I blinked. ‘Francis, you’re surely not suggesting …’
‘No, of course I’m not suggesting anything untoward. I think that’s what’s known as shooting yourself squarely in the foot. I’m just saying try – and I know it’s hard – not to mope. Not to sit in that Kensington flat all weekend staring out at the rain and crying yourself to sleep. There’s no point. What will be will be, and other helpful clichés.’
‘And for starters,’ Benji got up and put his hands firmly on my shoulders, ‘you’re staying put for an early supper with us. It’s a stir-fry, all chopped and prepared, and it’ll be in that kitchen at a table laid for three in just a jiffy. I, Benji,’ he wiggled his bottom, ‘am your waiter for this evening.’
I tried to get up. ‘Oh, but Benji, I wasn’t going to stay. I said –’
‘I know what you said,’ he pushed me back down, ‘but I’ve chopped enough chicken and ginger to feed the whole of Chelsea. Got carried away with my new set of Sabatiers. And the dogs can’t have it – makes them flatulent – so you’re having some, and the hell with your noxious gases.’ He minced off determinedly.
In the event, of course, I did stay, and despite everything it was really very pleasant to sit in their cosy pink kitchen, laughing at Benji who, for his sister’s benefit, was pulling out all the stops tonight. The jokes flowed thick and fast and the moment he sensed my spirits were flagging, out would come another outrageous anecdote. Most of them, Francis and I were convinced, were apocryphal, Benji’s maxim being why tell the boring truth when you can tell a good lie. However, Benji swore blind he really had heard their neighbour through the bedroom wall saying to his wife, ‘You be the horse, Clarissa, and I’ll be the groom. We’ll play Pony Won’t Load’ – as clearly as he could hear me now.
When I left at about ten o’clock they waved me off from the front step together, making me promise to call in the morning, to come for lunch on Sunday if I wanted to, and to be sure to get a taxi and not take the Tube. I thought how blessed I was with the pair of them, even if their togetherness did bring a lump to my throat. They watched me to the corner of the street and when they shut the door, I imagined them discussing me as they went back to the kitchen to clear the plates and stack the dishwasher. Benji, worried now, no longer the clown, Francis reassuring him.
‘But she looked so drawn, Francis. So terrible.’
‘Of course she did, it’s the shock. But she’ll recover. He’ll recover.’
I walked on past the pub, teeming now with people, all well oiled and loitering, pints clutched to chests, swaying slightly in the dark. As I passed on, the laughter and chatter faded. I went further down the quiet residential street, the only sound being my heels tapping on the pavement. Except …I stopped. Listened. Then I walked on, a bit faster this time. I wanted to get close to the busy King’s Road, closer to the steady flow of people, but as I was about to join it – I couldn’t help myself. I turned.
He made no attempt to hide himself, to step back into the shadows, but stood still, facing me, with twenty feet or so between us. The headlights of a passing car lit up his face momentarily, but there was no need. I’d know that tall, spare frame anywhere: that stance, that way of holding his head slightly to one side, elegantly, enquiringly. I’d know him anywhere. It was Rupert.
Chapter Twelve
‘Rupert.’ I said his name, and as I did, a great wave of adrenaline washed through me, rocking me almost. Instinctively, I clutched at the strap of my shoulder bag for support.
‘Henny.’ He said mine, and we stood there, staring at each other in the phosphorescent darkness. After a moment, he walked towards me. Stopped in front of me. We looked some more: feasted almost.
‘You’ve been following me,’ I said eventually, not quite trusting myself to let go of the leather strap. How odd. He hadn’t changed, not really: the same flop of blond hair over his forehead, the same clear blue eyes. His face was a little fuller, perhaps, and very tanned, and his figure had filled out a bit too, but I felt the years roll back frighteningly; it was like watching the sea retreat from a beach in a speeded-up film. The last fifteen years of my life were being sucked back off that shore into the ocean, leaving this man, this man I knew so well, standing before me.
‘Yes, I’ve been following you,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
I raised my chin. ‘You didn’t.’ He hadn’t. In a weird way, I’d sort of known. Hadn’t admitted it to myself, but had known it was him: outside Laurie’s house, on the Tube to Sloane Square, and again, in the street just now. And as I’d sat talking to Benji and Francis in the kitchen, a very small part of me had been wondering how far away he was. Wondering if he was in the pub I had passed.
