The House on Fortune Street

by Margot Livesey

  “No. Was he planning to come to the show? This is almost as good as Siena, isn’t it?” She gestured at her plate of ravioli.

  “He was in Leeds, doing an article. I thought he might pop over to Bradford.”

  “If he does have any media connections in the north, I wish he’d use them. We keep getting great reviews that come out on our last day. Did I tell you that I met a young playwright, Sayid something? He’s going to send us a play.”

  “I’ll look out for it.”

  They were walking back to the house when Abigail asked if he had seen Dara, and he said not since that day he’d run into her and her father on their way to Sissinghurst. “Maybe we could invite her for supper tomorrow,” he offered.

  “I might have to work at the theater,” Abigail said, her careless tone signaling that this was a plan set in stone.

  She said the same thing when he proposed the next night, and he took some small comfort in the fact that she was too busy even to see her best friend. In the days that followed he studiously avoided any reference to Valentine and rearranged his schedule to work longer hours at the theater. Abigail was her usual whirlwind self but at least he always knew where she was. Then, the night before she was leaving for Coventry, she was late coming home. She had left the theater early to meet with a designer and told him she’d be back by six. After trying her mobile twice, he carried his bicycle into the kitchen and set about adjusting the gears. The designer lived miles away; perhaps the tube had broken down again. But why didn’t she phone, or answer her phone? Every answer that came to mind was distressing. He was reaching for a spanner when at last the front door opened.

  Abigail appeared with two bags of groceries. “Sorry I’m late. I ran into Dara. We went for a drink.”

  From below, he heard the sound of Dara’s front door. “I wondered where you were,” he said, tightening the spanner. He did not add that he also wondered why she hadn’t phoned and why she had gone shopping, given her departure the next day. It was not like Abigail to stock the larder on his account.

  “I haven’t seen her in ages,” she said. “We stopped at the Lord Nelson.” As she put away the groceries, she told him that Edward was finally moving in with Dara, in the new year. “His daughter is settling down at kindergarten and he’s got enough pupils to cover his expenses.”

  For the first time in several hours Sean forgot his own fears. “Oh great. I’m so glad.”

  At once he felt Abigail’s mood shift. With a bag of coffee in one hand, a wedge of Brie in the other, she stood frowning at him. “But what if he doesn’t do it?” she said. “He’s been vacillating for so long. Dara will be crushed if this doesn’t work out.”

  He didn’t understand her anger—was it at Edward? At Dara? At him?—but all the feelings he was holding back kindled. “You’re such an absolutist, Abigail,” he said, glaring back at her defiantly. “You think a person decides to buy a red car and then hands over a check, but most people have to drive a black car and a blue one and talk to their friends, before they actually buy the red one. Vacillating is part of deciding. That’s why the Belladonna Society insists on a waiting period. They don’t want anyone killing themselves out of a single impulse of despair.”

  For a few seconds he continued to meet her gaze. Then, afraid of what he might say next—was she test driving Valentine?—he bent to lift the bike right side up. As he straightened, she came over and rested her hand on the handlebars. “Would you like to come to Coventry?” she asked, smiling at him appealingly. “You could visit the cathedral, work at the library.”

  Despite himself he smiled back. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid my chapters aren’t very portable.”

  “Oh, your stupid book,” said Abigail, pouting. She leaned over and kissed him.

  THEN SHE WAS GONE AGAIN, THIS TIME FOR TWO WEEKS. IN HER absence Sean did his best to write his chapters. She invited me to go with her, he reminded himself, but that only quieted the beasts for so long. As for Dara, he forgot about her until one afternoon, while he was proofreading the transcript of an interview, a loud thud came from downstairs. What was the noise? Did she need help? In the ensuing silence he was struck by how quiet she had been recently, and that he couldn’t remember the last time he had smelled her cooking. But there was no further sound, and he went back to checking his pages. He would knock on her door tomorrow.

