by Linus Peters
“Finished gawking?” he said, still not turning his head.
I didn’t know what to say. In the end, probably because I couldn’t think of anything else, I did, what I guess he would’ve done under the same circumstances, what most of us would do, which was to pretend nothing was different.
“Hi, Charlie,” I said, lowering myself down in the matching armchair, on the other side of the fireplace.
For a long while he just sat there. I mean, I don’t know what he’d been expecting, yet neither of us was much help to the other. Finally he nodded to himself, as if he’d come to a decision, that he simply had to see this thing through, and I noticed how the skin of his neck was loose and empty where his bursting robustness had once filled it.
“It was a little more serious than I let on,” he said, having to clear his throat for a moment before continuing. “I’ve er .. been in and out of hospital .. Several times.”
“Oh,” I said, immediately realising we should’ve guessed where that pay-phone was located.
“Horrible bloody business. Wouldn’t wish it on a dog.”
“Are you okay now?” I asked.
He gave a little grunt. “Well, they think they’ve got it all. Just hope they’re bloody right.”
“Me, too, Charlie. Me, too,” I said, in that moment, as I gazed at his agonising frailty, never wishing for anything more in my life.
“My bloody fault, of course. Should’ve said something.”
Again he went quiet, and I realised how difficult this must’ve been for him. How much he would’ve hated to make a fuss, to find himself at the mercy of such an unbearable degree of disclosure. I mean, it was crazy. In this day and age, people still dying, not of terminal disease, but of embarrassment.
Isobel entered carrying a tray with coffee, and I jumped up and moved the small table for her to put it on.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked me.
“No.”
She sighed and waited for Charlie to say something, but he just turned his gaze back to the glowing embers of the fire.
“He wants to sell the agency,” she told me.
“Oh no!” I protested.
“Not because of his health. He’s going to get better---“
“You hope,” Charlie interrupted.
“You are!” she told him, as if giving an order. “But because he can’t bear to face you all.”
I turned to Charlie. I guess I was half-expecting him to tell her to be quiet, that it was nothing to do with her, but I was beginning to realise there had been more changes around here than I’d first thought, that the balance of their relationship had altered totally. She was now the dominant one, the strength for him to lean upon, and he was very glad of it.
“But that’s crazy,” I said. “We can’t wait for him to come back.”
“You see!” Isobel said, turning to Charlie.
“Huh! The old me,” he scoffed. “Not this bald old bag of withered bones.”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” she groaned.
“You have no idea how much we miss you,” I told him.
“And anyway,” Isobel added, “you didn’t have that much hair before. Buy a wig if you’re so worried about it.”
“Wear a syrup!” Charlie protested.
“If it’s that important.”
She handed him his coffee, standing next to his chair as if she was guarding over him. And then - oh God, it actually brought tears to my eyes - Charlie automatically took hold of her hand, sitting there hanging limply onto it like a child who’d been lost and feared it might happen again.
“Not a day goes by when your name isn’t mentioned,” I told him.
“Mustn’t frighten the woman and animals,” he said dismissively.
“Oh, stop it!” Isobel chided. “You’ll fill out as you get better.”
“Charlie, you are the agency. There is no agency without you.”
“First sensible thing I’ve heard anyone say round here in months,” commented Isobel, releasing his grip on her hand and making for the door. “Apart from myself, of course.”
Charlie chuckled rather weakly, and then, almost as a mark of respect, immediately fell into a reflective silence the moment she left the room. “Wonderful, wonderful human being,” he eventually sighed. “Christ knows what I would’ve done without her.”
It was one helluva transformation, believe me. I’d never heard him say anything even remotely complimentary about Isobel before. For some irrational reason it entered my head to ask him if he’d heard from his lover - June, I think her name is - but something told me it was the wrong time. That maybe, from now on, it would always be the wrong time.
“If it’s taken something like this to show me, then maybe it was exactly what I deserved,” he told me.
“I’m sure Isobel wouldn’t see it that way.”
“You have no idea,” he said, as if he couldn’t even begin to measure his debt to her. “None at all.”
“Charlie, don’t sell the agency.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure you’re all right. Don’t you worry.”
“I don’t care about that,” I told him. “It’s you!”
He gave a long preoccupied sigh, and I knew that, just at that moment, the agency was of little interest to him.
“We’re such fools, Simon. Such bloody fools. We live for too long, that’s the trouble. They should give us a year. Four seasons and then off you pop. No two days, no two hours, no two moments, the same.”
“We’d all be babies,” I said.
“Well, we are anyway, aren’t we?”
Later, he and Isobel walked me to the Merc. As I waved goodbye they stood there with their arms locked about each other, brave, determined, yet still with this slight trace of fear on their faces. When I got to the end of the drive, and was waiting to pull out into the traffic, I watched them in my rear-vision mirror. Isobel walking Charlie back into the house, their arms still about each other, like old wounded warriors returning home after a gruelling series of battles. He stumbled a little over the threshold, and again tears filled my eyes at the way that slight figure instantly made a rock of herself, ensuring he never fell, leading him into the house and closing the door behind them.
