by Jo Verity
Ottilie appeared with a notepad. ‘You’re coming to the party aren’t you? Cara’s asked me to do a head count.’
‘Of course,’ Vivian said.
‘And Nick?’
‘He’ll be away.’ She paused. ‘I might bring someone else.’
Ottilie raised her eyebrows, plainly disappointed when Vivian failed to supply details.
The office was Vivian’s natural habitat. She felt more comfortable here than anywhere in the world. Here she knew what to expect, and what was expected of her. Here problems had solutions. Generally, she found it easy to separate work and home but not so today. As she sifted through contractors’ schedules, Gil and her father and Nick percolated her thoughts.
Finishing with Nick wouldn’t be pleasant. For one thing, he’d demand to know whether she’d found someone else. Had she? She’d certainly found someone who made her feel different. Lighter. If she tried telling Nick that he’d think she was losing it. The best she could hope for was that he would take it gracefully – and gratefully – because, after the initial knock to his pride, he would be relieved.
She mailed him. Are you free this evening? We should talk. V
He came straight back to her and they arranged he would pick her up from the office at six-thirty.
‘What news of your father?’ Howard asked after winding up the weekly practice meeting.
‘He’s doing okay, I think.’
He touched her arm. ‘Don’t be too independent, Vivian.’
There was no word from Gil. This didn’t surprise her. Both of them needed time to reflect and both of them had matters to resolve.
She’d liked having him next to her last night, even if he did snore. His love-making hadn’t released a hitherto elusive passion in her – she hadn’t expected it would – but it had been perfectly agreeable. After her rant about labels and bubbles she was surprised that he’d been able perform at all. He must have thought her deranged, but next time they could skip all that. Of course he might weigh it up and conclude that he preferred things as they were, and that the Feray woman offered a better deal. Apart from anything else, she lived right on his doorstep.
‘Where shall we eat?’ Nick said.
‘Somewhere near.’
The first restaurant they tried was full, a couple of rowdy office parties already under way. They walked on until they found an Italian place with an empty table.
‘Probably means the food’s ghastly,’ Nick said when they sat down.
‘It’s fine. I’m not hungry, anyway.’
‘Hey.’ He reached for her hand across the table. ‘You look exhausted.’
She’d forgotten how good-looking he was. How women glanced approvingly at him when they passed him in the street. Good-looking and tall.
‘I am,’ she said.
The waiter brought the wine list and two menus. She watched Nick run his finger down the list, interrogating the waiter about this wine and that. What on earth had she been thinking? She couldn’t sit here, drinking Barolo and eating fancy pasta, knowing that she was going to dump him.
‘Decided what you’re having?’ he said.
The waiter was hovering, ready to take their order, and she signalled he should give them a few minutes.
‘I have something to say,’ she said.
Nick looked up from the menu and smiled. ‘What’s that?’
‘It hasn’t been right between us for a while, has it?’ she said. ‘I think we should call it a day.’
She hoped to see relief or, at the very least, comprehension on his face. Instead he looked bewildered. ‘What?’
‘Us. It’s over.’
He shook his head. ‘Vivian, sweetheart, you’re tired. You’re having a lousy time and I’m really sorry I haven’t been around more. It’s been crazy at work, but it’ll calm down after Christmas.’ He tried to grab her hand but she pulled away. ‘Shall I drop out of this skiing trip? Is that what you want? You only have to say the word.’
She could say yes, then watch him squirm as he concocted half a dozen reasons why he couldn’t pull out. But all she wanted was to finish this.
‘It has nothing to do with your trip,’ she said.
‘What is it to do with then?’ He leaned back in his chair, studying her face. ‘Are you seeing someone else? Is that it?’
The frostiness of his tone strengthened her resolve. ‘Are you?’ she said.
He glanced down at the tablecloth, brushing away non-existent crumbs.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind. In fact I’d be pleased.’
‘Why’s that?’ he said. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Is. There. Someone. Else.’
