‘I know you are,’ Frances replied quietly, accepting his hand and pressing it between her palms.
‘Should I pretend to like fishing? I once went on a school trip to a trout farm. I caught a tiddler and cried when I was told to throw it back.’
Frances giggled. ‘He does other things beside fish, you know.’
‘What’s his name again?’
‘Alistair.’
Daniel slapped the steering wheel. ‘Fuck, of course it is. For some reason I keep thinking he’s Roger.’
Frances laughed. ‘Alistair is most definitely not a Roger. Nor would he thank you for thinking he was one. He’s got a slight Scottish accent, which might help. And he looks like an Alistair.’
‘What do Alistairs look like?’
‘Jovial, slightly messy looking. A bit on the round side. Tall. Nice smile. Something of the absent-minded professor about him.’
‘Of course they do, how could I have forgotten,’ he teased, pulling his hand off her lap in order to negotiate a particularly sharp bend without the bother of decelerating. Frances clenched her knees in an expression of alarm which she hoped was indiscernible. Trivial though it was, Daniel’s driving reminded her more than most things of the difference in their ages; not because he was bad at it (on the contrary, he was rather good) but because there was no caution in him, no fear. Turning to the window, she wondered vaguely when Paul had started obeying speed limits and traffic signs, at what point a pair of leather driving gloves had assumed the role of an acceptable Christmas present. But the thought drifted away before she could see it through, distracted by the approaching ordeal and the realisation that the happiness generated by an entire weekend in each other’s company had induced a surprising inner calm.
Going to London with Daniel had felt like an adventure to a new and exotic country. Every familiar landmark burned with fresh significance. Flying up the M23, with the mesmeric pulse of one of his cassettes filling the car, Frances had closed her eyes, overcome not so much by happiness as a profound sense of unreality. After parking they spent some time shoulder to shoulder on Waterloo Bridge, idly studying the choppy grey surface of the Thames and watching the half-empty tourist boats cruise underneath. Every detail of the scene had seemed unnaturally vivid, from the gun metal glints in the water to the coarse, dark grain of Daniel’s coat. Leaning on the cold stone, elbows touching, the wind beating in their faces, Frances had been suffused by an unprecedented surge of wellbeing, a sense of rightness about being there. Paul would not have paused on the bridge, she had realised, approaching the comparison cautiously, not wanting to be disloyal. That her husband had never been happy with the inbetween moments of life had been an integral facet of his personality; he was always rushing on to the next known or planned thing, sweeping her along in the slipstream of his energy.
Seeing the effect of the paintings on Daniel put the seal on Frances’s enchantment with the day and the new course of her life in general. He looked not just with knowledge, but with an irresistible enthusiasm, jotting notes in a pad and telling fascinating anecdotes about the scenes depicted or the people responsible for them. The level of her own responding interest had been genuine and unreserved, while inwardly she experienced an inordinate fondness for sensibilities that could embrace unintelligible electronic music as easily as the glories of the Italian Renaissance.
Afterwards, they had wandered into a cinema showing an obscure tragic French drama about a mute postman who wrote love poems to a young housewife. In spite of the awkward subtitles and the pebble-dash quality of the reel, Frances found herself gulping hard at the denouement. During the course of her quiet struggle with this embarrassment, she suddenly became aware that Daniel was similarly afflicted and felt much better. Tumbling out into the street, they linked arms for a stroll round Covent Garden, eventually stepping inside a small attractively lit Thai restaurant on the edge of Soho. While they waited amongst a crowd of other post-theatre arrivals, Daniel brushed his mouth across her ear, whispering, ‘I love you Frances. Sorry. No pressure intended. Just couldn’t not say it a moment longer.’
Reeling, she took a step backwards, whereupon someone in the queue behind tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
‘It is Mrs Copeland, isn’t it? I thought so. How are you? You look extremely well, if I may say so.’
She turned to find herself shaking hands with Hugo Gerard and a petite brunette whom she recognised from the photo in his office.
