‘Ash has nothing to do with this. I’ve just been talking to Tom. What happened?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said, sitting down again. ‘Hey, are you still on for this evening? We’ll talk about it then. And about you and Ash, Georgy? What are you doing?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Georgy said impatiently. ‘Are you OK, though? God, I’ve got to go. But look, before I do, Lizzy, another thing, v. quickly. I’ve got to try out our new hotel somewhere in Corfu. Dead posh. In about a month. Think you can swing a week’s holiday then? All expenses paid, you’d just have to get a flight.’
Sea. Sun. Drinks with little umbrellas. Lying around for a week in a luxury hotel. I said, ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Georgy said. ‘Come on, you’ll really be saving my bacon. It’s all booked for a week and I don’t want to have to go on my own.’
‘Someone else ditched you, have they?’ I asked resignedly. I know her so well.
‘I thought I was supposed to be asking you that.’ Georgy’s throaty cackle crackled over the phone.
‘Oi!’ I said, banging my fist on my desk. ‘I was not ditched! I ditched him!’
‘So what happened? Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. I’ve got to go! But, hey, how was the wedding?’
‘Great, it was great.’
‘Was the tulle OK in the end?’
‘Fine. The buckle on my shoe was a right pain.’
‘I said they’d be too tight.’
‘I know,’ I said grimly. ‘I should have listened.’
‘Yep,’ Georgy said, with sad satisfaction. ‘And the pants?’
‘You were right there too. They well showed through. I wore the blue ones instead. I think it was OK.’
‘Good, good. Listen to me next time. And Miles is history then? Well, I can’t say I’m—’
I could have carried on this conversation happily for the next couple of hours, but I became aware of a movement below my right shoulder. Lily was making ‘get off the phone’ gestures and rolling her eyes. ‘Got to go now, Georgy,’ I said regretfully.
‘See you later. And don’t worry, I’m about to call Ash and deliver the blow. He won’t be there, I promise.’
After dealing with Lily, who was incandescent with rage about Paul’s latest meddling, and comforting a sobbing Ash in the men’s loos, which took some explaining to Simon from IT who walked in on us there, the morning raced by and I was happily lost in the world of work again, the dramas, the emails, the gossip and the coffee machines. I had to tear myself away for lunch and run round the corner so I wasn’t late for Jaden. We went to Carluccio’s in Market Place and we sat outside and pretended to be Italian. I had a glass of wine. Jaden had an organic pineapple and orange juice.
There was something strange about sitting outside with Jaden in the summer heat. He felt like a part of my past, someone who existed only in the rainy days of last winter. ‘It’s great you’re having a holiday,’ he said, after I’d told him about Corfu with Georgy. ‘You need one. Some you-time.’
‘I can’t wait,’ I said. ‘Only four weeks to go. How about you?’
‘I’m taking a week off in late August. Hiking in the hills with some friends. Camping, doing a nature trail. Should be cool. If you’re over by then, you should come. What’s happening with that, by the way?’ he added casually.
‘Don’t know,’ I answered, equally casually. ‘I still want to go…for six months, maybe a year.’
Jaden popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. ‘In other words, you’re not planning on staying.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ I said, because in fact I wasn’t.
‘But you’re not. I can tell from your body language. Something else is up, isn’t it? It’s the cast of your shoulders. You’re like an open book.’
I remembered one summer at home, when I was about fourteen, Tom bought an old paperback at the Wareham fête called Understanding Body Language. We devoured it, and became obsessed with it over the next few weeks. When Mum or Kate told us to do the washing-up, we’d cross our arms to let them know we were aggressively opposed to the idea. When Mark Lenham, the boy from the next village whom everyone fancied, was sitting on the green at the same time as Jess and I, we lay down on our jumpers and pointed our feet subtly at him, to let him know we were subconsciously attracted to him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ Jaden said. ‘Starting with the house. It’s a beautiful home, Lizzy. I really enjoyed going there. I’m just sorry I couldn’t tell you about it.’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, as the waiter arrived to clear away our plates. ‘You and Sophia Gunning are the heroes of the hour down my way.’
