Left and Leaving

by Jo Verity

  Howard caught her hands in his. ‘Vivian. Things happen. If I’m not concerned why should you be?’

  ‘But Cologne? What if this drags on and—’

  ‘It’s not essential that you’re on the spot from day one. We’ll work around it.’

  ‘But the office. We’ve signed the lease.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me worry about that?’

  She poured a mug of coffee, resolved to tackle the backlog on her desk. But her thoughts repeatedly drifted to the hospital then gathered speed, racing full tilt towards Christmas and beyond.

  She Googled ‘hip fracture’ – and wished she hadn’t. Nothing told her what she wanted to hear. None of it promised that the patient would make a full recovery in no time at all and that life would chug along as before.

  Nick phoned late in the afternoon saying how sorry he was to hear of her problems and apologising for not getting back to her sooner.

  ‘I’ve promised to take a new client to a publishers’ party after work. Introduce her to a few people. Same old, same old. It’ll be finished by eight, eight-thirty. Why don’t we have dinner afterwards?’

  She knew what that would involve. They’d eat too late then end up at her flat (or his) and feel obliged to have sex because it had been a while since the last time.

  ‘I’m shattered, Nick. I need to go home. Let’s leave it until tomorrow.’

  He didn’t argue.

  She cleared up a handful of routine matters, knowing that, if she attempted to tackle anything complex she would make a mess of it and have to do it again tomorrow. Before leaving for home she checked through her emails and found one from Gil.

  Up for making a snowman? Gx

  He’d attached a picture of himself looking ridiculous in skiing goggles and a hat with reindeer horns protruding from its crown. His face was at a crazy angle and the cars in the background were heaped with snow, and she guessed he’d taken the photograph today.

  She replied, explaining what had happened since she’d last been in touch.

  Within minutes he rang her. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Still at work. Just finishing up.’

  ‘Me too. Look, I expect you’re bushed but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I could come and pick you up. We could get a bite to eat.’

  She was exhausted but if he came now and they ate right away, she could be home by eight-thirty.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get a cab.’

  ‘You’ll need to know where my office is.’

  ‘I already know,’ he said and reeled off the correct address.

  She was waiting at the front door when his cab pulled up and didn’t put up much of a fight when he instructed her to get in.

  ‘You look done in. Let’s get you home.’

  They hardly spoke on the drive back to Belsize Park. But it was a comforting, comfortable silence. She relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours, pleasantly drifting nearer and nearer sleep and, by the time they arrived at her flat, it was all she could do to get out of the cab.

  Once they were in, she slumped on the sofa whilst, without prompting, Gil found a duvet and draped it over her. ‘You need food. Something quick. D’you have bacon? And eggs?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He disappeared into the kitchen and from the gentle clunks she guessed he was investigating the cupboards. She heard the kettle boiling and the clatter of pans and, in no time, he returned with two plates of spaghetti carbonara. As she swallowed the first mouthful, she realised that, apart from a couple of bowls of porridge, she’d eaten nothing substantial for forty-eight hours.

  After they’d finished she gave him a full account of her father’s fall. He listened attentively and without interruption, and she couldn’t stop it all spilling out.

  ‘I don’t see how I can do this on my own. My half-brothers are hundreds of miles away. I barely know them. I have no idea whether they’d be willing to help even if they could. I shall spend all my time on the Tube. We’re opening the Cologne office next month. How’s that going to work?’

  She drew her knees up, burying her face in the duvet.

  ‘Doing nothing probably doesn’t come easy to you,’ he said, ‘but maybe you should let things settle for a few days. Wait until he’s over the immediate shock. See which way things are going to go. Try not to get too far ahead of yourself.’

  She looked up. ‘You’re saying he might die?’

  ‘No, I’m saying give it a few days. Then talk to your dad. Be honest with him. He’ll appreciate that you can’t drop everything. Surely he wouldn’t want you to.’

