‘Oh my God!’
And then, this exquisite creature walked towards me and threw her arms around me.
‘It’s so wonderful to see you!’ she said as she buried her head in my shoulder – admittedly not the way beautiful women normally greeted me. ‘Why are you here? I mean,’ she corrected herself, ‘it’s very nice of you and all that, but . . . ?’
As I looked at the confusion in her eyes, I realised there was every chance that neither Jules nor the elephant man in the bed beside me had actually told her of my genetic link to her father. And here, now, was not the moment if they hadn’t. Particularly as, when she pulled away from my chest, my shirt was damp from her tears. And close up, as I looked at her lovely face, I saw the dark circles beneath her eyes and the misery beaming like lasers from her pupils.
Perhaps, I thought, I’d mention it casually to her over coffee later. Or something.
We talked in whispers about how serious the situation was – but she said that she hadn’t given up hope.
‘Miracles do occur, don’t they, Alex?’
And as she looked at me in desperation, just as she had all those years ago – a look that held an irrational belief that somehow, I’d be able to make everything better, know all the answers – I nodded.
‘Where there’s life, there’s always hope, Viola.’
She told me that Sacha had been slipping in and out of consciousness for the past forty-eight hours. That she’d called her mother – who had refused to come – and Rupes, who’d said he might.
‘But I doubt he will,’ she sighed. ‘He’s never forgiven Daddy for what he did that night in Cyprus. Embarrassing Mum like that at the party, and then leaving us virtually destitute.’ We left Sacha’s bedside and headed downstairs to have a coffee in the cafeteria. ‘But surely, whatever’s happened in the past, a son should come to see a father on his . . . deathbed.’
‘Yes.’ I gulped at her remark, realising then that she definitely didn’t know.
‘Thank you so much for coming to see him, Alex. Your dad came last week too, but apart from that . . .’ She shrugged. ‘No one else. Not much to show for a life, is it?’
She then told me how she’d been here at the hospital for the past two weeks, sleeping in the relatives’ room, not wanting to leave Sacha alone.
‘It means I won’t be taking my first-year exams at uni next week, but they’ve said that under the circumstances, they’ll be prepared to give me a predicted grade, based on the assessed stuff I’ve done so far.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at UCL, not far from here. I’m doing English Literature and French. Luckily, a lot of it is essay-based, so I shouldn’t come out of this year too badly. You know, Alex, it was you giving me Jane Eyre that began it,’ she said softly. And for the first time, a ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. ‘I’ve always meant to write to you and tell you thank you, but . . .’ She sighed. ‘Life goes on, doesn’t it?’
I nodded in agreement.
‘Even our families have lost touch over the years. I suppose it’s because Dad left, and it was always the friendship between him and your dad that linked us all. And maybe Mum just wanted to make a fresh start after the divorce.’
That, and other things I could think of.
‘How is your mum?’ I asked politely.
‘Oh, the same as ever.’
For a while she chatted on randomly about the past nine years, and I listened to her. And looked. I felt my heart begin to do that terrible hammering thing it had done with Chloë all those years before.
‘I did hear about your mum. I’m so sorry, Alex. How is she?’
‘Oh, you know, good days and bad. The first treatment didn’t work and it came back elsewhere, but they seem pretty hopeful they’ve got it nuked this time,’ I replied, trying my best to sound light-hearted.
‘God, Alex.’ Viola bit her lip. ‘We are a pair, aren’t we?’
Oh Viola, I do hope . . . I do so hope that we could be.
I nodded sagely, and then she said we’d better go back upstairs to ICU and check on her dad.
We sat by Sacha, me willing him not to wake up, see me and do some great ‘Oh my God! It’s my long-lost son come to see me and say goodbye’ thing. Viola’s obvious exhaustion and fragile emotional state made it essential that he didn’t. So, after an interminable hour and a half as he lay inertly between us, I eventually stood up.
‘I’m so sorry, Viola, but I’m going to have to leave now. It’s finals week in Oxford for me, you see, and . . .’
