by Debby Holt
‘Could you do something for me? I don’t think I have William’s number. Could you ask him to give me Marnie’s?’
‘I suppose so. Given his glacial silence, I can’t promise he’ll talk to me but…’
‘If you prefer I can call William myself.’
‘No, I’ll do it. It’s a good excuse to try again with him.’
‘You won’t forget?’
‘Of course not. Tess, are you all right?’
There was a long silence before her sister responded, and the silence was a revelation to Anna. Tess was on the verge of telling her something deeply important. That fact alone showed how far they had come in the last few weeks. The fact that Tess decided not to tell Anna showed how far they still had to go.
‘I’m fine,’ she said at last. ‘I have marking to do. I’d better…’
‘Tess, I’m on my own here next week. Olivia’s going away on Tuesday. Come over to supper and stay the night. In fact, you could take a long break from your delightful flatmate and stay three nights if you like. What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. I have…’
‘Oh, do say yes. I hate being on my own and we could come up with a concerted plan for Mum and Dad…’
‘Well… All right. Thank you.’
Anna felt quite energised by her conversation with Tess. She would get in some wine and plan a few good meals for next week. She’d enjoy that. She heated a can of baked beans and put bread in the toaster. All she had to do now was to work out how best to help her increasingly mad parents, persuade William to like her again, and be a better sister to her twin. No problem.
She spread the hot beans over her toast and sat down at the kitchen bar. She wondered what it was that Tess had almost told her. She wondered when they’d stopped talking to each other and why. It was probably her fault. She’d been a horrible teenager, she knew, angry with her mother and angry with Tess for not sharing that anger. She’d hung out with bad boys and despised Tess for not doing the same. And then they’d left home and they’d both been busy, living in different parts of the country. Even when Anna came to London, it was difficult to meet up. Or rather, it was difficult to make an effort. They were like two juggernauts steaming purposefully away in different directions.
And now their parents had their meltdown and she and Tess had talked more in the last few weeks than they had done in years. She wasn’t sure why it was now so important to get through to Tess. She supposed that amid the shipwreck of their parents’ marriage, she was anxious to find some part of the family to which she could still cling. Whatever the reason, it was a weird discovery to make: more than anything in the world, right now, she wanted to turn her vast juggernaut around and find her sister again.
Felix had been on his own for three weeks. He still found it impossible to step out of his front door. He could, however, venture into the garden at the back. On good days, he dug up weeds, looked at emails, cleaned the house and watched TV. He had begun to take an interest in cooking, if only to confound his daughters who asked him regularly what he was eating. Tonight he had made a casserole with diced pork and olives. It had been rather good. Felix put what was left of it into a small bowl and covered it with cling-film. Freya would have been impressed. She loved anything with olives.
He was about to wash up the casserole dish but he made a quick diversion to the radio and turned it on, pushing up the volume. Two men talked earnestly about workplace issues and best practice and the bottom line. Felix found them both irritating but at least they drowned out thoughts of Freya.
He could hear what sounded like a steady thumping on the front door and switched off the radio. He couldn’t imagine who would call at ten to ten on a cold autumn evening. He went through to the hall and flung open the door. Pam, dressed in her voluminous grey mac, held a bulging bin bag in one hand and a lead in the other. Percy’s little pug, Serge, was at the end of the lead and looked unhappily up at Felix.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Pam spoke in little gasps. ‘I rang your doorbell but you didn’t hear me.’
‘Come on in. Would you like coffee, or something stronger? You look as if you need it.’
Pam gave a long shuddering sigh and set the bin bag down on the floor. ‘A glass of wine would be very nice.’
Felix settled them in the sitting room. Serge and Pam both seemed to be as tense as each other. Serge sat on his haunches, his face raised towards the ceiling as if waiting for a starting gun. Pam perched herself on the edge of her armchair, her back straight, her hands cupped round her glass.
‘Percy’s not been well,’ she told Felix. ‘I called round as soon as I got back from work. I went upstairs and could hear Serge whimpering. I went into Percy’s bedroom and he…’ She took a quick gulp from her glass. ‘He was dead. I could see right away he was dead. Serge lay beside him. It was so sad…’
‘Pam, I’m so sorry. What about Percy? Is he…?’