‘That is one talented girl,’ Jaden mused. ‘We’ve had a lot of very interesting conversations since then about this Lady Mary project. I think it’s going to be very special.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I scoffed. ‘You fancy her, you massive liar.’
‘I do not!’ Jaden exclaimed.
‘You bloody do,’ I said, laughing as he blushed.
Jaden caught my hands. ‘I’m going to go a little crazy and have a coffee. And so are you. Why don’t you tell me about this weekend? I think you’re fine, Lizzy. You look better than I’ve seen you for ages. Perhaps being single finally agrees with you.’
So I told him everything. About Miles, and how blind and stupid I’d been. About home, and having to deal with packing up and getting ready to leave. About the Caldwells, and Chin, her brilliant last-minute save. About Miles and David, and how fucked-up Miles really was, about what he’d done, about the wedding. I’d forgotten how fascinated Jaden was by my family, and now he’d seen the house he had a context for it all so it was easy to tell him everything and he was a great listener.
When I’d woken up that morning I’d had a funny feeling about today, as if normal service was suspended in some way, like when you get sent home from school early because of a power cut: the regime by which you normally live your life suddenly seems flimsy, as if anything could blow it away. I realized as I talked that that was the cumulative effect of the weekend: I wasn’t worried about anything any more. But neither was I convincing myself that everything was perfect when it clearly wasn’t, which was what I’d been doing when I was going out with Miles.
As I drained my second coffee I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past two. ‘We should be getting back,’ I said.
‘In a minute,’ Jaden said. ‘There’s time.’
‘How’s Alina?’ I said. Alina was Jaden’s sister, chief services executive with a globally recognized brand of computer printers. She lived in Houston and was unlike her brother, from what I had gleaned.
‘She got a haircut,’ Jaden said. ‘Are you going to call David, then?’
‘What about – what was her boyfriend called? Pete? Paul? Did he make tenure?’
‘Yes,’ said Jaden. ‘Another coffee, please. My gut is going to be shot to hell. Thank you,’ he said, to the alarmed-looking waiter. ‘So, are you going to call David?’
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘About Paul. Pete.’
‘Lizzy…’
I gazed around Market Place, the merry lunchtime drinkers, the gorgeous clothes happily hovering in the windows of Reiss opposite. ‘Why would I?’ I said.
‘Because you’re still in love with him.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ My stomach lurched at the thought of having conveyed the situation so inadequately. ‘No, I’m not. And that’s not the point…The point is that it’s all over, and it’s sad, but I know it’s for the best.’
‘What a load of bull!’ Jaden said. ‘Don’t sit there and tell me what happened on Saturday and then say you’re not going to call him.’
‘I’m not.’
‘The guy calls your house Christmas to try and sort it out. He comes round to your place in March and has to watch you behave like a total bitch – I’m sorry, forgive me – while you flirt with his brother, then kiss him, then flirt with me. He calls y
ou to tell you he’s still interested, and you brush him off. You hook up with his freaking brother and he has to stand by and watch! Jeez, Lizzy!’
So this was why Jaden didn’t drink coffee. ‘I’m not stubborn,’ I said, equally heatedly. ‘I’m not – listen to me,’ for I could see he was about to interrupt again. ‘I know all that. But I was angry with him then. I thought he’d…I’m not like you. Neither’s David. I don’t like talking about it, when there’s nothing to talk about. That’s not what either of us wants.’
‘But!’ Jaden smacked his head with his palm. ‘Listen to yourself! You’re talking about him as if you’re a couple! If you know he thinks that and you know you think that then do something about it!’
I set my jaw. ‘I’m not like that,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ve spent nearly a year getting over him. I’m not letting myself in for all that again.’
Jaden was more worked up than I’d ever seen him. He glared at me. ‘Lizzy.’
‘Yes?’ I said.
