Banishing Verona

by Margot Livesey

  “After all we’ve been through.” He sighed theatrically and raised his glass.

  “After all we’ve been through, I have two questions for you, or a question and a request.”

  “Let’s do the request first, while I’m still feeling sorry for you.”

  She had barely uttered Toby’s name when he interrupted.

  “Yes, I borrowed money from him, and yes, I’ll pay it back. I do have some morals, you know. Besides, it would be very inconvenient for me to have my best friend on the street. And the ques-tiona”

  “Why do you change the topic every time someone suggests you use your house to raise money?” The big advantage of discussing difficult matters on the plane was that there was no escape. The disadvantage was that it was easy for Henry to hide his expression by staring out of the window, leaving her only a glimpse of his profile.

  “You know the house in Lucca where I go in the summer? It came on the market, and I took out a second mortgage to buy it. The bungalow scheme had already fallen apart and I knew Nigel and George would have a fit if they found out. I haven’t even dared tell Toby, though I’m sure he’ll be pleased in the long run.”

  He had almost beggared his oldest friend to buy a house where he spent barely a month a year. “Why do you do these things, Henry? It causes so much trouble.”

  “I can’t answer that in general,” he said, “but the house in Lucca is my favorite place in the world. Nothing makes me happier than to sit on my patio with a glass of the quite average local wine and gaze out across the olive groves and churches. Don’t ask me why.”

  Immediately after dinner, she fell asleep and woke only when Henry shook her shoulder. He was at his affable, efficient best as he guided her through Heathrow, retrieved their luggage, and got them on the train to Paddington. They took a taxi from the station to her flat, and he carried her suitcases upstairs. “Do you need me to get you anything?” he said, setting them down in the hall.

  She was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, taking in the dirty dishes, the grimy floor, the solitary slice of toast sticking out of the toaster, the papers on the table weighted down with a jar of damson jam and, for some reason, a candlestick. On the counter were the two bags of groceries she had bought on the afternoon of Nigel and George’s visit. She was so dismayed by the squalor that Henry had to repeat his question.

  “No, thanks. The two things I need are right here: bath and bed.” She went into the bedroom and drew the curtains to hide whatever disorder was lurking there. As she turned back to the newly darkened room, she saw that Henry had followed her. “What is it?”

  “I meant what I said on the plane. I’ll talk to Zeke, make him understand that you were being a good sister rather than a bad girlfriend.”

  She was so tired her bones no longer fit together. “Actually,” she said, “I’m a wretched girlfriend. I’m cowardly when I ought to be brave, obstreperous when I ought to be conciliatory, quick to anger, slow to forgive, stubborn over the stupidest things.” She crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “But if I need you to testify on my behalf, I’ll let you know.”

  She had in the course of her career done hundreds of interviews, filled thousands of awkward pauses, but something about Zeke’s answering machine seemed to render her peculiarly inarticulate. She left another unsatisfactory message as soon as she woke up. Then it occurred to her that she could at least make sure he wasn’t still in America. She dialed the hotel and was told he had checked out that morning. Optimistically he was on a daytime flight to London, which meant he would land at eight or nine, be home by ten or eleven. He wouldn’t call tonight, she thought, he’d be worried about disturbing her, but surely tomorrow. It would do her good to wait, as he had in Boston.

  She took refuge in cleaning. She threw out everything that was rotten or mouldy. She unpacked and bought groceries. She did two loads of laundry and made the bed with clean sheets. She got out the vacuum and went through the entire flat. She scrubbed the stove and the fridge and the counters until the place was cleaner than it had been at any time since she moved in, several years ago. Then she walked down the street to the flower stall and bought twenty pounds’ worth of spring flowers. Back at the house she gathered seldom-used vases and arranged them in every room save the bathroom. As she set the irises on the mantelpiece, she noticed how dirty the living room windows were; she must find a window cleaner. I’m nesting, she thought, I’m getting ready for someone. She pictured the baby revolving in its private darkness, Zeke flying to London, both coming toward her. Tonight, tomorrow, she would be in his presence. Meanwhile, she realized there was one person already here whom she could bear to talk to, who indeed owed her a conversation.