‘Alex, you don’t need to explain. I’ll walk you to the door.’
‘Okay.’
I then bent over the man who was technically my father and kissed him on the forehead, trying to think all the thoughts I needed to at a seminal moment like this, because I knew instinctively that it was goodbye.
None came, because my head was so full of her.
With one last glance back at him, I followed Viola out of the ward.
‘I just can’t tell you how grateful I am that you came,’ she said again as we stood on the busy street outside the hospital. She lit a roll-up, her hands shaking slightly as she did so. ‘It’s just like you to do something like this, Alex. I’ve never forgotten how kind you were to me that summer, when everything was so difficult.’
‘Really, Viola, London’s not that far from Oxford,’ I replied, feeling like an absolute jerk that she thought I’d visited Sacha simply because I was a nice person.
‘I’ll tell him you came if he wakes up. He always was very fond of you. I remember telling him you’d got into Oxford – you know how your dad, being my godfather, always sends me a cheque and a card at Christmas with all the news – and Dad looked so proud! I literally thought he might burst into tears. Anyway, you’d better go and get your train.’
‘Yes. I’d better.’
‘I . . . would it be okay if I took your mobile number? So that I can text you and let you know . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she dug around for her phone, head down to hide the tears I knew were brimming in her gorgeous eyes.
‘Of course.’
We did the exchange, and I said we’d keep in touch.
‘Oh Alex, I . . .’
Then I did the only thing I could, and pulled her into my arms. And held her there. And hoped – irrationally – it could be forever.
‘Bye, Alex,’ she said eventually.
And I walked away, knowing I was lost.
I called Dad as soon as I arrived home in Oxford, told him I’d seen Viola at the hospital and how Sacha hadn’t properly regained consciousness for the past couple of days. And then I asked him whether Sacha had ever told either of his children about me being his son.
‘I doubt it, Alex,’ he said. ‘Rupes loathes him anyway, and as you know, Viola adores him. I wouldn’t have thought Sacha wanted to destroy his relationship further with either of them, particularly Viola. She’s been pretty much all he’s had over the past few years.’
‘What about Jules? Do you think she’d have said anything?’ I asked, for the first time in my life hoping that she would have opened her big trap and spilled the beans. Because it would mean I wouldn’t have to.
‘I’ll have to ask Mum about that. She was the one who had the conversation with her after the shit hit the fan in Cyprus. Again, I doubt it. Jules may be difficult, but given they had just lost their home, their money and their father, I don’t think she’d have wanted to bring an illegitimate half-brother into the mix. God, sorry, Alex,’ he apologised immediately, realising how blunt he’d sounded.
‘That’s okay, Dad.’ I knew he always said it like it was.
‘Anyway, I’ll ask Mum. And best of luck with your exams this week.’
He did ask my mother, who duly called me and said that Jules had told her she wouldn’t tell Rupes and Viola.
‘If I remember, she said, “It’s his job to give them the bad news, not mine, but I’m sure he won’t as he’s too much of a coward.�
�� Or something like that,’ she added.
‘Do you think I should tell Viola, Mum?’
‘Not at the moment, no. From the sound of things, she’s got enough to cope with. There’s no rush, is there?’
‘No. Thanks, Mum. Speak soon.’
That night I decided I would go to London as soon as my finals were over and tell Viola the truth. After all, the situation was hardly my fault.
But then, as shitty fate would have it, at five a.m. on the day of my last exam, I felt my phone vibrate next to me. It was a missed call from Viola, and the voicemail message brought the news I’d been expecting. I rang her back immediately, and listened to her sobs. I asked her who was with her, and she said there was no one.
‘Rupes says he’s too busy. And I have to do all these awful things, like get death certificates, find an undertaker and . . .’ There was an odd sound on the line, and I knew she was wiping her hand across her nose. ‘Stuff.’
‘Listen, my last exam finishes at midday. I’ll get on a train to London and come and help you.’
