Frieda kissed his cheek, a cool brisk peck. When he tried to manoeuvre her for a proper kiss, full on the mouth, she neatly sidestepped him and shrugged off her coat. She left it on the chair and sighed, a long slow puff of air towards the ceiling, like a balloon deflating.
Suddenly he was nervous. ‘I’ve booked a table at our favourite,’ he said too quickly. ‘You look done in. Would you like me to run you a bath before we go?’
Frieda shook her head, three small sharp movements. There was a flush of colour along her cheekbones, as if she’d been walking hard for some time. ‘I don’t want a bath and I don’t want to go out to supper. I want a drink and then I want eggs on toast. I’ve had quite a day and I’d like to sit down and not get up again.’
She walked through to the kitchen, sweeping her right hand through her hair.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’ve booked the corner table, the one you like. We’ll be home early. Please.’ He felt a trickle of irritation. He was fifty-eight years old and this was the first time he had ever begged for anything.
Frieda opened the refrigerator and poured them each a glass of wine. ‘I’d like to stay in. I’m touched that you want to take me out. But you didn’t check with me, and I’m tired.’
The trickle of irritation became stronger, and under it grew a sense of bewilderment. He suppressed it and tried another tack.
‘How was everything today?’ he asked, thinking to jolly her along.
‘Penny rang this morning,’ she said. ‘Early, before the gallery opened, so we were able to have a good chat. She told me the funniest story. Apparently Sandy’s mum has given him some money. Not much, but enough to pay off his debts and a bit left over. You won’t believe this. She grew up next to an orchard in Kent and so on a whim bought Apple shares at eight dollars each.’
Peter tried to look interested, because he could see Frieda’s mood improving as she told the story.
‘Then she put the certificates in with her papers and forgot all about them until her lawyer came to update her will. This was when they were up to about six hundred dollars and she told him to sell them. That’s about a 9000 per cent increase.’
Peter laughed and reached for her hand. He loved her hands, square with stubby fingers and neatly trimmed nails.
‘You know more about my friends than I do. Now, Frieda, come to dinner with me. Please.’
There was an expression on her face that he’d never seen before; affection undoubtedly, and – there was no other word for it – slight annoyance. It came to him that Frieda was looking at him in the way he used to look at women. So then Peter knew he must be looking at her the way women used to look at him; that eager insecure look he found so cloying and off-putting. The more infatuated they became, the more he withdrew. He’d forgotten that, and wondered, not for the first time, whether this was a good idea.
He took the empty glasses to the sink. Behind him, Frieda said in a resigned way, ‘Okay, okay, let’s go.’
The evening could only improve, thought Peter as he helped Frieda put on her coat again. No more vacillating. He had committed to this trajectory. Besides, he had always been able to persuade others to his point of view and, he reminded himself, Frieda loved food. A good pinot noir, a perfect pink rack of lamb, would lift her spirits.
Two hours later, Peter felt more confident. Frieda’s mood had improved with each mouthful. ‘You know who I mean by Theo Wertheim?’ she asked, mopping up the last of the meat juices with a torn-off piece of bread.
‘Mr Big himself, all the way from New York,’ replied Peter, remembering a softly spoken little man wearing, of all things, spats. ‘Didn’t he come to one of your openings?’
Frieda nodded, chewing with relish. I love her, Peter thought.
‘He’s been after me for a bit.’
He felt an unfamiliar flash of jealousy. ‘What do you mean, after you?’
‘Not like that. I’m far too fat and old for him. It’s business. We had lunch yesterday and he wants me to set up a new print gallery for him, in Brooklyn. Fair split of the profits for two years, then we’ll see how we feel. I’d still keep on with the gallery here. A lot of toing and froing, but exciting don’t you think? I’ve got just enough energy left for something like this and I’ll never get the chance again.’
Her brown eyes were luminous with excitement. He felt a rush of disappointment that she hadn’t bothered to tell him last night. They’d spent the night apart but she could have rung him.
