by Tina Seskis
Eleanor stopped herself. She couldn’t even articulate what it was that she was close to. It was far too dangerous. Instead she switched off her phone and put it back in her coat pocket – and then she cleared her throat and called Peanut to her.
55
CHRISTIE
Christie came home from Corsica tanned and half a stone lighter, and happier than she’d been since her husband had died. Her hair had been streaked by the sun and the style had softened from when she’d last had it cut, too short, as if in penance. Now loose strands fell around her face, and she knew that the misery-induced sagging around her jowls had lifted a little at last.
When Piers rang the day after she got home, it was odd to hear his voice. She’d assumed he wouldn’t call, and now that he had she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was to do with the car accident.
‘So how was your holiday?’ he said.
‘It was great, thanks. How’s your car?’
‘Oh, it’s fine. I’ve had it fixed.’
‘And the taxi?’
‘Yeah, it’s all in hand,’ Piers said. Christie didn’t know what to say. She felt a jolt of uncertainty, at what he wanted. Who he was.
‘So, are you going to let me buy you that dinner?’ Piers asked. His voice still had a tone to it that she couldn’t put her finger on. She wondered where he was from.
‘I’m not sure,’ Christie said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but . . . well, I don’t know anything about you.’
‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Well, what you do, for a start.’
‘I’m a management consultant – as well as a bad driver, of course.’ He laughed.
‘Oh,’ Christie said. She didn’t know much about management consultancy. All she knew was that Paul had always referred to them as a bunch of leeches, but she chose not to mention that fact to Piers.
‘Really, there’s nothing to worry about,’ said Piers. ‘Look, I’m going to be in London next Wednesday, for a conference. I could easily come up your way afterwards?’
Christie hesitated. Her holiday had done her the world of good, had helped her finally realise that maybe there was life after Paul after all. But that didn’t mean she was ready to go on a date. She wished she had a genuine excuse not to see him, let something external make her decision for her. But she was free that evening. As she listened to his steady breathing down the line, she felt extraordinarily conflicted.
‘Hello?’ Piers said.
Christie pulled herself together. He seemed nice, and it was only dinner.
‘Yes, OK,’ she said.
56
ALEX
‘What’s brought this on?’ Mason said, as he stood at the bar with his father. ‘Taking Mum to Venice? Bringing me to the pub?’
‘Well,’ Alex said, ‘you’re of the age now to come to the pub with your old man, and you’ll be off to university soon, so why not?’
‘Because you’re usually far too busy.’
‘Well, I’m not now,’ Alex said, trying not to get annoyed. He didn’t need his son doing the guilt thing on him as well. He was feeling wound up enough about Eleanor.
‘Dad, I’m kidding,’ said Mason. ‘It’s cool to have an undercover cop for a dad.’
‘Shush,’ Alex said, looking around nervously. They were in one of his favourite pubs, with its huge-paned leaded lights and ornate ceilings, dark wood everywhere, full of old silent men and a terrific selection of real ales. It was a proper pub still, which were few and far between around here these days. But you never knew who was listening, and he was sure the barman had half-cocked an ear, and he wished Mason would keep his voice down.
‘Sorry,’ Mason said, grinning amiably and taking a slug of his pint. Alex didn’t know why his son drank cider, but each to their own, he supposed. Mason was what Alex would call a strapping lad now, tall and broad-shouldered, and he was proud of him. He was one of those people who had so much natural charm and self-assurance it was as if he’d been born with it, and Alex knew his son would make a success of his life, whatever he chose to do. Eleanor had done a good job with both kids, that was for sure.
‘Dad . . .’ Mason said now.
‘Yes?’ Alex was wary, could sense the unease in his son’s voice.
‘How much danger are you in these days . . . with all this shit going on?’
‘Oh, Mason,’ Alex said. Mason might be innately, sunnily confident, but it seemed that he too was anxious about his father. Alex felt instantly terrible, that he was doing this to his family.
