The Alone Alternative

by Linda MacDonald

  On the dedication page it says simply ‘To Johnny’, and the suppressed grief returns briefly and she wishes he were here to share her achievement. She knows she should be delighted, that receiving the first printed copies of a book is supposed to be one of the joys of an author’s life, like having a child. She looks upon the open box and waits for the euphoria to build and burst out of her like the showering sparkles of a Roman candle.

  Nothing.

  Without anyone to share it, she is empty and alone.

  After composing herself, she takes a copy, writes a message on the title page and packages it up in a recycled padded bag. Then she drives to Beckenham Post Office.

  When she returns, she breaks one of Taryn’s rules and sends Edward an email.

  24

  Lydia

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 4th May 2012, 14.34

  Subject: Lydia

  Dear Edward,

  Have sent you a copy of Lydia – though please don’t feel any obligation to read it. I’m not as excited as I expected to be. Feel strangely depressed.

  Forgive me for borrowing a few ideas from our early interactions in cyberspace. There is no intention to plagiarise our communications, but a few of our shared thoughts were useful in reflecting on the happenings at Brocklebank – or Oakleigh House in the case of Adam and Maya. And then there was that IQ question which you answered so originally, it seemed a pity not to use it.

  Mostly, Maya and Adam as adults have different stories from ours – apart from them being married and their respective jobs. I think psychology and archaeology complement each other in that it is easy to imagine each subject being of curiosity to the other person, without being so interesting that they would wish to do it themselves. I am never bored listening to your archaeological tales and I know you are fascinated by human behaviour.

  Yes, the children are essentially us, give or take, but as I told you before, I had to spice up the emotional side otherwise there wouldn’t be a plot with sufficient interest to hook the reader.

  First book signing at Beckenham Books next Thursday!

  love,

  Mari

  Edward is disappointed by the neutral tone of the email. The reference to their shared interests is encouraging, but no more than one would expect from a friend. She is giving nothing away about her current state of mind regarding the status of their relationship.

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 4th May 2012, 18.51

  Subject: Re: Lydia

  Dear Mari,

  Looking forward to reading it.

  Don’t be surprised at feeling down. Was the same after my PhD. Expected to feel relief and joy, but felt flat and unmotivated. It was as if completing it was reaching the top of the mountain and gaining the award was like coming back to the bottom. The pleasure of the journey was behind me and all I could see ahead was the beginning of another climb.

  Hope your signing goes well.

  love,

  Edward x

  *

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 4th May 2012, 20.03

  Subject: Re: Lydia

  Dear Edward.

  Mr Psychologist!!

  x

  *

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 4th May 2012, 22.42

  Subject: Re: Lydia

  Sorry!

  Encroaching on your territory!

  Edward

  The following morning Lydia arrives on the mat. He gathers it up with the assorted envelopes and junk mail and takes it through to the table in the kitchen.

  He thinks the cover is on the girly-side, but it is attractive and the book has weight and quality about it. Inside, she has written: To dear Edward, the real Lydia and my inspiration. Lots of love, Mari x

  Something for future generations to wonder about. Or even current generations. He considers his position in academia to be assured but if he were younger or embarking on a new career, he is not sure how being hailed as Mari’s muse would be viewed. He imagines the headlines if the book became a best seller: Archaeology World Rocked: Edward Harvey exposed as Lydia.

  He laughs to himself at the thought.

  Unsure exactly what to expect between the covers, he is slightly wary in case he cannot find anything to like about it. It may not be good for relations if he were to be anything less than complimentary. He mails her to say it has arrived then considers delaying reading it with diversionary excuses of archaeological tomes and unfinished novels. But curiosity gets the better of him. After all, he has previously read drafts of the schooldays chapters – and they were absorbing and well crafted, not that he can remember much of the detail.

  That night, in bed, he puts aside a half-finished thriller and opens Lydia.

  As he reads, the action from the classroom and the playground captures his interest and takes him back to a life that now seems long ago. It is difficult to be detached when some of the happenings are so close to how he remembers.

  He wonders about Adam and Maya and whether or not they will have some type of affair. Marianne has always said she had to ‘spice up’ the reality, but how much spice will there be? She has never said and he has never asked. It doesn’t concern him as much as it might have done if Felicity had still been at home, not so much for his sake, but hers. Although Felicity had never given any indication that she was bothered by Marianne’s existence, this might have been because of her own white-coated Mediterranean distraction. In view of the recent turn of events, he is attracted by the prospect of spice, the more the better, though he doesn’t think Marianne has written that kind of novel.

  He sleeps fitfully, waking more than usual, uneasy, but unable to attribute any cause other than the absence of Marianne. It is only a week since the party. How long ago it seems since she was lying on his bed, relaxed and happy, making exploratory noises about some kind of future association with him. A week is a long time in relationship terms. He wonders if he should be doing anything to hurry things along.

  Next morning after a rare lie in, Harriet says over breakfast, ‘I’ve downloaded Marianne’s book onto my Kindle. Can’t wait to read it.’

