by Jo Verity
She handed him a mug of tea. ‘I was thinking I’d spend Christmas with you.’
He started his usual silly game. ‘You don’t have to.’
And she joined in. ‘I know I don’t. But I want to.’
They batted untruths back and forth until the matter was settled. She would come on Christmas Eve. ‘I’ll see you before then, Dad. We can make a list of what we need and I’ll get it delivered.’
‘Could you take a look in the shed before you go?’ he said. ‘Something’s had a go at my hosepipe. Rats if I’m not mistaken.’
She didn’t fancy fumbling about in a dingy shed, looking for rats. ‘It’ll be too dark to see anything. I’ll do it next time I come.’
‘You said earlier that I only had to ask,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a decent flashlight—’
‘No Dad,’ she said. ‘Next time. I promise.’
Vivian liked Mondays. Whilst those around her grew morose as Sunday afternoon gave way to Sunday evening, her spirits lifted. Weekends were formless, unstructured and in some way…unsatisfactory, but come Monday she knew precisely what was expected of her. It had been the same when she was at school.
She’d had a few wobbly days at the tail end of last week but all that was behind her now. As she ran her bath and sorted her clothes for the next morning, she thought through what she had to do in the coming week. First thing in the morning, she must contact West Dorset District Council. Then she should get after Howard and Ralph about the Cologne trip. They ought really to go this week – or the beginning of next at the very latest. Leave it any longer and they’d find themselves tangled up with Christmas.
She was getting into the bath when her phone rang. It was Gil Thomas.
‘Tell me to sod off if it’s too late,’ he said.
From the background noise she guessed he was in a pub.
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘We should get that cup of coffee soon, don’t you agree?’
She watched a raft of bubbles slowly rotating beneath the tap. Were she to think too hard about this she knew she would find several reasons why it was a bad idea.
‘Vivian? Are you still there? I haven’t frightened you off, have I?’
‘No, you haven’t. And yes, we should.’
‘Terrific. How are you fixed this week?’
‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking – large Americano. No milk, two sugars.’
It wasn’t especially funny but she couldn’t help smiling. ‘There’s nothing in my diary for tomorrow.
‘Me neither,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘How about Camden Town? Six-thirty-ish?’
They arranged to meet at Caffè Nero in Parkway. It was a safe, neutral kind of place to meet a man she didn’t know, and not far from home if the meeting proved to be a mistake.
10
Gil wasn’t sure why he wanted to see her again but she’d sneaked into his thoughts a dozen times over the weekend. Not in a ‘she’s hot’ way. If anything, she was cold, even mannish – although it was a tad unfair to judge her, bearing in mind the bizarre circumstances of their only meeting. Besides, she was, he guessed, young enough to be his daughter.
His daughter. Polly.
He’d started out emailing Polly but abandoned that and Skyped. He needed to talk to her and to gauge her reaction to what he had to say. She had to see that he was taking her news seriously. That, although he loved her and always would, it was a big thing to get his head around. That she must allow him more time to get it straight. It was a high risk strategy and it had failed. Within minutes of establishing contact, she was sobbing and ranting, accusing him of being heartless and selfish. And, within a few more minutes he had given up, detaching himself from the pixellated image on the screen, wondering when, or why, he’d stopped feeling like a father.
He’d been back to Coffs Harbour twice since moving to London. The kids had given him a hard time on his first visit, refusing to see him, then, when they did, keeping their distance, treating him like a criminal. By his second visit, they’d become too caught up in their own affairs to spare him more than an hour, here and there. They were older – Polly almost twenty and the twins, fourteen – and they’d cooled off a bit. Perhaps they’d seen that their mother was happier with her new man than she’d ever been with him.
His own mother, bless her, had never tried to persuade him to come back. His sisters, both born out there, were Australians through and through. Maybe she thought that having two of her three children (along with seven grandchildren) living within fifty miles of her wasn’t a bad score. He spoke to her regularly and, okay, maybe she was a bit forgetful at times but only stuff that didn’t matter and he was cross with Polly for using her to shame him into returning.
He hadn’t told Feray about the baby yet. Everything was so up in the air – more so after the Skype session – and it seemed vital that he resolve things with Polly, or at very least in his own mind, before he did. He’d not told her about Vivian Carey either. Well he had, but only in a sketchy, dismissive way. When he’d described his part in Wednesday night’s incident, he’d included her in the catchall ‘I helped a couple of women find a taxi’. Nor had he mentioned that he’d arranged to meet one of these women for coffee.
He was at Caffè Nero ten minutes early, in no doubt that Vivian’s ‘six-thirty-ish’ would be six-thirty. He’d made up his mind to dress as he would on any other working Monday but somehow he’d ended up wearing his black jeans and the chambray shirt which Feray said made him look like – correction, ‘a little like’ – Paul Newman. He’d even found time for a haircut. Well, it was time for a trim.
Vivian was two minutes early, pushing the heavy glass door open and striding in, scanning the crowded coffee shop. He raised his hand and stood up, as straight as he could, making the most of his five-nine.