‘Were you in the Sporting Page?’
‘Not in, but standing outside. Waiting with a drink on the pavement. While you were in that house.’
I nodded. ‘Benji’s.’
‘I know. I saw him come to the door. Almost didn’t recognize him.’
Ah. So had he also seen me collapse on his shoulder? Burst into tears? Of course. Must have done. I straightened up.
‘How did you find me?’ I knew, but wanted to hear him say it.
‘When I rang Laurie the other day. At first I didn’t recognize you, you deliberately changed your voice, but when I put the phone down I thought – Yes, it must be her. Must be. I couldn’t move. Just sat there, staring at the telephone. I’d know your voice anywhere, Henny. Anywhere.’
I swallowed. His own voice was low and intent as he repeated the last word. I looked down at the pavement. Then up, abruptly.
‘What do you want, Rupert?’
He lifted his arms from his sides, then let them fall in a hopeless gesture. ‘So many things. To talk, to explain, to apologize …so many things, Henny.’
I gave a cracked little laugh. ‘You’ve had fifteen years to do that. Why now?’
He made another impotent gesture, this time with his shoulders. ‘Of course. And I should have done. And in the early days I nearly did, many times. But – well, I was so ashamed. And then later on, when I came back from Hong Kong, I heard you’d got married.’
‘Still am married,’ I said, slightly too defiantly, perhaps.
He looked surprised. ‘Of course.’ There was a silence. I saw him hesitate. ‘I vaguely knew of your whereabouts, actually. Your situation. Army dinners, that sort of thing …’ he tailed off.
I nodded. Tommy Rutlin, Penny’s husband, was what he meant. Tommy had left the Army long ago, but I knew he still went to regimental dinners, knew he occasionally bumped into Rupert. And if Rupert had just been an ex-boyfriend, I’d probably have asked after him, in a lighthearted way, over supper with Tommy and Penny perhaps, in front of Marcus even. ‘How’s Rupert? What’s he up to these days? Give him my love when you see him.’
But the manner of our parting had been so traumatic, so …brutal, it was impossible. Even after all these years everyone still felt embarrassed for me. Awkward. It wasn’t discussed. Tommy certainly would have felt uncomfortable if the subject had been brought up, so all that I knew, I’d gleaned secretly from Penny. And even then, I knew very little. Just that Rupert was still in the Army. Had gone to Hong Kong, as planned, straight after our wedding, as I should have done, and that life had gone on for him as normal. Without so much as skipping a beat, just – minus a wife. Single quarters, rather than married quarters. Smaller bed. Single, rather than double. No sweat.
I squared my shoulders. ‘I have to be going now,’ I said stiffly. ‘It’s late.’
He reached out, touched my sleeve. I felt his touch like a burn. ‘Don’t go yet, have a drink. Just for half an hour or so. Please.’ His eyes were raw, pleading. I turned away so as not to see them. Willed myself to move off and walk the last few feet up to the King’s Road. As luck would have it, I flagged down a taxi almost immediately.
‘I’m sorry, I have to get back,’ I muttered as the taxi purred to a halt beside me
. ‘Twenty-four Campden Hill Grove, please,’ I said quietly through the window, but I knew Rupert, right by my elbow, had heard.
‘Then meet me tomorrow,’ he urged. ‘At lunchtime. Please, Henny, I can’t let you go like this, not when I’ve just found you. Please, just for an hour or so.’
I inhaled sharply. Not when I’ve just found you. My heart was pounding high up in my ribcage now, my pulse racing. I found I couldn’t speak. I shook my head mutely and got inside the cab. Rupert pushed down the window. Stuck his head in.
‘Twelve o’clock at the Peter Pan statue,’ he shouted as the cab pulled away. He ran a few yards with it. ‘Twelve o’clock!’ His face broke into a hopeful smile.
I didn’t look at him, just stared straight ahead as the taxi trundled down the road. Then I sat back in the seat, willing myself not to turn round. After a moment I shut my eyes, covering them with the palm of my hand. Oh God. Oh my God. Rupert.