  ‘Yes, she sent me a copy yesterday.’

  ‘Sneaky! Weren’t you going to tell me?’

  ‘Not until I finished it and deemed it suitable.’

  Harriet snorts. ‘I am twenty-three, not twelve. Please let me see.’

  Edward goes upstairs and fetches it from his bedside table. He hands it to Harriet, imploring her with a stern look not to say anything that will make him uncomfortable.

  ‘Lots of love,’ she says, with a tilt of her head and a raised eyebrow.

  ‘I wouldn’t read anything into it.’

  ‘And a kiss,’ she teases.

  ‘Like signing a card,’ he says. ‘People don’t expect you to take it literally.’

  ‘More intimate than “Best wishes”, though.’

  ‘We moved beyond “Best wishes” a long time ago.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘What’s the latest since she went back to Beckenham?’

  ‘No latest; she needs time to think. I’m giving her space. No pressure.’

  He is saved from further cross-examination by the clanking sound of garden implements.

  Harriet scrapes back her chair. ‘Is that Rick? I need to speak to him about herbs.’ And she dashes from the table leaving Edward relieved not to have to elaborate.

  *

  On Monday morning at work, much proceeds normally in the way of a meeting, a lecture and a tutorial, but an encounter by the tea urn after lunch takes him by surprise.

  Billy-Jo Lawrie is American and a senior lecturer specialising in forensic archaeology. She arrived while he was at Stancliffe, was the last of the three rotating Heads of Department and the most unwelcoming when h
e returned. Her generally hostile presence is made more bearable by her undoubted attractiveness. She is in her mid forties but looks younger, possibly due to cosmetic procedures which she seems to undergo each time she returns to the States. Her hair is long and blonde and as straight as fibre-optic filaments. Conrad says she wears extensions, but it’s hard to be sure. Her curves are pronounced and possibly enhanced, her teeth are too even to be natural and remind him of piano keys. The overall impression is that of a mature Barbie. If you had to guess her profession, you would not say academic archaeologist but perhaps an actress or former model. She is far from his perfect woman, but he can’t help but look at her and be curious.

  After making a comment about the shabby quality of a pile of essays she has received from the third years, she says, ‘We haven’t made the best of starts, have we?’

  He thinks ‘starts’ is an understatement considering she has been a colleague for five years, all the while looking to disagree with his initiatives.

  ‘I understand the difficulty, given your former position and mine,’ says Edward, cautiously.

  ‘I was determined to be right and to be awkward, but now I know you better, I think you’re a real nice guy and I’ve been a bitch. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ says Edward.

  ‘I didn’t realise about your wife and such until recently. That’s tough. I have an ex- husband in Chicago. He left me for a younger woman, so you could say we have something in common. Perhaps we can start again on the right foot? Fancy a drink sometime?’

  Edward is taken aback by the speed with which matters have progressed from ‘war zone’ to being propositioned. Assuming that’s what it is. Or perhaps she is merely being friendly and professional. He wonders who told her about Felicity and if that is what has sparked the change of demeanour. He also wonders what Harriet would say.

  He searches for clues in the body language. She is standing in what might be interpreted as a seductive pose and has remained close to him while they made their coffee and tea.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he says, opting for a safe response that takes account of either of her intentions.

  Seeming satisfied, she sashays down the corridor with, he believes, an extra amount of wiggle.

  Conrad had tried to attract her attention earlier in the year, but the research assistant got wind and put a stop to it. She said, ‘I am not going to be one of a harem, Conrad. If you want me, you ditch the old habits.’ And Conrad, who had previously taken out any woman he fancied since he and his wife came to an arrangement to lead separate lives, capitulated with this request and vowed to be monogamous for the first time since his wedding day. But Edward thinks that what Conrad says and what Conrad does may not necessarily be the same thing. It is only a couple of weeks since he was hinting that he would be happy to take on Marianne or Jessica, whichever one Edward rejected.

  Perhaps it is Conrad who pushed Billy-Jo in Edward’s direction. And despite not being his type, he knows, because of Taryn, that this doesn’t necessarily preclude enjoyment in the sexual sense.

  Now he is available, it seems there are women everywhere, all vying for his attention. A small part of him wonders what it would be like to play the field, to have half a dozen Taryns. But if indeed that was an aberration when he wasn’t thinking straight, even though he is now essentially a free agent, he doesn’t want an emotionless affair and the risks that might be involved disease-wise, or otherwise.

  And the biggest reason of all: Marianne.

  After three nights and fifty pages of Lydia, Edward finds himself fascinated by how the story is unfolding and how both similar and yet dissimilar are the adults in the book from their real selves.

  Harriet says, ‘Can’t put Marianne’s book down. Have you started it yet? Was that really what life was like at Oakleigh House – I mean Brocklebank Hall? Were there bullies as bad as Ollie Root and his gang? Poor you; poor Marianne. Were you sad, like Adam? I feel so sorry for Maya. And that teacher, Mr Rawton! Did he really lash out like that? He wouldn’t get away with it nowadays.’

