The Other Rebecca

by Maureen Freely

  Already, I was throwing my own thoughts away. But perhaps I can be forgiven. I had been alone too long, chilled by the dead too long. I had forgotten what it was like to touch another body, what it was to be caressed. I had a man in my bed, a man who wrapped his legs around me, who pulled my hair away from my face, who kneaded my neck and shoulders and the small of my back, who talked to me, who made me laugh while guessing, always better than I could have done, what I needed next. His clothes remained where he had dropped them the day before. On his trips to the bathroom, he draped himself in a sheet. I remember lying there on the bed, briefly alone, and being inexplicably overjoyed at the disorder, and especially at the sight of his shoes, his huge, ugly, dusty, worn-out canvas shoes peeking from underneath a clothes-strewn wicker chair.

  I was suddenly and just as inexplicably happy, even more than happy, to perform the same little chores that once made my life miserable. Things like running to and fro with glasses of water and aspirin and ashtrays and cups of coffee and, as time wore on, bottles of wine, and apologising for forgetting first the sugar, then the sugar spoon, then the corkscrew, then the nuts …

  ‘Why don’t you take off your clothes and get back into bed?’ he kept saying.

  And I kept saying, ‘But she could call for me at any time.’

  To which he said, ‘And if she does, you can put your clothes back on, can’t you? It’s hardly a coat of armour, is it? Come here. There’s something I want to do to you.’ Although it was an exceptionally warm day, I remember being glad, when I had stepped out of my shift and slipped back between the sheets, that his body was even warmer.

  I was very young when I ran off with Sasha, and he was young, too, even though he seemed old to me at the time. So I had never seen an adult mask drop before. I had never suspected that there could be more to a man than the face he offered the world. It was a revelation to see how beautiful Max became when he lost his composure. I remember thinking, oh so stupidly: and to think no one knows!

  The long afternoon confession had tired Mrs Van Hopper. She went to bed early and gave me the night off. As soon as she was asleep, I put on a dress I had thought I would never wear again, and then we drove to a restaurant outside town. This one was in Puerto Valldemosa. There was no one we knew there, no one to break the mood. Our luck continued to hold when we went back to Mrs Van Hopper’s. Her noisy bedroom fan gave us the privacy we craved for the second night running.

  The next morning she sent me to Soller to fill a prescription. Max went with me and talked me into stretching the errand so that we could have lunch at the snail restaurant. That night, after Mrs Van Hopper went to bed, he took me to a bodega in a town in the central plain, not far from Inca. The following morning, I was meant to go to Palma to do some banking, but Max got his hotel to arrange this for us. We spent the day instead on a boat that belonged to ‘a friend’. We picked it up in Soller and took it up the coast to a deserted cove, where we lay on the deck drinking warm white wine and picking at the perspiring cheeses and olives we had bought at the Soller market. It was here I had the moment of déjà vu that sent me beyond the point of no return.

  We had been exchanging confidences in our usual aimless way. I told him of a bad time I had had at school which reminded him of a bad time he had had at school, which reminded me of my first best friend, who was now the world expert on the newt, which reminded him of a friend of his, who was now the world expert on the flea, which led him to say that he was very glad now he hadn’t become a botanist, which led me to say how glad I was now that I hadn’t ever achieved my childhood ambition of becoming a ballerina with a degree in nursing. I remember he laughed at that one – he did not realise how many more times he would have to endure that same joke. Perhaps he had forgotten, as had I, that even the best storyteller has a limited supply of anecdotes. Or perhaps it was the success of our unspoken agreement. Perhaps he was elated by the ease with which he had been able to describe his past to me, his children, his home life and his work, without once alluding to Rebecca.

  He was holding a loaf of bread, as I recall. He was saying, ‘You don’t mind, do you, if I tear this apart with my hands?’ And as I said no, of course not, I looked at him, and I looked at the gnarled, pockmarked rock formations in the cove behind him, and at the red plastic buoy bobbing in the water, and I thought, I have dreamed of this moment, this moment was meant to be. I must have gasped, because Max looked up alarmed, as if he thought I might have been stung by a wasp. Our eyes met, just for a moment. But a moment was enough. Something inside me unlocked. And suddenly I felt as if I were looking at him through my own eyes for the first time. I thought, but did not say, did not think I had to say, because I was confident he could read my mind, ‘I give up. I’ll give up everything to be with you. Tell me what you want me to do. I’m ready. I’ll jump.’

  And I was right. He could read my mind. But his response was not quite what I had expected. He sighed, gave me a sorrowful, almost reproachful look, leaned across the deck, put a steadying hand on my shoulder, and said, ‘Be careful.’

  Chapter Six

  I didn’t listen. I didn’t think I needed to. Being careful is my nature. I watch people for a long time before I let myself trust them. I watch them without giving myself away. I’m patient. I dislike direct questions. I prefer to wait until they decide to confide in me. I never presume I’m welcome. I have a horror of imposing my company on others. If I get the slightest sign that I’ve done so, I back away at once.