  When she stepped into the gallery, Toby was standing in front of a large crimson painting talking to a willowy young man. She paused in the doorway, watching as he pointed to one corner, then stepped back, drawing the man with him, to examine the canvas as a whole. “You can see the influence of the colorists,” he said, “and his use of organic forms reminds me of van Gogh.”

  “Or Gauguin,” suggested the young man.

  “Absolutely,” said Toby. “He has a super essay about Gauguin, Cézanne, and Pollock.”

  “Something for everyone,” said Verona.

  “Verona,” said Toby. In a few strides he was embracing her.

  The young man—he was not as pretty as Verona had feared—turned out to be the latest gallery assistant, Lawrence. After a brief exchange of pleasantries he withdrew discreetly, promising to deal with customers. Toby led her to his office with its black leather furniture and bright prints.

  “You look magnificent,” he said. “Like a galleon under full sail. I bet the Americans loved you. They appreciate size over there. Tell me everything.”

  “Why don’t you tell me everything?” She sat down in the most upright of the chairs and regarded him steadily where he stood, leaning against the desk. “I still don’t understand why you never mentioned Betty. And the business about you being one of Henry’s creditors makes me feel totally manipulated.”

  His freckles disappeared in a tide of color. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot not to tell you.”

  “An idiot because I found out anyway?”

  “Please,” said Toby, and as if summoned, Lawrence appeared, murmuring apologies for intruding, with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. “Verona, listen,” Toby continued, when they were alone again. “I’m sorry about Betty. It wasn’t deliberate. I assumed Henry would have told you. When I realized he hadn’t, I didn’t want to betray his confidences.”

  “Crap.”

  “But what difference would it have made?” His blush was fading. He helped himself to a biscuit, then put it back.

  “I wouldn’t have gone.” At once this seemed true. Toby had flattered her into believing she was the only one who had any influence on Henry, the only one who could sort out his latest shenanigans. From the gallery came the buzz of the door, the sound of greetings.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said. “Are Nigel and George still about to shove Henry in a ditch?”

  She tried to recall his expression when he had caught sight of her a few minutes ago. He had been surprised but not very. “So you haven’t talked to Henry?” she said lightly.

  For one second, two seconds, five, Toby hesitated. “Well, yes.”

  She set down her teacup.

  “Only for a minute,” he added. “I knew you were back. That nothing terrible had occurred. I’m not trying to put one over on you, really, Verona.”

  “Really,” she said. I’ve been a fool, she thought, a complete fool. Of course he and Henry had had a thorough debriefing. To the long list of Henry’s crimes she must now add the theft of Toby’s friendship. But perhaps all along Toby had courted her only as another way to get to Henry. She was the latecomer, the odd one out. “Tell me,” she said, “about your dream.”

  “My dream?”

  “The dream that made you fax me at six in the m
orning and ask me to meet you at Heathrow. Or was that a lie too? Just a way to get me to go after Henry?”

  “More, more,” he said, holding up his hands and beckoning. “Bring on your hot coals, your derision. I am a liar, a wastrel, a slut, a dilettante. I deserve all the abuse you can heap on me. No, I did have a dream. Why else would I be up at six in the morning?” He had dreamed that two men, who both were and were not Nigel and George, were chasing the two of them, her and him, through a town much like the one where they had gone to university. Verona was holding the baby.

  “What sex was it?”

  “A boy, with dark curly hair, maybe eighteen months, like one of those precocious Christ childs. Don’t you know what it is? I thought you had that test.”

  “Someone knows, but not me.” A boy, she was thinking. She cupped a hand to her belly and the baby kicked, twice.

  Soon, Toby continued, they were trapped in a narrow street ending in a high wall. Nigel and George had caught up with them, seized the baby, and disappeared. “You know how sometimes the most vivid part of a dream is not what you remember but the feeling you’re left with? I felt that the two of you were in danger. And”—he risked a small smile—“it does sound like your going to America was a good thing.”

