by Tina Seskis
‘This is nice,’ Eleanor said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Just hanging out with you. Doing something normal.’ She immediately realised she’d said the wrong thing, as he extracted his hand from hers and carried on walking. ‘I didn’t mean it as a criticism, Al,’ she said. ‘It’s just been hard lately, what with you being away so much, and me worrying about you, when I don’t know how you are . . .’
‘I know, Eleanor,’ Alex said. He paused. ‘But it’s not easy for me either.’
‘I know it isn’t. I was being selfish. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said. But he was walking a little in front of her now and Eleanor wondered just how much he couldn’t tell her about what went on, and what toll it must take on him. Eleanor was so rubbish at keeping secrets, there was no way she could do such a job. And then that reminded her of her meeting with Rufus. What had she been thinking? And in such a public place as a café. What if someone who knew her and Alex had seen her?
‘I . . . I met my ex-boyfriend,’ she said to her husband’s back, and it felt desperate almost, last-ditch.
Alex stopped dead. He turned around and stared at her.
‘You what?’
‘For a coffee. I bumped into him on the Parkland Walk. A few weeks ago.’
As Eleanor stared out her husband, giving as good as she got, she wondered what she was doing. Why had she told him? Was she trying to make him jealous, or just clearing her conscience? She was a grown woman. Why was she acting like a teenager?
‘What boyfriend?’
‘The one I had when I first came to London.’
Eleanor didn’t like the way Alex’s body flinched. She thought for a moment that he might even hit her, and the fear was so alien it felt as if she hardly knew him.
‘So?’ he said, at last. He had a strange look in his eyes now, as if he might just walk off.
‘I . . . I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, in case . . .’ Eleanor was visibly squirming, wishing she could backtrack.
‘Why did you?’
‘What?’
‘Tell me.’ Alex had started walking again, and she wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to follow or not – but she fell into step beside him, almost running to keep up.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘Why did you not tell me before, that you even had a boyfriend in London, but you’re telling me this now?’ Was his tone threatening? She wasn’t sure. It was so unlike him.
‘Well, maybe if you’d been around more I would have told you before.’ Her voice had raised itself, just a notch too loud, and she could hear the American twang creeping into it. People were looking. She and Alex rarely argued, but for Christ’s sake – did he not even care that she might be about to embark on an affair? What was the matter with him? He’d been acting so oddly lately, and she was sure it must be because of the stress he was under. She hated his job suddenly, hated that they were in this position.
‘And?’ she said.
‘And what?’ Alex’s eyes were black, his pupils huge, despite the sunshine. It was unnerving.
‘Well, aren’t you even going to reply to that? Am I just expected to be the little wifey, and wait around for you at home?’ Still Alex stayed silent. She grabbed his arm, and when he shook her off there was no gentleness to his touch. She didn’t care.
‘Alex, Brianna’s gone, and Mason will be off to college soon too. I need more than this.’ And as she said it, she immediately regretted it, although she knew it was true. Peanut was straining on his lead and so she let him off, even though she wasn’t meant to here, and he tore away with a joy that she thought she herself might never feel again. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘Alex, what are we going to do?’
Nought to one hundred. That was her. She had taken this ship of a marriage, the one that had steamed along innocuously for years and years, and had just rammed it into one hell of an iceberg.
‘I don’t know,’ said Alex. His expression was unreadable. ‘Maybe that’s up to you now.’ He fished in his pocket and tossed the car keys at her. ‘I’m out of here,’ he said, and then he turned and strode manfully across the lawn, past a couple pushing a child in a wheelchair, out past the magnificent Georgian house, towards the bright green fields – and Eleanor was so stunned by their altercation, at what she might have unleashed in her husband, she truly wondered if he would ever come back.
48
CHRISTIE
Christie had finally capitulated and booked a holiday, mainly to appease her daughter, but also partly because Daisy might actually be right that it would do her good. And it was only for eight days, in Europe – it wasn’t as if she was going all Eat, Pray, Love on anyone. She’d ended up choosing the walking trip to Corsica, as the least risky option of those Daisy had suggested – but the closer the trip got, the greater the dull throb of anxiety that grew in her stomach, as if she were constantly waiting for a lift to bottom out. Christie even considered not going, but if the worst came to the worst, she could always bail out halfway through and fly home.
Christie wasn’t leaving for almost another week, but she’d already nearly finished packing. She always packed early. She always wanted to get to the airport early. Paul had been the exact opposite and she hadn’t been able to bear the stress of it, so at least that was one bonus of travelling alone. She went through her list, which she’d printed out on a sheet of A4 paper, and all she needed to do was make sure she had every item on it. Passport – check. Walking boots – check. Waterproofs – check. Water bottle – check. Plenty of layers – check. Swimsuit – check. Sun cream – check. Underwear – check. She had everything laid out on the bed in the spare room, and she was trying not to think about the fact that the last time she’d done this was when she and Paul had gone to the Highlands; and that if she stepped out of the door to go to the bathroom she would walk over the exact spot where she had found Paul, hanging, broken, and irretrievably lost to her.
