The Hand That First Held Mine

by Maggie O'Farrell

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lexie muttered, and walked away, and as she did so, she heard Carruthers, whom she knew only by sight, say, ‘Well, it looks as if you’ve found your expert.’

  Ten minutes later the back-page editor came to find her. Fuller looked up from the contemplation of his crossword list but didn’t yell at him to stop sniffing about.

  ‘Look here,’ the back-page editor said, ‘you seem to know your stuff about Hofmann. The Tate have just bought two of his pictures. Can you let me have a thousand words by tomorrow? Don’t worry too much about style – just the facts would be good. I can get one of my boys to rewrite it.’

  It went into the next day’s paper untouched. Next came a piece about David Hockney’s interpretation of William Hogarth, and a profile of the new director of the National Theatre. Then the women’s-section editor asked her to write about why more girls don’t apply to art school. After this was printed, Carruthers called Lexie into his office. He had his long legs up on the desk, revealing burgundy socks, and a ruler balanced between his two index fingers. He indicated for her to take a chair. ‘Tell me this,’ he said, when she had settled herself opposite him, ‘in what capacity are we currently employing you?’

  ‘As Announcements assistant.’

  ‘Announcements assistant,’ Carruthers intoned. ‘I had no idea there was such a position. You work for Andrew Fuller, yes?’

  Lexie nodded.

  ‘And your duties are what, exactly?’

  ‘Editing births, deaths and marriages. Chasing copy for the crossword and Country Reflections. Proofing the Miscellany page, checking copy for—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, cutting her off with a flick of the ruler. ‘It seems we may have been underestimating you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Where,’ Carruthers swung his legs off the desk and fixed her with a narrow gaze, ‘did you spring from, Miss Lexie Sinclair?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, one doesn’t learn to write the way you can write being a desk assistant. One can’t report in the manner that you can report in the natural course of life in Announcements. You must have learnt it somewhere and I want to know where.’

  Lexie laced her fingers into each other. She met his gaze. ‘Before I came here, I was working on a magazine.’

  ‘Which magazine?’

  ‘Elsewhere.’ It occurred to her that this was the first time in a long time she had said the word. It felt strange in her mouth, after all these months, like a foreign term with an unfamiliar meaning.

  ‘Under Innes Kent?’ Carruthers demanded.

  He and Lexie stared at each other. She inclined her head, once. He leant back in his chair and smiled a thin, quick smile.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it all makes sense now. If I’d known you were trained up by Kent I would have got you out of Announcements months ago. An editor of his calibre. A tragedy, what happened to him, of course, not to mention the magazine. I knew him a little. I would have gone to his funeral, had I known, but . . .’ He continued to talk. Lexie laced her hands as tightly as they would possibly go and began to count the number of pencils in the jar on his desk. Three orange ones. Four red. Six blue, two shorter than the others.

  She became aware that Carruthers was looking at her with a new, direct expression. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.

  ‘You’re not the one he . . . ?’ he said, in a low voice, letting the end of the question dangle between them.

  She allowed her chin to drop. If she kept looking at the fabric of her dress, if she followed the streams and eddies of the paisley to the places they tailed off into space, the moment would pass, she would be delivered from this.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she heard Carruthers murmur. He cleared his throat. He moved some pages from one side of his desk to the other. ‘The point is,’ he was using his booming, slightly nasal voice again, ‘we want to move you away from whatever it is you’re doing at the moment to a writing position. You’ll be paid twice what you’re earning now, you’ll be working across a variety of pages, you may need to travel. You’ll be the only woman in the reporters’ room but I don’t imagine that will be a problem for you. From what I gather, you’re well able to look after yourself.’ He waved his arm at her. ‘Go and find yourself a desk with the rest of them. Good luck.’

  Lexie was moved up to staff writer on the Courier. She was indeed the only woman in the job, and would continue to be so for several years. The invitations to pub lunches dwindled, as if her new status gave off a forcefield that no colleague dared penetrate. She took a two-roomed flat in Chalk Farm but she was rarely there. She lived, she worked, she travelled. She took up with Felix, indifferently, she dropped him, she took up with him again. Daphne went to Paris, to live with an artist, and was never heard of again; Laurence and Lexie mourned her loss. The Angle Gallery did so well that Laurence and David opened a second, the New Angle Gallery. Elsewhere reappeared as London Lights, with a new editor and new staff and a new office, and it sold at every newsstand. Lexie flew to New York, to Barcelona, to Berlin, to Florence. She interviewed artists, actors, writers, politicians, musicians. She wrote columns about radio stations, abortion laws, CND, teenagers and their motorbikes, the rights of prisoners, widows’ pensions, divorce reform, the need for more women at Westminster. During this time, she would receive the occasional unsigned note via the Courier’s mailroom, written in a rounded, adolescent hand. Does your employer know you steal paintings? read one. First you take my father, then you take my inheritance, read another. Lexie ripped them to confetti and pushed them to the bottom of her wastepaper basket. She was thinner, she smoked more, her voice developed the slight huskiness of too many cigarettes. Her interviewees found her sympathetic, incisive, then suddenly ruthless; most of her male colleagues found her irksome and prickly. She knew this but didn’t care. She rattled through life and through work, never stopping; she could be found at her desk in the office most weekends, most evenings. She wore the fashions of the time – the short hemlines, the long boots, the clashing colours – but with an effortlessness that bordered on disinterest. She never spoke of Innes to anyone. If Laurence mentioned him, Lexie would not reply. She hung the paintings around the walls of her tiny flat. She ate standing up, looking at them.