  “My going made absolutely no difference to Henry—he sorted out his problems in his own inimitable fashion—and it’s caused me major disruptions.”

  “Your young man.” His smile grew brighter. Then, as if someone had wiped them clean, his features went blank. “Oh, hell, I suppose I wasn’t meant to know about that either.”

  Through the door she heard Lawrence’s muted voice. “Organic,” he was saying.

  “Let’s get this straight,” she said. “There’s no such thing as telling you or Henry something in confidence?”

  “Of course there is. I can be silent as the grave. I didn’t tell him about the baby’s father. Cross my heart.” He looked at her indignantly for several seconds before he shrugged. “The truth is, mostly not. We both love you. We’re both terrible gossips.”

  “How often do you talk?”

  “Every day. Well, perhaps not literally but most days.”

  Absurdly, pathetically, her eyes were pricking with tears. She was the last to know everything. It occurred to her that Toby had probably known for years about Jigger’s will. “What about all that stuff you told me about Henry stealing from you at university?”

  “I asked him about that today. At first he denied it, then he said it wasn’t theft, it was a long-term loan and handed me two twenties.” He shook his head, ruefully.

  Not just a brief talk on the phone, she thought. “But, Toby, what is all this for? Henry’s straight.”

  “Sort of.” He flipped a well-manicured hand back and forth. “Not everything is about fucking. We both have other people for that. There are worse things than knowing who you love.”

  For a moment they both sat silent, examining that claim. Then she caught sight of his watch. Nearly seven-thirty. In a matter of hours Zeke would be home, the place he never would have left but for Toby. “So,” she said, “Henry went to all this trouble to woo Betty even though it was just fucking?”

  “Betty’s over.” Toby stood up from where he leaned against the desk and stepped across the room to a row of three vivid prints. “But I didn’t see her as a threat.” He fidgeted with the middle print, tilting it left then right. “In some ways I’d rather Henry were settled than running from one girlfriend to the next. It’s what he wants these days, what he thinks he wants, the so-called normal thing. If she has some cash, even better.”

  He looked over at Verona, trying to smile and so obviously failing that she decided not to play her ultimate card: the house in Lucca. “Did you like her?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I did. I may pretend to be a cynic but I like other people to be idealists. Betty actually wants to make the world a better place. And she’s gorgeous.”

  He made one final adjustment to the print and returned to his desk. “Well, it’s all water under the bridge now. Tell me about Zeke. When do I get to meet him?”

  “When I do,” she said.

  28

  As soon as she gave her name, Emmanuel began to shout. “Where the hell have you been? You’ve upset Zeke in a major way. How could you do this?”

  Verona felt better by the syllable. After two days of leaving unrequited messages, the relief of knowing that Zeke was in London, walking these streets, painting rooms, and drinking cups of tea, and that this person, who was yelling into the phone, had seen and spoken to him, was profound. She wanted to ask a dozen questions: What did he say about Boston? Was he worried about the cost of the trip? Had he mentioned her? Why wouldn’t he return her calls? “Is he all right?” she said.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling you. He won’t return my messages and he never picks up the phone. Could you give me his address?” She reached for her pad of paper and pen.

  “His address?” Emmanuel’s voice rose. “He went all the way to America because of you, and you stood him up. That would be anyone’s idea of a nightmare, but for Zeke—well, I’m amazed he hasn’t had another freak-out. You didn’t phone for weeks. Now you phone all the fucking time … .”

  While he continued to list Zeke’s tribulations—his parents had health problems, he was behind with work—she lowered herself into the wicker chair where she had sat during Nigel and George’s visit and stared at the daffodils on the coffee table. All but the tardiest buds had opened and the slender green spears she had carried home from the flower shop were now a mass of yellow trumpets. How effortless it seemed for them to be themselves. When at last Emmanuel paused, she said, “I was only trying to help my brother. Tell me where Zeke lives and I’ll go and apologize. What else can I do?”

