Olivia could hear Eve searching the bedrooms on the first floor. She glanced into the airing cupboard on the landing, piled high with sheets and towels, then climbed the second flight of stairs. She and Eve had explored the top floor on their first evening, but they hadn’t ventured this far again. The furnishings were sparse up here: the attic bedrooms, presumably intended for children, contained nothing but bunk beds and frayed rag rugs. On the top landing stood an ornately carved blanket box, made of some dark old-fashioned wood. Olivia lifted the lid and there was James, half-sitting, half-squatting in the bottom. He grinned and raised a finger to his lips, then held the lid open so Olivia could climb in.
There was nothing inside except an old blanket, but even so it was a squash to fit them both in. When James let the lid down it was very dark, only a peephole of light where the key should have been.
“Okay?” James whispered, so quietly that it was almost not a sound at all.
In the darkness Olivia’s hearing felt heightened, like a bat’s. She shifted her limbs carefully, taking care not to bang them against the sides of the box, and felt laughter welling up inside – the gurgling, childish laughter of suspense, but something else as well, something skittish and secretive that she knew she shouldn’t examine too closely. Then she felt James’s arms threading around her, helping to settle her into a more comfortable position. As she lay back against him to ease her arm out from behind her she heard Eve’s footsteps on the stairs and she froze, curled in James’s arms. So that when Eve flung open the lid that was how she found them: wedged into the blanket box like twin foetuses, looking up blankly at the sudden light.
“Oh,” said Eve, staring down. She held the lid half-open for a few seconds and Olivia thought she might let it drop again with a crash, but instead she lifted it back against the wall so they could climb out. “My turn to hide, then.”
“Why don’t we stay here to count?” said James. “Give you more choice.”
Eve frowned. “I can’t hide up here anyway,” she said. “You’d hear whether I’d gone back downstairs.” But she lowered the lid of the box reluctantly, sealing Olivia and James in the dark again.
Whatever that illicit pleasure had been in the few seconds before Eve discovered them, it was magnified now. Olivia felt uncomfortably aware of its effect – on her, on Eve, and even, possibly, on James. While he counted, they both stayed so still that their immobility seemed to communicate something: an awareness of their closeness, the pressure of their bodies against each other; the implication of even the smallest movement. When James reached fifty he paused, squeezed Olivia’s waist gently, then lifted her away from him and reached up for the lid.
Olivia went first, this time, scampering down the stairs like a child released from its room after a punishment: light-footed, sharply conscious of the risk of further transgression. Her head spun with freedom and danger. She paused on the landing, collecting herself. It would be better to let James find Eve first. She pushed open the door of the master bedroom, where James had been sleeping; an unlikely place for Eve to hide.
The sheets were tumbled on the double bed. For a moment Olivia thought she could make out a form under the covers and her heart throbbed at the thought of Eve burrowing into James’s bed, waiting for him to come and find her there, but there was nothing but heaped-up pillows. She let out a little giggle, and as she did so she heard James’s footsteps, heard him hesitate outside the door and then go on down the stairs, and her cheeks burned with the threat of discovery.
Then there was another noise, a tiny shift or creak from the built-in wardrobes that covered one side of the room. Olivia stood silent, her eyes straying over the dressing table with its floral skirt, the mantelpiece littered with forgotten treasures, as she waited for another clue. She glanced through the bay windows and noticed that the rain had stopped, that the sea was lying slate-blue and tranquil beyond the beach.
Eve was in the wardrobe, she was sure about that, and she ought to walk away and leave her for James to find. But instead she tiptoed across the room, past the chair where James’s case lay open, until she was standing in front of the first of the wardrobe doors. Was this really what Eve wanted, to be found, brazen, in James’s room? Olivia reached a hand to the wooden handle and pulled. Inside, coats and jackets hung thickly, giving off a smell of mothballs and old wool. She rustled her hands between the clothes and, finding nothing, closed the door gently.
