Banishing Verona

by Margot Livesey

  “My name is Verona MacIntyre. I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  Mrs. Barrow’s glasses, dangling from a cord, fell to her chest. “So,” she said slowly, “you’re the famous Verona. I suppose you’d better come in.” She stepped back and, when Verona was inside, led the way to the kitchen. “Forgive my saying this,” she said, over her shoulder, “but Zeke didn’t mention that you were pregnant.”

  “I don’t know how to begin to apologize.”

  “Then don’t. Have a seat.” She motioned to an empty chair and herself sat down behind several piles of pages. “I’m Ariel and I’m afraid we need to watch the clock. My husband will be home soon and I’m worried he might call the police. He’s still beside himself about your staying here.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I was when we first found out.” Her gray sweater was marked by a constellation of dark stains. “I’m sure you can imagine it was very disturbing to think of a stranger having the run of my house. But when I talked to Zeke and we figured out who you are—you do this radio show, don’t you?—I realized it was more complicated than that.”

  Verona nodded gratefully. “It is complicated. Some men were looking for my brother, and I needed a place to stay where no one could find me.” She gestured at the stove and the counters. “Zeke didn’t know anything about what was going on.”

  “Did you just come to say that?” Ariel glanced over at the clock. “Because, if so, please don’t worry. We understand he’s not to blame, at least I do. The whole thing was so improbable. I’m glad you’re back. He seemed upset when you disappeared.”

  Verona studied the nearest pile of dog-eared pages. “He was, but I spoiled everything. I asked him to come to America, and then I was ill and couldn’t see him. Now he won’t talk to me. I feel terrible.”

  “It sounds like you should,” said Ariel crisply. She asked again why Verona had come and, when she explained about the book, led the way upstairs.

  Every day since she left, Verona had pictured this room. Now here it was in all its ordinary shabbiness, the miscellaneous furniture, the faded curtains, the scuffed floorboards. Had Zeke understood, she wondered, why she’d nailed the coveralls to the floor?

  Ariel was already peering beneath the bed. “Lots of dust, a pen, and a Ping-Pong ball,” she reported. She stood up, holding the ball. “I just remembered. The first time Zeke came round he talked about a book he wanted to return to you. It must be the same one, don’t you think?”

  “He found it,” Verona exclaimed. “Fantastic.” Suddenly it seemed all her problems were solved. She was still expressing thanks and delight as Ariel hurried them down the stairs to the hall. Through the half-open door she glimpsed the living room where she and Zeke had worked together. How pleasant it looked with its immaculate walls and bright rugs. Ariel, turning to usher her out, caught the direction of her gaze. “Gerald likes it,” she said with a shrug, “but it still feels a bit formal to me. We always end up in the kitchen.”

  On the doorstep, she shook Verona’s hand and wished her luck.

  In the first pub she came to, Verona stopped and ordered a sparkling water. The news that Zeke was in possession of Jigger’s book had filled her with elation—he was an honorable person, he would have to give it back—but as she raised her glass she realized how easy it would be to return the book without seeing her, through Emmanuel or the radio station or by leaving it on her doorstep in the middle of the night. And then—a terrible thought—whatever was between them really would be over.

  “Are you okay?”

  She looked up to see a thin, scruffy boy watching her intently; a V-shaped piece was missing from one earlobe. “I’m fine, just doing my breathing exercises.”

  “Cool,” he said, and moved away.

  No, she insisted, overriding both her own doubts and Emmanuel’s accusations: Zeke was just catching up with work, recovering from the journey, getting his own back by making her wait. She took several deep breaths. The clock above the bar showed nearly six. She ought to go home and prepare for tomorrow’s interviews, but she felt too restless to read her notes attentively. Catching sight of her mobile phone, lying on the table beside a beer mat, she remembered the offer she had made to Henry on the plane. If she couldn’t fix her own love life, maybe she could fix his.