Jaden said, ‘I have three things to say to you, in a calm, rational way, and then we won’t talk about it again. And I want you to listen to these three things and confirm them with me as I say each one. Because I’m right about them.’
‘OK,’ I said, looking anxiously at his fresh coffee.
‘One. You and David were in love with each other when he went to New York, right?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Yipbibibibi – no interrupting. Yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘Two. Basically, you guys split up because someone else tried to break you up. OK, you were both totally useless about the whole thing and kinda rolled over like sheep at the first sign of trouble, but you were told he’d slept with someone else and he was told you didn’t love him any more. Right?’
‘Well…’ I began.
‘Lizzy,’ Jaden said again, dangerously.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Three, and this is really important. Can you imagine feeling that way about anyone else?’
I was silent.
‘Can you, Lizzy?’ Jaden said quietly. ‘Do you think he was the one?’
‘It’s—’ I tried to speak.
‘You do, don’t you?’ he said softly.
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Right,’ Jaden said, sitting back in his chair. ‘How many other people out there do you estimate there are for you?’ I shook my head at him, bewildered. ‘Exactly. So what are you gonna do about it?’
‘I…’
‘Come on, Lizzy!’ Jaden barked.
‘I’m going to…write to him,’ I said, suddenly brave, feeling like I was in a revivalist meeting.
‘Yes!’ Jaden punched the air. ‘Why don’t you call him instead?’
‘No, it’s too weird,’ I said, feeling momentum surging through my body at the idea of this course of action. ‘He’s in New York. I’ll write to him. I want to put it all down so it’s there in black and white. Everything, so he knows.’
‘Great,’ Jaden was standing up, carefully removing coins and notes from his man-bag and depositing them on the table. ‘Let’s get back. My work here is done.’
‘Why are you doing all this for me, Jaden?’ I said, as we walked back to the office.
‘I’m the scriptwriter,’ he said. ‘Put it this way. I like being the deus ex machina once in a while.’
That night I went out with Georgy, and she said the same thing as Jaden, except we drank a lot more and she screamed a lot more and waved more cigarettes in the air. So when I got home late on Monday night, fired up by all of this, I sat on my sofa and thought about what I wanted to say. In the end I decided I couldn’t put it all down. It was too complicated. So I took the photo of us in front of the Eiffel Tower, found an envelope, and wrote David’s address on it very neatly. I wasn’t going to take the risk of this being one of those ‘And she addressed the envelope whilst drunk, and put the wrong street number on, and he never got her letter and he died a broken man six months later’ things.
The windows in my little flat were wide open as I sat there chewing my pen. The contents of my bag sprawled on the floor where I’d thrown it down in my eagerness to complete my task. I could hear the late-night sounds of the city outside. In David’s apartment the portable aircon had whirred all night, I remembered.
I stretched my legs and glanced at the window-sill, where my geraniums were poking their heads up, searching for the sun. I loved my flat. It was my home, and only I had the responsibility for making sure I was happy there. The one thing the last year had taught me was that your home had to be where you live, where you put down roots, not where ghosts of past lives and emotions flit about. While Keeper House would always be my favourite place in the world, I knew now that I also belonged here, in my tiny flat off the Edgware Road, near the joke shop, the market and the canal, where photos of Georgy and Tom were on the fridge and, on the noticeboard, the efficient list of tasks to do that I’d drawn up that morning. Renew the insurance. Get the front-door lock checked. Glue together the mug I’d broken. Get the photos of Chin’s wedding developed.
I thought about Rosalie and Mike, safely back in their home, unpacking the bubble-wrapped pictures and hanging them on the wall. Rosalie would probably be the one with a hammer and tack in position, Mike advising her, a glass of wine in his hand, as the lights of Manhattan gleamed through the window. I thought of Kate, sitting outside her cottage with a cup of tea, listening to Radio Four, watching the stars. Was she thinking of what might have been with Mike? Was she remembering Tony? Did she look up to the sky and search for a sign of him? And I thought of Mum and Dad, labelling boxes, walking around our home, where Mum had stroked our hair and sung us to sleep, where Tony had slept on the night before he died, where Edwin Walter had stood one spring morning a hundred years ago and decided he was going to build a family.