For several minutes I stayed there, lost in thought, waving by a motorist who tried to let me out. You’re right, Charlie. You are so bloody right. We’re all such fools.
I was supposed to have gone back to the office. I promised Luca I’d join him for a late lunch. However, something about my morning with Charlie and Isobel, the clarity his illness had given them, made me realise that I had something far more pressing to do, that couldn’t wait another moment.
A little over forty minutes later I was sitting outside my flat in the Mercedes, taking a last few seconds to think it through, till finally I felt I was ready. I unlocked the car door and went to heave it open, however, at that precise moment, Luca called, for once my mobile being on.
“I thought you’d be back by now,” he complained.
“There’s a problem with the car. It’s not quite ready. Shouldn’t be long.”
There was a pause and I wondered if he guessed I was lying. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“You sound a little strange.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I’ve decided to take your advice,” he said, suddenly changing the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“Go to Goldsmiths. They must have a cafe. I could be just visiting or something, couldn’t I?” He paused for a few seconds, waiting for me to comment, but I wasn’t in the mood. “Simon?”
“Up to you.”
“It would be all right though, wouldn’t it?” he persisted.
“Luca, I’m forty next week,” I said, changing the subject equally as abruptly as he had.
“Oh,” he said, after a slight pause. “Do you want to do something?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Grow up.”
“Hi,” I said simply.
“Hi,” she replied, plainly a little puzzled that I should be home at this time.
“Beautiful day,” I commented, but she just grunted, as if she didn’t have time for such things.
“Fancy a walk?”
“Are you kidding?” she asked.
“No.”
“You can see I’m busy.”
I went to her, took her hands from the keyboard and held them in mine. “Please!”
Despite her obvious reluctance, she allowed the fact that I was obviously inviting her to more than a walk in the park to persuade her. She sighed rather long and hard, then went to get her coat, plainly unsure of my mood.
Once downstairs and out in the street, I gave her a quick hug and she looked even more bewildered. Yet neither of us said a thing, just turned and headed in the direction we always did, towards Waterlow Park.
We reached there without having exchanged a word, making for our usual bench at the top of the slope, looking out across the ornamental lake dotted with water birds, through the trees to the distant heart of London.
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, the sadness of the last few weeks had given her a special soulfulness, a worth, like the difference between an oil painting and a photograph.
Slowly I reached out and ran my fingers along the pale line of her scar, her skin almost melting my fingertips.
She turned and looked at me, her face emotionless, as if waiting for me to fill it. And suddenly I said something that, though I occasionally pretended otherwise, in my heart, I never imagined I ever would.
“Will you marry me?”
Her mouth fell open a centimetre or so, too shocked to even reply.
“Please,” I added.
“Simon!” she cried, as if I’d just uttered some kind of anarchistic illogical madness.
“What?”
“You can’t change everything like that.”
“I’m not trying to change everything. Just set my priorities. Number one – two and three – is that you marry me.”
She stared at me, still too astounded to order her thoughts. “I thought you came here to tell me it wasn’t working anymore. That maybe you were going back to Juliana.”
I didn’t even comment. Just momentarily glared. The last person I wanted mentioned at that moment was Juliana.
Frances shook her head and gave a sort of astounded laugh. “You’re full of surprises, I’ll give you that. Why? We already live together.”
“I want to officially recognise the fact that I wish to commit myself to you forever. To build something permanent. Maybe even have kids one day.”
“We don’t have to be married to do that.”
“If it’s not that important, why don’t you want to do it?”
“I haven’t said I don’t.”
I paused for a while. “I know a piece of paper isn’t going to stop you running, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said, trying to lighten things.
“Thank you.”
“Every year on our anniversary I’ll buy you a new pair of trainers. You can store them in the wardrobe. The bigger the pile, the longer you’ll know you’ve been happy with me.”
“But why now?”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
“Does to me.”
A plane flew noisily overhead. Hundreds of people riding in the sky, coming or going to Heathrow, leaving or staying in England - other people’s lives.
I turned back to see Frances staring intently at me. “I don’t know why I run.”
“You didn’t this time,” I commented.
She made a little grunting sound, making it plain she’d thought about it a thousand times. “My problem seems to be that, not only does insecurity make me insecure, so does security, too.”
“Is that my answer?”
“Maybe it’s my excuse.”
The sun weaved its way through the clouds, catching us full on with a shower of warmth. It must have been getting on for two or three minutes or more before either of us spoke again.
“I need time,” she eventually said.
“Huh.”
“Just time.”
“Classic,” I commented, feeling a little disappointed.