‘I made some calls. They’ve taken him away. The thing is… I can’t take Serge with me to the office tomorrow. My job’s on a knife-edge as it is. People keep talking about voluntary redundancies. Would you mind looking after him until Friday evening? I can’t leave him on his own during the day. He’s used to being with Percy. I’ll try to sort something out. I might be able to take him to my aunt in Cardiff at the weekend. He’s a good little dog, he’s housetrained and everything. I’ve brought his dog food and his basket and…’
‘Pam, of course, I’ll look after him. Finish your wine and go home to bed. You look white as a sheet. Don’t worry about Serge.’
‘Thank you.’ Pam swallowed hard. ‘You’re very kind.’
When Pam had gone, Felix picked up the bin bag and went through to the kitchen. He took out the dog cushion, the food and the two dog bowls. He filled one with water and set it down near the fridge. Serge padded over to the French windows and whimpered.
‘Right,’ Felix said in an overly cheerful voice, ‘let’s take you outside, shall we, Serge?’
In the garden, Serge sniffed around the lawn before finding a place in the flower bed. He looked up at Felix and then, with some reluctance, lowered his backside.
‘Well done, Serge!’ Felix said. ‘Who’s a clever boy?’
Serge looked as pleased as a dog with a squashed-in, wrinkled face could look, and gave an expectant, breathy pant. He followed Felix back into the kitchen and sat staring at him as he finished the washing-up. When Felix had finished he said cheerfully, ‘Bed time now, Serge! Come to bed!’ He bent down and patted Serge’s cushion.
‘Good boy!’ Felix said. ‘See you in the morning!’ He shut the door and went up to bed. He thought of poor Percy taking his last-ever breaths with only Serge for company. Felix wished he’d been a better neighbour.
The howling started almost as soon as he switched off his bedroom light. He went down to the kitchen and opened the door. Serge stood, one ear up, the other down, his unblinking eyes fixed hopefully on Felix.
‘Poor old boy,’ Felix said. ‘Do you miss Percy?’
Serge looked up at him as if he knew Felix would make everything all right. Felix couldn’t resist those enormous, sad, trusting eyes. He picked up the dog cushion and said, ‘Just for tonight, you can sleep in my room.’ He went back upstairs with a delighted Serge breathing heavily behind him. He placed the cushion on the floor, watched Serge climbed onto it and went to bed.
As was usual at the moment, Felix slept fitfully. In the morning he reached out for Freya. Each morning he woke surprised to find he was alone. Today was different. This time, he touched her soft, smooth hair. He thought he was at last going mad. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into the bulbous eyes and nasally challenged features of Percy’s dog. Felix heard a strange sound in the bedroom and realised that for the first time in three weeks he was laughing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Eliza approached the gallery like a bullfighter sizing up his opponent. There were to be no more listless meanderings round
the place. Today, she was determined, would be different. Today, she would recover her enthusiasm for beautiful paintings. Something would catch her eye if she had the right attitude. She ascended the big staircase slowly.
Twenty minutes later, she found it, or rather she found him. The portrait was so big that she had to crane her head back to take it all in. She took a few steps back. The painting was called Lord Ribblesdale and the artist was John Singer Sargent.
She was sure she would have loved Lord Ribblesdale. He was tall and slender and very elegant in his Edwardian hunting clothes. They were far more fetching than the present-day uniform of red coat and white breeches. One hand held his riding crop and the other was in the pocket of his buff-coloured trousers, pushing back the calf-length coat to expose his smart cream waistcoat. His top hat was worn at a jaunty angle and he exuded confidence and humour. She stood and imagined the conversations she could have had with him.
Before she left the gallery, Eliza went to the shop and bought a postcard of her gentleman. Could he have imagined that over a century later he would still be arousing the imagination of visitors? She suspected he could have.
At home, after lunch, she sat down at her laptop and investigated her lord. He had been a Liberal politician and a trustee of the National Gallery. Years after his portrait was painted, Virginia Woolf met him and wrote to a friend that he was very like his portrait, ‘only obviously seedy and dissolute’. Eliza brushed that aside. Virginia Woolf was not renowned for her appreciation of men.