  Two things happened to disturb the peace the following morning. The first was Mrs Van Hopper’s announcement to me at breakfast that she was bored. She had decided she couldn’t bear Deia in the middle of the summer any more. She had woken up with ‘a yen for Lugano’. Could I contact the following hotels to find out if any of them could accommodate us? ‘Ask about their suites. I want Marco to come with us. See if you can get a special rate. Tell them we want something for a month.’

  None of the hotels I rang had room for us. When I told Mrs Van Hopper, she said, ‘Drat! Well, now I don’t know what to do. I am not going to Venice at this time of year, no matter what people tell me about the Cipriani. And don’t even mention the word Greece. Call them all back and give them our number in case they have a cancellation.’

  I did so with dread. I didn’t want to go to Lugano. I wanted to tell her I didn’t want to go. I wanted to quit then and there, but I didn’t dare, because I knew Max was in my bedroom, listening to everything we said. If I quit, he would think I had quit to be with him. And that would be presuming.

  He was on edge when I returned to the bedroom with his coffee, accepting the cup as if it were an afterthought. ‘So you’re off to the Alps, I take it.’

  ‘I tend to doubt it,’ I said. ‘By this evening she’ll have spoken to a friend in Hong Kong who’ll have talked her into the Himalayas.’

  ‘Well, if she doesn’t, would you be so kind as to hold her here for another forty-eight hours? I may have to do a quick run to London this evening, and there’s really no point in my coming back unless you’re going to be here.’

  I didn’t find out until much later that the ‘may’ was really a ‘must’. His holiday was over, his return ticket confirmed: not only was he expected at the office the next day, he was expected home by his children. Because I didn’t know this, I misread his sudden shiftiness. No, he said, there was no need for me to smuggle in the phone. He could ring London from the hotel. And no, he didn’t need a lift to the hotel. He could use the walk. ‘Let’s meet at our usual spot at half past twelve.’

  He was there, outside the post office, when I pulled up about fifteen minutes late. Poking his head in the window, he said, ‘I thought I’d missed you. I only got here a few minutes ago myself. Listen, as it turns out, I do have to go to London, but I should be back here by Thursday noon. I’ll ring you when I get to town, or if there’s any change in plans. In the meantime, try and see if you can take the weekend off.’

  A second car, driven by th
e man everyone said talked too much about Wittgenstein, pulled up in front of the post office. Max waved at it with a smile I already could read as scarcely concealed panic. ‘That’s my lift,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’ It was only after they had driven off that I realised he had not told me where I could reach him.

  And so I was dismayed to return to Mrs Van Hopper to discover that she was refusing to let go of the Lugano plan. She had put Marco on the job, and in my absence he had arranged what he called a ‘package’ – ten days in a hotel outside the city, fifteen in ‘that grand one smack on the waterfront’, followed by a further fifteen in ‘the villa to end all villas’. We were to leave on Saturday. I was to begin packing at once.

  I tried to talk her out of it, suggested that she go on ahead with Marco while I stayed behind to close the house. But she wasn’t having any of it, and the more time that passed without Max getting in touch, the more I wondered if he would ever do so.

  I waited until Friday afternoon and then I went to La Residencia to leave him a note.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather speak to him?’ the receptionist said. ‘He’s having drinks next to the pool.’ A quick glance at her watch and she added, ‘Unless they’ve gone back to the room. Let me try him there for you.’ She punched out a number on her phone. ‘Mr Midwinter? Someone here for you.’ She handed me the receiver.

  My hello, when it came, was almost inaudible. It was met with silence, and then a long sigh. ‘You’d better come up.’

  A woman I had never seen before met me at the door. Blonde, about my age, with sharp features but very pretty, dressed in leggings, high-heeled sandals and a V-necked black gauze see-through top. She was excessively friendly, with a man’s handshake and a boy’s laugh. ‘Anna,’ she said. ‘Glad to meet you.’ She led me through a room strewn with women’s clothes to the balcony, where Max awaited me.

  He looked wan despite his tan, and dressed in a T-shirt and shorts that had been washed but not ironed. There were rings under his eyes, and his lips were set into a thin grimace. There was a cold ring to his voice when he said hello.

  ‘So,’ said Anna, ‘here we all are, and perfect timing, too. Would you say we’re ready to fax?’

  ‘Please do. I hope I never have to see it again,’ said Max.

  Anna said, ‘I know. I don’t know why I thought it would be easier to do by the pool. What a day!’ She went over to the refrigerator and brought out a jug of what turned out to be Buck’s fizz. Chattering away, she poured out three glasses. Everything she said felt like a nail in my coffin.

  So I’d been here two months had I? How, she wanted to know, could I take the heat? Max had told her that I had published a book. What was its name? She was sure she had heard something good about it. Had I ever done journalism? No. Spent any time with journalists? No. Oh, my dear me, then, she said, let me warn you about our friend here, the original Big Bad Wolf. ‘Have I said the wrong thing? Sorry, Max! Didn’t mean to! Listen, I’m going off to make myself scarce in a bubble bath or something.’

  Off she went with the rest of the Buck’s fizz.

