Megan was aware of a blur of colour as Sophie and her multi-coloured hat clattered past them at speed. She hesitated for just a split second in front of the toilet door, her hand over her mouth, and then she was gone.
Ollie let go of Megan’s hand.
‘She didn’t look well, did she?’
Megan looked over her shoulder at the door.
‘No, she didn’t.’
They paused for a moment, Megan allowing herself to look right into his eyes. Where there had been playfulness and desire just a few seconds ago, there was now nothing but concern, and she pushed back her chair.
‘I’m going to go and see if she’s okay. Order for me, will you?’
He nodded, worry etched on his face, and Megan forced herself not to feel dismayed. Poor Sophie couldn’t help the fact that she’d interrupted a nice moment between the two of them. And anyway, she told herself sternly, it was probably best that she not venture down this path with Ollie – it would only confuse things.
But as she pushed her way through the door towards the toilets, Megan could still feel the warmth of his hand in her own.
29
‘Is that pressure okay?’
‘It’s perfect.’
Hope stretched out her toes and looped her fingers together under the blanket. It had been Charlie’s suggestion that she pop in for a hand, head and foot massage at one of Prague’s many drop-in parlours. After the bad night’s sleep she’d had, it would do her good to relax a bit. She couldn’t argue with that. Plus, she wanted to please him after the rocky start to their day, so for once she let him treat her without complaint.
It was so warm in here, and Hope felt her eyelids grow heavy as the young Thai girl slid expert fingers through her hair, down the back of her neck and across her bare shoulders. She’d taken off her jumper and rolled down the straps of her bra as instructed, the blanket providing a barrier from the prying eyes of the passing public. This wasn’t a massage parlour like any Hope had ever been in before, but they seemed to be dotted around everywhere in the touristy areas of the city. Each one had a ridiculously over-the-top statue of a dragon by the entrance, painted a lurid shade of bright green.
Charlie had recovered some of his good humour since the boat trip, and as they wandered down the bank of the Vltava to the Jewish Quarter to visit the old cemetery and synagogue, he’d taken her hand in his again. Hope had been moved to tears by the thousands of headstones, stacked so close together in the small courtyard that they were almost on top of each other, and she was genuinely horrified to discover that due to a lack of burial space, some graves ran twelve deep.
Charlie did his best to distract her, pointing out how the hands on the synagogue clock looked like the seats of a bicycle, how the winter flowers were pushing their way through the snow in the banks around the edge of the cemetery, and the tiny birds that were playing a game of hide-and-seek among the monuments. It was too late, though, because a tangle of confusion had already taken root in Hope’s mind.
There was nothing quite like a graveyard to make you evaluate your own life and where it was heading, and Hope realised now that her own had come to a standstill.
If she really had lost Annette, as she feared she had, then what was next for her? Was she destined to become Charlie’s wife and swap one household’s washing and cooking for another? Surely there had to be more than that. Maybe now was the time to do something for herself. She thought back to what Megan had said over drinks in the square, about how she wanted to achieve her ambitions without a man by her side. Hope had assumed up to now that she was afraid to be on her own, that she wouldn’t know who to be, but being here in Prague had made her consider that perhaps she would be okay. Or better than that, she might even be happier than she was with Charlie.
Wondering which path was best was becoming exhausting, though, and it didn’t help that wherever she seemed to look in Prague there was a clock. What had felt charming when she first arrived now felt like a constant taunt. Time was ticking past – time away from Annette, time that she could be using to sort her life out. She almost felt as if she could hear the seconds all ticking away inside her head.
Assuming that her melancholy was down to their surroundings, Charlie had hurried Hope out of the cemetery and back into the Old Town, where the Christmas Market provided a welcome change in atmosphere. Once there, he bought her a cup of hot grog and a traditional sugary Czech Danish called a trdelnik, and Hope, who hadn’t even realised that she was hungry, gobbled it down in a few bites. It was then that Charlie had suggested the massage.