  Two days later his knock was again met by silence; he thought about leaving a note but didn’t have a pen. Later he forgot. For one reason or another he did not try again. Ten days passed before, one rainy evening in late November, he ran into her, hurrying along the street.

  “Won’t you come in?” he urged as they reached the house.

  “All right,” she said in a muffled voice. “Just for a moment.”

  Inside he turned on the central heating, and went upstairs to change his sweater. When he came down again, he found the kitchen empty. Dara, still in her coat, was in the living room. She was standing in front of the fireplace, staring up at the painting. A pool of water circled her feet.

  “Dara? I brought you a sweater. It’s one of my favorites,” he added, meaning the painting. “You both look so happy.”

  She turned to him, her usually expressive face blank. Perhaps he should have praised the composition, the handling of the paint? But before he could make amends, she was heading for the kitchen. There she exchanged her wet coat for Abigail’s sweater. Although her hair clung darkly to her head, she insisted that she didn’t need a towel. As he opened a bottle of red wine, he asked how she was. “We haven’t seen you for weeks.”

  “Yes.” She wrapped her hands around her glass. He was wondering if he ought, in spite of her protests, to fetch a towel, or even a blanket when, almost as if a switch had turned, she began to speak. There had been a review at the women’s center, everything was in an uproar, and several of her colleagues had been ill. “I’m leading so many groups,” she said brightly, “I sometimes can’t remember if I’m doing substance abuse or taking control of your life. I have to wait for the introductions to give me a clue. And we’ve had a wave of dotty clients. One woman I work with has an obsession with fire extinguishers, another buys lottery tickets all the time. How are things with you and the euthanasia book?”

  He described the interviews and how powerfully people spoke. As always Dara asked just the right questions, the ones that made him want to tell her more. “And what about people who’ve attempted suicide and survived?” she said. “Are you interviewing anybody in that situation? Anybody who regrets the attempt?”

  She was watching him intently, and before he knew it he was holding forth again. The single biggest obstacle to euthanasia was the popular belief that most failed suicides were happy to discover their ineptitude. The society’s position was that almost anyone who wanted to could commit suicide, from which it followed that failure was a sign of ambivalence, the famous cry for help. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to get on my soapbox. People seem to lose sight of the fact that the society is advocating euthanasia only for one particular group, those for whom the prognosis is nothing but pain.”

  He had coined the last phrase a few days ago and took particular pleasure in saying it. Dara seemed to appreciate it too.

  “Nothing but pain,” she repeated.

  “The reports I’ve read by doctors are particularly convincing, and of course there are places—Oregon, Belgium—where euthanasia is already legal.”

  “You’re an excellent advocate. I’m sure the book will be useful.”

  “It’s nice to think it might actually do some good. So how are you and—”

  Suddenly Dara’s glass was on the table, and she was on her feet. “Time to go.”

  “Oh, can’t you stay for supper? I’m sure we can rustle up something. It would be great to have company.” In his disappointment he almost took hold of her sleeve.

  “I have things to do,” she said, not looking at him, reaching for her coat.

  He was still s
aying that he hoped they would see her soon, that he knew Abigail missed her, as she left the room. He heard the sounds of first their front door, then hers, open and close.

  Later that evening, when Abigail rang, he mentioned the encounter.

  “How was she?” she said. “She left me a message the other day. I couldn’t quite make it out, but I know she was upset. By the time I phoned back she was in a meeting.”

  “She seemed fine, a bit preoccupied. Or, I don’t know, maybe tired. Things at the center sound even more chaotic than usual.”

  “I must call her. I just never have ten minutes free when we’re touring.” A rustling sound accompanied her words—was she sorting papers?—and then she began to talk about how well their school visit had gone.