  ‘You don’t know my father. He’s a selfish old man. It’s not even as if he likes me. And, d’you know, I’m fine with that. Now, suddenly, he needs help. If that involves disrupting my life, he won’t give it a second thought. Great timing. Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘He doesn’t like you?’

  ‘No. He never has.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I hate him.’

  She expected him to pat her on the head and say she was talking that way because she was overwrought. That, deep down, they must both like and love each other. That the father-daughter relationship was complicated but special. Instead he took the dishes into the kitchen, returning with two mugs of tea.

  ‘Black, no sugar, is that how you like it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  She was surprised that he remembered and that, once again, he’d seen that she’d needed to eat quickly, not hang around waiting for a late supper in the West End.

  ‘The pasta was delicious, by the way,’ she said.

  ‘Most people keep bacon and eggs in the fridge and pasta in the cupboard. It’s one of my emergency meals.’

  ‘What are the others?’

  ‘Other. Bacon and eggs.’

  He knelt next to her and studied her face. ‘That’s better. You’ve got a bit of colour in your cheeks.’

  She snuggled under the quilt. ‘Thanks for sorting me out. Sorry I’m being so useless.’

  ‘I like useless women. They make me feel…useful.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to push off. Leave you to sleep. Hey, you’ll never guess who turned up at the hospital this afternoon. Our mutual friend.’

  ‘Irene? What did she want?’

  She listened whilst he described his meeting with Irene.

  ‘You’ll have to watch out,’ she said. ‘She fancies you.’

  ‘D’you reckon?’

  He minced across the room, clutching a make-believe handbag and patting his hair.

  Vivian laughed and clapped her hands. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, bowing, ‘you’ve been a truly wonderful audience. Now, if there’s nothing more, I’ll be on my way.’

  He paused in the doorway. ‘I’d offer to hang around. Keep you company. But you might say yes and things could get confusing.’

  15

  Vivian had told him something of her history. He knew that she was an only child, that her mother had died fairly recently and that she and her father weren’t close. She’d hinted at a solitary childhood without friends or fun. Reading between the lines, she attributed this to her father’s age and attitude. ‘He was more like a grandfather than a father. And not the indulgent kind either.’

  He had been raised by young, energetic parents amidst the rough and tumble of their growing family. As immigrants, they’d had no one around to lend a hand when times were tough. Half the people in their street were in the same position and neighbours quickly became surrogate aunts and uncles, grannies and granddads. His parents had been easy-going and the house always teemed with people. As a kid, when he fell out with his mum and dad – as all children did – there were a dozen ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ on hand to give him a cuddle and a glass of pop and send him back into the fray. It had all gone pretty well until puberty kicked in.

  Vivian’s assertion that she hated her father had
surprised him. From what he’d seen of her she seemed innately self-possessed. Look how she’d kept her cool on the night of the bomb. This made her outburst all the more startling. She must really detest the old man to let fly like that. Or was it merely a generational inevitability? Polly was doubtless telling someone how much she hated her father at this very moment. It was a little different, though. She’d had always blown hot and cold with him – understandable considering that first he’d walked out on them then, when they’d pretty much got over that, he’d buggered off to the far side of the world. (That wasn’t the whole story but his daughter had been determined to see it that way.)

  Vivian’s antipathy appeared to have been constant and unfaltering whilst he hoped Polly’s was temporary. Pregnant, her body awash with hormones, his daughter was allowed – almost expected – to be melodramatic. Once she held her baby in her arms and those atavistic emotions came flooding in, as they surely would, her view of the world – currently so black-and-white – might soften. But he shouldn’t count on it. In the short term, he must deal with her ultimatum. Long-distance communication wasn’t getting him anywhere. If he could swing the time off, he’d look for a cheap flight after Christmas. Sit down and talk to her face to face. The lottery money would come in handy.