He had raised his voice and the four women at the adjacent table had fallen silent, watching the unfolding drama.
‘Not in the way you mean. I doubt you’d understand—’
‘Try me. And don’t forget I earn my living from fiction. So you’d better make it convincing.’
‘You’re behaving like a child,’ she said.
‘Don’t be so bloody superior, Vivian. It’s one of your less attractive traits.’
She took out her key ring, detached the keys to his flat and slid them across the table. ‘Let me know when you want to collect your things.’
She was glad that it was ending in a spat. It was easier to walk away when he was being an arse. And those gawping women were on hand should he need consolation.
She arrived home to find a message from Richard on her landline. ‘How’s Dad? I spoke to the hospital this morning and they said he was “comfortable”, whatever that means. Could you ring me when you’ve a moment to spare?’
She’d intended calling him last night but it had slipped her mind and, feeling a little guilty, she called him right away.
‘Richard? It’s Vivian.’
She told him that their father had been in good spirits when she’d visited yesterday. ‘I don’t think they’re allowed to give out information over the phone. We might be anyone.’
He laughed. ‘I can’t imagine Philip Carey’s health is of the slightest interest to anyone but his family.’
He was right but implied in his remark was criticism of her readiness to comply with a flawed system. ‘I’m sure they’d be in touch if there was cause for concern,’ she said.
‘I’m sure they would. And how are you bearing up? It can’t be much fun.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘You have no idea how long he’ll have to stay in hospital?’
‘None at all.’
‘Well, if there’s anything he needs…or you need…’
‘He’s asking for cowboy books.’
‘Cowboy books? Good grief. Right. I’ll get on to that. Anything else?’
She had him on the hook now. ‘He’d appreciate a visit. It’s difficult for me to get there in the week.’
‘He’d probably assume he was dying if I turned up. But if you think it’s a good idea I’ll come down next week. Stay a couple of nights. I can probably schedule a meeting or two while I’m in London.’
She’d expected him to come up with a stream of excuses – distance, Christmas, bad weather – and she was thrown by his willingness to come, irritated by the way he made it sound so easy.
‘Visiting’s between three and eight,’ she said.
‘I’m sure they’ll be flexible if I explain that I’ve come from the frozen north. Perhaps you and I could grab an hour. Talk things through. See how we can make things easier for you.’
They agreed to speak again at the weekend when she had a better picture of their father’s progress.
Gil’s day, which had begun so promisingly, went progressively downhill. Every clinic sent every patient to be photographed, or so it seemed. His lunch was a Mars bar. When he popped his head in to see Tyler, he learned that ‘an anomaly’ had shown up on the lad’s latest scan. Gil had learned to see past medics’ bullshit and nurses’ bluster and things weren’t looking good. Tyler’s goal
was to get back on a bike. It was what kept him going, and over the weeks it had started to look like a possibility. Bloody cruel if this ‘anomaly’ buggered that up. And then there was Feray…
When he finally shut down his machine, he was in no hurry to get home. As he was leaving the building he bumped into the crowd from X-ray who invited him to join them for ‘a few jars’. He needed little persuading. The pub was warm and welcoming. He’d forgotten how good it was to be out with mates, talking a lot of rot about things that didn’t matter. He wasn’t much of a drinker – not these days – and a couple of pints on an empty stomach had him pleasantly woozy. Kevin, who also seemed loath to go home, wouldn’t let him leave until he’d bought him a double whisky, and by the time he floated out into the cold it was well past eight.
When he got off the bus he bought a tray of chips, ambling home, hoping the food and the cold would sober him up before he confronted Feray. Their liaison existed because it suited them both. But it no longer suited him. Of course she’d want to know why, and he couldn’t hope to explain something that he, himself, didn’t understand. He guessed she’d take it badly – no one likes being dumped, no matter how gently. Whatever happened they must try to keep any nastiness away from Melissa and James.