‘And what about us? Our life?’
He knew he sounded petulant and tried to think of some witty follow-up quip but nothing came. Behind him a waiter hovered like a buzzing fly. Peter motioned for him to take away their plates, heavy with congealed fat and juices. In the awkward pause that followed, Frieda surveyed him with cool detachment, as if he was a picture that she hadn’t quite decided on. She brushed the tablecloth with her hands, sweeping stray crumbs into a neat pile.
Peter rushed into the silence. ‘Frieda, I want to marry you. I love you and I want to marry you and look after you for all time.’ There. He had said it. The instant relief of it, just as quickly followed by the fear of how she might reply.
A puzzled look flickered across her face, replaced by one of kindness as she took his hand, kissing the back of it. There was affection, but no passion. This was it then. He’d blown it, scared her off. Now Frieda would end the relationship, just as he had done with so many women before her. Still, he couldn’t let go of her hand.
Another waiter passed their table and asked if they wanted coffee. Peter shook his head and gazed at Frieda, willing her to talk.
‘Peter, dear man,’ she said, gently removing her hand from his. ‘I love you, but I can look after myself. You know that. And you can look after yourself too. I like the way things are between us. Nothing has to change. You can come to New York with me when it suits you. We’ll still see each other. We’ll still be committed to each other.’
‘But I’ve never felt like this before,’ he argued. He needed her to know he hadn’t handed over his heart to anyone except her.
‘No, Peter.’ She spoke firmly, the way his mother had spoken to him when he was a child. ‘Don’t emotionally blackmail me because you’ve reached a stage in your life when you want to settle down. It’s not me, it’s timing that has prompted your proposal.’
Not true, Peter thought. As if his feelings for Frieda were a matter of convenience, a commodity with a sell-by date. He tried to interrupt, but Frieda wouldn’t let him. ‘You’re at the stage in your life when you want to settle down. I don’t. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, not just in hours, but in my heart, in my head. I am nobody’s wife. I’m sorry … no, I’m not sorry. I won’t apologise for who I am. You knew what I was like when we met. I don’t want this to end, but I’m not changing my life for you,’ she said.
There was nothing else to do but summon the waiter, pay the bill and try not to show his pain. All the way back to the flat, Frieda’s arm through his the way she usually had it, Peter remained silent and concentrated on her words instead of the sting of rejection. She doesn’t want it to end, he consoled himself. She says she loves me. It hurts that she won’t marry me, but what she says will have to do.
In bed, he was still repeating her words like a mantra when she turned to him, touching his face.
‘Here’s the deal. If we’re still together when I’m seventy-five, let’s get married and wear purple clothes. Let’s take up smoking again and have gin for breakfast and spliffs for supper. Let’s get wasted on a daily basis.’ She put her arms around him, and in spite of himself Peter smiled.
That was the thing with Frieda. They were never at odds with each other for long and she always made him laugh. There was also that other thing with Frieda. She was right, pretty much all of the time. But every now and then she did change her mind.
Chapter 33
Sandy wasn’t used to travelling on his own. Before, someone else had always booked the ticket and the l
imousine to take him to Heathrow. All he had to do was pack his bag, yet even that task he found difficult at times. Ten T-shirts, no boxers. Four pairs of jeans, boxers, but no T-shirts. Not that it mattered. There was always a shop at the other end.
At Heathrow, the chauffeur would find a trolley and help check his bag through. Sandy would proceed to the first-class lounge, where he would drink steadily until some pretty young thing touched his shoulder and told him the plane was ready for boarding now, sir. There was always a ‘sir’ at the end of the sentence. He would weave towards the plane, turn left and be shown his seat, settle in with another drink and that would be that until another chauffeur met him at his destination.
The executive lounges of New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco were as familiar to him as his own house, but he’d rarely flown over anything except the Atlantic Ocean. Twice he went to Air studios in Montserrat, where he did nothing much except lie in the sun. He was there to help Kate Mostyn with the last album they worked on together, but there were no perfect note moments, only a girl with large brown nipples whose name he couldn’t remember.