‘No, Alex! You should be celebrating tonight! Please, don’t worry . . .’
‘I’ll text you when I’m on the train and meet you outside the hospital. Just hang on till then, sweetheart. Okay?’
So instead of spending a solid twelve hours haunting the bars and clubs of Oxford with the rest of the third-year undergraduates, I found myself up in London going through the grim legalities of the death of my father with his heartbroken daughter.
Who wasn’t really his daughter. And who didn’t know that I, actually, was his son . . .
And she was so bloody grateful, and alarmingly gorgeous in her grief. She looked at me that day as if I was her saviour, her one touchstone, and kept thanking me over and over again, until I wanted to vomit from the deceit of it all.
Although it wasn’t really deceit, because whether or not Sacha was my father, I would have been there for her. All I wanted to do was protect her, an instinct I still remembered vividly from our time together at Pandora. And given the state she was in, there was no way in the world I could follow my better instincts and tell her the truth. Because I thought it might break her.
So, I didn’t.
That evening, we repaired to a grotty pub somewhere in Waterloo and I sank three pints to Viola’s two glasses of white wine. She laid her head in the crook of my arm, exhausted, and I tried to concentrate on lists of things to be done the following day.
‘Why are you being so kind?’ she asked me suddenly, turning her precious pink and white (now puffy and pale) face up to me.
‘I just . . . wanted to.’ I shrug, for once lost for words. ‘Another drink?’ I said as I stood up.
‘Thanks.’
I came back to the table, having already slugged back a third of the new pint, comforting myself that I’d have been doing far worse damage to my liver tonight in Oxford. Sitting down, she took hold of my left arm and manoeuvred it around her right shoulder, so she was once again cuddled into me.
‘We’re sort of like family, aren’t we, Alex?’
I almost choked on my beer.
‘I mean, your father is my godfather, and Dad and he knew each other from when they were kids. And we spent lots of time at each other’s houses when we were younger, didn’t we? Alex, can I ask you something?’
Oh Christ. ‘Yup.’
‘That summer at Pandora . . . were you in love with Chloë?’
I looked down at her with a frown. ‘How do you know?’
She giggled then. ‘Because I was jealous!’
‘Jealous?’
‘Wasn’t it obvious? I had a massive crush on you.’ She waggled her finger at me and I realised she was tipsy, having probably eaten nothing for days.
‘To be honest, Viola, I didn’t realise.’
‘Not even after I’d spent approximately two hours and twenty minutes colouring in that envelope with the hearts and flowers? Not to mention how long it took me to write that poem I gave you.’
‘I remember it.’ God, I was glad I did. ‘It was called “Friends”.’
‘Yes. But surely you read between the lines?’
‘No.’ I looked down at her. ‘You were only ten years old at the time.’
‘As a matter of fact, I was nearly eleven, only two years and four months younger than you,’ she answered primly.
‘You were still a little girl!’
‘Just as Chloë probably thought you were a little boy.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘She probably did.’
‘It’s quite funny really, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘Sort of, yes. You dreaming of Chloë, me dreaming of you?’
‘I suppose it is,’ I said, wanting to reassure her that that bit of my plot needed to be swiftly and completely edited out, because it was no longer valid.
She then sat up straight and looked at me. ‘Are you still in love with her?’
‘No.’
It was the easiest reply I’d ever given.
‘Right.’
Then she looked at me as though I should elucidate further. I couldn’t, without telling her that she herself was the one who’d finally broken the spell, just a few days ago. Which was, at that moment, the most inappropriate thing I could say, given the reason we were sitting there in the first place. Any sniff in the future of me having taken advantage of the current situation – once she finally knew the truth about my sudden reappearance in her life – would mean me and my poor heart were dead ducks.
‘There’s nothing more to say.’
