One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Yes.’ I was answering as if in a trance, his watery old eyes holding mine.

  ‘And this sister, Cassie, maybe you owe her, eh? And the mother you wronged – Letty. Give them back a family. So whole sorry mess come good, come full circle if you marry Hal. Whole thing make sense of the past, n’est-ce pas? All boxes ticked, with this Hal.’

  I looked down at the ground.

  ‘Except one,’ he added softly.

  I held my breath.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  I felt the ground crumble a little beneath me. Couldn’t answer.

  ‘Do you, Hattie?’

  I glanced up quickly. ‘Love. Love.’ I spat it. ‘I’m thirtynine years old, Christian. I’ve made a pig’s ear of everything so far—’

  ‘You don’t deserve love? Is that what you say?’

  I stared. ‘Yes. Yes, OK, that’s what I say. Sometimes other things take precedence. Like – like duty, honour—’

  ‘Capitulation, compromise. You don’t love this man, but you settle for him. But he a good man, Hattie. You do him a great disservice to marry him, hm? You remember that.’

  He fixed me with his eyes for a moment. Then turned and went back through the French windows into the house.

  ‘You’re wrong, actually, Christian,’ I shouted after him, when I’d found my voice. ‘He’s spent most of his adult life waiting for me, putting his life on hold. He’s been engaged for years, but didn’t marry because of me. I do him a great service!’

  He turned. Came back. His eyes no longer watery: they were like flints. ‘And how long it last, hm? This charity marriage? How long till you no bear the sight of him?’

  I was having difficulty breathing. I blinked rapidly. We stood there in the dusk.

  ‘I can’t, Christian,’ I whispered at length. ‘I’m in too far. Too deep.’

  ‘You can,’ he said, more gently. ‘You can, or you never get out.’

  I took a breath. Let it out shakily.

  ‘But then it’s just me again.’ I gulped. I thought of Maggie and Ralph. My sister, all my friends. ‘Me, on my own again. Seffy will be going off to university, and I’ll be—’ I stopped. My breathing was shallow. ‘I’m frightened, Christian.’ The first honest thing I’d said. And the truth does surely ring. ‘I’m scared. Of this house, of the shop, of being alone. Spinster of this parish. I’m so afraid.’

  His face softened. He held out his arms. I walked into them.

  ‘He is my friend, Christian,’ I pleaded into the tweedy lapel of his jacket. ‘My very good friend. Has been for years. He’s not just anyone.’ Tears were welling now.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ he said firmly. ‘Not enough. Courage, mon amie. You will be all right.’ He gave me a squeeze. ‘Quite all right.’

  33

  Hal listened in silence when he got back from Geneva. It was late, and he was tired, and I hadn’t wanted to tell him then: had wanted to wait until morning, but he’d seen my face. He sat by the window in a tubular steel-framed chair, still in his suit, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the space between his feet as the light faded in the tall windows behind him. I hadn’t faltered. I hadn’t even cried. I’d got through it quite eloquently for me, albeit quietly. And it had sounded surprising rational. Maybe because, as Christian had said, it was the truth, finally echoing in this huge room, ringing around the chandeliers, the modern art on the walls.

  ‘You don’t love me,’ he said finally, flatly. It was the one thing I’d left out.

  ‘No. At least… not in that way.’

  ‘There is only one way, Hattie.’ He looked up at me, and not in his habitual way that made me feel small, guilty, as if I didn’t quite match up: that reproachful way that made me feel as if I was still in a gymslip. Just sadly. ‘Only one way, and that’s the way I love you. With all my heart. You’re right. We can’t go on.’ He got heavily to his feet. ‘I won’t try to persuade you otherwise. Won’t tell you we could manage with just my love. Christian’s right, it’s not enough.’ He turned to look out of the window, his back to me. He put his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘And the awful thing is,’ he went on softly, ‘I knew. Knew your heart wasn’t in it. But I was banking on you feeling a little bit indebted. And rather exhausted with life. Banking on you not being honest with yourself, because I knew you were capable of doing that. You mustn’t be too hard on yourself, Hattie. I’ve been manipulative. Only because I love you, but still, it’s not nice. I’m culpable, you see, not you. I knew you too well, and I used that knowledge to my advantage. I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.’