‘Well?’
‘It’s fine, son. The training’s top-notch. We . . . we have each other’s backs.’
‘OK,’ Mason said. ‘Look, I’m sure you’re right, but it’s just I know Mum’s really worried about you these days.’
‘Well, there’s no need for her to be,’ said Alex. He picked at the crisps that were lying on the bar between them, the foil bag gashed open so they lay in a pile in the middle. ‘Why? What’s she said?’ He could hear that his voice had grown unintentionally menacing, and he felt his Adam’s apple pulsing as he stared his son down.
‘Nothing, Dad. Chill out.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Look, Dad, what’s up?’
It was the kindness of the question that got to Alex. He could feel the agitation sloshing around inside him now, rising and falling, threatening to spill over, and he felt so fraught suddenly he longed to confide in his son, tell him what was going on, but of course he couldn’t. The stress might be killing him, but he’d made his choices, and so this was just how his life was right now. Mason was watching him closely, and Alex struggled to think how to answer. To buy himself some time he stuffed a handful of crisps in his mouth, chewed slowly, drily. And then he managed to wink at Mason, crack a smile.
‘Nothing, son.’ He finished the last of his pint, looked at Mason’s still half-full one pretend-disdainfully. ‘Same again,’ he said to the barman, his mood thankfully back to equilibrium now, although it had been a close call. He knew he mustn’t let himself weaken like that again. There was no use feeling sorry for himself, as what was the point? What in hell could he do about it now anyway?
57
CHRISTIE
Swept off her feet. That was what people called it. Christie hadn’t experienced anything quite like it. The closest she’d come prior to this was with her old boyfriend from Cambridge. With Paul her feelings had been far more rational. They’d grown to love each other deeply, and had made a good team, but they hadn’t exactly rushed dizzily into things. It had never been an impulsive thing for Christie with Paul. They’d been friends first and foremost, and Christie had simply enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed his passions, his humour, until things had developed between them organically.
With Piers, though, right from the start all Christie’s senses had been highly charged, in one way or another. Perhaps it was because their love affair was just so unlikely – if her taxi to the airport hadn’t turned up late, it would never have been involved in an accident with Piers, who she would never have met, would never have given her number to . . . Surely it was fate. (Good grief, Christie thought, she was beginning to sound like Alice.) She even considered ringing the cab office to say thank you, and that’s how crazy she felt. Her feelings were heightened by the fact that she and Piers couldn’t see each other regularly, as he was based in Bristol, but he came to see her as often as he could, and although he’d always got a hotel, from the third occasion onwards she’d stayed there too. Yet she still couldn’t bring herself to let him come to her house, take him upstairs, past the spot where her husband had died, even though she’d tried to tell herself that that was ages ago now, and that Paul would have understood. Yet the truth was, she and her husband had never talked about such scenarios, and so she had absolutely no idea how Paul would have felt. His death had slammed itself at Christie in the most bizarre and violent way possible, and it had left her untethered from how she’d used to be. Changed, forever.
Christie opened the door to the restaurant, which had the chic sleek lines of an old-fashioned cruise liner, and a rush of warm air came at her. Piers was already there, at an intimate table in the corner, and it was such a strange feeling, that before all this she used to be a married mother, the linchpin of a happy, buzzy household who spent half her life in jogging bottoms, and now she was a widow, with a lover for whom she’d gone to Agent Provocateur and bought underwear, the likes of which she hadn’t worn in years. Her perfume was French and heady and expensive. She’d blow-dried her hair specially.
And yet. Despite the hot-and-cold rushing feeling in her spine, the tingly thrill of seeing him, Christie had a strong desire now to back out of the restaurant, carry on up the street to where she was parked, and reverse her Mini Cooper all the way home. She found herself seeing her life as a cine reel running backwards, ever backwards, to dry grey earth travelling up into her hand, a coffin being exhumed from the ground, cars speeding in reverse along the M6, Paul magically flying upwards into the loft, his body fixing itself mid-air, letters and photos leaping back into a suitcase, the lid being shut again forever. That was the pivotal point of her life, undoubtedly.