‘We’re making use of my parents,’ declared Hugo cheerily, ‘down for a couple of weeks from Scotland, full of desire to become better acquainted with their grandchildren. Won’t last long, I can tell you. We’ve just seen a slog of a play about nuclear physics – God the things critics recommend these days. Hoping the meal’s going to be rather easier to digest. Mind you,’ he scowled at the crowded tables, ‘if we have to wait much longer we might go for a change of plan. Darling, I knew we should have booked on a Friday…’
It was several moments before Frances realised that she still had not introduced Daniel, not simply because Hugo had been talking so much, but because she could not immediately think how to. She was prompted to remedy the situation by a sudden terror that the Gerards might mistake him for Felix. ‘This is my…a friend of mine. Daniel Groves. Hugo and Laetitia Gerard.’ She stepped aside so that the three of them could shake hands. ‘Hugo was – is my solicitor. He was very helpful after Paul died,’ she added, instinct telling her that mentioning the subject might defuse some of the awkwardness of the situation. That there was no awkwardness to defuse took a few minutes to become apparent. Hugo engaged Daniel in easy conversation about the demise of English cricket, while Laetitia made winning confidences about the relief of escaping her in-laws. Just before they were finally shown to separate tables, she touched Frances’s arm saying, ‘I remember Hugo telling me about you. He said if anyone could pick up the pieces it was you. I’m so glad to see he was right.’
Frances floated towards their assigned table in a trance of pleasure and confidence, musing upon the happy revelation that the outside world was neither menacing nor vindictive, that all the problems resided in her head and were of her own making. ‘I think I might love you too,’ she murmured, leaning across the table as they sat down.
‘I never doubted it,’ he replied cockily, his steady eyes meeting hers, ‘I just guessed it might be hard to say.’
Remembering the moment that Sunday evening, Frances reached out and brushed the back of her hand against Daniel’s cheek. ‘Libby and Alistair are nothing to be afraid of,’ she insisted, wanting to share some of her newfound confidence and composure. ‘Next turning on the left and we’re there. The big white house on the corner, opposite the post box. And if all else fails, I promise you’ll enjoy the food – she’s a great cook.’
Thanks to the Taverners’ eagerness to appear welcoming, the encounter began with an unpromising tangle on the doorstep, as arms and cheeks were simultaneously proffered in salutation. After they had finally managed to progress as far as the hall, Libby began pulling their coats off their backs, gushing nonsensical greetings in a voice which Frances gloomily judged to be at least an octave higher than her usual pitch. While Alistair, hovering to one side, looking amiable but tense, accepted the more mundane role of finding out what everyone would like to drink.
Passing the staircase en route to the sitting room, Frances’s mounting sense of unease was heightened by several loud creaks from the landing and a flash of disappearing legs. It was going to be even worse than she had imagined. Possibly even tortuous. Left alone for a few minutes as Libby scuttled off to do something in the kitchen, she exchanged nervous and unhappy glances with Daniel.
‘I wish it was all over,’ he hissed, clasping his hands behind his back and bending forward to inspect a set of framed photographs arranged on top of the piano.
‘They are nice, really,’ Frances whispered through gritted teeth, ‘they just don’t know how to be with you.’
�
�That makes three of us,’ he replied darkly, turning his attention from the photographs to a line of framed prints on the wall. ‘Hey, this looks like one of yours,’ he exclaimed, his expression brightening as he came to stop in front of a small framed sketch in a far corner. ‘Are these their children?’
Frances made a face. ‘Yes, in the days when I still thought I could draw humans. I’m so much better at inanimate things.’ She went to look over his shoulder.
‘Landscapes are hardly inanimate,’ he murmured, slipping an arm round her back. ‘Monet apparently had scores of canvasses of the same scene on the go at once, because his subjects changed so much. Once he got so frustrated he threw the whole lot in the river.’
She laughed. ‘God, what a waste.’
‘Don’t worry, he fished them out again—’
They were interrupted by the sound of their hostess’s new, unnatural trill heralding her approach through the doorway. Frances quickly broke free and returned to the sofa, not knowing whether to be appalled or sympathetic at Libby’s blundering attempts to put them at their ease.
