by Jo Verity
Perching on the edge of the bed, she held his hand and talked, telling him that the house was fine and that Richard would soon be in to see him, hoping that her voice and mention of familiar things would strengthen his grip on the world. But as the bland expression settled back on his face she knew he had slipped away again.
She spent a day at work, delighting in the peace of the deserted office. She liked working alone and had, once or twice, considered setting up her own practice. But a one-woman band, were it to survive, would attract only minor commissions and she would miss the challenge and buzz of major projects.
Gil was always somewhere in her consciousness – a version of Wolfi, the constant (and invisible) friend who had kept her company when she was a child. Her father had finally banished Wolfi with ‘Carry on like that, Vivian, and it’ll be the loony bin for you.’
She regretted pushing for the invitation to Gil’s flat. He’d been humiliated by the squalid state of the place. It was dire. She’d made matters worse by quizzing him about Feray, but the sight of that sensuous face staring boldly at the camera had rattled her. Although she believed him when he said the affair was over, she wished the woman would move to the other side of London.
As she was leaving the Elephant House, Gil phoned and she suggested she meet him from work. When she got there he was waiting in the foyer.
‘Can I see your office?’ she said.
‘Sure. It’s not very exciting but it’s tidier than my flat. And warmer.’
They took the lift to the second floor and he led her to the corner of a soulless room, more warehouse than office. She noted where he hung his jacket; where he sat when he emailed her; the postcards Blu-Tacked to the wall alongside his desk. No photograph of her or Feray. Now she would be able to picture him both at home and at work and she liked that.
They discussed what to do and decided to go to the Everyman on Haverstock Hill. The film was about a lone hiker trapped when a boulder fell onto his arm – a true story. When it came to the scene where he severed the arm with a penknife, she buried her face in Gil’s sweater, waiting until he signalled the all-clear. Afterwards they went back to her flat to cook supper and he revealed the secret of his carbonara sauce (a pinch of celery salt, a small jar of which he swore he always carried in his bag). He stayed the night and, when he left for work next morning, she missed him.
Since their split, she’d scarcely given Nick a thought. It was over and that was that. Consequently she was surprised when, later that morning, he turned up with a flashy box of chocolates and the bits and pieces she’d left at his flat.
‘I happened to be coming over this way,’ he said, making no effort to verify the improbable excuse.
‘Really? How was your holiday?’
‘Good. Perfect snow.’
‘And the company?’
He glanced away. ‘Okay, I suppose. Any chance of a coffee?’
She put the coffee on and, without being asked, he cleared the table and refilled the milk jug. It felt as if he were reclaiming lost territory and she didn’t much care for that.
‘Any plans for New Year?’ he said.
So. Things weren’t working out with his ‘new client’.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Ignoring her reply, he ploughed on. ‘Thea and Ivan are having a party. I thought you might like to come along. It’ll be the usual crowd.’
‘As I said, I have plans.’ She took the empty mugs to the sink. ‘I’ll find a bag for your things.’
‘Great.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, Vivian…’
‘Oh, and I think you still have my keys.’
She waited while he fumbled her keys off his overloaded key ring.
‘Happy New Year,’ she said.
‘And you.’
When he leaned towards her she turned her face and his kiss landed near her ear.
It was only as he was leaving that he asked after her father and she took pleasure in telling him that he was probably dying.
As Gil anticipated, it was a quiet week. The mood across the hospital was low-key, the post-Christmas flywheel barely getting going before it slowed again for New Year. He had time to catch up on paperwork and tackle long overdue ‘housekeeping’. Kevin put in a couple of days at the end of the week. With time on their hands, Gil was unable to avoid a blow-by-blow account of baby Jack’s first Christmas – all caught on camera.
He also had time to think about Vivian.
The other morning, they’d parted without making arrangements to meet. Maybe this was how it was going to be. He could hardly complain. There had been plenty of times when this kind of freewheeling approach had suited him. But this was different and he found the vagueness unnerving.
He was glad that she’d been to his flat. It had been hairy while it was happening but he could see now that a week’s warning would have made things worse. He might have shoved a few things out of sight, and possibly contrived better heating but, short of total refurbishment, the place would never be more than a dump. The Feray business had been unfortunate. He wasn’t sure if he’d put Vivian’s mind at rest with his explanation but at least she knew a bit more of the background, and the matter was out in the open where it was less likely to cause damage.
He’d not made contact with Feray since their bust-up but he’d bumped into the kids in the shop so he knew she was around. The youngsters treated him as they’d always done and he hoped this meant she hadn’t lumbered them with another anxiety. He couldn’t fathom why she’d returned the photograph. It wasn’t as if he figured in it. He felt sorry and sad that she had because, despite all her bluster, she lacked self-esteem and confirmation of her beauty might help her feel good about herself.
New Year’s Eve loomed, inflated with unrealistic expectations. While Tunisia boiled with civil unrest, the office resounded with resolutions to get ‘rat-arsed’, ‘slaughtered’, ‘wasted’. Gil was invited to umpteen parties and accepted all the invitations, hoping that he would be with Vivian and not have to go to any of them.