Piers gave Christie a little wave of greeting, but she remained at the door of the restaurant, immobile. He looked familiar, and yet like a stranger too, as if she couldn’t possibly even know him, let alone have been sleeping with him for the past six weeks or so. Confusion rose in her throat, like a stifled scream. In one way she longed to go to her lover, let him kiss her cheek in greeting, prove he was definitely real. But in another she wanted to turn around and flee the restaurant and never ever see him again. It was too soon. It was disloyal. It didn’t feel right.
And so it was in that exact golden-hued moment, with the benefit of physical distance – as if she were looking at a picture of someone, rather than seeing the flesh-and-blood person they were – that Christie realised. She hadn’t made it through yet. She still wanted Paul. And yet now she wanted Piers too. The dichotomy was killing her.
‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said the maître d’ softly, breaking the impasse. Christie startled a little, but finally began to walk, ever so slightly too slowly, across the black-and-white chevron-tiled floor, past the smooth fluid lines of the mirrors, ensuring she didn’t catch a glimpse of herself, of her painted, traitorous face, towards her lover. Was he her future? It was too soon to tell – but for the moment he was helping plug the empty pit of despair in her heart, and surely, please God, that was reason enough, for now. Wasn’t it?
58
ALEX
It had been humbling for Alex to finally realise just how much his family worried about him these days, and it made him feel guiltier than ever. But at least he was doing something to treat Eleanor for once, and he was enjoying their trip to Venice. In a way it had been a relief for him to be reminded that he didn’t like other men sniffing around his wife, that he loved her still. Yet sometimes he wondered where the passion had gone, that burst of emotion that had been ignited the very first time she’d walked in off the street, to be saved by him. Perhaps it had merely been the thrill of the chase, the impossibility of going out with a crime victim, the anger he’d felt towards that weaselly creep who’d had the temerity to think he stood a chance with her. It was hard to tell now, and maybe it didn’t matter anyway.
Alex had booked the fanciest hotel on the Grand Canal, and it had cost him a fortune, but that was what unexpected inheritances were for, weren’t they? And it had been over twenty years since he and Eleanor had married, and they’d made do with a honeymoon in the Lake District, as that was all they’d been able to afford at the time. He’d still enjoyed it though, had relished taking this blonde goddess with the film-star drawl down the pub to meet his so-called mates from school who’d spent years laughing at him and calling him a dumb prick. They’d still been idiots, even then. Punching above his weight, Mark Hughes had said, within earshot of his new wife, and Eleanor had actually put out her hand to restrain Alex, as if she thought he was going to flatten the wanker, and maybe he would have.
‘You OK, Al?’ Eleanor said now. They were wandering through the narrow, cobbled streets, crossing canals on ancient bridges, going nowhere in particular, just seeing where they ended up. She had her hand through his arm and when Alex turned to look at Eleanor he could see the girl she’d once been. She was still so pretty, and she was the mother of his two children, who she might have insisted on naming badly but had almost single-handedly brought up to be fine young adults. He’d missed out on so much. He had a sudden pull of gratitude towards her, but it didn’t help alleviate the shame.
‘I’m fine, love,’ he said. He stopped and gazed down at the pavement, found himself wondering how they’d built this place in the middle of a huge lagoon, how long it would take to finally sink.
Eleanor put her hand under his chin, gently tilted it upwards, forced him to look at her. ‘How are you feeling about work, Al?’ she said. ‘Does it scare you?’
Alex pushed her hand down, jerked away from her.
‘For god’s sake, Eleanor,’ he said, ‘you’re a shrink’s daughter through and through, aren’t you? Can’t you ever think about anything else other than people’s sodding “feelings”?’