  And just as she was sure that this was the way her life would be for ever, that this was her, finally and immutably, something changed, just as it always does.

  Lexie makes her way along the corridor at the BBC, turns a corner and enters Felix’s office without knocking. Felix is sitting with his feet on the desk, the phone cradled in his shoulder, saying, ‘Quite, quite,’ into the receiver. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees her. They haven’t met for several weeks. They’re having one of their off periods.

  Felix puts down the phone and springs up, seizing her by the shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Darling,’ he says, a touch too fervently, ‘this is an unexpected surprise.’

  ‘Don’t be pompous, Felix.’ Lexie sits in a chair and arranges her bag on the floor beside her. She realises, to her surprise, that she is rather nervous. She looks at Felix, who is lounging against the edge of his desk, then looks away.

  Felix regards Lexie, arms folded. She has appeared unannounced in his office, as abrupt as ever but looking rather splendid in an emerald dress. She’s had her hair cut, shorter at the back this time. He likes this very much, this whole scenario, this turning up like this, this looking like this. It’s always been him who’s had to do the running before. He’ll take her out to lunch. Claridge’s perhaps. He smiles. Lexie is back. Their last fight – whatever was it about, he forgets – seems to fade. What started as an ordinary day is now promising to be rather fun.

  He is on the verge of saying, how about a spot of lunch, when Lexie says, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Felix’s face falls. ‘Darling, if this is about the American girl, I assure you it’s over and—’

  ‘It’s not about the American girl.’

  ‘
Oh.’ Felix frowns, registers the urge to look at his watch but manages to resist it. ‘Well, how about we talk over lunch? I thought Claridge’s or—’

  ‘Lunch would be nice.’

  They get into a taxi. She permits him to put his hand on her thigh, which Felix takes as a good sign, a sign that all the unpleasantness about that other girl is forgotten, a sign that they’ll be in bed together before the day is out. They zoom towards Claridge’s, they go in through the revolving doors; the maître d’ recognises Felix so they are seated swiftly and at a good table beneath the cupola. They are perusing their menus, when Lexie says, ‘By the way . . .’

  Felix is weighing up the grilled sole and the steak. What kind of mood is he in? Fish or meat? Steak or sole? ‘Hmm?’ he says, to show he’s listening.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He shuts the menu. He puts it down. He puts a hand over Lexie’s. ‘I see,’ he says carefully. ‘What do you think you will—’

  ‘I’m keeping it,’ she says, without looking up from her menu.

  ‘Of course.’ He wishes she’d put the damn menu down. He’d like to snatch it from her and hurl it to the floor. Then, all of a sudden, he is no longer angry. In fact, he wants to laugh. He has to put his hand over his mouth to stop it bursting out into Claridge’s restaurant.

  ‘Well, my darling,’ he says, and she sees he is controlling laughter, the bastard, ‘you are a one for surprises. I have to say I’ve never seen you as the maternal type.’

  She removes her hand from under his. ‘Time will tell, I suppose.’

  He orders champagne and gets rather drunk. He seems pleased with himself and makes several references to his virility, all of which Lexie ignores. He brings up the subject of marriage again. Lexie refuses to discuss it. As the waiter serves their lunch, he is saying she has to marry him now. She snaps back that she has to do no such thing. He gets angry and says, why do you always say no? When there are girls queuing up to marry me? Marry one of them, Lexie says, pick whichever one you like. But I pick you, Felix says, frowning at her across his champagne glass.

  They re-emerge on the pavement outside Claridge’s, both in a temper.

  ‘Shall I see you tonight?’ Felix asks.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I hate it when you say that.’

  ‘Felix, you’re plastered.’

  He takes her by the arm and starts saying something about how it’s time to stop all the arguing and accept the necessity of their marriage when, over his shoulder, Lexie sees someone.

  For a moment, she can only register that she recognises this person. She cannot place her. She stares at the pale, wide face, the round eyes, the sinewy hands clutching the bag straps, the fine, wispy hair held back in a polka-dotted band, the way the mouth is held slightly open. Who is this person? And how does Lexie know her?

  Then the clouds part. It’s Margot Kent. But grown-up. Walking along Brook Street in high heels and a mini-skirt. The words paintings and you’ll be sorry thread and weave through Lexie’s mind. That uneven, rounded lettering in blue ink.