When the work dried up, there was no reason, or money, to fly anywhere. He didn’t even have a suitcase on wheels. It took him an entire evening to buy his ticket. There were so many options. Did he want a bigger, more comfortable seat? A vegetarian or a low salt menu? How many stars did he require for his hotel accommodation? Travel insurance? Or a specially discounted trip to the Taj Mahal?
He spent so long pondering his choices that twice a small box appeared on his screen saying his session had timed out. Shortly before midnight, his dusty printer finally jerked into action and spewed out the ticket, complete with pages of terms and conditions.
At Heathrow, he’d finished his Starbucks with an extra shot and was perusing the shelves of bestsellers in the newsagent when he heard his name reverberating through the airport loudspeakers.
‘Will Mr Alexander Ellison please go immediately to gate number five,’ the stern voice said. ‘Your flight is now boarding. Last call for Mr Alexander Ellison. Please go immediately to gate number five.’
No one called him Mr Alexander Ellison except debt collectors. He tossed the coffee cup into the nearest bin and scurried down the corridor, practically running, his bag bouncing uncomfortably on his shoulder. Damn. He leaped onto a travelator, pushing past a group of school children. ‘Sorry, so sorry,’ he said as he rushed on.
Gate two, then gate three. He was trapped between a canoodling couple and more schoolchildren, unable to break through. It was like wading through wet cement. Gate four. He was nearly there. He swallowed in relief and began to relax. But there was no gate five, only gate fifteen. Where was gate five? He glanced behind him and saw an arrow with the number five above it, pointing in the opposite direction.
Shit. He hadn’t realised he’d spoken out loud until a teacher type turned around. ‘Language, please! Do you mind?’ she tutted. Sandy ignored her, jumped off the travelator and onto one travelling in the opposite direction. He ran down it, losing his balance and nearly falling over as he leaped off onto solid ground.
By the time he lurched, sweating and dishevelled, towards the desk of gate five, the departure area was empty except for a stern stewardess. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t realise … and then I got lost …’ He was so out of breath he could barely manage joined-up speaking.
She snatched his boarding pass and tore it in half. ‘You should have kept an eye on the departure board. And the flight was announced. They were just about to unload your bags,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll tell them you finally graced us with your presence.’
The sarcasm was unnecessary. How was he to know you were meant to keep looking up at a board to find out when your flight was ready for departure? And there were so many announcements, all sounding the same. Again, no one had ever told him a plane couldn’t take off unless both bag and owner were onboard and that separation of the two caused delays.
Sandy scurried down the boarding bridge and turned right when he reached the plane. Everyone seemed to scowl at him as he lumbered down the aisle, but none of the passengers looked more reproving than the couple in his row. They had spread themselves everywhere and the woman was already in his window seat, snuggled in a blanket.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, flapping his boarding pass in her face. He’d paid an extra twenty pounds to reserve that seat and nobody, not even a white-haired old lady in flight socks, was going to take it away from him. She sighed and heaved herself into the centre as her husband rearranged their piles of belongings.
Sandy inflated his neck pillow and tucked his legs into the available space as the plane hurtled along the runway, then lifted sharply. The red tiled roofs, the sports fields and the roads with cars buzzing like ants grew smaller and smaller until everything was left behind, obscured by pillows of clouds.
His new life was about to begin, his adult and responsible life. What was it Carolyn had said? That if they were all going to live for so much longer these days, they ought to make the extra time count.
He was doing his best to grow up at last. He didn’t even miss Jeremy anymore. The slip the night after he ran amok with the spray can had been a mistake, but it had made him even more determined to stay sober and now, right now, he was on his way to meet Emily and Matthew. He was going to apologise for being such a crap father, ask for their forgiveness and try to start again.