She turned and grabbed me firmly by the upper-arm. “Look! I love you, you stupid fucker!” she told me.
“Oh, and I, you,” I sighed, taking hold of her hand. “And I, you.”
Again we went quiet, leaning back, closing our eyes to the oncoming glare of the sun, seemingly slowing down, suspending our mutual functions. This time it was me that spoke.
“I’m going to have a party,” I announced.
“What for?”
“My fortieth birthday.”
“Brave,” she commented.
“One week on Saturday ... You can give me your answer then.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It wasn’t going to be anything too elaborate. Just twenty or so people in the flat. I mean, any more than that and everyone’s stiff-armed and scuffed-shoed up against the wall, taking it in turns to line up for a pee and a few moments of peace in the bathroom. Luca and several others from the office were coming, a couple of fellow journalists, Jill and Ian, and some old friends I hadn’t seen in a while, including, rather against my better judgement, Andy.
Frances invited some of her muso friends, a couple of colleagues, and, in a gesture of overtly essential diplomacy, the man from the downstairs flat. Oh, and I also phoned Charlie and asked if he and Isobel would like to come. I mean, I guess I’d known what his answer would be, and he did react as if it was the kindest of madness, well-intentioned but out of the question, but it was still important to me that I asked.
Naturally, I never told anyone it was anything more than a fortieth birthday party. In a way it seemed kind of romantic. Thomas Hardyish. I could see the two of us standing there, calling for everyone’s attention, about to reveal our fabulous secret. The oncoming tide of noisy congratulations, the inevitable jokes, my bride-to-be and I hugging self-conscious grins out of each other.
But was it going to happen? I mean, did the fact that I was ready to break with the habits of a lifetime mean that Frances was ready to do the same? Maybe she’d never be ready?
By unspoken agreement we’d kept all discussion of the subject to an absolute minimum, but I still knew it was there, bubbling away inside her. Every now and then she’d asked me something, right out of the blue, as if it had grown and grown inside her to a point where she simply couldn’t contain it any longer.
“If I don’t marry you, do we have to split up?” she shouted after me one morning, just as I was on my way out of the door.
“Have a nice day, yourself,” I replied, returning to the kitchen.
“Simon!”
“No, of course not. I’m not going to give you an ultimatum. If not now, well, maybe sometime in the future.”
“Oh,” she said, relief plainly on her face.
“However ... ” I added, kissing her goodbye one more time.
“Yes?”
“I’d really like it to be now.”
It’s only when you hold a party yourself that you realise the miseries other people go through to keep you entertained for an evening. The amount of anxiety involved, the planning, that awful knowledge that if it’s a disaster, you won’t be able to make a polite excuse and leave. I seemed to spend the entire week worrying over, what was going to be, just a small and informal affair anyway.
Proper food or just fiddly things that break up and get trodden into the carpet? Leave everything as it is or hoard all the breakables into a no-go area? And, of course, the great conundrum of all of the entertaining classes: who’s going to make the last minute dash
for the ice? In the end, Frances did a little cooking (declining, believe it or not, my generous offer of a evening’s supply of Spaghetti Bolognese), we carried her computer stuff and a few other vulnerable items into the bedroom, and thankfully I managed to find someone who delivers ice.
Jill and Ian were the first to arrive. As always, he said very little, the calm before the storm, and I laid off going heavy on his drinks in case I wanted to make a speech later and wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways. Mind you, it didn’t take long to realise that, as far as everyone was concerned, there was only one topic of conversation for the evening, and it was relentless.
“How does it feel?” said Jill, as I sat with her waiting for the other guests.
“What?” I asked, momentarily wondering if Frances had told her.
“To be forty?”
“You should know,” I replied, reminding her she was a year older than me.
She shrugged. “Too busy with the kids to notice. However ... you.”
“What?”
“A single man.”
“Oh yes. Losing his hair, sex drive, career momentum. In fact, really only making progress in the area of his gut.”
Jill shrugged and grinned, as if there wasn’t a thing there she could deny. “Do you know what the suicide rates are for single middle-aged men?”
“Thank you very much,” I said, leaping up as the buzzer went, releasing the front door of the building without bothering to check who it was. “I was a bit worried I might not be in the party mood. However, now ... ”
“My pleasure,” she laughed.
I turned to go to open the front door, then paused, simply unable to resist. “Anyway,” I said, lowering my voice, making sure Frances couldn’t hear me, that she was still in the bedroom complying with Ian’s request to show him her graphics programs. “Even forty year olds can come up with the odd surprise now and then.”
Jill smiled at me for a moment, plainly intrigued. “Oh?”
“Mm,” I teased
I might have been hoping to give everyone a surprise later, but Luca had one for me now. When I went to open the door, he was standing there with this slightly plump fringed daughter-of-goth, heavily made-up, a stud in her nose, who I immediately guessed was Miss Goldsmiths.