His children had been roughly their age when his marriage failed. He and Janey had tried to save their ferocious rows for when they were alone but the kids weren’t stupid – or deaf – and they soon latched on. It had hit them for six. Polly, who was fourteen at the time, ran wild whilst the boys became morose and withdrawn. Their schoolwork – Polly’s in particular – went down the pan, and all three of them played him and Janey off against each other. His sister, Louise, was the only person they’d treated with respect, which drove a second wedge between him and Janey. They’d turned on him, big time, when some kind person informed them that he’d been seen in a car with the mother of Adam’s best friend.
He tossed the polystyrene tray into a skip. Maybe Feray wouldn’t care. No point in anticipating trouble.
Feray opened the door a few inches. ‘Quick. Come in before we lose heat.’
‘Where are the kids?’ he said.
‘Doing their homework. Have you eaten? I could make you an omelette.’
‘I’m fine thanks.’
‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks. I can’t stay. I’ve got to…sort a few things out.’ Now he was standing in front of her he felt wretched.
Appearing not to have heard, she took an envelope from her bag and offered it to him. ‘I got this today.’
It was a letter from her employer, explaining that they were ‘rationalising’ the business and that the branch where she worked would be closing at the end of January.
‘There have been rumours but still it’s a shock,’ she said. She moved towards him and there was nothing for it but to put arms around her. She’d clearly been holding herself together for the kids’ sake and the relief of offloading released her pent-up stress. She began to cry.
‘Will you stay?’ she said.
‘I really ought to…’
She kissed him. ‘Please, Gil.’
23
The first thing Vivian did was tell Ottilie that she and Nick had split. By lunchtime, everyone in the Elephant House would be privy to the news and that would be another thing done.
Ottilie made a ‘what a shame’ face. ‘Poor you. Poor Nick.’
‘We’re both fine. Honestly.’
Ottilie fiddled with the coffee machine, waiting a decent interval before asking ‘So who’s the new guy? The one you’re bringing on Thursday.’
‘He’s not the new guy. He’s a friend.’
‘Friend. Right.’
‘And I haven’t invited him yet.’
Christmas was only a week away, a horror that she could no longer ignore. A couple of days with her father at Farleigh Road had presented a grim prospect but nowhere near as dismal as that which now faced her. Unless she was prepared to be branded an unfeeling monster, she would be spending a good part of Christmas Day at St. George’s. If that weren’t bad enough, a click on tfl.gov.uk confirmed that there would be no trains or buses on Christmas Day. She would have to spend a night – no, two nights – in Tooting.
In the middle of the afternoon, a courier delivered flowers to reception.
‘For you, Vivian,’ Ottilie shouted up the stairs.
She assumed the flowers were from Gil, although she wouldn’t have thought him one for such an unimaginative gesture. Nevertheless, when she read the message on the card she was disappointed. ‘Friends? I hope so. Nick x’. From the look of the flashy bouquet he was over the initial knock to his pride and relieved – around fifty pounds’ worth of relief, she estimated – to be a free man.
At the end of the afternoon, Ottilie pointed to the bouquet still sitting in the kitchen sink. ‘They’ll get mangled on the Tube. You’ll have to take a cab.’
Vivian had already considered the problem of getting the flowers home. ‘I’m at Dad’s this weekend. I’ll leave them here,’ she said.
It was over twenty-four hours since she and Gil had parted at the Tube station. She was surprised that he hadn’t made contact. By the time she got back to her flat, she’d convinced herself that he was waiting for reassurance that she didn’t regret sleeping with him. Confirmation that she wanted to see him again. She texted him. Party Thursday evening if you have nothing better to do. V x
His reply came back immediately.
Will be in touch as soon as I’ve sorted things out. G x
He could blame it on the drink but that was pathetic and didn’t alter the fact that he’d slept with Feray last night. Once they were in her bedroom, his body had taken over and the outcome was inevitable. He hadn’t slept well, waking several times and cursing himself for being a weak-willed coward. He’d had the opportunity this morning to tell her the truth but he’d lost his nerve. What a shit. He deserved the sickening hangover that was making his day so bloody miserable.
