin. Now. Any minute.
Twenty-one
The door shut. They were alone in a house that was too big for them. She took a deep breath and waited to hear what she would say next.
‘You go upstairs.’ Connor put his hand fondly on her shoulder. ‘I’ll clear up. You seem tired.’
‘Do I?’
She still didn’t know what the words would be. For a frantic second,
she imagined never saying anything, just hiding this away inside her for ever. Would that be saintly in its self-negating forgiveness, or simply odious in its moral sanctimony and fraudulent virtue? She’d never do it, though. For better or worse, she knew she was about to take the pin out of the grenade.
‘Nobody else would have noticed. But I did. Are you feeling OK?’
‘I – I do feel a bit odd, it’s true.’
They stood at the foot of the stairs and he felt her forehead with his warm hand. His concerned smile wrinkled the crow’s feet round his eyes.
‘You’re a bit hot. Maybe you’re coming down with something.’
‘No.’
‘Shall I bring you tea in bed?’
‘No.’
‘Gaby?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know you’re missing Ethan. I know that we haven’t talked about it enough and I’ve been too busy, but that’s no excuse. I should have been with you. I should have been more attentive. I was thinking about it today when I was out running.’
He loves me, she thought. I’ve never doubted it and still I don’t. He’s always loved me and always looked after me. Whatever else has happened, that remains true.
‘No. I mean – no, that’s not it. Connor –’
‘We should go away together. Just you and me. No Stefan, no Ethan, no broken-hearted friends and lonely acquaintances.’
‘I – I’ve got to –’
‘I know – up to bed with you. We can talk about it tomorrow. I won’t be long. Don’t wait up.’
The Moment You Were Gone Page 21