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF DECEMBER, SEAN WOKE ABRUPTLY TO THE knowledge that the euthanasia book was due in a week. For nearly a month he had been dodging Valentine’s phone calls and writing optimistic replies to his e-mails, almost all of which reported finishing a section, or a chapter. Now he had to face the reality that his pursuit of the interviews, and his absorption with the subject matter, had led to many pages but not yet to the coherent chapters that represented his half of the book. The idea of discussing this, or indeed anything, with Valentine was out of the question. Instead, as he stepped into his jeans and pulled on a shirt, he decided to contact the secretary.

  Three hours later he climbed the stairs to the attic office. He knocked at the half-open door and a voice called, “Enter.”

  The secretary was at his desk, on the phone. He smiled, and nodded toward a chair. “This is a matter for your doctor,” he said into the receiver. “If you can’t resolve it with him or her, then you should seek a second opinion, but it isn’t grounds for a complaint to the BMA. People have to act according to their consciences. Forgive me, I have someone waiting.”

  After several more attempts, he managed to extricate himself. “Sorry about that,” he said, approaching with outstretched hand. “Part of my job, as you’ve probably gathered, is to act as an informal counselor. It’s hard for people to keep things in perspective when it’s literally a matter of life and death.”

  He offered coffee, stepped out of the room, and returned a minute later with two blue mugs. “Please feel free to keep your coat on,” he said, handing Sean a mug and seating himself opposite. “There’s about ten days a year when this office is comfortable.” He himself was wearing a dark green pullover and brown corduroy trousers that once again made Sean think of open fields and country lanes. “I’m fine,” Sean said. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”

  “It’s nice to have a break from my normal duties. Besides, I’m eager to hear how things are going.” He regarded Sean expectantly.

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I’m afraid I’m a little behind. It’s not that I’m not working.” He held up his file of pages. “But each person’s story is so fascinating, and so heartrending.” He trailed off, taking refuge in his coffee.

  “I see,” said the secretary. “The good news is that you’ve become a convert to our cause. The bad news is that everything is taking longer than you’d expected.”

  “Exactly,” said Sean gratefully.

  “I should tell you that Valentine phoned last week. He wanted me to know that his half of the book was virtually done but he was concerned that you might not make the deadline. He said you were a perfectionist.”

  Carefully Sean set the coffee down. Was there no end to Valentine’s betrayals? His brain seethed with retorts and denunciations: Valentine’s wretched prose, the way he cut every possible corner. He realized that the secretary was waiting. “That’s one way to put it,” he said lamely. “We’re not ideal coauthors.”

  “But that is your present relationship. We have a contract and money has changed hands.” The secretary was sitting straighter, his voice firm.

  “Let me take you into my confidence. Not all members of the society were happy that we were spending our limited funds in this way, but I was convinced that the right book could help people, and help to advance our cause. I very much need the book to be finished soon, and within the terms we agreed upon. Tell me what I can do to facilitate that.”

  The man’s sudden briskness was even more jolting than Valentine’s perfidy. How naive he had been in assuming that the secretary’s sympathies would transcend his business interests. For a moment Sean felt like fleeing. Then, for some mysterious reason, he found himself picturing Bridget and her husband, standing beside the dark wood as the stars came out. The image was, as she had described the actuality, consoling. “I don’t mean to suggest that things are dire,” he said. “Basically I have drafts of everything except the last section, and the extra one you wanted on mental suffering. I’m sure I can have the manuscript on your desk by the end of the year. Meanwhile you could go ahead and give Valentine’s chapters to a good copy editor. That way everything should be done by mid-January.”

  “Let me have a look at my diary,” said the secretary. He stood up and retrieved it from his desk. “Suppose you bring me the manuscript the Wednesday after Christmas. And let’s forget about the mental suffering. It’s by no means certain that the board members would approve such a section, and we can always add it if we do a second edition. How does that sound?”

  Sean said it sounded fine.

  “Good. I’ll send you an e-mail confirming these new dates. You may not have read your contract closely, but there is a clause that fifty percent of the advance is forfeit if the manuscript is late. I would hate to have to invoke that, but given the choice between doing so and losing my job, you’ll understand which I’d choose.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Sean, getting out of his chair.