‘You look like death, mate,’ Kevin said when they met in the gents. ‘I thought you Aussies could hold your drink.’
Gil felt like punching him.
At lunchtime, he wandered down Tottenham Court Road. It was a harsh place at the best of times – an unremitting stream of traffic lined with hi-tech shops, sandwich bars and uninspired architecture. Today, beneath flat grey skies, it felt particularly soulless and the wall-to-wall Christmas tat made everything look tawdry.
He bought a coffee from a kiosk on the corner of Goodge Street and found a wall to sit on. All he had to do was answer one simple question – What do I want? If he was still set on the unfettered, uncomplicated existence he’d been chasing when he left Australia, his only hope was to start over again. But where? A monastery perhaps, because it was becoming clear that women – Polly, Vivian, Feray – were screwing things up. Correction. He was allowing them to screw things up. And Irene Tovey was still hanging around like a bad smell.
He walked on, away from the hospital, not caring that he was going to be late back. The world would turn without another set of morbid photographs. Crossing the road he headed south, towards Centrepoint, then, to escape the traffic, he took a left along Great Russell Street. Before long he was in front of the British Museum, not his favourite place. It was too impenetrable – physically and culturally – for Gil’s taste and it was always awash with aimless tourists, oblivious, most of them, to what they were looking at, content to spend an hour out of the rain or the sun or the traffic.
Today, however, he was pleasantly surprised. Visitors were thin on the ground, Christmas shopping, he guessed, triumphing over culture. He mooched through a gallery or two until he reached the central courtyard. Now this he did like. The tessellated glass roof allowed daylight to pour in, a shot of adrenalin to the heart of the gloomy edifice. Visitors were drawn to the courtyard, attracted by its brightness, the aroma of coffee and the clamour of voices.
If he were going to be late back, he might as
well be spectacularly late. He decided to waste time in the gift shop. This was incorporated into the monumental stone drum that sat in the centre of the courtyard and housed the Reading Room. He browsed the shelves. Guide books in a dozen languages. The Rosetta stone in a variety of sizes and materials. Egyptian cats, Lewes chessmen, Aphrodite’s head, Hermes’s foot. Chinese and Indian paintings – small, medium and large. Reproduction jewellery. The Fuji Wave on a collapsible umbrella or a set of coasters. The whole lot was bland and scarily overpriced. (A scarf for four hundred pounds?) Even postcards and pencils were twice what he might have expected.
He inspected the jewellery locked away in glass cabinets and suddenly he realised why he was loitering in the gift shop. When he and Janey had taken the kids to a museum or gallery, they’d often played the ‘if-you-could-take-one-thing-home’ game. They would stand in front of a display of artefacts or an array of paintings and, on the count of three, point to the thing that they liked best. Not only did it amuse them but it made them look closely at exhibits which they might otherwise hurry past. Long before that, he and his mates had done the same thing, scrutinising the girls at the local dance.
Now here he was, playing a variation on the old game, this time choosing not what he would take for himself, but for Vivian. It was childish but it gave him an excuse to think about her. To picture that Egyptian knot bracelet around her wrist. That turquoise and pearl necklace encircling her neck. Eventually he settled on art deco earrings – discs of intense green jade suspended from platinum and diamond studs, fake of course. These earrings – unfussy, bold, geometric – would perfectly suit her hair and her style. He checked the price on the tiny label. Seventy-five pounds. Yeah, well.
When Gil swanned in fifty minutes late, Kevin wasn’t a happy man. He was prepared for a set-to but his boss simply adopted a martyred look saying that he’d had to miss an H&S meeting in order to clear the backlog of patients.
The afternoon dragged on and the most rudimentary tasks became an effort. He wasn’t concentrating when Irene’s call came through and, without thinking, he accepted it.