I was relieved when she settled back into the crook of my arm. ‘Good. I mean, it’s a bit weird, having a crush on your stepsister, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know, Viola,’ I said, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice – and boy, did I need to give her a convincing answer. ‘I mean, I wasn’t related by blood to Chloë or anything, was I? And let’s face it, in the olden days, most small communities intermarried. Not to mention generations of royal families. Cousins would often marry cousins – it was the thing to do. As I’m sure you know from all the Jane Austen novels you must have read since I last saw you,’ I added, just for good measure.
‘Yes, I suppose so. Actually, I’ve seen quite a lot of Chloë recently,’ she said, out of the blue.
‘Have you?’
‘I’m sure you know she’s been interning in London at Vogue, and she sweetly texted me and invited me for lunch when I first arrived at uni. I think it was your dad that asked her to.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Yeah, and honestly Alex, I understand why you’ve always had a thing for her. She really is drop-dead gorgeous. And so sweet, as well. Do you know, she actually asked me if I’d like to come in to Vogue and meet the fashion editor? She said I’d make a fantastic model. I mean, I knew she was just being kind, ’cos who would ever think I was beautiful?’ Viola chuckled at the very thought.
Me, Viola, and in fact, every man – and woman – who passes you in the street.
But I understood why Viola thought Chloë was only being kind. Talk about an ugly duckling turning into a swan.
‘She’s off to Paris in the autumn,’ Viola continued. ‘She’s been offered a job as a junior designer in a fashion house there. It’s a new one with an unpronounceable name. Jean-Paul someone, I think . . .’ Her voice trailed off suddenly, and she swallowed hard. ‘Oh dear, I just remembered.’
‘What is it?’
‘Sorry . . . I mean, I forgot for a bit, and that was lovely. But Daddy died this morning, didn’t he? Oh dear, oh dear . . .’ Then she burrowed her face back into my armpit, onto which I hoped I’d sprayed enough deodorant to overcome the rank smell engendered by Final Exam, plus Her, plus Genetic Dad dying today.
‘Can I get you something to eat?’ I asked, trying to say something practical, like Real Dad would do.
‘No, thank you,’ came the whisper from my armpit.
‘Viola,’ I continued in the
same ‘Dad’ vein. ‘I really think you should get some sleep. You must be exhausted.’
At this, she emerged from my armpit and looked at me, and I watched her try to gather herself together. ‘Yes, I should,’ she replied staunchly. ‘And you must be getting back to Oxford.’
‘I don’t have to go back to Oxford, it’s all over there now until September. I’m going to stay at Mum and Dad’s apartment tonight. I called them on the train to ask if I could.’ I looked down to check my watch. ‘I should make a move, actually, as the crazy old woman who holds the keys and lives in the basement goes to sleep at ten o’clock and I won’t be able to get in.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’d better go.’
I watched her drain her wine, her cheeks losing the blush of alcohol as she stood up, and the frown creases on her forehead reappearing. We walked out of the pub in silence.
‘Well then, thanks again, Alex. You’ve just been amazing.’ She pecked me on the cheek. ‘Good night.’
‘Viola!’ I said as she pulled away from me. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home,’ she said forlornly.
‘Who’s there for you?’
This time she shrugged without words.
‘Look, do you want to come home with me . . . I mean, surely you need some company tonight?’
‘It’s so sweet of you, Alex, but really, I think you’ve done enough.’
Viola, I will never, ever have done enough for you. In fact, I haven’t even begun ‘doing’ yet . . .
I held out my hand then, and grabbed her and pulled her back. ‘Don’t be silly. There is no way on earth I’m leaving you alone tonight.’
And then it was me who took her into my arms, and as her lips puckered up towards my face, it was also me who pretended not to notice. And me who clumsily put my own mouth to her delicate little ear as I hugged her.
When we arrived at the apartment in Bloomsbury, which, as it happened, was only a few streets along from Viola’s halls of residence, I managed to gain access by enticing the little old lady to come to the door of her basement flat. She handed me the key through the narrow opening that the series of chains on the inside of her door provided; her bony arm reminded me of the twig Hansel stuck out to fool the witch, in the fairy tale.
The Olive Tree Page 41