  “So I’ll see you here on the twenty-eighth,” the secretary said.

  Sean noted the small rudeness of his remaining seated. Somehow that made it easier to reply crisply that he would be here between ten-thirty and eleven that day. He was almost at the door when a thought stopped him. “I was wondering,” he said, “if I could talk to the balloonist, the man who hoped to see his wife’s soul take flight?”

  The secretary looked up at him calmly. “That was me,” he said.

  IN THE WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS SEAN ANESTHETIZED HIMSELF with his chapters. He felt, as he had when working on Keats, a keen desire to make every sentence as good as possible but a greater ease in doing so without the poet’s dazzling example. He sent an e-mail to Valentine announcing that he needed a small extension but that his chapters would require only light editing. Valentine wrote back in his usual cheery fashion: Sounds good. The secy. has asked for some revisions on my pages. That’ll teach me to give them in early. Sean tried not to gloat; some revisions, he hoped, meant hours of strenuous rewriting. How fortunate, he thought, that Valentine had not grasped what he was trying to say during that phone call on the train, about writing another book together. To Abigail he offered the news of the extended deadline and asked if she could be very specific about her Christmas present.

  “And vice versa,” she said.

  The previous year they had spent Christmas with Sean’s parents on the Isle of Wight, but this year neither of them had time to make the journey. Happily Tyler had invited them to spend Christmas at his country house in Wiltshire. The house, like its owner, occupied a special place in Sean and Abigail’s history—they had spent a weekend there right after he finally left Judy—and, as they drove down in their rental car on Christmas Eve, the mood between them lightened. Sean’s chapters, save for the proofreading, were done and the company’s Christmas show in Margate was going well; Abigail seemed more cheerful than in several weeks.

  Two other couples were staying at Tyler’s, and after a boisterous and delicious dinner Abigail suggested charades. She did an excellent Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and everyone applauded Sean’s The Blind Assassin. Together he and Tyler attempted Endymion, which Abigail guessed on the fourth syllable. When they at last retired to
their room she turned to him even before the door was closed and kissed him, eagerly and solemnly. Then she led him to the armchair by the window, opened the curtains so that they could see the high white winter clouds, and sat in his lap.

  “Tell me about the best Christmas you remember,” she said.

  “Besides this one? The one when it snowed and we all went tobogganing on the hill behind our house. My father made this fantastic run with red flags and taught me how to steer a sledge. We made this huge snowman at the bottom.”

  “I remember that Christmas,” said Abigail. “I was with my grandparents. We didn’t go sledging but we did make a snowman. My grandmother even let him wear a scarf she’d knitted.”

  When they went to bed, shortly after four, she made love with him as she used to do, in pursuit of pleasure rather than duty. Afterward, as he lay drowsily beside her, Sean allowed himself to hope that the glittering streams were flowing again. Perhaps she had had a few drinks with Valentine, but so what. All couples had tricky times. The important thing was not to allow them, as he and Judy had done, to overwhelm the relationship. As soon as he handed in his chapters, he would sit down with Abigail and talk about how they could have a better balance between work and play. How much money did he need to earn? Might they get married?

  THEY ARRIVED BACK IN LONDON ON THE AFTERNOON OF BOXING Day to find the whole house dark—Dara was still away in Edinburgh—and, after two nights’ absence, icy cold. They turned on the heat and went to buy groceries. While he printed out his pages, Abigail unpacked and repacked. Then they made moussaka together and, as they ate, discussed her schedule. She would be back on New Year’s Eve, in time for the party the stage manager and his wife were throwing. For once Sean was almost impatient for her to be gone, so eager was he to check his chapters one more time and put them in the secretary’s hands. The next day he reread them and found to his relief that they had not unraveled while his back was turned; the writing was clear and, at times, even eloquent. He was at the Belladonna Society’s office by ten-thirty the following morning.