  He turned and crossed the room past me. I watched him go, sitting on the sofa, tears stinging my eyes now. He picked up his jacket from the table on the way, slung it over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall. Vulnerable. And therefore, lovable. I heard the bedroom door close behind him and felt very sad. I swallowed, taking huge gulps of air. But… oh, I was so relieved. I exhaled shakily. I had no idea I’d feel so relieved. As if a whole heap of coal had slowly rolled, gathered momentum and tumbled from my back. I sat a little straighter in the gathering gloom: listened as he brushed his teeth, pulled the chain. The mechanical sounds of a husband, I realized, getting ready for bed. Something I’d always wanted, very badly. The lovely, cosy familiar sound of routine, one that I probably wouldn’t ever have now.

  And maybe his love would have been enough for a while. Maybe too, if we’d married, his ardour would have dampened a bit, which would have helped, I realized. Hal had campaigned for me all these years, but I wonder if he knew what it felt like to be championed: to be rendered so endlessly significant, the focus of such intensity. It made me want to wriggle out from under his microscope and roll off the slide. I truly believed he’d conjured up an idea of me that didn’t exist. I could never live up to his expectations. He’d become possessed by a fixed idea of me that had only grown in my absence over the years. I could only be a disappointment.

  I took another deep breath and let it out slowly. And I fervently hoped he’d be happy. Meet someone. Céline hadn’t been right. I wasn’t right. But someone would be. Someone would make him very happy, and he deserved it. But I had a feeling it would be a while.

  Sometime later I dimmed the lights and left a note, saying how much easier it would be if we didn’t wake up here together in the morning. I hadn’t cleared out entirely, but would be back another time for my things. I thanked him for everything he’d ever done for me, which was immeasurable, I knew. I wanted to say how I hoped we’d be friends for ever, but didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t take it as a compliment. Then I packed a few things in a small bag, left my key on the table in the hall, looked around one last time at the beautiful, spacious flat, but in a new, semi-detached way. Then I slipped out into the night.

  Days passed. At home, on the other side of town, I pulled up my drawbridge and felt somewhat removed from the world for a while. I didn’t want to share my new single state with anyone quite yet. Not Maggie, who was seamlessly entangled with Ralph. Not Seffy, who’d be surprised and disappointed. Not Christian, who’d provoked it – a bit of me didn’t want him to know he’d been spot-on quite so quickly – and certainly not Laura and the rest of my family, who were still breathing a sigh of relief and thanking the Lord that finally, finally, the tricky sister, the difficult daughter, the one they worried about, had landed on her feet. Was going to marry sensible Hal. No, I kept my counsel. Which wasn’t hard, because no one asked. As Seffy had so astutely remarked, we consider our own lives to be endlessly significant, but others take only a passing interest. They have their own to be getting on with.

  There was also a quiet satisfaction in being the only one who knew. Aside from Hal, of course. But I was pretty sure, being a man, and a very particular type of proud, guarded man, he wouldn’t be sharing quickly. Wouldn’t be running any touchy-feely colours up a flagpole – hey, it’s me, top lawyer Hal Forbes, I’ve been dumped. Would lick his wounds quietly for a while, as I would mi
ne. But I was quite lonely. And once or twice – and I cringe to admit this – I had to resist the temptation to send him a text: ‘Are you OK?’ Happily I recognized the dishonesty inherent in that and tossed the phone back in my bag. After all, hadn’t I promised myself I’d be scrupulously honest from now on?

  After a while, though, I did email Seffy at school. Explained about Hal and me, and how sorry I was. I’d debated long and hard about ringing him, but I wanted him to have the luxury of thinking about it before he was bounced into a response. Or was that my luxury, at hearing his considered response, as opposed to his instinctive one? The thorny old truth again. Anyway, he must have been at his computer, because two seconds later, he rang.

  ‘If that’s what you’ve decided then fine, it’s not a problem, Mum.’

  I felt relief wash over me. ‘But you’re so fond of him, so close to him now.’

  ‘Still can be, can’t I? He’s still my uncle. I’m not the one marrying him, though, am I? Relax. We were OK as we were, we’ll still be OK.’