Almost immediately a low swirl of air seemed to sweep across the room, invisibly moving, and she felt her shoulders lift towards her ears in an involuntary shudder. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but it was eerie, and it wasn’t the first time, and she knew that when she got home from Corsica she needed to sell up and move. Why hadn’t she moved? No wonder her nights were peppered with screaming dreams, waiting, circling, ready to pounce, whenever she did manage to snatch some sleep. No wonder Daisy hated coming here. No wonder Jake refused to come at all.
Christie opened Paul’s Swiss Army knife and studied its stumpy sheen blade, thinking about her son still. She didn’t know what to do about him. She’d been appalled that he’d dropped out of university at the end of the Christmas term, without even consulting her, and was in Turkey yet again. She still had no idea where he was getting the money to afford it. He hadn’t even come to see her to say goodbye.
Christie sniffed, grabbed a tissue, blew her nose and then threw the tissue on the floor. It just compounded her grief, having lost her husband, that she appeared to be losing Jake too. But what could she do? He was a grown man, with a beard. All she could do was look out for him, love him from afar. Pray for him. And yet it worried her where he was, what he was doing. Volunteering, he’d said, on one of the rare times she’d managed to speak to him on the phone. What kind, she’d asked. But Jake had been vague, had refused to tell her, and Daisy wasn’t telling either, although Christie was pretty sure she knew something. Yet surely Daisy would have told her, if it was something dodgy. Wouldn’t she?
Christie snapped the knife shut and put it on the bed, next to her passport. As she stood up, she could hear the loneliness clanking through the pipes. The house was too big for her. It used to be such a fun, noisy, messy kind of a place. Now nothing ever moved from where she’d last put it, which still felt weird. But it was the house where Paul had drawn his last breath, and so perhaps that was why Christie had wanted to stay close. She longed to tell Paul that he’d got it all wro
ng about her, and that she loved him, and was sorry about the photos he’d found, and always would be. But of course she hadn’t told him any of that, because when she’d found him she’d run away, out of the house and down the street, and he’d been cold and dead anyway. And she couldn’t do it now because he was still cold and dead. She’d never be able to do it. She’d never know how he’d felt when he died, exactly what had caused his fall – so why was she prolonging the agony?
Christie felt her blood rising up through her body, as if it were being sucked up through the top of her head. She took one last unseeing glance at her list, screwed it up and tossed it on the floor, next to the snotty tissue. Then she placed everything into her suitcase and snapped it shut. Enough was enough. She’d put the house on the market as soon as she came back from Corsica. It was time. She was ready.
49
ELEANOR
Driving home alone from the Heath, the air in the car felt compressed, oppressive, maybe close to detonation. Eleanor was numb, and troubled, and she wasn’t exactly sure what it was that had upset her so. She looked in the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of herself, but it was like looking at a person much older than her. How had that happened? When had that happened? She changed gears and switched lanes, and steered adequately enough, but she felt like an automaton, a shadow-person. It had been so unlike her to make demands on Alex and, if she were to be honest with herself, that was odd in itself. All these years, she’d put up with the fact that his job came first and, aside from feeling bad for the kids that they didn’t see enough of their father, Eleanor had been fine about it. What had changed? Was it that Rufus had unexpectedly come back on to the scene and it had unbalanced her, forced her to think about how her own life was? And so now she minded that Alex was away so much? Now she missed him. Was that it?
Eleanor sat outside in the car, looking up at the house where she lived. It was a typical English Victorian terrace, small and poky and outwardly tatty, a complete contrast to the smart houses of Maine and the brownstones in Manhattan where she’d grown up. She had an English husband. She had half-English kids. Her life was here. But was it enough? Had it ever been enough? Had she ever fulfilled her potential? Achieved anything of note? It was almost absurd that she didn’t even know what ‘enough’ meant any more.
Eleanor got out of the car, walked up the weed-sprouting path, opened the front door, which was cracking and in need of a paint. She breathed in the air, and it felt empty. She felt the need building in her again, the one that had been sleeping for years. For excitement. For the forbidden. It was there. Still there. It was coming to get her. Perhaps he was coming to get her. Eleanor tore up the stairs, into the bathroom, locked the door behind her, and put her face under the tap.
50
CHRISTIE
The cab to the airport had turned up a full twenty minutes late, and despite her rising stress levels, Christie wryly wondered whether it was Paul ordaining so from above, just to freak her out. As the driver hurriedly grabbed her suitcase and put it in his pristine, fur-lined boot, she still felt ambivalent, although she managed to resist the urge to tell him to take it out again. But then when they drove off she couldn’t remember if she’d locked the front door or not, which only made her anxiety worse. It was too bad, though – they were running late enough as it was. She’d just have to ask Karen Sampford across the road to check for her. Karen wouldn’t mind. She’d been the most brilliant friend and neighbour since she’d taken Christie in, the night Paul had died. Thank God for Karen.