‘Here we are, some low-fat carbohydrates to keep the wolf from the door.’ Libby placed two overflowing bowls of crisps on the coffee table before hastily retrieving one and trotting over to Daniel. ‘Oh goodness, but you haven’t even got a drink yet,’ she exclaimed, backing away just as he reached out a hand to the bowl. ‘What can have happened to Alistair? What did you ask for? A beer wasn’t it? We don’t usually – I mean it’s no bother at all – but being wine drinkers – apart from real ale of course – what beer we do have is kept in a spare fridge thing in the garage. I expect he’s forgotten. Or he could be struggling with the handle – it needs a sharp wrench upwards before it will co-operate. Hence its banishment from the house. Though in my view you can never have too many fridges. Excuse me a moment.’ She backed towards the sitting-room door, narrowly avoiding a collision with her husband entering behind, self-consciously bearing a tray laden with glasses and bottles.
‘I was just admiring Frances’s picture,’ remarked Daniel, refusing several offers of a glass and swigging straight from his bottle of beer.
‘I know, she has such talent. They sell like hot cakes in the shop.’
‘Three, Libby,’ put in Frances wearily, ‘three in two months. Hardly hot cakes—’
‘But that’s because you can’t produce them quick enough. Give me anything of Frances’s and I’ll be able to get a good price for it,’ she declared, as if to make herself sound – so
Frances could not help thinking – like some kind of hard-edged entrepreneur instead of the owner of a small, struggling gift shop.
‘I’m sure you could,’ agreed Daniel kindly, raising his bottle in toast and drinking until barely three fingers of beer remained.
Frances had not lied about Libby’s culinary talents, but that evening, perhaps because the silent interplay of unspoken emotions was so vivid, the food on their plates seemed bland and indigestible. Ramekins of chewy potted shrimps and brown toast were followed by rolled parcels of white fish, lanced through with cocktail sticks to prevent them unfurling. The leeks, floating in a casserole of white sauce, looked flaccid and as uninviting as the heap of small brown potatoes in the dish next to them, their splitting skins like hatching eggs. Daniel ate steadily but with none of his usual relish, bravely accepting seconds and taking large appreciative swigs from his wine glass between mouthfuls. He didn’t even like white wine, Frances reflected hopelessly, putting out her hand to prevent Alistair topping up her glass on one of his frequent wine-waiter tours round the table.
They clung to the subject of Frances’s drawing skills for some time, wringing it dry out of a mutual desperation for common ground. An attempt by Frances to move the conversation on to the delights on view at the Courtauld Gallery proved short-lived.
‘I thought Somerset House contained nothing but filing cabinets – hatch, match and dispatch –’ declared Libby, laughing at her own joke and then adding pointedly, ‘We never go to art galleries any more, do we darling? Or the theatre, or the opera – God I love opera,’ she sighed theatrically. ‘Do you like opera Daniel?’
‘Not mad about it, to be honest,’ he confessed.
Recalling the selection of tapes in the glove compartment of his car, Frances pressed her glass to her lips to hide a smile.
‘People say it’s something you grow into,’ Daniel continued, his brown eyes glittering with mischief, ‘so perhaps I’m just not old enough.’
There followed a heavy silence, before Alistair came to the rescue. ‘Well, that certainly hasn’t been true in my case. Warbling women and implausible storylines. Give me the cinema any day,’ he added with a grimace, inadvertently introducing a subject which saw them through, albeit in somewhat laboured fashion, to the arrival of Libby’s fruit salad. A bottle of sweet wine, of a colour not too dissimilar to Daniel’s pre-prandial beer, was produced at the same time.
At half past ten Libby, staggering a little as she eased herself up from her seat, said, ‘Coffee everyone?’
‘Coffee. Great stuff. Thanks Liz.’ Daniel wagged both thumbs in the air to underline his enthusiasm for the idea.
There was a moment of intense silence. Libby was never Liz. Those who knew her well were privy to the fact that it was a matter of ancient pride that her name derived not from Elizabeth, but the infinitely more unusual Lysbeth. Seeing the tightening of her friend’s jaw line and remembering the Roger conversation in the car, Frances experienced a small explosion of panic. ‘It’s never a good idea to be too late on a Sunday,’ she blurted. ‘Don’t you think we should skip coffee this time Daniel?’ She locked her gaze on his, noting with a twist of alarm, that his dark pupils were illuminated with what looked like the light of defiance.