She went onto another website and discovered with pleasure that he was generally well liked. It appeared that he was one of those Edwardian aristocrats who were bright and intelligent and knew how to enjoy life.
And then she scrolled on down and read that his father had killed himself, his two sons had been killed in action and his first wife had died of consumption.
Eliza began to cry. It was only after she stopped crying that she understood she was crying for herself rather than for poor Lord Ribblesdale. She made a cup of tea and sat sipping it in the kitchen, trying to quell the small insistent voice inside her head. But still it continued. I want to see my daughter, it said. I want to see Freya.
On Friday morning, the postman asked Felix to sign for a parcel. Felix liked the postman; he always had interesting ailments – the current one was a dodgy knee that necessitated a snail-like walking pace – and invariably made Felix feel young and healthy.
Felix had just finished signing his name when Serge slipped between his legs and made a dash for freedom. At the same time, Felix could hear the sound of a car and he knew – he had no idea why he knew – that that car was destined to flatten Serge. And then he heard a voice – which of course he knew later was his imagination or his subconscious or just possibly the postman – and it said, ‘Save him.’ And that was what Felix did.
He flew down the path and grabbed hold of Serge just before he was about to career onto the road and just before the green Vauxhall drove past, going faster than it had any right to in a lane with a thirty mile per hour speed limit. Felix stood by the gate, clutching Serge to his heaving chest and murmuring, ‘It’s all right, boy, it’s all right,’ though whether he was speaking to Serge or to himself he wasn’t sure.
The postman walked up to him and said, ‘That was a close shave. You look quite pale. You should go and have a cup of sweet tea. Add a bit of brandy if you have any.’
‘I’m well.’ Felix nodded. ‘I’m well. Thank you.’ He wanted to ask the postman if he had told him to save Serge but if he hadn’t, the postman would think he was insane and he would probably be right.
‘Bloody motorists,’ said the postman. ‘If I were Prime Minister, I’d ban anyone under thirty-five from driving. That’d sort them out.’ He gave Serge a pat, hauled his sack onto his shoulder and walked on down the road.
Felix turned and looked at his door. He put his left foot forward and then his right. Then he turned again and stood, still clutching Serge, smiling out at the world.
On Monday evening, Anna had a call from her mother. It was the first time they’d spoken since the abortive anniversary lunch. ‘Anna?’ she said. ‘I can’t get hold of Tess. How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ Anna said. Adding pointedly, ‘It’s nice to hear you.’
‘I thought I could take you both out to dinner on Wednesday if you’re free. I have something to tell you and… Have you spoken to your father lately?’
‘I rang him yesterday. He’s looking after Percy’s dog. Did you hear that Percy had died?’
‘Yes. Pam told me. I’m going down to Darrowbridge to stay the night with her on Thursday. Felix suggested I call in on him. Anyway…Talk to Tess and get back to me. It would be nice to see you both.’
‘It would be nice to see you both.’ Had she even noticed that she’d failed to answer any of Anna’s calls? Tess said that Freya was on a permanent adrenalin rush and yet just now she sounded abstracted, distracted, almost as if she didn’t know who or where she was. It was impossible to keep up with the vagaries of her parents. Yesterday, Anna had rung her father and could hardly get a word in edgeways while he told her about the long walk he’d forced poor Serge to do that morning. She hadn’t dared mention the word agoraphobia.
Her phone went again and she blinked at the sight of Patrick’s name on the screen. Her hand hovered over the phone. They hadn’t spoken since the evening she’d had supper with him. She picked it up and said briskly, ‘Hi, Patrick!’
‘I’m outside your flat,’ he said. ‘Can I see you?’
It seemed silly to say no. She told him to come on up and then rushed over to the mirror above the mantelpiece, hating herself for the instant need to check her appearance. When she opened the door, he held out a bottle of red wine. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘accept this as a peace offering.’
She smiled. ‘There’s really no need. Come on in. Do you fancy a glass?’