  I shut my eyes. Thanked him silently. Blessed him inwardly. Muttered something about seeing him on Sunday. But when I replaced the receiver, I stood a little straighter. And as I went about my supper, my solitary boiled egg and soldiers, there was less tottering. Fewer hair-line cracks.

  But I did feel my life shrinking again: a shrunken life. I was necessarily drawing back from people who would ask about Hal, and therefore isolating myself. It seemed to me, though, as I put one foot in front of the other and went about my business, that at least my soul was intact. No compromises. I didn’t have that terrible feeling that, any minute, I was about to be found out. By Seffy. By Hal. There was great comfort in that. I felt I was getting to know myself again.

  I found myself cleaning my little house from top to bottom, wanting to thin out all the rubbish, pare it down. De-clutter. I mended the curtain rail, painted the kitchen – even weeded the garden. And I got a plumber in for the downstairs loo – a nice chap, who found a rather chatty housewife who didn’t draw breath. He couldn’t get out of the door quick enough. I also worked long hours in the shop, sorting out the accounts, a job long overdue, whilst Maggie went to Italy with Ralph to fondle marble, amongst other things. I busied myself, as they say in women’s magazines.

  Weekdays were fine, Saturdays OK, Sundays downright dangerous. I felt unsafe on Sundays, especially in the evenings. Something lurked ominously within me, waiting to break out. Luckily the museums and art galleries were open and I got to know the V&A pretty well. They don’t turf you out until quarter to six, if you’re interested. And when they do, if you’re still feeling precarious, there’s always the Brompton Oratory round the corner. I’m not Catholic but wished, as I joined the queue for evensong, I could kneel and genuflect like the mysterious-looking foreign women: draw comfort from it. I did once. Then felt a fraud.

  One weekday evening, when I was coming home from work past the Slug and Lettuce on the Fulham Road, I saw, amongst the café tables on the pavement outside, a sheet of blonde hair. Its shiny perfection and brightness amid the bustle seemed almost allegorical, and just as I was wondering where I’d seen it before, Ivan stepped out of the pub and made for that very table, a pint in one hand, a spritzer in the other.

  He saw me and stopped. ‘Hattie.’

  ‘Ivan.’

  Damn. Again. Gorgeous. Again. Tanned, pink shirt and jeans. Damn.

  He recovered first. Spoke first, albeit flustered. ‘Good to see you. D’you want a drink?’

  Two young people outside a pub, whilst an older woman shuffled by, back from a solitary day’s work, dressed, appropriately enough, in navy blue. A mistake. I’d thought it very Jean Muir at the time but actually, it was more Anita Brookner. Oh, and my heels were in a Tesco bag so I was practically in carpet slippers.

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I’ve got to get on.’

  He put the glasses down. ‘Hattie, this is my sister, Ingrid,’ he said carefully. A woman with a vacant expression turned her head. Smiled, but looked far away. She was middle-aged.

  ‘Hi!’ In my surprise I stuck out my hand. He didn’t have a sister. I knew that. And there was something not quite right about this girl. I was aware of my features not knowing what to do with themselves. My hand was still unshaken: she stared blankly at it, her face flat. Eventually, I pocketed it. At that moment she proffered hers, hesitantly. I quickly took it.

  ‘Here, sit a moment.’ Ivan held out a chair. His eyes were asking me to sit.

  ‘Oh. Well, yes, OK. Just for a moment.’ I sat. How could I not?

  ‘What will you have?’ he asked quickly.

  I looked at Ingrid’s glass.

  ‘A spritzer, thank you.’

  He went back in. I chatted to Ingrid. Well, I chatted, she listened. Ivan returned with a glass, and the three of us exchanged pleasantries in the electric glow of outdoor heaters, about how the street had changed, new shops springing up: helping Ingrid along a bit occasionally. Mostly she sat open-mouthed, listening, but at one point she laughed until I thought she’d never stop. Ivan smiled and waited for her. At another moment, she reached out and took his hand. He held on tight. I drank my wine quite fast, but not overly so. Then I thanked him, said goodbye to Ingrid and went home.