Another hesitation; another chance to walk away. The next door opened onto a tall stack of shelves, some fitted with drawers. Nowhere for anyone to hide in there. Olivia shut it again quickly, and before she had time to think she pulled the third door open and there was Eve, shrouded in summer dresses, staring at her in disbelief. Olivia stared back, and within a second Eve’s expression evaporated.
“You took your time,” she said. “You’ve been in the room for ages.”
Olivia grinned sheepishly.
“Get in, then. There’s plenty of room.”
Olivia found herself in the dark again, wedged against Eve, steeped in the subtle, stifling scent of old perfume. The texture of silk against her hair and her cheeks was soft but insistent, like the wings of a butterfly folded around them both, and she could hear Eve’s breathing, steady and shallow. Olivia felt again a sense of unease, of being unaccustomed to such proximity, even though she and Eve had spent the whole summer together. She wanted to take Eve’s hand, dangling just a few inches from hers. It’ll be all right, she wanted to say, although she wasn’t sure what she meant by it.
The wait seemed longer this time, not full of suspense or anticipation but of quiet, almost of boredom. Long childhood afternoons, Olivia thought; empty rooms stippled with dust motes. She could detect nothing in Eve now except a sort of neutrality that might signal resignation.
But when James finally opened the door Eve burst out like a jack-in-the-box.
“Boo!” she said, her face strained into an expression of surprise. “Two skeletons in your closet!”
James gave a brief smile. “Lunchtime, I think,” he said, and he turned on his heel to lead the way back downstairs.
Olivia helped him get things out of the fridge: bread and cheese, the remains of a salad from the previous night.
“We need to go shopping,” James said.
Olivia looked guiltily at the empty shelves. They’d let James provide for them all week, she thought. No tinned sardines or horrible jam for days.
“I could do that, after lunch,” she said. “And we should cook, tonight. You’ve done loads.”
“Listen to you two,” scoffed Eve, sliding the Monopoly board along the table intact, as though they might resume later. “Just like an old couple. What shall we have tonight, dear?“
“You’re welcome to contribute,” James said shortly. He sat down at the table and reached for the bread knife. “The weather’s looking up. We might be able to get out this afternoon. We could walk along the coast path towards Thorpeness.”
“Where’s that?” asked Eve. “I don’t feel like walking too far.”
“There’s a map somewhere,” James said.
“I’ll get ours from the car,” offered Olivia.
“That’s a road atlas, not a walking map,” said Eve.
“Better than nothing,” said James. “Wait ‘til you’ve finished, though, Olivia. There’s no rush.”
But Olivia was suddenly desperate to be outside. She ate her sandwich as fast as she could, then she put her plate in the sink and slipped out of the front door, leaving Eve and James facing each other across the table.
The car was parked very close to the house, but she didn’t go straight to it. Instead, she went down onto the beach and stood on the ridge of wet shingle, letting the sea air fill her lungs. She thought of the stale smells of the house, woodsmoke and perfume and mothballs, and she felt a wave of frustration sweep through her and out, out onto the salt-laced wind. She thought of James’s hands holding her, and Eve’s body pressed against her, an
d she stretched her arms wide into the buffeting breeze and let it support her, alone on the wide swathe of the beach.
It had been a good summer, she thought, but she was glad it was nearly over. In a day or two they would pack up and head south again, and then she would fly out to Dubai to spend the last few weeks of the holiday with her parents. The thought made her wildly happy, the prospect of being somewhere else, away from Eve and James and the depressing monochrome of this coastline. But at the same time she felt a wrench of betrayal. She remembered the three doors of the wardrobe, how she had opened each of them in turn, pressed on until Eve was exposed.
It was all too complicated, she thought, shaking her head so that her hair flew around her ears like damp seaweed. She wasn’t ready for all this adult stuff, bearing responsibility for Eve’s feelings. She stood for a few more minutes, looking along the beach, her gaze taking in the now-familiar landmarks of the town, and then she turned slowly and made her way back to the car.