‘What are you going to do while I’m in there?’ she asked when they reached the doorway guarded by its dragon.
‘Oh, you know, just grab a coffee – nothing special.’
She nodded, watching him weave his way slowly through the groups of tourists as he headed back in the direction of the square. How simple life would be if happiness were as attainable as Charlie seemed to think it was. She could vaguely remember a time when she’d been overwhelmed with how happy she felt, years ago, in the months leading up to her wedding. Dave had been so attentive in the early days of their relationship – she had felt as if she was walking on air, buoyed as she was by the strength of his love for her. It had all seemed so simple: he loved her, she loved him, and they would live happily together until the end of their lives. But then Annette had arrived.
Even Hope had been surprised by just how hard she fell for her baby daughter. It was an immediate, urgent and all-consuming love, one that left little room for anyone else, and one that Dave found difficult to understand. He loved Annette, of course he did, but it wasn’t the same fearful, borderline neurotic love that Hope was experiencing. She began to find excuses not to let him hold her precious bundle, inexplicably concerned that he wouldn’t do it right. It was her job, she would tell him. She was Annette’s mother, she had carried her, she had given birth to her – it was her right.
Dave was sympathetic at first, muttering things about ‘bloody hormones’ under his breath, but when Annette reached her first birthday and Hope was still a clinging, panicking mess, he’d put his foot down and insisted she go and talk to someone. Hope tried a few sessions, but found the therapist patronising and hated being separated from her daughter, so refused to go back. It was the start of the arguments between them that had continued for the best part of two decades, until eventually they both retreated into themselves, weary of battling but too stubborn to admit defeat.
Hope clung fiercely to her role as mother and wife, never imagining that she wanted to do anything else – especially since Dave had refused unequivocally to try for a second child. Hope could still remember the day he’d gone to have a vasectomy with painful clarity. She had begged him to reconsider, but his mind had been made up, and any lingering strands of love that remained at that time were swiftly washed away. Annette had only been ten at the time, on the verge of going to secondary school and only just coming out from her favourite hiding place behind Hope’s legs. It was inconceivable to shatter her world at such a pivotal moment, and Hope forced herself to bury the smouldering resentment she felt towards Dave. After a time, the two of them settled into a stilted routine of pretend normality, and it wasn’t until Annette moved out that the harsh reality set in. Both of them were guilty of ignoring what was going on, and Hope accepted now that she should have left Dave then. She had been a coward, but then so had he. Her affair with Charlie had been her way of lashing out, her misguided payback for what Dave had done all those years before, but now it had spiralled out of control and ended up in a situation that Hope wasn’t sure she really wanted.
‘We are finished.’
Hope snapped her eyes open and pushed the past from her mind.
‘Thank you. That was lovely – just what I needed.’
Charlie was waiting for her in the doorway, a faraway look on his face. Hope wondered if he, too, had been giving their relationship some thought. Did he wake up every day and wonder how thi
s had happened, just as she did?
‘I think we need to talk,’ she said as soon as she reached him, not realising what words were going to spill out until she uttered them.
Charlie gave her a grim smile. ‘I know we do, but how about we save it until tomorrow? Let’s just have a nice time tonight, try to forget all the other stuff for a few hours.’
He looked so handsome and sincere, Hope felt her resolve weakening.
‘Okay.’ She smiled back.
‘There’s a jazz band playing in the square,’ he told her, looking over his shoulder. ‘How about we start there?’
As they slipped and slid together across the cobbles, the late-afternoon air scratching its icy spindles across their exposed cheeks, Hope looked up and saw the gold hands of a clock illuminated by a trickle of sunlight.
30
‘Are you okay in there?’
There was a gentle tapping on the door of the toilet cubicle and Sophie groaned. The remains of her soft pretzel bobbed on the surface of the water below her, half-digested and stringy. She closed her eyes.
‘It’s Megan. Are you sick?’