  ‘There was a teacher called Mr Wallis who was very like Marianne’s creation. And Ollie Root is probably based on Barnaby Sproat. Yes, it was like that.’

  ‘Tell Marianne I love the book so far. I’ve texted Rachel to download it.’

  ‘Have you said anything to Rachel about Marianne being here?’

  ‘I may have said something since the party. Only that she came to stay. No details. Is that a problem?’

  ‘She may not be as eager as you to promote the idea of us having a relationship. She’s still very upset about Mum. I think she believes Mum will come home and all will be as before. Because Rachel’s away, it creates a different concept of time.’

  He and his eldest daughter share a special bond which came under strain when Felicity left. Rachel had said, ‘I know Mum has been difficult, but you used to be happy. Can’t you lure her back?’ He remembers replying, ‘Gianni is the last straw,’ and thinking that his particular camel’s back had been a strong one to last so long. ‘It may not work out with Gianni,’ she said. ‘Don’t close the door Dad, please.’

  It is the thought of Rachel being aware of Harriet’s matchmaking attempts that sends a tremor of anxiety through Edward. He would have preferred there to be something concrete to report before Rachel was perplexed.

  In the evening, Patrick calls about the forthcoming documentary. ‘This section about guerrilla gardening,’ he says. ‘Might it be seen as putting unwelcome ideas in peoples’ heads?’

  ‘It’s hardly a new idea,’ says Edward. ‘Richard Reynolds created a blog several years ago about illicit cultivations around London. It’s still illegal, but Glasgow City Council, for example, has let it be known they will turn a blind eye. They haven’t the resources to do similar and as long as the projects are safe and advantageous, they won’t intervene. If we mention it, perhaps pressure will be put on other councils to follow suit. Or perhaps the activity should be decriminalised and a simple system of gaining permissions put in place.’

  He then mails Marianne to tell her he is enjoying the book and that the Oakleigh scenes have reminded him of things he had forgotten. But he emphasises that there is still a long way to go before he finishes it.

  When later he takes Meg out into the darkness of the night, he hears the owl, just as he and Marianne did when they walked back from Jessica’s. He stops to listen. There is rain in the air and drizzle blows against his face.

  He wants to hold her close again.

  25

  Prickly Holly

  Holly casts an accusing glance at her mother. ‘You’ve been to Edward’s for a couple of weekends; he’s been here; and not a word to me. Am I to put two and two together?’ She paces the living room at Beechview Close having arrived fifteen minutes earlier.

  ‘No. Not yet.’ Marianne thought she would break the difficult news first before they sat down to Sunday lunch. It is not going well.

  ‘What about Dad?’

  ‘Your father died over a year ago.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a long time. When I come home, I still expect him to be here and it’s a shock when he isn’t. I feel his absence. It still upsets me.’

  ‘Of course it does. That’s how it was for me every day at first. I’ve had more days to adjust, that’s all.’ Marianne chooses her words carefully. Watching Holly is like staring at a film of herself, half her life ago. The way she moves, her gestures and expressions. It is unsettling. ‘There is at present nothing untoward between myself and Edward. We’re friends and we’ve had vague discussions around possibilities because we like each other very much.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Perhaps a little more than that. But surely if there was someone else in my life, you wouldn’t object?’

  Holly flushes. ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘Far too early to tell.’

  ‘You were the one who said to me I’d know when it was the real thing. Is this the
real thing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If you don’t know, it probably isn’t. That’s what you told me.’

  ‘It’s not so simple at my time of life, having lost someone as important as Dad.’

  Marianne understands more about her feelings than she is letting on. She doesn’t want to give too much away to her daughter. In truth, she is embarrassed, much as she was when she was a teenager and her mother probed about her relationships.

  ‘It feels weird. Like you can just forget Dad and move on. If you really loved Dad, I don’t see how you can. I’ve not been able to move on properly since Dylan.’ Holly sits down on the edge of a chair, her knees tightly pressed together under a short, flared blue skirt, her hands clasped against her nose.

  ‘You haven’t met the right person, that’s all. And Dylan was special. Remember, you are young and looking for someone to be with for the rest of what will hopefully be a long life; someone to provide a home, father children. You have reason to be choosy.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘It’s not the same. Choosy, yes, but different criteria. I have enough money and security. I’m past childbearing and my needs are different – especially looking into the future. There is something to be said for simple company and friendship.’ As soon as these words are out of her mouth, she doubts them when applied to herself. They may be wise words, but her heart still wants to feel the beat of passion. Maybe it already does. But she can’t tell Holly. She continues, ‘As I’m retiring this year, I’ll have more time to fill. Apart from that sticky patch ten years ago, your Dad and I were very happy. And he will always be my great love. No one can replace that. But Edward is kind and clever and we get on very well. Dad wasn’t selfish. He wouldn’t want me to be alone if there was an alternative. Especially someone like Edward.’