According to Louise, their mother was stocking her freezer with cakes and crumbles in anticipation of his visit. Janey mailed saying that the boys were looking forward to seeing him but not, it seemed, sufficiently to mail him themselves. Nothing from Polly – no surprise there – but at least she’d not freaked out.
The best deal for a ticket turned out to be a couple of hundred quid more than he could afford. But he couldn’t wriggle out of it now and once Kevin had okayed his leave, he went ahead with the booking. Vivian knew that he was planning the trip. Originally he’d told her that it would be the end of January but he’d saved a bit on the fare by bringing his trip forward a few weeks. He would be away from her – or the possibility of being with her – for eleven days. What could happen in eleven days? To get the measure of it, he rewound eleven days. The weekend before Christmas. His split with Feray. Friel’s party. Christmas. His experiment in time travel did nothing to reassure him.
Richard phoned to let Vivian know that he was already in London.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that sacrosanct to Scots?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But Christmas must have been a non-event for you. You deserve some fun. I thought you might like the weekend off.’
That was precisely what she would like. And yet. There was a competitive edge to his offer. A sense of stakes being raised. Whatever you sacrifice, I’ll sacrifice more.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
She had never watched death creep up on someone like it was creeping up on her father. Deaths that had impacted on her – there had been remarkably few – had been sudden, or distant. Her mother. A work colleague. The bomb victims. Observing the process of dying was disturbing, humbling and, yes, fascinating. Before long her father would know the answer to the ultimate riddle. What could be more fascinating than that? She’d never expected to be involved in his dying. If she’d thought about it at all, she’d imagined that she would get a call
from someone (a doctor? a neighbour?) telling her that he was dead. The end of a process in which she’d played no part. No part in his living – no part in his dying. A reasonable symmetry. Now here she was, wanting to ease his departure from the world. Not in a murderous way – although there had been times… What could be more absurd than to start caring about the man when he no longer recognised her or, for that matter, any element of the real world. It was ridiculous.
‘Up to you,’ he said. ‘I shall be here until Monday. Look, if you are going to be around we should get together. What if I go in now and report back when I see how things are? I’ll ring you tomorrow and we can take it from there.’
It was a logical suggestion yet she resented his turning up like some superhero ready to save the day. Hah. Once he’d seen their father, he wouldn’t be so bloody sanguine.
‘Will you stay at the house?’ she said.
‘I may.’
A second wave of resentment caught her as she pictured his trespassing on what she’d come to think of as her domain.
‘He needs more pyjamas,’ she said.
‘No worries. I picked up a couple of pairs before I left. Towels, too.’
‘Oh. Right. I should warn you he won’t wear stripes.’ That’ll catch you out.
‘Just as well I chose plain ones,’ he said.
She drank a cup of green tea and listened to the news. In Finland birds were, for no apparent reason, dropping out of the sky. A footballer had been arrested for drink-driving. Snowstorms had left part of Wales without electricity. A euro was worth eighty-six pence. Why had she imagined that the last day of two thousand and ten would be different from any other?
She checked her watch. Gil was probably getting ready for a boozy night out with the legendary Kevin. When they’d spoken yesterday he hadn’t mentioned anything. But that was fine. He probably assumed she would be at the hospital. Or doing something with the Friel Dravid crowd.
She’d never cared for New Year – surprising considering her European pedigree. Every year, on this night, hopes were ramped up beyond reason. No event could ever match expectations. Normal etiquette didn’t apply and nothing seemed off limits. People – men generally, but not always – felt at liberty to kiss her on the lips and pass inappropriate remarks or ask impertinent questions. And underlying the alcohol-fuelled joviality lurked a feeling that everything could, at any second, hurtle out of control. No, it really wasn’t her thing.
Her phone chirped. When she checked it was only a HNY text from Cara and Howard who were on a Paris-bound Eurostar.
Footsteps sounded on the stair. She held her breath but they continued up the next flight. Malcolm. She’d already heard Mrs Sachs’s muted radio and the clatter of a pan. She suddenly pictured the front wall of the house swinging open like a dolls’ house to reveal three flats stacked one on top of another, each inhabited by its solitary occupant, all three preparing to navigate the evening alone.
How would she get through it? Supper, her favourite music, a lazy bath, bed with a book. She’d be asleep by eleven and when she woke all this nonsense would be over. She studied her stock of individual meals. Fish pie with green beans or frozen peas on the side. That would do. She would eat around eight. She poured a glass of white wine and scrolled through her iPod. Gillian Welch. Melancholy yet unsentimental.
She was opening a bottle of wine when her phone rang. It was Gil.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Good because I’m outside, freezing to death.’
She went to the window and pulled back the curtain. There he was, on the opposite side of the street, clutching something.
‘You didn’t phone,’ she said.
‘Isn’t that what I’m doing now?’
‘I meant earlier. Why didn’t you—’
‘Any chance we could discuss this inside? The curry’s getting cold.’ He held up a carrier bag.
‘You’ve brought a takeaway?’
‘Well there won’t be a table to be had tonight. Now could you please let me in?’
32
‘I might have been out,’ she said. ‘You should have called.’