The taxi purred on as my thoughts scrambled for position, spinning around in my head like a child’s top. My heart wouldn’t let up, either, hammering away relentlessly near the base of my throat. Seeing him again, after all these years … God, it was so strange, and yet, even stranger – I let my hand fall limply into my lap – it felt like yesterday. It was true what they said, I thought with a jolt. It was as if we’d been carrying on a conversation we’d had a few days ago, not fifteen years ago. Standing on the pavement like that, Rupert, as ever rather shabbily dressed in faded jeans and an old checked shirt – why, I could almost see that old felt hat on his head! And that smile as the cab had pulled away …starting at the corners of his mouth and slowly reaching his eyes. Splitting his face in two, lighting it up. I licked my lips. Clutched the handrail hard.
And there was so much I wanted to ask him, so much. It was too tempting to meet him – why shouldn’t I? My heart lurched crazily again. Plenty of people in my position – married, so security in that, but conveniently with no actual husband around at this precise moment to complicate things – would have said, ‘Yes, all right. A quick drink at lunchtime tomorrow, just to catch up.’ Just to see what cards life had dealt us in the intervening years. And even though the manner of our parting had been so extraordinary, that made meeting even more pressing, in a way. Made it even more of an imperative. Because of course it had nagged away at me all these years. Of course I’d wanted to know where he was when I’d been at the church door, frantically looking around in my white dress. Of course I’d wondered what he’d been thinking, what had happened to him in the short space of time since I’d seen him two days before, when we’d parted in my parents’ flat, a happy betrothed couple, kissing goodbye at the flat door, laughing – ‘See you in church!’ Rupert, pretending to dart down the corridor into my parents’ bedroom and peek at my dress, me shrieking with mock alarm, pulling him back. It was a huge chunk of my life to dismiss, to blank, to expect me not to want to know the answers to.
I shifted position as the cab rumbled on. But I couldn’t go. Of course I couldn’t. I was in enough trouble with Marcus as it was, and if he ever found out …well, that would be it, no two ways about it. Curtains. Finito. Good morning. No. It was out of the question.
The following morning as I kicked through the crispy leaves towards the statue of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, the sky was a clear blue above me. It was more like a summer’s day than an October one, not a wisp of cloud and very still, the only clue to the season being the rich golden hues of the chestnut trees. The sun was much lower too, and right in my eyes, nearly blinding me. Despite that, I saw him almost immediately. There were a few children playing around the statue as there often were – fascinated by the ragged iron boy, touching him, copying his pose, one arm and one leg outstretched in flight, laughing as they over-balanced – and then a few yards away, on a bench, Rupert.
He got up immediately and came towards me, his face clearing with relief: smiling, but anxious.
I couldn’t give him a social kiss. Just couldn’t. And I was grateful he didn’t attempt to deliver one. He walked me back to the bench and I sat down beside him, quite relieved by that arrangement. By the fact that I could look straight ahead into the trees, and not at him.
‘I can only stay for half an hour,’ I said firmly. ‘I promised Marcus I’d go to Harrods and look at light fittings for our house in the country.’
‘Ah. Right.’
‘That’s why I’m here. I mean, in London. I’m trying to get our country place organized. Finish the decorating, that sort of thing.’
‘I see.’
I had a feeling he was smiling at me. I flushed and looked at my hands.
‘So …Marcus isn’t with you?’ he asked.
‘No, he’s away on business. I thought I’d come to London for a week or two while he’s away.’ I’d practised this on the way over, but it sounded rather jumbled and foolish now. ‘It’s quite quiet in the country with the children both away at school,’ I gabbled, ‘so I thought I’d come up to Town. Stay in our flat, see a few girlfriends, go to the theatre maybe, do some shopping. I’ve got to –’
‘Decorate your country house – yes, you said.’
I felt the blood pump through my veins.
‘You don’t seem surprised to see me,’ I said in a low voice.
‘Well, I hoped …obviously I hoped you’d change your mind.’ He turned to look at me. Smiled gently. ‘I’m so pleased you did.’
I glanced down at my watch. ‘Quarter to one. I’m forty-five minutes late. How long would you have waited?’