Inaction was the thing to fear. I picked up the photo again, and looked at it. And on the back I wrote,
David,
I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. What a mess.
I just thought you should know, I love you. I always will. I never stopped, even though I tried to pretend I had.
It’s no big deal if you don’t feel the same way, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Just ring me up and tell me to go away if you want, and then at least it’s sorted out, once and for all.
Lxxx
I posted it the next day. A week went by, and I heard nothing. Then two weeks. Then three, and I went on holiday knowing by then that it was all over.
THIRTY-SIX
The stuffy trains were taking people to the leafy, lawn-filled suburbs and towns outside London: Hanwell, Windsor, Henley, Oxford. The hot weather gave the station a festive, holiday feeling. Gone were the black accountants’ suits, women in sensible court shoes, people hurrying with newspapers under their arms. Instead, as the heat of the day rose from the ground and the setting sun cast beams of light across the huge iron-and-glass tunnel of the station, the mood was relaxed, happy, friendly. Girls in flip-flops with pastel flowers on them, little tops, flowery skirts. Boys, who are always less sure of themselves in this temperature, in trendy long shorts, baggy shirts and designer shades. Above the concourse rose a babble of sound, the happy murmur of conversation and purpose, as passengers disappeared towards their trains.
I waited for Georgy under the huge electric timetable, sitting on the hard shell of my suitcase. She was late and we were about to miss the first Heathrow Express, but I was relaxed: we had time. I spread my hands and idly examined my forearms – the sun of recent weeks had turned them a light honey brown, the soft hairs on them white-blond. I wiggled my toes, painted a bright new pink for the holiday ahead. In my suitcase I had an assortment of clothing, lots of glittery makeup and sandals, books I’d probably never read. In my handbag I had a travel guide to Corfu and the book I’d picked to start first, then cast aside in favour of magazines. Suddenly my phone rang. I idly plucked it out of my bag.
�
�Where are you?’ Tom’s voice demanded.
‘At Paddington,’ I replied. ‘Why?’
‘The station?’ he said, sounding almost cross. ‘You’re on the main bit? The concourse?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m waiting for Georgy. Why, what’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Tom said. ‘I just wanted to know how you were getting to the airport.’
‘Eh?’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Are you sure that’s the quickest way? Oh, well, it’s your decision, better go now. Whereabouts are you waiting? I like it outside Dixon’s.’
‘What?’ I said, confused. ‘Tom, are you drunk? Why do you care where I’m waiting?’
‘Oh, you know. Ergonomics. There should be benches.’ He sounded less and less sure. ‘So, where are you?’
‘I’m underneath the main sign, right in the middle,’ I said. ‘By the tourist bureau. That way, I can see the trains and spot Georgy in case she comes off the Tube. Does that make ergonomic sense to you?’
‘Great, thanks. ‘Bye,’ said Tom, and simply put the phone down. I was astonished yet again by the eccentricity of my family, which revealed itself to me on a near-daily basis. I swivelled round to lean against the upright handle of my suitcase and watch the scene in front of me.
The sounds and smells of an early summer’s evening washed over me, the bustle and hurry of people on their way, smiling, frowning, the station guards chatting lugubriously at the gates, train drivers wandering around. I yawned and stretched. A booming voice reminded me that the seven forty-five train to Exeter departing platform nine prevented me from dozing into a light sleep and possibly sliding onto the floor.
A movement out of the corner of my left eye caught my attention. Someone was skidding through the crowds, running for a train, and had bumped into an old lady. I closed my eyes again, listening to the footsteps hurry past her. They were coming in my direction. I opened my eyes.
David was standing in front of me. I blinked and looked again. Yes, it was definitely him.
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