  Betty said hello in a small, soft voice that got louder and harder as soon as Verona identified herself. “I have nothing to say to Henry,” she said. But this was the kind of refusal Verona knew how to deal with. She explained that she had a tape of Henry she wanted Betty to hear, how important it was, and at last, after several more demurrals—she was in the middle of studying, the weather was horrible—Betty agreed to meet her at a pub near the radio station. Then Verona was rushing home to collect the tape and on to the Hamilton Arms. The place, crowded at lunchtime and after work, was at this hour almost empty. She settled herself, with another sparkling water, at a corner table. She was remembering that snowy afternoon in Boston—and how some combination of Henry’s passion for Betty, Toby’s needs, and her own panic had made her follow him so ill-advisedly to New York when a young woman came through the door.

  “Verona?” she said, pulling off a striped woolen hat.

  She was at first glance as Henry had described her, small and slender, but in no way did she seem to merit Toby’s epithet of gorgeous. Beneath her duffel coat she wore an assortment of colorful garments: red jeans, a pink pullover, a blue shirt. It was impossible to guess if the clothes came from a secondhand shop or an expensive boutique. They shook hands.

  “Would you like a drink?” Verona asked.

  “No, thanks. I don’t mean to sound rude but I just want to get this over with. So what’s the tape?”

  Verona explained that they could listen to it at the radio station, and they headed for the door. Outside, rain was falling. Wishing she too had brought a hat, Verona turned up the collar of her coat. “What are you studying?” she said, as they walked to the zebra crossing.

  Betty said that she was applying to teachers’ training college, to teach mathematics. “I like that it doesn’t matter what background the kids come from, and I like that there are right and wrong answers.”

  Zeke, Verona recalled, had made a similar comment about accounting. “Last year,” she said, “I interviewed a Pakistani businessman who’s started an after-school program. He was very evangelical, believed that math was the universal language and everyone should learn it.” She did not add that later, when she left the station, his chauffeur had accosted her and led her over to the open window of a long black car. She had bent down, and there was Mr. Mirza reclining on a mass of cushions. Ms. MacIntyre, he had said, patting a cushion, may I have the honor of your company? She had declined politely, claiming she’d lose her job. As she walked to the underground, the car had kept pace in the street beside her.

  The windows of the radio station were ablaze; inside, the main evening show, the counterpart to her own morning show, was on. Verona paused to listen to the host reviewing a play. She signed Betty in and led the way down the corridor, searching for an empty studio. In the first two, interviews were in progress; in the third, Gary, the engineer, was bending over a switchboard. The next studio was empty.

  Betty took off her hat but the small room was surprisingly chilly and they both kept on their coats. Verona set up the tape player on the table between them. As she slipped the tape into the machine, she found herself strangely nervous. This was not just about Henry; somehow it had become intertwined with her own fate. If she could persuade Betty to give her brother another chance, maybe she could persuade Zeke to do the same.

  “So what are we listening to?” said Betty.

  “It’s a tape I made last week of Henry.” She did her best to explain the circumstances: that she’d decided not to speak; that they were in Boston during a blizzard. She expected Betty to ask what had taken them to America, but instead she said, “What was it like, being silent?”

/>   “I didn’t do it for very long, but it was interesting. I’m someone who talks all the time. Suddenly I understood that language is a major distraction.”

  Betty drew her coat closer. “After my brother died, I didn’t talk for two months. At first it was because without Robin conversation seemed pointless. Soon I began to like it for its own sake. Everything was simpler and, I don’t know, less fussy. Would you mind,” she said, “if we started?”

  Henry’s voice filled the room. Except for the occasional muffled word, perhaps when he had turned toward the window, he was remarkably clear. Betty leaned forward with her elbows on the table. Verona sat back, watching her as closely as she dared while Henry described buying the bungalows. After years of listening to him discuss various deals, she had not given the particulars of this one much thought. Now, seeing Betty’s frown, she understood that he had been trying to cheat the villagers. They had, in the end, benefited from his greed, but that had not been his intention.