Before buying the curry he’d walked past and, seeing the lights in her living room, had taken a chance.
‘Wouldn’t be the first curry I’ve eaten in a bus shelter,’ he said.
They agreed to argue about who should have contacted whom after they’d eaten but, by the time they were bagging up the empty cartons, it no longer seemed relevant.
‘Any change with your dad?’ he said.
‘Not really. At one point I think he was trying to tell me something but…’
She explained that Richard was in London and had volunteered to take over hospital duty for a few days.
‘He says I should take the opportunity to have fun,’ she said.
‘Good on him.’
She laughed.
‘What?’ he said.
‘You sound so Australian.’
‘I doubt my family will think so.’
‘You’re going, then,’ she said.
‘I have to, Vivian. I need to talk to Polly before this baby’s born.’
‘When?’
‘Next Saturday.’
She frowned. ‘So soon?’
‘Sooner I go, sooner I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘You won’t have time to miss me. C’mon. What shall we do?’
‘Can we play Scrabble?’
He slapped a palm to his forehead. ‘Scrabble. You must be psychic. It’s my all-time favourite way of celebrating New Year.’
‘Fool,’ she said and went to find the box.
He loved that she took the game so seriously, playing to win, challenging hard when he stretched the rules, admonishing him when he cheated on the arithmetic. She insisted on timed play, using her phone as a stopwatch, stopping the clock when texts came through – ‘It’s from Ottilie. “Have fun, hun.” I suppose she means h o n. Or maybe she doesn’t.’
Gil had switched off his phone to avoid having to explain why he hadn’t turned up at any of the parties. New Year had the knack of distilling emotions until they were caustic and he was also concerned lest Feray choose this evening to let off steam. They still hadn’t spoken but he’d spotted her in the supermarket yesterday. Her trolley was loaded with cans of beer and it looked as if she were stocking up for a party. She’d been standing with her back to him, talking to someone. A man.
Long before the game was finished it was obvious that Vivian was the winner but she insisted on playing it out, triumphant when he picked up a last-minute ‘J’ and had to deduct eight points from his score.
‘Loser decides what we do next,’ she said, gathering up the tiles.
Her artlessness (another of her traits he loved) ruled out laddish suggestions. ‘Okay. Let’s watch Jools Holland,’ he said. ‘We’ll show Richard and Ottilie we know how to have fun.’
They sat together of the sofa, not touching but close enough for him to catch the smell of her shampoo. He questioned her liking for Vampire Weekend – ‘Kids’ stuff. Vacuous pop.’ – and she mocked his enthusiasm for Rico Rodriguez – ‘Ska? Ughhh. Makes my flesh creep.’ They agreed that Kylie could belt out a song – even if what she sang was naff.
At midnight and they kissed and clinked glasses. (They’d chosen whisky to toast the New Year – poured from the same bottle she’d opened that first night. A good omen?)
‘Here’s to the coming year,’ he said.
‘Let’s not think about what’s coming,’ she said. ‘Not tonight, anyway.’
‘Okay. Let’s drink to this moment.’
‘Two thousand and eleven’s a prime number,’ she said.
He laughed and shook his head. ‘How d’you know that? Why d’you know that?’
‘I just do.’
They put the lights out and went to the window, pulling back the curtains, watching as bursts of fireworks illuminated the sky. When there was no more to see,
they went to bed. And, for the first time, he was absolutely sure she took pleasure in their love-making.
‘How about we kick off this prime year with something exciting,’ Gil said next morning.
They were sitting in bed, drinking tea. The curtains were open and, above the rooftops, ragged clouds were scudding across a pink-tinged sky.
‘Like what?’ Vivian said.
He pretended to mull it over but he’d cooked up a plan yesterday in the hope it might be needed. ‘How about a trip to…Brighton?’
‘Brighton?’
‘Yep. Pier. Beach. Big pavilion. You know the one? And before you dream up any excuses, yes, trains are running today.’
She took a sip of tea. ‘But what if—’
‘We can be back in London in an hour if needs be.’
When they were on the train, she presented him with a navy hat with a fleecy lining. According to the wrapping, it came from Cologne. It looked and felt expensive, and it crossed his mind that she’d bought it for Nick. No matter because now she was giving it to him and he accepted it gratefully.
By eleven-thirty they were battling along the promenade, fighting the gusting wind. The sea was yellowish-grey. Bubbly spume whipped off the waves looking to Gil horribly like washing-up water. They ventured to the water’s edge. The sea thundered onto the shore, sucking up pebbles as it drew back before dumping them on the beach again. The incessant noise – wind, waves and clattering stones – made conversation futile. Vivian, spray-drenched hair whipping across her cheeks, stood gazing out to sea. She turned to him and smiled, mouthing ‘thank you’ and blowing him a kiss.
Taking his old hat from his pocket, he tried to hurl it into the English Channel – an offering to whoever was responsible for unforeseen moments of euphoria. As it left his hand, the wind tossed it over his head and it landed behind him. Absurdly convinced that failure to complete his mission might blight the future, he loaded the hat with pebbles and tried again, twirling around like a shot-putter before releasing it to soar into the air, watching as it plummeted into the boiling sea.