‘Hello again,’ he said, holding out his hand.
She took off her green leather glove. ‘Hello.’ Her hand was cold.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Tea, please. No milk. I’ve been drinking coffee all day.’
‘Anything to eat?’
‘Yes. Choose something for me.’
He was struck, not for the first time, by her way of saying things which, coming from any other young woman would sound flirtatious but from her sounded authoritative.
‘You’re not allergic to nuts? The edible kind, I mean.’
She looked puzzled for a second then smiled. ‘Oh. No. I’m not.’
He inspected the selection behind the Perspex screen. Muffin? Flapjack? Croissant? They all looked rather ‘end-of-the-day’ but he wondered if her request was a test of his decisiveness and he chose a chocolate twist and a pain au raisin.
‘How’ve you been?’ he asked, lowering the black tray onto the table.
She shrugged. ‘Tetchy. Any little thing sets my nerves jangling. I’m snapping at everyone.’
She leaned forward and cut both pastries in two, pushing half of each towards him in an unexpectedly intimate gesture. ‘How have you been?’
‘Tetchy.’
‘You seemed so together,’ she said.
‘It’s not the bomb.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘It’s my daughter. She’s pregnant. The bloke’s scarpered. After five years of hating my guts she suddenly wants me to go back to Australia. Be the perfect grandpa. My ex-wife is giving me a hard time about it too, although it’s nothing to do with her. Oh, and my mother may be losing her marbles.’
He hadn’t intended it to come out like that – petulant and whingeing – but at least it gave her an instant snapshot of his family situation.
‘It must be hard, you here, your family in Australia.’
‘No. It’s easy, actually. Up until now, that is. But Polly’s given me this ultimatum. Come back now or don’t bother.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty-two. Same age her mother was
when she was born. Same circumstances, too, except I stuck around.’
He couldn’t believe he was telling her this stuff. The idea was to learn more about her but so far all he’d discovered was that she didn’t suffer from a nut allergy.
‘What d’you think of my tie?’ he asked, struggling to find less treacherous territory.
She inspected it. ‘Not very interesting. I wouldn’t have had you down as a diagonal stripe man. Or polyester, come to that.’
‘I’m not. It turned up at the hospital today, along with a pair of navy socks with those little diamonds down the sides. Gift-wrapped. Presents from our mutual friend.’
‘Poor Irene.’ Vivian took a bite of the chocolate twist. ‘What am I talking about? She’s creepy. Did you see the article in the Mail?’
‘Yes. They’ve been ribbing me in work all day. Still, if thinking we’re angels helps her, I can hack it.’
They chatted and by the time they’d eaten the pastries and drunk second cups of tea, he’d established that Vivian was thirty-six – older than he’d imagined – and an only child. Her mother was dead and her father lived in Tooting. She was bilingual in German. The information had emerged in a matter-of-fact fashion entirely in keeping with her style.
By seven twenty-five, there were only a few people left in the café. The staff were bustling around, making a big show of sweeping the floor.
‘Chucking out time,’ he said. The hour had passed too quickly. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘Going home, I suppose.’
‘I’ll walk you.’
‘You don’t have to. I’m used to getting myself around,’ she said, winding a green scarf around her neck.
‘I don’t doubt it. But I’d like to.’
She held his gaze. ‘Why?’
She was on her own patch, it was early evening and they were a mere well-lit mile from Belsize Park. No point in pretending it was an act of chivalry. Whatever reason he came up with had better be as near the truth as he could make it because she would see through any bullshit.
‘Why? Because I enjoy your company. I like the way you give straight answers to straight questions. You’re clever and you don’t try to hide it. You scare me a bit, too.’ He dragged the palms of his hands down his cheeks, feeling the roughness of his twelve-hour beard. ‘I’m not doing very well here am I?’
She kept her eyes on his face, letting him flounder.
‘And I think you have the most remarkable hair. I want to touch it. See if it’s as cold as it looks.’
He saw himself through her eyes – a weird, middle-aged hair fetishist – and he half-expected her to walk away.
‘It’s just hair,’ she said leaning towards him so that it swung away from her cheek. ‘Go ahead.’
He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and laughed. ‘I can’t now, can I?’
‘I’m freezing,’ she said. ‘Shall we start walking?’
They walked north, leaving the trendy shops and restaurants of Camden Lock and entering the scruffy no-man’s-land around Chalk Farm.
He pointed to the squat bulk of the Roundhouse to their left, aglow with gaudy lights. ‘I saw Alice Cooper there a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Alice Cooper?’
‘You’re too young. I’m too young. But it had to be done. And it’s a great venue. Pretty handy for you. ’
‘It is. But I rarely go.’
‘You’re not into music?’
‘I am, but I never seem to find time.’
‘What type of thing d’you listen to?’
He felt embarrassed by the banality of his conversation.
‘Emo. Sad stuff. D’you know The Weakerthans?’
‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘Canadian. They’ve been around for a while.’
Her enthusiasm around the topic was surprising and endearing. She’d seemed too earnest to be suckered by pop music.
‘You?’ she said.