He shrugged. ‘As long as it took, I suppose.’ He stretched his arms out along the back of the bench, eyes narrowed into the distance. ‘I imagine by sundown I might have given up hope.’
I nodded. ‘This was as long as I waited. Was allowed to wait. Forty-five minutes. Then Dad said we should call it a day.’
There was a silence. The park went very still, very quiet. The children had gone now, and there was just the faint rustling of a breeze in the trees. Rupert’s arms came down off the bench. I heard him exhale beside me.
‘Henny, I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry. And so terribly ashamed, too. Have been so excruciatingly ashamed all these years, and have lived with that shame, but I always felt that just saying sorry could never be enough. Was just so pathetically inadequate. So I didn’t. Which was worse, perhaps. But I hoped …that by my silence, by leaving you alone, I was letting you get on with your life in peace.’
I considered this for a moment. ‘You were right,’ I murmured eventually. ‘It wouldn’t have been enough. Wouldn’t have done the trick.’
So many people had said afterwards, ‘Didn’t he even apologize? Say sorry? Write you a letter?’ And I’d always thought, How could he? I gazed straight ahead into the distance. The sun was warm on my face. I lowered my eyelashes, filtering it through them.
‘Appropriate, don’t you think,’ he murmured at length, ‘that we meet here?’
I smiled, knowing instantly what he meant. ‘You mean at the shrine of the little boy who didn’t grow up? Is that what you’re telling me, Rupert?’
He sighed. ‘I suppose if I have any excuse at all, it’s that. That I suddenly – didn’t feel ready. Didn’t feel grownup enough. As I sat there in that taxi drivers’ café in Jermyn Street …’
‘Maria’s?’ I turned. ‘Is that where you were?’
‘Yes. Maria’s.’
My heart lurched as I remembered sitting there too, in my ballgown, excitement dancing in every vein. Falling in love with him, all those years ago.
‘Why there?’
‘Because in a fuddled sort of way, I thought that maybe food would help. That maybe the reason I was feeling so panicky, so peculiar, was because I was hungry, and maybe breakfast and coffee would be a good idea. After all, I’d been up since five, walking the streets, I must be starving. So I went there. I remember Maria putting a plateful down in front of me, looking at me anxiously. I must have been a pretty incongruous sight in my morning coa
t, surrounded by cabbies – and I remember my hands shaking as I picked up my knife and fork, having to put them down again.’
He frowned in an effort, I felt, to remember honestly. ‘My overwhelming feeling,’ he went on carefully, picking his words, ‘no, my all consuming feeling was …I can’t do this. I don’t feel ready. It rose up within me, this – this ghastly wave of panic, rocking me, making me feel physically sick. But then I thought, Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Henny. You love her. You’re in love. Of course you can do it. Will do it. And I remember watching the clock on the wall, with its thin black hands, watching it tick on, get closer to eleven o’clock when you were arriving at the church. Twenty to. Ten to. Five to. And then – well, obviously then I had to get up and go, otherwise I really would be late, but – I felt welded to that seat. As if I’d taken root. And a little voice in my head said, “What if you don’t go? What if you just stay here? Let the hands tick on?” And it seemed like such an extraordinarily simple thing to do. Like changing the course of history, just by staying still. By being inert. And the more I watched the clock tick on past the hour, the more rooted to the spot I became. It was fear, I suppose. A terrible fear that gripped me. Froze me.’
He bowed his head. Rubbed a worn patch on the thigh of his jeans with his fingertip. ‘That’s my shame,’ he said softly.
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘And mine is that I knew.’
He looked up. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I knew. Knew you were frightened, and ignored it. Pretended I didn’t know. Pushed on. Forced your hand.’
‘No, Henny –’
‘It’s true,’ I went on in a low, quavering voice. ‘You asked me to marry you in a crazy, desperate moment. You hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t considered it, just blurted it out impetuously. I should never have said yes. Or – having said yes, I should have given you an exit route later on. Should have said, when the dust had settled and I knew you were wavering, “D’you really want to do this, Rupert? You don’t think we’re too young? Why don’t I come and visit you in Hong Kong as your girlfriend? Why don’t we write? See if our love stays the course?” But I didn’t. I clung on. When I knew you were unsure.’
Not That Kind of Girl Page 17