  He moved on to Betty and their courtship, Glyndebourne, their engagement and subsequent rift. Then he returned to his present difficulties. “There was my old girlfriend Charlotte” he said, “you know, the one with different-colored eyes.”

  Hastily Verona reached for the machine but Betty held up a hand. There it all was, the ruthless pursuit of the ex-girlfriend. Verona listened aghast. She had been so wrapped up in her own longing for Zeke that she had forgotten about Henry’s dalliance. “We went skiing,” he said, “wined and dined. Etc.” Or perhaps, she thought, in some uncharted part of herself, she had wanted revenge. She gripped the arms of her chair until, at last, he fell silent.

  “Thank you,” said Betty. She gave Verona her first wholehearted smile.

  “I’m sorry.” All her hopes lay in disarray because of a few inches of tape. “I feel like an idiot. I’d forgotten about—”

  “Charlotte,” prompted Betty.

  “What I remembered was Henry’s face as he talked about you and how I’d never seen him look that way before.”

  “Too bad you didn’t have a video.” She rubbed her hands together. “Is it this cold when you’re working? You can practically see your breath.”

  She seemed so unruffled that Verona could not help asking, “Why did you agree to see me?”

  “Henry was always talking about you. Besides, it’s not every day someone offers to play you a tape of your ex-fiancé.”

  “I never knew Henry talked about me.”

  Betty, however, did not add any details. She sat fingering the hem of her pink sweater. “I’m sorry,” she said, “after you’ve gone to all this trouble, but it won’t work. I need someone I can rely on in certain fundamental ways. I don’t think Henry would ever be that person.”

  “Don’t you love him?” She could barely get the words out.

  “I do, but I’m hoping it will pass.” She was still looking down at her lap, and Verona noticed her eyelids, smooth and translucent. Betty was gorgeous. “Did he know you were recording him?” she said. “It seems an odd thing to do.”

  “It was odd,” Verona agreed. “I don’t normally go around taping people.”

  “Did he know?” Betty repeated, raising her eyes.

  “No.” Then she remembered her resolve to tell the truth. “Well, I tried to hide it but he guessed.”

  Betty nodded approvingly. She would make a good teacher, thought Verona. She wanted to apologize again but it seemed useless. She had messed up everything: Zeke, Henry, Betty, herself. “There’s an engineer here,” she said, “we passed him coming in, who refuses to get married because a friend met the love of his life at his own wedding.”

  “Verona,” said Betty gently, “it’s hopeless but it’s not tragic. My brother going blind and dying was tragic. I’ll be fine.”

  “And Henry?”

  Betty stood up and pulled on her brightly colored hat. Then she reached over to the machine and pressed replay; the tape whirred backward. “If he had any sense,” she said, as she pressed ERASE, “he’d move in with Toby.”

  “Toby?” Verona echoed.

  “Yes. Toby dotes on him, and it would mean that Henry would always be the center of attention. No distractions.” Betty patted her own flat belly. “No children.”

  Of course, thought Verona. What better solution to Toby’s passion, Henry’s selfishness? She pictured Toby mastering the intricate espresso machine, Henry charming the patrons at gallery openings. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly tired. Her clever scheme had done nothing but harm. If it had not been for Betty standing there, she would have curled up on the floor and slept until morning. Slowly she struggled to her feet. Slowly she picked up her bag.

  “Did you go to a sperm bank?” Betty asked, moving toward the door. Verona gave the slightest of nods. “I thought you must have,” she continued, “when Henry told me you wouldn’t say who the baby’s father was. If I don’t meet someone in two years, that’s what I plan to do.”

  In the street, she helped Verona to flag down a taxi, kissed her on both cheeks, and walked away into the rain.