‘I’m okay,’ Sophie managed, yanking the flush and pulling herself up off the floor for the second time that day. Whatever germ it was that had worked its way into her system, it meant business.
When Sophie emerged, Megan was leaning against the wall by the basin, her blonde hair a tangled mess and an expression of genuine concern on her face.
‘You don’t sound very okay,’ she said.‘It’s just something I ate,’ muttered Sophie, sucking in her breath as the hot water from the tap made contact with the cold skin of her hands. Her mouth was dry and her throat itched unpleasantly, but she still forced herself to smile at Megan.
‘Listen.’ Megan took a step towards her and their eyes met in the mirror. ‘It’s none of my business, but are you … You know?’
Sophie coughed out a bark of laughter. ‘No!’
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. My brain always has been a good few steps behind my gob.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ Sophie smiled at her properly this time. ‘I would probably have thought the same thing – but it’s not that. I feel fine now, anyway,’ she lied. ‘Probably too much wine last night.’
‘We did drink a fair amount,’ Megan agreed.
They left the bathroom together and headed back up the stairs. As soon as he saw them, Ollie leapt up from his chair and offered it to Sophie.
‘There’s no need.’ She held up a hand. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
Ollie looked across at Megan for confirmation.
‘Well, at least join us then?’ he offered, pulling out a third chair from a nearby table that was unoccupied. ‘I’ve ordered us lunch – plus some strudel, obviously,’ he told Megan.
‘I’m not really hungry,’ Sophie tried again.
‘Just some water then, or a tea?’ Megan insisted, steering her gently into the seat. ‘It’s raining outside, and you look so pale. Once we’re done here, we’ll walk you back to the hotel so you can rest properly, won’t we, Ollie?’
He nodded, reaching over to pat Sophie’s arm. The two of them seemed different today, she realised. Closer somehow, not bickering in their usual way. Megan had a softness to her that Sophie hadn’t seen yet, and it was nice. She forced herself to ignore the creeping feelings of sickness that were threatening to overwhelm her again, and stared instead at the menu.
The waitress appeared with beer for Ollie and Megan, so Sophie ordered herself a tea as instructed. It would undoubtedly make her sick again, but she supposed that she should at least try. Her broken night’s sleep and the constant nausea had left her feeling woozy, and she was worried that she might faint. She watched through hazy eyes as Ollie slid his hand across the table and picked up a few of Megan’s outstretched fingers, rubbing them lightly between his own. While Megan didn’t reciprocate, Sophie noticed that she didn’t pull her hand away either. She merely tensed her shoulders a fraction and sipped her drink. So, her earlier assumption about Ollie’s feelings had been right, but she couldn’t quite work out whether or not Megan felt the same way. Sophie hoped she did.
Witnessing the casual way that Ollie touched her, almost as if it was a need rather than a choice, something he did without thinking, like scratching his nose or yawning, made Sophie yearn for Robin. The two of them were always touching one another when they were together, a trail of fingertips across a cheek, the brush of a hand across a thigh or the rub of a foot against another. It was impossible for the two of them to be in the same room together and not come into contact.
Ollie didn’t let go of Megan’s fingers until their food arrived, and then Sophie could sense that he only relinquished them with reluctance. She watched as Megan paused, curled her fingers inwards, then brought her hand up to her face, stroking herself almost absent-mindedly.
‘I really should leave you two alone,’ Sophie said, pushing her empty cup and saucer to one side. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’
‘You’re not intruding,’ Megan was quick to reply. ‘Honestly – I’m sick of Ollie’s company anyway. He’s a right bore, you know?’
She was obviously teasing, and Ollie balled up a nugget of bread and threw it at her across the table.
‘Tell us more about your travels,’ Megan pushed, bringing her soup spoon up to her mouth. ‘Didn’t you say you’d been around the world?’
Sophie nodded. ‘That’s right. I went with Robin.’
‘Tell us all about it,’ Megan said again. ‘I want to know where to go on my next holiday.’