  “You’ve already done quite enough. Just stay away. Do whatever you were doing before you started this niece business. You know he went round to the Barrows’?”

  “Oh, God.” Of course. “Were they furious?”

  “No.” Emmanuel snorted. “They were thrilled to have a new relative.”

  For a moment she was afraid he was going to hang up, but beneath the brusqueness she detected something else: a faint note of pleasure. He was enjoying scolding her. “Do you think he still cares for me?” she said.

  “What?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was astounded at her brazen question or simply hadn’t heard. “Do you think he cares for me?”

  “Not if he has the brains he was born with. Why are you calling anyway? You’re not just about to show up with your suitcases, are you? Because I’m going out.”

  She asked again for Zeke’s address and Emmanuel again began to shout. She was always putting him in these impossible situations. He felt responsible for the whole business. He didn’t want Zeke upset anymore. She held the pen very tightly. “Well,” she said, “can I come round and talk to you? Or meet you somewhere for a drink?”

  “I told you I’m going out.”

  “How about later, or tomorrow? Please, Emmanuel, give me half an hour. I truly never meant to hurt Zeke. It’s not something I can explain on the phone.”

  “You know,” he said, and worryingly he sounded less bellicose, more reflective, “in Thailand you could barely give me the time of day. You wrote down the wrong phone number. Now, suddenly, when you need something, you’re all over me. I’m not stupid. If the tables had been the other way round, if I’d turned up out of the blue, you wouldn’t have raised a finger to help.”

  As he spoke, her mind was racing. Think, she goaded herself, think. She pictured Emmanuel at the bar on the beach, wearing his orange mesh T-shirt, flirting outrageously with Jade and Vicky and Sara. “That first week in Thailand,” she said, “I couldn’t get near you. You were always surrounded by bikinis. Mr. Popularity. If it hadn’t been for the business with Trevor, we wouldn’t have exchanged two words.”

  Her flattery worked. “
That was weird, wasn’t it?” said Emmanuel. “And the way he and Sara rushed off without so much as a thank-you. He was lucky you spotted he was in trouble. Christ, is that the time?”

  And before she could take advantage of his better mood, he was gone.

  She sat there, alone with the flowers, feeling as if she’d run up ten flights of stairs and hit a wall. For a few seconds the future stretched before her, utterly empty. Then, setting aside the pad of paper, she stood up and went into the spotless kitchen. The phone book lay open on the table. For the twentieth time, she read down the column of names. At some point during the last forty-eight hours, when it had dawned on her that Zeke was not going to return her calls, she had looked him up and discovered a single listing for Cafarelli, D. and G., his parents she assumed. She had rung directory assistance only to learn that, like her, he had an unlisted number.

  Now she thought of calling his parents and appealing for help. I fancy your son. You’d have an instant grandchild. Better still, she could go to their shop. Buy celery and radicchio and slip in the odd question: Where was Zeke these days? Had he said anything about a woman? Or she could pretend to need someone to paint her living room. But they would give her the same useless phone number she already had. She closed the directory and put it firmly back on the shelf. What she must remember was that this wasn’t about finding Zeke literally. If that was all she wanted, there were a dozen ways to accomplish it. It was about finding the part of him that cared for her, which somewhere between London and Boston had got mislaid and which she desperately needed to recover. Meanwhile, she phoned her producer and said she would be back at the radio station tomorrow.

  For the second time in her life, a taxi dropped Verona at the Barrows’ and she rang their doorbell. In the middle of her program that morning she had suddenly remembered her grandfather’s book, abandoned in their spare room, and been appalled at yet more evidence of her carelessness. Now, standing on the doorstep, she allowed herself to fantasize that Zeke would answer the blue door. But no, the door was opening and standing before her was the small woman from the many photographs in the bedroom. Her absorbed expression suggested that she was still seeing whatever she had just been looking at through her reading glasses rather than the person standing before her. “Yes?” she said.