‘Should I try to talk to him?’ Fabio suggested. ‘Maybe someone else could help explain. After all, I have known Alex since he was a few hours old.’
‘You can try, but I’ve knocked on his door this morning three times and each time he’s told me to go away.’
‘Prego, let me go up and see if I can speak with him.’ Fabio looked at his watch. ‘But I must leave for Paphos to pick up my hire car by two.’
‘Do you have to go?’ Helena clung to him. ‘Couldn’t you stay a little longer?’
‘Helena, you know the dancer’s schedule. I would love to stay, but I cannot. Perhaps you come to Limassol next week to see the performance, and we take dinner together afterwards. Now, I must book the taxi to take me into Paphos.’
‘No, I’ll take you. I think it’s better if I keep busy, and I want to get out of Pandora for a while. Beautiful as it is, this house seems to have brought me nothing but misery ever since we arrived.’ Helena watched Fabio move towards the door. ‘Please, tell Alex I love him and I’m so, so sorry . . .’ Helena’s voice cracked and she shrugged helplessly.
‘Of course.’ Fabio nodded, and left to walk along the corridor to Alex’s room. He knocked gently. ‘Alex? It is I, Fabio. Can we talk? I wish to speak about what has happened.’
‘Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk. To anyone,’ came the muffled reply.
‘I understand this. So, I will stand out here and speak and you can listen if you choose, si?’
Silence.
‘Okay . . . I have only one thing to say to you, Alex, and it is this: I was there when your mother discovered she had you inside her. Even though I beg her not to have the baby, to realise there is no papa, to think of her career and how she is ruining her life, she insists. “No Fabio,” she says, “I must have this baby.” She cares about nothing else but bringing you into the world. And her world was you when you came. Just Alex, all the time.’
Fabio paused and cleared his throat.
‘Now, is this a mamma who is bad? No, this is a mamma who loves her son so much, she gives up even her great passion for the ballet. She looks after you alone and never complains. Then, when a good man comes into her life, she sees it is the key to make both of you happy. She wants security for you, the best life she can give you, so she takes it. You understand, Alex?’
There was still no reply, so Fabio continued.
‘And when fate makes this thing happen and she sees the bad Alexander, who is now “Sacha”, at her wedding, she decides to keep a secret. Alex, she made a mistake by doing this, but she did it because she loves you so much. You must see that. I beg you to see it. Yes? She is bravest person I know, but Alex, she is hurting too! And she needs you now, like you needed her when you were small. You are big boy, with big brain. You can see what has happened. Help her, Alex, help her. ’
Fabio took out his silk handkerchief and blew his nose hard. ‘There. That is all I have to say. God willing, this will be resolved and I will see you soon. Goodbye, my friend, goodbye.’
Having bribed the little ones with the promise of a McDonald’s on the way back, Helena took them along with Fabio to Paphos to pick up his hire car. It was a relief to be out of the house. Alex was still refusing to come out of his room, but Angelina was at Pandora cleaning for another hour or so, so at least she knew he was physically safe.
‘Will you try to come to Limassol next week, Helena?’ Fabio asked as he gave her one last hug.
‘I’ll do my best, but under the circumstances, I can’t promise anything just now.’
‘No, but many things can change in a week,’ he said with a sympathetic smile. ‘And out of all this, at least we have found our friendship again. Remember I am always there for you, cara. Speak to me on the telephone, Helena, as much as you need to. And let me know what happens.’
‘Thank you for everything, Fabio. I’d forgotten how much I miss you.’
‘Ciao, cara, ciao, little ones.’
They waved him off, and even though Immy and Fred were standing on either side of her, Helena remembered then how it felt to be alone.
ALEX’S DIARY
13th August 2006
I have woken up this morning, and I know I have to go. Somewhere, anywhere, away from the pain . . . and her.
I lay on my bed last night after Helena – I cannot call her my ‘mother’ just now – left me, my mind full of images of driving Chevrolets along treeless American highways. Arriving eventually at a one-horse town, only stopping to eat my burger at a diner and checking in to a motel before moving on the next day.