‘You’ll groan.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘Blues. Jazz.’
She groaned and they laughed and he felt the bond between them strengthen.
They started up Haverstock Hill. The wind bent the branches of the plane trees that lined the pavement, the force of it making the going harder.
‘You said your father lives in Tooting,’ he said. ‘What does he do?’
‘Not much. He’s eighty-seven.’
‘Eighty-seven?’ It was out before he could stop it.
Yes. Obscene, isn’t it?’
‘Well—’
‘The plan was that he’d die first and that I’d have my mother to myself for twenty-five more years. That was my plan anyway.’
They plodded on up the hill. Vivian’s long legs enabled her to steam along and, by the time they reached Belsize Park station, Gil was out of breath.
‘Down here,’ she said, indicating a turn on the left.
Street lights illuminated a terrace of three-storey houses with wide frontages. The houses had graceful windows and balconies above the front doors. As he’d imagined, it was a different world from his down-at-heel neighbourhood.
‘This is me,’ she said, stopping at the wrought iron gate of Number 15.
He noted the three meter boxes located beneath the front window, the only ugliness spoiling the elegant facade. ‘Which flat?’
‘First floor.’
‘Nice neighbours?’
‘An old lady below. Middle-aged man above. We keep ourselves to ourselves. It works fine but Mrs Sachs won’t live forever and Malcolm could decide to take up tap dancing. It’s easy to get out if you’re renting. Not so easy if you have to sell. Especially with things as they are.’
He was surprised to hear she owned this flat. The mortgage for a two-bedroomed place in this location must be exorbitant, especially as, from what he’d gleaned, she lived alone. Few of his acquaintances owned property and those that did had been forced to move way, way out to find something affordable.
‘Will you come in?’ she said.
He’d been wondering whether she would ask and how to respond if she did. He wanted to accept but something made him hesitate. ‘I’ve promised to meet a friend at my local around nine-ish. Can we do it another time?’
‘Sure.’ It was impossible to tell whether she was relieved or disappointed by his refusal. ‘How will you get back?’
‘I’ll walk. It can’t be more than a couple of miles. I’ll cut through Prince of Wales Road. Forty-five minutes, max.’
They swapped email addresses and shook hands. Now that he knew her mother had been German, he understood where some of her mannerisms – the hand-shaking thing and the candour – came from.
When he reached Kentish Town Road, he texted Feray to let her know he would be home in ten minutes. He gave no reason for his late return but she assumed that he’d been working late, and it was simpler that way.
‘You let that Kevin take advantage of you,’ she said when he let himself in.
She was standing with her back to him, dropping cutlery in the drawer, and he pulled her hair away from the nape of her neck and kissed it.
‘I’ll take advantage of you, if you like.’
She wriggled and laughed. ‘Ouch. Your hands are cold.’
She turned to face him and he pulled her to him, kissing her again, this time on the lips, firm and long.
‘What’s that for?’ she said.
‘Does there have to be a reason?’
‘No.’
They kissed again.
‘D’you fancy cheese on toast?’ she asked.
‘Fantastic.’
The sound of canned laughter was coming from the living room where the kids were watching television. It was snug down here in the basement and the normality of family life, the warmth of Feray’s body were, in that instant, the most desirable things in the world.
‘Okay if I stay tonight?’ he said.
His request seemed to surprise her. They’d fallen in
to the habit of sleeping together at weekends and but rarely on weekdays.
She pulled back and, reaching up, took his face between the palms of her hands, thwarting any attempt he might make to avoid her gaze. ‘Are you okay?’ she said.
‘Why d’you ask?’
She shook her head. ‘I ask you a question – you ask me a question back again. You do this all the time, Gil. It makes me feel like I’m nagging. It’s not good. Something’s not right. Is that why you’re late home?’
Feray wouldn’t understand about Vivian. He didn’t himself. Instead he told her about Polly’s pregnancy and her demand that he return to Australia. She would have to know sooner or later and it might explain his distraction.
She listened and, when he’d finished, she took a piece of cheese from the fridge and began grating it violently.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ he asked.
‘When did you find this out?’
He pretended to think. ‘Ummm. Middle of the week, I guess.’
He reached out to take some grated cheese and she slapped his hand hard – too hard for the minor offence. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I dunno. Maybe the explosion rattled me more than I realised.’
He watched her expression soften at his phony justification.
‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’ she asked.
‘No. Not yet. It’s…complicated.’
‘Okay. What d’you want to do?’
‘That’s easy. I want to carry on as if nothing’s changed. Is that a terrible thing to admit?’
‘Terrible? No. But things have changed. You can’t deny it.’
‘You asked me what I wanted to do and I told you.’ He was irritated by her smug observation. ‘If you must know, I didn’t tell you about Polly because I didn’t want you getting in a state.’
‘A state? About what?’ She placed two pieces of bread on the rack and shoved the tray under the grill. ‘I’m not pinning my hopes on you if that’s what you think. I’m not that stupid.’
They both had their backs to the door and didn’t notice Melissa come into the kitchen.
‘Are you two fighting again?’ she said.