The atlas was lying on the passenger seat, dog-eared from a summer of use; a reminder of the fun they’d had, she and Eve, all the places they’d visited together. Olivia slammed the car door and crossed the road again to Shearwater House.
She could hear Eve shouting as soon as she pushed open the door. Before, perhaps; the harmonics that hover above the human voice, a primitive warning system for conflict. But Olivia went on, through the front door and down the passage to the kitchen, letting the words fly past her.
They didn’t stop when she entered the room. Eve didn’t stop, anyway; James’s voice was less prominent, his tone softer, lower. More menacing than placatory, though, Olivia sensed. She put the map book down on a chair and stood uncertainly by the door, wondering whether to intervene or to stay out of range.
“I didn’t ask you to come and join us,” said Eve, her voice almost a sob.
“You’d hardly be here without me.” James had seen Olivia: was his tone gentler because of it?
Suddenly Eve burst into tears. “Fuck you,” she shouted, the oath shocking on her lips. “I don’t want to be here any more, anyway.” She swivelled round. “Come on, Olivia, we’re going.”
“Going?” Olivia didn’t move. “Packing up?”
“Just going,” said Eve. “Away. Out. Are you coming or not?”
Chapter 28
2008
One Monday morning at the beginning of December, when ice had spread across Port Meadow and the horizon was lost in an uneasy tangle of cloud, Olivia abandoned her usual walking route and made instead for the middle of town. Along St Giles, the ancient buildings stood staunch against the vicissitudes of the weather. Olivia looked up at the familiar wonder of St John’s and Balliol, their turrets and gargoyles dramatic against the fretful sky. Below them, the city pursued its business. The streets were filled with early Christmas shoppers, the pubs and cafés doing a steady trade, and the hoarding around the Ashmolean made cheerful claims for the improvements underway inside.
Walking in the city centre felt different from walking across Port Meadow. Being out in the open air was natural and blameless, Olivia thought; following the course of the river, the turn of the seasons, didn’t require any justification. But here she felt the lack of a purpose. With no errands to complete, no baby to push, she was aimless, underemployed. And among the busy throng of tourists and students her solitariness was as conspicuous as her empty hands, even if no one except her would notice or care. She knew she was privileged, that she should feel guilty rather than resentful at her lack of productivity. Who could ask for a nicer place to be cast adrift than in these gracious streets, which people came from around the world to see?
She turned left into Broad Street, passed Blackwells and walked on towards New College. Twenty years ago, she thought, halting in front of the immaculate Classical façade of the Holywell Music Room, she’d given a recital in there, and taken a masterclass along the road at the Sheldonian. Perhaps she’d been too ready to make sacrifices for motherhood. Other people kept playing when they had children: had she been too greedy, bearing four boys in such close succession? Too fearful of failure, as a mother if not as a pianist?
The smell of coffee bloomed invitingly from a tiny café, offering a welcome distraction. There were only three tables, but one of them was empty. Olivia ordered coffee and slid into a seat just inside the window, taking a copy of The Independent from the rack beside the counter. At the next table, a young couple talked in low voices that proclaimed the vital importance of whatever they were discussing; beyond them, a man her own age spoke loudly into a mobile phone, giving instructions for a business meeting. Olivia half-listened, wondering what these people’s lives were like, how they came to be sitting here in the middle of the morning.
“Espresso?”
The waitress smiled as she set the cup down, and Olivia recognised her as a contemporary of Tom’s, the daughter of one of those baby-group friends who had disappeared rapidly back to her law firm.
“That was quick,” she said.
Olivia remembered the girl’s name – Imogen – but she didn’t use it now. Too complicated to explain the connection, she thought; too many years to fill in. Had Imogen finished school, or dropped out? What message could Olivia possibly send to her mother?