Then I remembered I’m too young to drive. And more importantly, not mature enough to grow a beard, which is an essential feature in all the road-trip movies I’ve ever watched.
So, where could I run to . . . ?
Spending nights out under the stars in the depths of the Cyprus countryside, or any countryside for that matter, does not appeal, due to my phobia of mosquitoes and other creepy crawlies. I loathe camping with a passion, so that idea was definitely off the agenda.
The fact I only have twelve pounds and thirty-two pence left in my bank account, having spent the rest on a blitz in a souvenir shop in Latchi, narrows the options too. I could try selling my treasures, but I doubt I’ll get much for my laser pointer, mug and wooden cigar box with Love from Cyprus carved into the top of it.
I dozed off for a while again, then woke with an awful sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I remembered. I hate her at this moment, this woman I’ve adored since birth. She has fallen off her pedestal and is lying in broken bits on the ground. I imagined stamping on the effigy of her head, and breaking it some more. It made me feel a little better but it did not solve the problem of her betrayal. Which is terrible.
I understand now about the way in which trauma and lack of sleep can calcify the brain; I am not sure I have one left. I am now also starving and very thirsty, but due to the fact I cannot . . . cannot open the door to my bedroom and risk bumping into either one of my half-brother(s) or sister, or indeed Helena herself, I am still holed up in my Broom Cupboard. She keeps knocking on my door, and I keep refraining from answering.
I want to punish her.
Then suddenly, it’s Fabio knocking on my door.
He talks to me about her, and . . . oh crud, the anger begins to subside. He’ll never know, but he had me in floods on the other side of the door. And when he leaves, I begin to think more rationally about what she told me last night.
My sense of perspective, which had run away and was lying on a beach in the Bahamas getting a tan, decided to cut short its holiday and return to me.
And the more I thought, the more I realised Fabio was right: that actually, this wasn’t her fault. I even managed a wry smile as I remembered the story she’d related about the night when she went to the ball and it struck me that it was like some weird post-modern remake of Cinderella. Immy certainly would not have been impressed if the Disney version she loves so much had turned out the same way, with Cinders up the duff and all alone . . .
Admittedly, I am not too keen on the thought of the woman who gave me life playing the up-and-down game with any man, least of all He Who Fathered Me, but she could have killed me. And she didn’t.
Because she loves me.
By now I am also desperate to pee, so when I eventually hear the house fall silent and car tyres scraping over the gravel, I creep out and hot-foot it upstairs to the bathroom and after relieving myself, I turn on the tap and fill up all the tooth mugs there are, plus the plastic watering can Fred uses to torture Immy with in the bath. And I’m halfway back to my room with my watery supplies when I hear the patter of tiny feet along the corridor.
‘Hello, Alex.’
Damn! I halt abruptly, and half the water splashes into puddles on the tiles.
‘You are here. Angelina said you were.’
It’s Viola. Just what I need. She only ever comes to tell me her problems. And today, to put it mildly, I have some of my own. ‘Yes, I am,�
� I reply.
‘Are you all right, Alex?’ she asks as she follows me to the door of my room and looks at me, the puddles and the now near-empty containers. ‘Are you feeding some plants?’
‘No,’ I say, as I see her studying Fred’s watering can. ‘Viola, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now.’
‘That’s okay. I just came to tell you that Mummy and me and Rupes are leaving for England at the end of the week. She wants us to settle in to our new house before the start of term. Oh, and Rupes told me to tell you that he managed to pass his exam, and to say thank you for helping him. He’s very happy.’
‘Good. How nice. I’m thrilled for him.’
Thrilled for Rupes. My new-found half-brother. I suddenly have an urge to giggle hysterically at the absurdity of it. And of life in general.
‘Well then,’ I add, as I start to retreat inside. ‘Thanks for coming over, Viola.’
‘Daddy is here in Cyprus, Alex,’ she continues, not to be deterred. ‘He brought Rupes back last night and tried to persuade Mum to give it another go.’