  She comes closer and closer, her shoes scuffing against the pavement. They look at each other; Margot swivels her head as she passes. Then she stops. She stands on the pavement, staring at Lexie in that unwavering way she’s always had.

  Felix turns. He sees a young girl and, being Felix, assumes she has stopped to talk to him. ‘Hello,’ he nods, ‘lovely day.’

  ‘Yes,’ Margot replies, ‘isn’t it?’ She gives Felix a long, level look, then a smile creeps into her features. ‘I know you,’ she says, taking a step closer to him. ‘You’re on television.’

  Felix treats her to one of his dazzling yet deprecating grins. ‘Not, I believe, right at this moment.’

  Margot laughs, an unbecoming snicker. She glances from one to the other of them, then turns and gives them a little wave as she walks backwards away from them. ‘See you, then.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Felix says, then puts his arms around Lexie. ‘Now, listen,’ he begins.

  Lexie fights him off. Margot is still looking at them, over her shoulder, strands of her thin hair blowing over her face. ‘Do you know her?’ Lexie hisses.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The one you just said hello to.’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That you don’t know her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Felix,’ Lexie thumps him in the chest, ‘are you being deliberately obtuse? That girl. Do you know her?’

  ‘No, I’ve just told you. I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

  ‘But then why did you say—’

  Felix catches her face between both of his hands. ‘Why are we talking about this?’

  ‘You must promise me,’ Lexie says, then stops. She doesn’t know what she wants him to promise but something is making her uneasy. She thinks of Margot and her mini-skirt and her slow smile and her fine, suddenly blonde hair. The way she looked at Felix, the snide delight in her features. First you take my father. ‘You must promise me . . . I don’t know. Promise me that if you see her again you won’t say hello. Promise me that you’ll stay away from her.’

  ‘Lexie, what on earth—’

  ‘Promise me!’

  He smiles down at her. ‘If you promise to marry me.’

  ‘Felix, I’m serious. She’s . . . she’s . . . Just promise me, please.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he concedes testily. ‘I promise. Now, what about tonight?’

  Lexie is sitting up in bed, cross-legged, her notes spread out on the counterpane around her. She is eight months pregnant and this is the only comfortable place she can work – the office is too much of a distance now. She has to finish this piece on Italian cinema before she can go to sleep.

  She removes the pencil from behind her ear and reaches for a piece of paper to her left; the pencil slips from her fingers, rolls over the counterpane and drops to the floor. Lexie curses. For a moment she contemplates leaving it there but she doesn’t have another to hand. She slides the typewriter off her knees, manoeuvres herself through her notes and down on to her hands and knees to look under the bed. No pencil. She crawls towards the bedside table and peers under that and, as she does so, there is a strange down-dragging sensation in the pit of her stomach. Lexie straightens up, the pencil forgotten. The pain disappears as quickly as it had come. She gets back on to the bed; she reads through what she has written and, towards the end of the article, the sensation comes again. Lexie looks down at her stomach and frowns. It cannot be, it simply cannot. It’s much too early. She has an interview tomorrow – with an activist she’s been pursuing for months – and a leader to write before the end of the week. The sensation comes again, stronger this time. Lexie swears and slams down the pages. This cannot be happening. She stamps into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and feels the clench of another contraction as she fills the kettle – a small surge, like driving too fast over a hump-backed bridge, like swimming through a wave in the ocean.

  ‘Listen,’ she says aloud, ‘this is not on. You have to wait. It’s not time to come out yet. Do you hear me?’

  While she drinks the tea, she looks at the paintings – the Bacon, the Pollock, the Hepworth, the Freud. She brushes her hair, still looking. She scrubs her teeth and, as she spits, the surges are turning into clenches, like a fist tightening, like a drawstring bag pulled too tight.

  She picks up the phone and calls a cab. ‘To the Royal Free Hosp—’ The word is torn off because instead she says, ‘Ow.’

  She presents herself at the labour ward just as dusk is falling.

  ‘Look,’ she says, to the nurse behind the desk, ‘this is happening much too early. I’ve got a pile of work to do this week. Can’t you do something to stop it?’

  ‘Stop what?’ the nurse says, nonplussed.

  ‘This.’ Lexie poi
nts at her belly. Is the woman particularly stupid? ‘It’s too early. It can’t come now.’

  The nurse looks at her over her spectacles. ‘Mrs Sinclair—’

  ‘Miss.’

  Several more midwives gather round her, shocked. ‘Where is your husband?’ one of them says, looking around. ‘You’re not alone, are you?’

  ‘I am,’ says Lexie, leaning on the desk. She can feel another of those pains approaching, can sense it on the horizon.

  ‘Where is your husband?’

  ‘Don’t have one.’

  ‘But, Mrs Sinclair, it—’

  ‘Miss,’ she corrects them again. ‘And another thing—’ Again, her words are strangled by a surge of pain. She clings to the edge of the desk. ‘Damn and hell,’ she hears herself shout.