  Christmas was two weeks away. Severe weather and the swine ’flu epidemic dominated the front pages, and the Ashes series was getting interesting. No organisation had yet claimed responsibility for the Warren Street bomb. ‘Why would they?’ Kevin said. ‘Who’d want to claim a cock-up?’ As the incident slipped out of the spotlight, Gil concluded that the British were happier being scared witless by snow, pestilence and Mitchell Johnson’s bowling than by something they couldn’t get a handle on.

  Feray was in a foul mood. The kids had had a great night out with their father. They hadn’t stopped talking about the show and the ‘all-you-can-eat’ meal in Chinatown beforehand. They were pestering to do it again. Tanya, the girlfriend, was obviously young and pretty and Melissa constantly banged on about ‘Tanya’s gorgeous hair’ and ‘Tanya’s trendy shoes’ and ‘Tanya’s amazing handbags’. She’d come home with one of Tanya’s cast-offs – a skimpy top encrusted with sequins. Feray had banned her from wearing it outside the flat and this was causing a lot of friction, which had spilled over, affecting pretty much everything. Anyone stepping out of line got it in the neck and Gil was keeping out of her way until it had settled down.

  Shivering in self-imposed exile at the top of the house, he put on all the clothes he could rustle up and tried not to think about Vivian Carey.

  Divorcing Janey hadn’t resolved his conviction that he was inhabiting the wrong life. So he’d cut and run. It had seemed the only thing to do. Once he’d settled on London as his new home, he’d been determined not to recreate his former existence. Starting the thing with Feray might have been foolish but neither of them was looking for an enduring relationship – just good sex and someone to share a meal and adult conversation. It was working fine.

  So why was he allowing this girl to bug him? She was fifteen years younger than he. She had a boyfriend and seemed obsessed with her job. She was brusque, and frank to the point of rudeness. She rarely smiled and he had to work bloody hard to get a laugh out of her, as if she considered light-heartedness a failing. Perhaps he was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe she was simply a gawky, gloomy, ambitious, humourless woman.

  The supermarket shelves were loaded with Christmas goodies. Evidently, for the next few weeks, the population of Kentish Town was expected to exist on a diet of sausage rolls, whole smoked salmon and weird-flavoured dips. There was an obsession with mass catering. Suddenly everything came in ‘bumper packs’ and Gil was pushed to find a small-ish wedge of Brie and the malt loaf to which he’d become addicted.

  At weekends, he generally cooked up a pot of stew or hearty soup. Whilst it was simmering, it warmed the flat and gave it a homely smell. He made plenty and by adding odds and ends he eked it out well into the week. It was typical Boy Scout cooking. To show that he hadn’t lost the knack of preparing grown-up food, if he had a little cash to spare, he treated himself to something more sophisticated. Today he dropped a couple of sirloin steaks and a pack of flat mushrooms into his basket.

  When he reached the checkout, everyone ahead of him had a heaped trolley and the queue had ground to a standstill. He was losing patience when he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired girl on the far side of the shop. He was on the point of abandoning his place and going to join her when she turned and he saw that she looked nothing like Vivian. The incident caused his spirits to soar then plummet and, like it or not, he was thinking about her again.

  No snow had fallen since Wednesday, but neither had the temperature risen above zero. Only major traffic routes had been gritted but compacted ice was making side roads lethal. For many, the weekend was their first opportunity to clear the snow and by mid-morning the rasp of spade on stone paving could be heard everywhere. When he got home with his shopping, a couple of his fellow tenants were clearing the pavement in front of the house. They rustled up another spade and he joined them, chipping and scraping and trickling salt on the steps up to the front door. Apart from ‘hall and stairs’ meetings, they all kept themselves to themselves but today camaraderie was in the air and Oskar, the guy from the flat below, brought out mugs of coffee.