  ‘Don’t look so upset,’ Max said. ‘She’s just a friend.’

  Then he gestured at the women’s clothes that were strewn everywhere. He cleared his throat. ‘The owner of these, on the other hand, is not a friend. I’m afraid she’s been rather difficult.’

  He gave me a strange smile, as if to say, ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘Her name, as you may already know, is Bunny. You may have seen her around,’ he continued. He spoke as if he had to pull the words out like teeth. He had seen, perhaps, that my eyes were on a familiar hat, the blue hat I had seen on the woman with the slightly popping eyes at Gregory’s party. ‘I’ve done my best to keep old Buns from making life unpleasant for you, but if she has, I apologise.’

  He paused, as if he expected me to say something. When I didn’t, he said, ‘You mustn’t get the wrong idea. I made it clear to her, when she asked to come down here with me, that we weren’t going to be travelling together as a couple. You see, we never have been a couple. We just had an arrangement. An arrangement for sex, which was all either of us wanted. Or, I suppose I should say, all I wanted and all she said she wanted. She’s in love with a doctor, married, lives in Edinburgh. She works at the paper, gets lonely, needs company without attachment. And so that’s how it’s been. Every few months or so, we’ve availed ourselves of each other.’

  He downed the rest of his drink. ‘All she ever asked of me was that I tell her about any others. Last week, I didn’t, and that was when the trouble began.’

  ‘I saw her looking upset at the cala,’ I said, ‘but that was the day after I met you.’

  ‘She wasn’t upset about you. She was upset about someone else.’

  I tried not to show how deep those words slashed into me. ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Not anyone you know, although you may have seen her. A Spanish girl. Very pretty, but also very young and rather indiscreet.’

  ‘So you weren’t just sleeping with your roommate, you were also sleeping with this other one?’

  ‘Do you want to know the truth?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There were two others. There was the Spanish girl, and there was Clarissa.’

  ‘Clarissa?’

  ‘Yes, Clarissa,’ he said, lighting up a cigarette. ‘You remember her, don’t you? I was sitting with her that night you came into the café. She’s my cousin.’ He took a long drag. ‘Not that it meant anything in the least, but one night last week, when I was trying to avoid the other two, I spent the night with her. Which was fine. It happens from time to time. It’s affection more than anything else, it’s for old times’ sake. Unfortunately, you can’t do anything in this place without everyone finding out about it.’ He threw me a glance.

  ‘How are you taking all this?’ he asked. ‘Have you had enough?’

  Without looking him in the eye, I shook my head. I didn’t dare speak. I was afraid that: if I moved my mouth, I would begin to cry.

  ‘Then you might as well know the rest,’ he said, his voice growing louder and harder. ‘This Anna you just met. We’re just friends, but we did have sex last night. We arrived yesterday evening.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘The sex because – well, you saw her. It ought to be obvious. The change of plans – well, I wanted her to see you. I wanted the opinion of someone I trust. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  He was shouting now. I lowered my head so that he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I wanted to sort it out without involving you.’ He tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away. ‘For God’s sake, you must see I was trying to extricate myself. You should be happy!’

  His words broke over me like a wave. Without thinking, I shrieked, ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let someone like you tell me when to be happy!’ I tried to push past him and make for the door.

  He stopped me, putting his hands on my shoulders. ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Look me straight in the eye.’

  Against my better judgement, I looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘That’s just another way of saying you’re a liar!’

  ‘I don’t say things I don’t mean. I love you, but before we take this any further, you must understand who I am.’

  ‘Then who are you?’ I wailed.

  He pulled me towards him and kissed me hungrily, jamming his tongue in, biting my lips. Pulling back, he said, ‘A womaniser. I’m a womaniser! For God’s sake, it’s hardly a secret! Don’t you ever read the papers?’

  He kissed me again. When I tried to pull away, he pushed me onto the bed. ‘Look at me,’ he said, his face so close that I could hardly see it. ‘It’s the truth. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I’m not going to pretend, especially not to you. You must understand this about me. I fuck lots of women. I’m weak. I have a hard time saying no. And I get a lot of offers. I
shouldn’t have to tell you why. It’s sick, but it’s obvious. And I’ve played into it. Willingly. Happily, even! I like the chase! If you can’t accept this about me, you’d better go.’ He took his arms off me and sat up. ‘I’m serious. Go. Just go.’

  I didn’t move.

  ‘I’m a womaniser,’ he said, and it seemed to me he relished the word.

  ‘That’s just not true!’ I cried. I ought to have said, I don’t want it to be true. ‘All you’re doing is living up to people’s expectations! Why do you have to degrade yourself like that? You’re capable of better!’

  He let out a whimper as if I had hit him, buried his head in his hands, wouldn’t budge when I put my arms around him, and then, abruptly, changed his mind. I kissed him, he kissed me back. I bit his lip. He bit my ear, my neck, my chest. I pulled his shirt apart, and as he tore mine off and rolled me back onto the bed, he whispered, ‘Then help me, help me, help me. I can’t bear it any longer. Help me out of this crypt. I want a different life!’