  I paced around my sitting room for a bit, arms tightly folded across my chest. Then I got my mobile out. To remind myself of my new life, my new, much healthier, slim-line protected self, I scrolled back through my texts. Way back, to the one Ivan had sent me when I was beetling frantically home to Seffy from the hotel in France, when he’d suggested something in the back of the lorry would be nice. Leaning laconically over the balcony rail with a towel around his waist. Some of it was missing I knew, but I’d get the gist. It would help.

  In the way texts have of sometimes recovering themselves, none of it was missing now, and it was there in its entirety. I went hot. On an impulse I punched out his number. He answered, but simultaneously, my doorbell rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh.’ I was flustered. Too many bells in my head. ‘Hang on, Ivan, there’s someone at the door.’

  I flung it open, annoyed, to behold him on the doorstep. We gazed at one another, phones clamped to respective ears. Then we laughed foolishly and put them away. I stood back to let him in. He looked awkward, but I was hardly at ease either.

  ‘Where’s Ingrid?’ I asked: casual but curious.

  ‘She’s gone home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She lives with her family in Dawes Road.’

  ‘Her family?’

  ‘She was adopted before I was born.’

  ‘Right.’ I was astonished.

  He looked defensive. ‘You’re not the only one with secrets, Hattie.’

  ‘No. No, quite right.’ Once again I had a sense of my own importance. Small. Quite small in the scheme of things.

  His face softened. ‘She’s ten years older than me and things were very different then. Mum was very young. She couldn’t cope. They both worked long hours in the café. It was a different world. I don’t blame my parents.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m not terribly proud of it.’

  ‘But… you see her?’

  ‘Just once a month. Probably not enough.’

  ‘It’s something, though.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Do your parents know?’

  ‘That I see her? Dad does. Mum doesn’t. He says she’d be too hurt. Too ashamed.’

  I nodded. How extraordinary. She’d disowned a daughter. Ivan didn’t know about Seffy. But the parallels didn’t escape me. I stared at him. Then turned away quickly and went to the window, fingers twisting about together.

  ‘Ivan, at the risk of sounding like a private detective, those pictures in your wallet, the blonde girl. Are they Ingrid?’

  ‘No, they’re Claudia.’

  ‘Claudia?’ I turned back.

  ‘Yes.’ He pulled the wallet out of his jeans pocket and opened it. ‘S
he works in Camden Passage. She held some of the pieces for me.’

  He crouched and spread the photos on the coffee table. I approached cautiously. All were of pale, new pieces of furniture – lime, perhaps: chairs, small tables, lamp bases, bowls, all in the same style, all with very clean lines. One or two of the smaller pieces were held by a girl.

  ‘You made these?’ I picked one up.

  ‘Yes, I told you in France,’ he said impatiently. ‘Also tried to interest you in a terrible old garnet ring, but, hey…’ he muttered in an undertone.

  ‘What?’ I frowned.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I shook my head, confused.

  ‘I know you told me you were making things, but why didn’t you show me the pictures?’ I hadn’t really been listening, though. Had been thinking I looked so old compared to the girl. Me, me, me.

  He shrugged. Shuffled them back together and stuffed them in his wallet. ‘Because they’re not as good as I’d like them to be. Yet.’

  ‘I think they’re very good.’

  ‘One or two are all right, but your standards are high, Hattie.’

  I glanced up, surprised. There was an edge to his voice. It sounded like an accusation. Was he suggesting I’d be critical?

  ‘You’ve got years of experience in the trade. I’m just a new boy.’

  ‘Hey – not so many years!’ I joked, or tried to.

  ‘No, not so many. You’re thirty-nine.’

  ‘Yes.’ I said, taken aback. Thrown even.

  ‘And I’m thirty-two.’

  I boggled. ‘Thirty-two? Are you? I thought you were much younger!’

  ‘I know.’ He gazed at me unblinking. Then he threw his head back and laughed: that glorious, abandoned throaty laugh. His eyes, when they came back to me were still amused. Quizzical. ‘How much younger?’

  ‘Well, twenties… late twenties at the most!’ I blustered, genuinely astonished. Seven years. Only seven years. Not so much, surely?

  He leaned forward and parted his hair at the temples. ‘Grey – see?’

  I peered. ‘A bit. But you’re blond; hardly shows. Not like me.’ I almost bent my head to part and display my own roots: thought better of it.