‘Yeah, all right.’ He looked tired. His T-shirt and denim jeans smelt of paint. His black jacket was worn, with slivers of lining appearing round his cuffs. He still looked like a film star. ‘Can we talk? I need a friend at the moment.’ His face twisted a little. ‘Are we still friends?’
‘Of course we are.’ While she opened the wine and found glasses, Patrick roamed round the room, picking up things and putting them down. He went across to the window on the far side of the sitting room and picked at the broken blind. ‘How can you bear this? It would be easy to fix it.’
‘I’ve tried, twice,’ Anna said, opening his bottle. ‘It’s not as if it hides a beautiful view.’
‘I could do it for you. It might take a bit of time.’
‘That’s very kind but it can wait.’ Anna set the glasses down on the tea chest and sat down on the sofa. ‘So what’s wrong? I take it something is wrong?’
Patrick collected his glass and stood, staring at the unfortunate blind. ‘It’s Fizz,’ he said. ‘She’s been having an affair.’
‘Fizz?’ Anna’s voice exploded with disbelief. ‘That’s ridiculous. Who told you?’
‘She did. Do you remember coming round to supper with all our “friends”? Do you remember Matthew?’
‘He worked with her. He had a sister who was a dentist.’
‘She’s been sleeping with him.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ She was shocked. How could lovely Fizz, who spoke so warmly about her husband, even contemplate having an affair? ‘You must be mistaken,’ she said but even as she said it she thought back to that jolly evening they’d all spent together and saw it through new eyes. Matthew was an attractive man and apparently single and yet it had never once occurred to her to flirt with him, probably because it was quite obvious that he had no interest in flirting with her. Matthew’s sexual antennae, she thought, were waving furiously in another direction.
Patrick finished his wine. ‘She’s been going out every Wednesday evening for months now. She said she was going to yoga classes with her friend, Abbie Spencer. So on
Wednesday she goes off to work as usual and I take Lola to work with me as usual, though I’m a little late because I can’t find my phone and then in the evening I put Lola to bed and I find my phone in her room and I take it downstairs and then the phone rings and I pick up and it’s Abbie Spencer expecting to speak to Fizz and I realise I’ve got her phone and Fizz has probably got mine – it’s happened before – and Abbie asks me to tell Fizz she can’t make lunch the next day and I ask her why she’s not at yoga with Fizz and she says she’s never done yoga in her life and I must be confusing her with another Abbie, and I say that’s probably what it is and then I sit down and wait for Fizz to come home and while I’m waiting I look at some of her messages…’
Patrick took a gulp of his wine and then set the glass on the mantelpiece before digging his hands in his pockets. ‘So Fizz comes home at half past ten and at first she tries to pretend it’s all been a misunderstanding but she knows it’s no good, so then she starts crying and says I don’t know how difficult it is for her to come home and see Lola wanting me rather than her. She says she can’t help resenting me because she’s the one who’s earning all the money but I’m the one who gets to be with Lola and she says she thinks that’s why she started an affair with Matthew and I tell you, Anna, I am standing there listening to all this self-righteous, self-pitying crap and then I tell her what it’s really like to be a house-husband. I tell her how hard it is to take Lola to nursery and have the other parents – who are all mothers by the way apart from one sad man in his fifties – and they all look at me in a way that is virtually shouting out: why can’t you get a proper job, you loser? And then I tell her there are some days I’m so bored I want to scream, days when Lola and I do the old Postman Pat jigsaw for at least the twentieth time or when I’m walking in Greenwich Park with her and she won’t go in the buggy so we’re walking at the speed of a tortoise. I remind her I gave up my acting career so that she could pursue all her high-flying legal ambitions, I remind her that she wanted me to look after Lola and if she resents me for doing that then she has no one to blame but herself. And finally I tell her that if she ever again tries to make me feel I’m responsible for her squalid little affair then I’ll see to it that she never spends another day with her daughter. Can you beat the sheer hypocrisy of the woman? She tells anyone who listens that she’s so lucky to have a husband who’s prepared to look after the baby and then the moment I find out what’s been going on, she uses it to excuse what she’s done. I mean, can you believe it?’