And so Sophie started talking. She told them about the giant statue of Buddha she and Robin had visited in Sri Lanka, about how it was common over there to see stray cows wandering around in the cities, and pass trucks with an elephant tethered in a trailer on the back. She told them about how the sun in Los Angeles sits low in the sky, casting an eerie light over the beaches and skyscrapers, making you squint almost constantly, as if you’ve just woken up.
Megan, in particular, was fascinated by this, the photographer in her itching to experience it for herself. Ollie was more interested in what the people were like in other countries, asking her endless questions about poverty and culture. Megan was far more concerned with which places were the most beautiful, the most picturesque, and Sophie saw her eyes widen as she described places like Phuket, New Zealand and Buenos Aires.
‘I must travel more,’ Megan said, her voice dreamy. ‘No wonder I never feel inspired, living in London.’
‘London has its moments,’ said Ollie. ‘Richmond Park is stunning – and what about the Thames at sunset?’
‘London just has a noise to it,’ Megan said, flapping her arms in agitation. ‘There never seems to be a respite from all the people and traffic and smog. I can hear it in all the photos I take, and it makes me hate them.’
‘Really?’ Ollie looked genuinely surprised to hear her say this, and Sophie wondered how often they had talked about her work. She’d only known Megan a few days, but she could tell that her new acquaintance was passionate about what she did. And she thought she could understand what Megan said about a photograph feeling noisy. You found it in paintings all the time, after all, and London was one of the busiest and loudest cities in the world.
‘You know I hate most of the photos I take,’ Megan was saying now, her tone one of resignation rather than irritation. ‘I can’t always get the emotions to translate.’
‘I think your work is amazing,’ Ollie told her, and Sophie smiled. He was such a nice man, and his devotion to Megan really didn’t have a ceiling. If only she could see that and just accept it. Sophie had always accepted the fact that Robin loved her, and she him, even if she had experienced the odd wobble over the years. It had never felt like a struggle, their relationship. She heard friends talk about the difficulties they went through, their constant internal battle with themselves over whether or not they were truly happy, or if there was something or someone better out t
here for them. There was nobody and nothing better out there for Sophie – Robin was all she needed, and she’d never doubted that fact for even a second.
Ollie had now pulled up Megan’s website on his phone and was showing Sophie some of the photos. He was right, they were spectacular, but clearly Megan didn’t agree.
‘I want people to have an emotional reaction to my work,’ she was telling Sophie now. ‘I know people are impressed with my angles and perspective, and with how I use light – but that’s all so dry and technical. I want people to be moved by what I do, just like I am when I’m taking the photo in the first place.’
‘Have you been moved by Prague?’ Sophie asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Oh, yes!’ Megan cried, mopping up the last of her soup with a chunk of bread. ‘It’s so beautiful here, I feel like I’ve barely put my camera down. Everywhere you go, there’s a moment to capture. I just hope I can do the place justice.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Ollie said. His hand was back on the table top, Sophie noticed, poised and ready to reach over and touch Megan again. This was what he must love about her the most – her passion. It was quite a rare quality, passion, and Sophie could understand why people who didn’t have it themselves were drawn to those that did. A person with passion, such as Megan and Robin, always burned so much brighter than the rest, so it was no wonder that they always found themselves surrounded by others, all keen for some of that fiery sheen to rub off on them.
Megan signalled for the bill, waving away Sophie’s offer of payment – ‘You only had a tea!’ – and the three of them left the restaurant and headed in the direction of the hotel.
The Charles Bridge was throbbing with tourists, each one of them wearing a hat and gloves to keep out the chilly air. The earlier clouds had shifted apart a fraction, and the dusky sky was now a murky mixture of greys. The water of the River Vltava below them was a deep, impenetrable slate, its surface broken only by the white flashes of seagulls. Every so often the birds would let out a shrill squawk and fly up above the bridge, ducking and swirling to catch morsels of food that had either been dropped or were being tossed into the air on purpose.
A Year and a Day Page 20