The cabin lights dimmed and most of the passengers, like Pavlov’s dogs, immediately fell asleep. The few remaining awake watched films or played computer games. Sandy was the only one to do nothing except stare at the whorls of pastel colours on the vinyl seat in front of him and drum his fingers on the armrest until the white-haired woman asked him to stop because she had a headache.
Sandy apologised and folded his arms. He was lucky to have this chance. Emily and Matthew could have said no when he suggested a visit. He wouldn’t have blamed them. He was lucky, too, that Peter and Tim were still his friends. Even Penny was chatty these days. The pillow behind his neck was uncomfortable. He wished he could sleep. Penny always slept as if it were a vocation. ‘I’m going to sleep now,’ she would announce. Then she would shut her eyes and not open them until the next morning. He envied that about her.
Odd that both of them were still on their own, given the general headlong rush into geriatric romance. Only last week he’d read in a newspaper about an actress in her mid-seventies raving that her fifth husband was the best lover of them all.
He’d always thought he didn’t need to marry again. It had seemed, during the solitary drinking days after the divorce, that a wife was in permanent residence already, an inner nagging spouse embedded in his frontal lobes with a sad look of promises broken, potential lost and the unspoken question of why did he let himself get into this state? The inner nag had been right to ask that question. But no more.
Eight hours later, he unfolded himself into a standing position and hobbled up the aisle, his bag banging against his stiff back. There was a moment, inside the airport, when Sandy thought he was lost again. He emerged from the toilet to find his fellow passengers had somehow disappeared along the miles of identical shiny corridors, dotted at equal intervals with identical glossy tropical plants. The air-conditioning was arctic. He shivered. There had to be signs. Emily had told him to follow the signs.
But first he had to find them. Yes, there they were, bright yellow, right above his head. How could he have missed them? He made his way through customs to the arrivals hall, found the right carousel and picked up his backpack, again bought on Emily’s advice, and pushed through the doors into the Delhi night.
The heat hit in a wave and a madmen’s symphony of car horns battered his eardrums. The hairs on his arms and legs began to unfurl and his skin plumpened in the unaccustomed humidity. He could almost taste the smog under the diesel fumes.
Emily had told him to go to the taxi office and pay for his fare into New Delhi. He was then to find the lane
for pre-paid taxis, give the ticket to the driver and tell him where to go.
‘That way, they won’t see you coming and charge too much. It’s not their fault, we have so much more than they do. Dad, are you sure about this trip? Great to see you, I mean, but you might find India a bit difficult,’ she’d written.
At the time, sitting in Battersea with a cigarette and a cup of Rooibos, Sandy had no doubts about his ability to get himself from Delhi to the hill town. How hard could it be? Get on a plane, get off again. Stay in a hotel for two nights, get on a bus, get off again. Now, he was not so sure. He was having difficulties finding his way out of Indira Gandhi International Airport.
He shouldered his backpack, picked up his other bag and walked down the pavement looking for the right rank. Taxi drivers kept offering to drive him anywhere at a very good price. He kept walking as if he knew where he was going.
Midway along the concourse, a man slid into the back of a shiny Mercedes as a chauffeur stowed a set of matching metallic luggage in the boot. Once, that would have been him. For that second, sweating and confused, he missed his old life, but it passed.
The pre-paid rank was at the end of the terminal. Sandy gave the piece of paper to the pint-sized driver and told him the name of the hotel. Emily had recommended a place near Lodi Garden, which meant nothing to him, but was apparently an imprimatur for safe and reliable accommodation.
The driver opened the back door. Sandy made to get in. He smiled to himself. He had made it. He had bought the ticket himself, got on the plane himself and found his way out of the airport. And he was sober. Everything important was ahead of him now.
Suddenly he was yanked back out of the taxi. He landed with a thud on his back, like a figure from a comic book, sprawled with his legs and arms waving in the air. There was a strange gust of spicy breath and a grunt coming from beneath him. Something jabbed his ribs. Something else kicked at his legs and what felt like a hand, a rough and murderous hand, pinched the back of his neck. His skin crawled in fear.
After Everything Page 20