“Can I get you anything else?”
Olivia shook her head with a murmur of thanks, and let her gaze dip back to the newspaper.
Although her eyes scanned the accounts of riots in Greece and financial crisis in Russia with an appearance of attention, Olivia’s thoughts drifted away – lighting, as they had done rather often lately, on Eve. Several times since their lunch she’d thought of picking up the phone, to propose another meeting or simply to hear Eve’s voice again, but each time something had stopped her. A kind of shyness, perhaps. The difficulty of being such familiar strangers.
But Olivia knew that was only part of the answer. The whole truth, she thought, staring through the window at a boisterous group of students, was more complicated. The shock and pleasure of seeing Eve again had broken over her in waves in the last week, but as each wave receded she was at a loss to know where it had set her down. There was still, she thought, the great hulk of a shipwreck somewhere off shore.
The businessman concluded his phone call with a hearty laugh, stared at the phone for a moment as though surprised by its sudden silence, then slipped it into his top pocket and pushed his seat back.
“Excuse me,” he said, as he jostled Olivia’s chair on his way out, but he didn’t look down at her.
“No problem,” Olivia said. Her eyes met Imogen’s and they both smiled. Nice girl, Olivia thought. Nice smile. Funny how you came across people again. James, Sarah, Imogen – and Eve, of course.
As she drank her coffee, she wondered whether she and Eve would ever have met again without Sarah’s intervention. Would Eve have sought her out, after her return to England? The bonds between them were hard to fathom: something powerful still drew them together, but she knew it was just as likely to drive them apart again. That conversation over lunch had seemed momentous at the time, but Olivia could see clearly now that nothing was settled between them; that no pattern could be presumed from that first meeting.
She caught the waitress’s eye and ordered another espresso, even though the caffeine was making her brain spin. Like the princess in the fairy tale, she thought, spinning words into gold threads, or perhaps just straw. What possible futures could she spin for her and Eve? Maybe they would never see each other again, and the lunch in Marlow would prove to have been a curious kind of epilogue. Maybe they could build a different friendship now, one which would gradually bury the past beneath something new. Or perhaps, following Eve’s taste for revelation, they might at last lay bare everything that had happened between them.
Each of these possibilities filled Olivia with dread. Frankness and suppression would be equally appalling, she realised. Hadn’t she always known that the things they’d both lived with, all this time, meant that
ordinary friendship would never be possible again? In any case, she was certain it would fall to Eve to decide what happened next, and Eve surely knew it too, whether she attributed her precedence to Olivia’s lack of courage or to some complicated equation of blame and guilt. And hadn’t Eve said what she’d wanted to that day at lunch? Hadn’t she made her choice already?
Each day that passed, Olivia concluded, made it more likely that she would never hear from Eve again, and that thought made her feel both relieved and horribly bereft.
The phone rang just after she got home. Olivia picked it up without a thought, but in the instant before she heard the voice on the other end she knew it was going to be Eve.
“Olivia?”
“Hi!”
They’d never spoken much on the telephone: it felt strange, like a dream where you meet someone who’s been dead for years.
“I’ve got a date,” Eve said. “To go to China.”
“For a baby?”
“Of course for a baby. They’ve sent the details. Photos.”
“My goodness.”
“Can I come and see you?”
Eve sounded tremulous; Olivia’s heart raced in sympathy. She’d made everything too complicated, she thought. She’d let it all fester and ferment. What an idiot she was.
“Of course. Any time. Robert’s away for a couple of days: come for supper.”
“Tonight?”
Olivia made rapid calculations. She had pupils from four until six, but she could get to the shops now before Benjy got back. She looked around her kitchen, imagining Eve here.
“Why not tonight?”
“Sure?”
Olivia could hear Eve reading her mind, wondering at the juggling and scurrying that went into a simple arrangement.
“Yes,” she said. “Seven-ish?”
The Partridge and the Pelican Page 19