Christie settled herself into the back seat and was just taking her phone out of her bag to text Karen when a loud bang reverberated down her backbone and she was thrown forward. There was a curiously satisfying crunch of concertinaing metal somewhere behind her. When Christie looked up from her phone to see what had happened, she saw they were at the traffic lights at the end of the high street, which had just turned red.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ the driver said. He pulled on the handbrake and jumped out of the car as Christie turned around to see a man get out of his own car behind them. Even as Christie registered that she was fine, he was fine, everyone was fine, she could feel the stress ramp up, begin to thrum through her fingers, up into her temples, down through to the back of her throat, across the cave of her mouth to the skin above her lip, which was dampening. Little stress soldiers, patrolling her body, checking for weak spots, places to manifest themselves. She had a plane to catch. Without thinking, she opened the car door and got out to see for herself how bad the damage was, just how likely it was she’d miss her flight.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ said the other driver, turning to her. ‘Were you in the back seat? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’ She walked around past him and glanced at the back of the taxi. The bumper was badly dented, although the car was clearly still drivable. But even so, perhaps this was another sign that she shouldn’t be going away. That it was too soon, after all.
As Christie watched the two men exchange numbers, she noticed that her driver was wearing grey socks and slippers under his long white tunic. The other man was smart-casually dressed, and he had a nondescript black car, and as he turned and looked at her she felt a thrum of recognition somehow – as if they were both desperate, in their own ways. She wondered where his mind had been. Perhaps he was drunk, she thought.
‘Look, can I get your number?’ the man said to Christie now. ‘In case I need a witness.’ Christie hesitated. She wasn’t sure what she could add. Wasn’t crashing into the back of another car always that person’s fault, regardless of witnesses? As she gazed at him, stupefied by the morning’s events, she decided not to argue, and she wrote down her number on the piece of paper he thrust into her hand. He had blue eyes, like Paul. He was attractive, like Paul, yet in a different, more muscular way. It was a shock to even think it, but it was the way he was looking at her. The intensity of his gaze, for the count of one, two, three . . . And then he turned, and it was over.
The driver opened his boot, and tutted at the wrinkles on the paintwork, but Christie’s suitcase was intact.
‘You going on holiday?’ the stranger persisted.
‘Allegedly,’ Christie said. She smiled nervously.
‘Alone?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Oh, well . . . have a good time.’
‘Thanks,’ said Christie. He crinkled his eyes then, and she was unsure whether he was apologising to her still, or coming on to her. That was the thing she would always remember about him, the ambivalence. How she felt about him. How he felt about her. She took a look at his ring finger, but it was bare, although that meant nothing with men. Loads of married men didn’t wear wedding rings. Paul hadn’t – and the memory of her husband was like a low blow to the stomach. Guilt.
As Christie got back into the taxi and waited for her driver, she was aware of an odd feeling spreading inside her, like heat turning on, thinning her blood. She looked at her watch. They were running seriously late now, and her throat tightened.
‘Airport?’ the driver said when he returned to the car at last, but he seemed angry, as if he felt like this was all Christie’s fault, which was completely unfair, in her opinion. She hesitated. Perhaps she should simply ask him to take her home, and she could hide out there for a week or so, just pretend she’d been on holiday if anyone asked. She’d been in a car crash, after all.
The cab driver was still craning his neck to glare at her, his mouth a thin straight line nestled amongst the grey-black of his beard.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘You going, or not?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘If that’s OK with you?’
Although the North Circular had been slightly quieter than usual, almost as soon as they’d joined the motorway the traffic had drawn to a near-standstill. And although Christie had been convinced the gods had ordained she was going to miss the plane after all, the driver had worked hard, if somewhat erratically from a lane-changing point of view
, to redeem the situation. When he’d finally pulled up outside Departures, she’d given him a pretty hefty tip for all his trouble, but he’d still been tetchy, which had been fair enough in Christie’s book.
And so now Christie was finally inside the terminal, a mere fifteen minutes before the flight was due to close, and the board telling her where she should be checking in was immediately in front of her, but it was as if her nerves had taken over her mind and signals were being scrambled, and the flight details might as well have been written in Japanese. If only Paul were here, she thought now. It was the firsts that seemed to confound her. First night as a widow. First Christmas without him. First birthday. First car crash. And now first airport.
Christie realised that she was daydreaming. She was going to miss the plane. She studied the board and at last managed to work out that she needed to go left, and she turned on her heel and ran, weaving her way through the luggage trolleys and kids with Trunkies, the general dawdlers. Yet when she reached the desk to find the queue snaking around the block, she thought she might actually pass out. Fortunately, a roving member of the check-in staff must have noticed her panic, and it seemed that Christie wasn’t the only person to have been stuck on the motorway.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the couple she’d just been ordered to push in front of. They nodded politely but failed to raise a smile, and she could feel pairs of eyes on her back as she handed over her passport. She was unable to meet their glances afterwards, and instead mumbled a thank you as she walked quickly away. It was only when she finally reached the gate, out of breath and panicked, to find a load of other people still queuing to board, that she began to calm down. At exactly that moment her phone rang. The number was withheld, but she answered it anyway.