‘What did she say?’
‘No. And then she said he was a drunken bastard and made him leave the house.’ Viola bit her lip. ‘I’m worried about him. You haven’t seen him, have you? I thought he might have come here to Pandora.’
Christ! This episode of my life is now becoming seriously farcical. ‘No, Viola. Sorry.’
‘Oh.’
I watch as tears spring to her eyes, and then feel bad for being abrupt with her. ‘You really love your dad, don’t you?’ I was desperate to add, even though he’s an out-and-out tosser who has ruined your and your brother’s and your mother’s and my mother’s lives. And actually, Dad’s – as in William, and Immy’s and Fred’s. And for that matter, mine.
‘Of course I do. He didn’t mean for his business to go wrong, did he? I’m sure he did his best.’
Oh Viola, if only you knew . . .
But I can’t help being touched by her devotion. Especially given she’s not even related to him by blood. Which some of us, sadly, are.
‘I’m sure he did, yes.’ I manage through gritted teeth.
None of this is Viola’s fault, after all.
‘Well, I’ll go,’ she says. ‘I brought Nicholas Nickleby back for you. I thought it was the best book I’ve ever, ever read.’
‘Did you? Well, that’s good then.’
‘Yes, and I’m going to read a Jane Austen next, like you said I should.’
‘Fine choice.’ I nod.
‘Oh, and here’s something for you from me, in case I don’t see you again. Just to say thank you for being so kind over the summer.’
She hands me an envelope, then reaches up shyly and gives me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Bye-bye, Alex.’
‘Bye, Viola.’
I watch her disappear along the corridor with her dainty little feet barely touching the floor. She glides, rather like my moth— I mean, Helena does.
Perhaps it’s simply stress and exhaustion that prompts more tears to come to my eyes as I look down at the envelope, which has been painstakingly covered in felt-tipped flowers and hearts. I feel moved by Viola’s sweetness and, as I negotiate the water vessels back to my room, I only wish it was her I was genetically related to, rather than Rupes.
I sit on the bed, and having taken a few enormous gulps of water, I open the envelope.
Dear Alex, I have written you a poem because I know you like them. It’s not very good, I suppose, but it’s called ‘Friends’. And I hope you are my friend forever. Love and thank you for everything, Viola.
I unfold the poem and read it and to be honest, it isn’t great in terms of iambic pentameter or the rhyming couplets, but it is heartfelt and brings tears to my eyes yet again. Talk about waterworks in the past few hours. No wonder I’m thirsty.
I look down at Bee, the bunny rabbit that my new-found Uncle Fabio gave me all those years ago. And at least I now know where my horrific middle name comes from – it’s been tough, thinking that I was named after a red-nosed reindeer for the past thirteen years. And then I think about Viola, and her enduring love for the drunken idiot who sired me.
And for the first time since last night, I realise it could have been worse. Taking aside the awful coincidence of the genetic ‘Dad’ and . . . er, ‘Dad’ being best buddies, at least my gene pool is of apparently noble lineage, and Sacha has two brain cells to rub together. When they’re not alcohol-soaked, at least. (That is something I realise I must now guard against, as I read only last week that addiction is genetic.)
The other good news is that my biological father is tall. With a decent head of hair and a waistline that is definitely defined. And nice eyes . . .
Oh my God! I stand up and stare at myself in the mirror. And there they are, the clues that have lain there for all of these years; the giveaways, sitting bold as brass in two sockets on either side of my nose. It’s just that no one chose to see what was right under their nose. Including me.
So I am not the progeny of a grape-stamper or a camp-as-a-row-of-tents ballet dancer. Or an airline pilot, or someone Chinese . . . I am the son of a well-bred Englishman who has been known to me since I was small.
The best friend of my stepdad.
Dad . . . poor Dad. My heart suddenly goes out to him, too. The thought of his wife being you-know-whatted by anyone, let alone his best friend, must be almost impossible to deal with. It was bad enough when Chloë snogged Airport Guy and Michel.