He watched as Eleanor’s expression turned from surprised, to hurt, to ‘fuck you’. She always had worn her emotions on her face . . . and then he remembered that she’d managed to have a secret boyfriend, so she wasn’t that open after all. What else had she kept from him?
As she veered away, her hair aglow in the stone-soaked sunshine, somehow he knew that he was losing her. That it was only a matter of time.
‘Eleanor,’ he said.
She stopped, turned back to him. ‘What in hell’s up with you, Alex?’ she said. ‘I know your job’s tough, but that’s not my fault. There’s something else wrong. I know there is.’
He thought about telling her then, but where to start? How far back did he need to go to explain it? It was everything or nothing. There was nowhere in between.
‘I’m fine.’ That expression again. The wrong one.
Eleanor’s eyes flashed. Her temper snapped, almost audibly. ‘Fine,’ she mimicked. ‘Shall we head back?’
‘Fine,’ he said.
‘You got it.’ As she led him through the labyrinthine canals, with a seemingly expert sense of direction now, Alex told himself that he needed to be careful. He mustn’t fuck everything up. They turned right at the end of an alleyway and suddenly they were stomping across the vast main square of one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and people were milling, and violinists were playing outside one of the grand cafés, and pigeons were taking off and landing en masse, to the delight of an angelic-looking little boy who was chasing them, laughing. The arches of the surrounding buildings were shimmering in the sunlight, dancing with the shadows, promising something. Eleanor had been the very first thing he’d ever fought for, and he still had her now. He needed to make sure he didn’t lose her. He grabbed her hand again, swung her round to face him, took her in his arms, almost forcibly.
‘Eleanor,’ he said, into her hair. His eyes were glassy with tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’
59
CHRISTIE
Now that Christie was settled in her seat in the restaurant, a glass of red wine in front of her, she was feeling more relaxed. Piers was being as charming as ever, and in fact was opening up a little at last. He was half-French, he told her. His mother had been forty-five when she’d had him, his father a decade older. He’d been their little surprise, apparently. He’d been a judo black belt, and had got into university, and then after graduating he’d travelled through Australia for a while, and then had worked all over the world ever since.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Australia,’ Christie said now. She refrained from adding that she and Paul had been planning a trip there, and that the memory was searing. Instead she took a mouthful of sea bass in lemon chervil butter and tri
ed not to think about it.
‘Well, why don’t we go there together?’ said Piers now.
‘What?’ said Christie. ‘When?’ Her throat felt tight suddenly, and she struggled to swallow.
‘Yes, why not?’ Piers continued. ‘I’d love to take you to the Whitsunday Islands. I never made it that far, and they’re meant to be beautiful.’
‘Piers,’ Christie said now. It felt important to know for definite if they were going to take things on a step. ‘I know this is a weird question, but . . . are you sure you’re not married?’
A look flashed into Piers’s eyes for an instant, and then it was gone. There was a flush at the base of his neck, where his button-down shirt was open. He looked wistful, and yet closed-down at the same time, as if he were struggling to control his emotions.
‘Of course not,’ he said, at last.
‘Oh,’ she replied. The atmosphere was uncomfortable still. ‘Divorced?’
‘No . . . What’s with the interrogation anyway?’
‘Nothing. I was just asking.’ She stared at his wrists, the soft blue of his shirt sleeves.
‘What? Don’t you trust me?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Well, what is it then?’ Piers seemed angry now, a low-down, pit-of-the-stomach kind of pique that she hadn’t seen in him before.
‘Sorry,’ she said, not as an apology as such, but more to diffuse the situation.
‘That’s all right.’ Piers put down his knife and fork, gazed intently into her eyes. His own eyes were so blue, his hair fell across his forehead, and yet she found her thoughts drifting back to Paul somehow. She hardly knew the man across from her. He was a mystery to her, an unread tome, and possibly a dangerous one at that. His hands were resting on the table, and they were bronzed and shapely, and she remembered where his fingers had been, and how gentle yet strong they were. Who was he? What was he capable of?