‘Time for bed in other words. Goody.’ He rubbed his palms together gleefully. We shag every chance we get, don’t we Frances?’ He pushed back his chair and pulled on his jumper, discarded early on because of the furnace-heat of the room. ‘A good evening, thank you. Not great, I wouldn’t say, but it’s early days isn’t it?’ He seized Alistair’s hand and gave it several hard shakes before easing himself behind the chairs towards the sink, where Libby stood, a stack of dishes in her hand, her lower jaw hanging slightly open in a caricature of speechlessness.
Glancing at the plates and seeing that they precluded any immediate chance of a handshake, Daniel leant down and planted a firm kiss on each of her flushed cheeks. ‘Thank you Liz, for cooking so much food and so on.’
Frances suspected suddenly that he was not as drunk as he was pretending, but merely using it as an excuse to be shocking. ‘Alistair, Libby, thank you for having us,’ she said quickly, speaking in clipped businesslike tones to cover her embarrassment. ‘It’s been quite a weekend – not much sleep –’ she dried up, colouring at the implications of such an excuse when all she had meant was that their Thai meal had ensured they hadn’t returned from London until the early hours of that morning. ‘Thanks again and er…see you tomorrow.’
‘I hope so,’ remarked Libby with undisguised curtness and leaving Alistair to show them to the door.
Once outside, Frances held out her hands for the car keys. ‘I’d better drive.’ Hearing the thud of the front door behind them, sounding so final in the dark silent air, her heart sank to a new low.
‘You’re cross.’
‘No I’m not. Get in the car.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘No Daniel, not cross, just…disappointed.’
‘Ah, worse still.’ He shook his head solemnly and then levered himself into the passenger seat. ‘Anger I could take, but disappointment…’ he sucked in his breath, ‘that is hard. You don’t need to rev, by the way.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘When you start the engine, don’t rev on the foot pedal. Let it fire on its own.’
‘Since you were incapable of staying sober enough to drive your own vehicle, the least you could do is refrain from cri
ticising me.’
‘You’re definitely cross now, anyway. Which I feel a lot better about frankly. And your hair’s all falling out of the bun at the back – I like that too.’ He reached out to touch her, but pulled back in mock terror at the sight of the glaring expression on her face. ‘Fucking disgusting wine.’
‘Why did you consume so much of it then?’ she retorted icily.
‘Because the situation was so fucking awful. Because they had pre-judged me anyway – especially her. He wasn’t so bad. Nothing like low expectations for a challenge, I always find.’
‘And me? Did you think about me?’
‘Hm.’ He yawned deeply. ‘Most of the evening. I always think about you. Could you pull over a minute?’ He began groping for the door handle.
‘What now, for heaven’s sake?’
‘A piss. You pulled me out of there so quickly, I didn’t have time to ask for the little boys’ room.’
Frances swerved the car onto the verge and sat with the engine running, arms folded tightly across her chest, while Daniel disappeared between two bushes. A few moments later he surprised her by appearing at the window on the driver’s side, having re-emerged from a different part of the undergrowth. He gestured at her to wind it down.
‘I think I’ll walk.’
She rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘There’s so much smoke coming out of your ears I think it would be safer. I know the way from here. And I can sober up. Have a good think.’ He tapped his temple.
‘Fine, if that’s what you want,’ she replied tightly. ‘I’ll leave the keys under the flowerpot, shall I? Unless you were planning to trek back to Farley?’
He shook his head gravely. ‘Would take all night.’
Frances roared off, revving the engine with deliberate, audible ferocity. When she got to her drive she sat for several minutes in the dark silence, telling herself that it would be of no concern to her if Daniel collapsed in a ditch or was mown down by a speeding juggernaut. A few minutes later she was nonetheless driving carefully back the way she had come, straining her eyes in the dimness for a glimpse of his dark jacket. She had all but given up hope when she spotted his tall frame leaning on a five-bar gate set a few feet back from the road.
The Lover Page 17