The question is, can Dad ever forgive Helena?
Can I . . . ?
It strikes me then that me and Dad are both currently sitting in the same leaking boat. I wonder if he’s cried the way I have? Somehow I can’t imagine it. But if anyone is feeling as bad as I am just now, it’s him.
And then I realise – we have finally found a bond. It isn’t football, or cricket, or the teapots he likes to collect by the shedload; it’s Helena, and the pain she has caused both of us.
My, er, progenitor; his wife.
I attempt to empty Fred’s watering can into my mouth as I think, and end up giving myself a refreshing facial shower instead. And I remember hearing her muffled sobs emanating from the terrace after I asked her to go away last night.
I think again about what she told me.
And then ponder how she gave up her glittering career as a famous bendy person in layers of netting, just so she could keep me . . .
And then I cry again. For her.
A few minutes later, I have made a decision. And I begin to put it into action.
κζ
Twenty-seven
Having dropped Fabio off, Helena called Angelina to check on Alex and ascertained that apparently Viola had visited him, and he had come out of his room to talk to her.
A trip to the beach with Immy and Fred filled the rest of the afternoon. At six o’clock, the three of them arrived back at Pandora and Helena went straight to knock on Alex’s door.
‘It’s me, Alex. Would you let me in, please?’
There was no answer.
‘Okay, darling, I understand, but you must be hungry. I’ll leave you something to eat on a tray outside the door. I’m going to bath the little ones, read them a story and put them to bed. I’ll come back after that.’
At eight o’clock, as she sat on the terrace alone, listening to the silence of a house that up until last night had been filled with the sound of happy humanity, she went back inside. The tray she’d left was untouched. She knocked on Alex’s door again.
‘Alex, darling, please come out. The little ones are in bed and no one else is here. Could we talk? Please?’ she begged him.
Nothing.
Helena sat down outside his room, now desperate for some kind of reaction.
‘Please, Alex, just say something to let me know you’re all right. I understand you hate me and don’t want to see me, but I can’t bear this, I really can’t.’
No response.
‘Okay, darling, I’m coming
in anyway.’ Helena stood up and tried the handle. It turned, but the door wouldn’t open.
‘Alex, darling, I’ll break down the door if I have to. Please! Speak to me!’ Helena was frantic now, dreadful thoughts starting to run through her mind. Tears of frustration and terror began to course down her cheeks. ‘Alex! If you can hear me, for God’s sake, open the door!’
With her cries eliciting only further silence, she ran onto the terrace, found her mobile on the table and with shaking hands, dialled Alexis’ number.
He answered immediately. ‘Helena?’
‘Alexis!’
‘Helena, what is it?’
‘I . . . Oh Alexis, come over here now, please! I need you.’
He arrived ten minutes later. Helena was standing at the back of the house waiting for him.
‘What has happened?’
‘It’s Alex! He won’t open his bedroom door. I think . . . Oh God . . .’ she choked, ‘I think he may have done something . . . Please, come with me now!’ Helena grabbed his arm and almost dragged him into the house.
‘Where is William?’ he asked her, clearly confused.
‘Gone, he’s gone, but I have to get into Alex’s bedroom, right now!’ she sobbed as she pulled him along the corridor towards the room.
‘Helena, calm down! Of course we will get in.’ He tried the handle and, like Helena, found the door didn’t budge. He put his full weight against it, but it still wouldn’t open. He tried again, but still nothing.
‘Alex? Can you hear me? Please answer! Please!’ Helena banged her fists on the door.
Alexis pulled her out of the way and, using all his strength, ran at it, but it did not give way.
‘Okay, I will go outside and try the window.’
‘Yes, yes!’ Helena said in relief. ‘The shutter is open. I saw it earlier.’
‘Good. I need something to stand on. The window is set too high for me to see in.’ He ran to the terrace and dragged over a chair. ‘Can you tell me what has happened, Helena?’ he asked as he propped it just below the window and climbed onto it.
The Olive Tree Page 33