  Gil had decided to invite Feray to share his steak and mushrooms. After a meal and a few glasses of wine, she might be more ready to reveal what was troubling her. The steps to the basement were slippery and he made his way cautiously down to her front door. When he knocked, there was no reply and when he let himself in there was no sign of her or the children. Everything was neat and tidy. Feray’s rubber gloves were draped over the empty dish rack on the draining board and the pedal bin had been emptied. The plug switches were off. He opened the door to Melissa’s room, expecting to see the usual chaos of clothes and books and felt pens but everything had been put away. James’s room – the same. He checked the kitchen table for a note to explain their absence knowing that he wouldn’t find one. It was as if the little family had gone on holiday. Or simply gone.

  Should he be concerned? No. When he saw the three of them yesterday morning they were arguing but that was nothing new. He could text her but where the hell are you was one of the things they’d agreed never to get into. She’d had every opportunity to tell him if she had plans for the weekend, yet she’d chosen not to. Well, that was her choice. Suddenly, feeling that he shouldn’t be there, he locked the door and hurried up to his flat.

  He unpacked his shopping. He’d bought a couple of pounds of carrots from the greengrocer’s next to the Tube station. He’d make spicy carrot and lentil soup. Plenty of chilli flakes. Maybe add some chorizo – he had a chunk left from last week. Flicking through his vinyl collection, he chose Dave Brubeck and started chopping carrots.

  From the moment he’d caught sight of the girl in the Co-op, he’d known that he would contact Vivian again. He might have left it until tomorrow or Monday but Feray’s absence seemed to be an omen, a signal that he should go ahead and do it right away.

  He scrolled down to her number and thumbed the dial button.

  She answered immediately. ‘Gil?’

  He liked knowing that his number was stored and tagged on her phone. ‘Hi. How’s it going? How’s your dad?’

  ‘I don’t really know. When I phone all they say is he’s “comfortable” – whatever that means. Actually, I’m on my way to the hospital now.’

  He could hear something jangling. An earring perhaps or something around her neck. She was breathing heavily and he pictured her striding out, shiny hair bouncing.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he said.

  ‘Frustrated, mainly. I still have no idea what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s the weekend so probably not a lot, I’m afraid. Hospitals go on hold, Friday to Monday. But don’t let on that I told you.’

  ‘Look, thanks a
gain for Thursday,’ she said. ‘I slept for twelve hours after you left.’

  ‘Good.’

  He’d made his enquiry and they’d exchanged pleasantries. This would be the natural place to end the conversation.

  ‘Is your boyfriend with you?’ he said. It was a weird question coming as it did out of the blue but she didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘He’s not keen on hospitals.’

  Gil hadn’t realised until that moment quite how much he disliked this so called boyfriend. ‘Really? I rather like them myself. All those sick people. All those egomaniac doctors and sadistic nurses. All those germs.’ Now he was being silly but it was worth it to hear her laugh.

  ‘Would you care to take him off my hands?’ she said.

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  She laughed again. ‘No, idiot. My father.’

  What had begun as a run-of-the-mill enquiry was mutating into something more intimate and affectionate, and he felt reckless with the possibilities this presented.

  ‘Need a bit of moral support?’ he said. ‘I’m not doing anything much.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful, but I’m staying at my father’s house tonight.’

  The flat was fragrant with coriander. He could see water dripping from the icicles hanging from the guttering on the house across the road.

  ‘I could pop down if you like,’ he said.

  A vacuum cleaner hummed in the flat below.

  ‘You must have better things—’

  ‘If I bring my ID, I might be able to wheedle some information out of them.’

  ‘Well…if you’re sure.’

  She explained that she needed to collect a few things from her father’s house and would probably get to the hospital around three-thirty. She gave him details of the ward and he said he would come and find her.

  St George’s was about a far away as it could be. He felt ill at the prospect of the Tube journey but buses – it would involve three if not more – would take forever. An overground line ran through Kentish Town station and, when he checked, he discovered that it ran direct to Tooting. (Another omen perhaps?) He could walk to the hospital from there.