  Back at her flat, Verona set the alarm, got ready for bed, and, once she was there, called Henry. They had not spoken since he brought her home from the airport. Now she heard voices, music. “Hang on,” he said. “Let me go somewhere quiet.” He was back in forty seconds. “How are you? I heard your show today. The interview with the tiddledywinks champion was a riot.”

  The baby, tranquil since she finished work, began to twist and turn as she told Henry about her conversation with Toby. “I didn’t realize quite how close the two of you are.”

  “Good old Tobes.” He laughed, missing or ignoring the edge in her voice. “My secret sharer. He was scared to death by this business with Nigel and George, especially after they showed up at his flat. That’s why he suggested you come to America. And, of course, I thought you’d be an asset, the mother-to-be, making witty conversation with potential investors.”

  On the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed the white tulips glowed. “What do you mean,” she said carefully, “suggested? His friend tracked you down on the Internet and then, when you didn’t answer our calls, it seemed like one of us had to come and talk to you.”

  “I’m sure he could have found me on the Internet—Nigel and George did—but he didn’t need to. We talk every day.”

  “So the two of you …” She trailed off. Toby had said the same thing, but she’d assumed he meant every day except the days when Henry had vanished. All along, while they’d been fretting over Henry’s disappearance, Toby had known exactly where he was.

  “We were worried about you,” Henry was saying. “You started behaving so weirdly, taking leave of your job, rushing around with suitcases. Toby was afraid it wouldn’t be good for the baby. But we weren’t sure you’d come to Boston if I just asked. It was his idea to make you feel you were rescuing me. Of course, that was before Charlotte entered the picture.”

  “But”—the baby gave a sharp jab, as if it too were arguing with Henry—“when Toby and I were in the hotel at Heathrow, Nigel and George telephoned. They even dropped off my passport at the front desk.”

  “Actually, Toby fetched your passport, I lent him your keys, but when Nigel phoned, he decided to pretend they’d left it for you. He said the timing couldn’t have been better.”

  No wonder, she thought, the handwriting on the little note—Happy travels—had looked familiar. She lay there holding the phone while Henry described their campaign to get her to America. The Internet search had been a joint idea. “The only fallout,” he said, “was your young man. Have the two of you kissed and made up?”

  “Absolutely.” Whatever resolutions she’d made about telling the truth did not apply to Henry. “What about you and Betty?”

  “Oh, it was a nice idea, thinking I’d be a good person and live in a mansion with tons of money, but she was much too high-minded for me. I’m back to slumming it with the bankers and secretaries. Hang on a minute.”

  H
e turned away from the phone to say something she couldn’t quite hear. He was still laughing as she replaced the receiver.

  She slept with the phone on her bedside table, but for the first time since she returned from America she didn’t dream, and the next morning, as she rode down the crowded escalator at the underground station, Verona glimpsed a new feeling. Perhaps, just possibly, it was time to accept that Zeke didn’t want her. The price of helping Henry in his hour of need had been losing Zeke. No, she corrected herself as she made her way along the crowded platform, she had lost him because of fear and anxiety and stubbornness. If she couldn’t understand her own behavior, how could she expect Zeke to? Her task now, she thought, as the train squealed into the station, was to prepare for the baby. She set to work at once by asking a loutish-looking young man if he would mind giving her his seat.

  He jumped to his feet with a sweet smile. “Sorry. I was dreaming I’d won the lottery.”

  Seated, she took out a notebook and began a list of things to buy in the next few weeks: a mockingbird—plus or minus a golden ring—a bottle of burgundy to drink in twenty-one years’ time, a slow-growing bonzai tree for company, a plot of land in the Outer Hebrides, a copy of Steppenwolf, a paintbrush.

  Zeke Verona

  29

  Ten days after she spoke to Betty, Verona found herself interviewing an expert in behavior modification. Ms. Taylor turned out to be a large greasy woman with fierce dark eyes and badly crowned teeth; her clothes, a shapeless cardigan and a baggy skirt, looked as if they had been pieced together out of old blankets.