by Caro Fraser
When she had spoken to Leo, Rachel put her coat back on and drove down to the village, slowly navigating the narrow lane bounded by high hedges. There was only one shop, serving as a general store and sub-post office. Inside, she selected a few of the more obvious groceries and wondered what she should make herself for supper. As her mind ranged through the possibilities of omelettes, pasta, chops, she realised that she didn’t feel particularly hungry, even though she had only had an apple, with cheese and some of Leo’s endless supply of oatcakes, for lunch. She was conscious, too, of the faintly queasy feeling which had persisted throughout the day, but told herself it was simply a reaction to the events of last night.
Suddenly weary, she left and drove back to the house.
The fire had burnt down low by the time she returned and she hastily flung a couple of logs onto it from the basket in the fireplace. There were only four logs left after that. Would it be enough for the evening? She didn’t know where there might be more, and she couldn’t go rooting around in the freezing darkness at the back of the house. She glanced up at the windows as she thought of this, and realised how impenetrable the darkness outside had become. It seemed to stare at her through the cold panes of the window. She got up quickly and went to draw the curtains. Then she switched on two more lamps, so that the room was bathed in a brighter glow. She went from room to room, closing the curtains in each one, until she was reassured that the staring night no longer looked in on her. She switched on the radio in the kitchen for further reassurance as she made supper from the things she had bought, but switched it off after a few moments, aware that she kept hearing sounds in the empty house through the voices on the radio. This way, there was only silence.
She ate in the living room, curled up on the rug in front of the fire, leaning against one of the sofas and watching television, but her mind kept wandering to the night outside, and she began to be unpleasantly conscious of her isolation. She began to wish she was still safe in Leo’s mews house in London. This thought brought, unbidden, a sudden memory of her own flat as it had been before the burglary, the destruction, and she found tears welling up.
This wouldn’t do. I need a drink, she thought. She searched in the kitchen and at last located Leo’s drinks cupboard, below the bookcases in the living room. She pulled out a half-full bottle of vodka and a bottle of tonic. In the other side of the cupboard were glasses. A drink would help her to sleep, she thought, and stiffen her against morbid fancies. But as she was about to unscrew the cap of the bottle, she caught sight of the oily transparency of the vodka and felt a sudden nausea. She put the bottle back, and the glass, and made herself a cup of tea instead.
She locked up carefully, back and front, and checked all the window fastenings before going to bed. She left one lamp burning in the living room; the embers of the fire, settling slightly, glowed cosily in the half-light. Upstairs she sang quite loudly to herself as she got ready for bed, and when she turned over to go to sleep she could not bring herself to turn off the bedside light. She lay for a long time, listening for sounds, before at last drifting off to sleep.
She woke in the early hours of the morning; the light from the bedside lamp was now irritating rather than comforting, and she switched it off. She lay listening to the silence, then gradually fell asleep again. This time her sleep was troubled, and she dreamt of being in her flat, with books, pictures, belongings suddenly flying from walls and shelves, crashing around her head. She woke, trembling, and glanced at her watch. It was six-twenty. She lay back on the pillows, trying to calm her thoughts. Then suddenly a wave of nausea overwhelmed her; she sprang out of bed and into the bathroom, where she was sick.
She washed her mouth and stood for a moment on the cold tiles. Her skin felt icy. She went back to bed and pulled the covers close around her. Perhaps it was the cheese omelette she had had for supper. Or perhaps it was still the aftermath of the shock of the burglary. But as she lay, her hands folded across the soft flatness of her stomach, she knew that it was none of those things. Her period was now nearly three weeks late. And she had started being sick.
Oh God, how was she going to tell Leo? The idea, she realised, made her feel afraid, and it threw into clarity the knowledge, hidden even from herself, that she had no idea of the extent of his feelings for her. He had been wonderfully kind about the burglary, and about letting her stay here, but those were acts of friendship, of natural generosity. He made love to her, he spent time with her, but that did not mean he loved her. He had never said so. And some instinct told her that he would not welcome the fact of her pregnancy. There was much she did not know about him, but this much she knew. He would be here tomorrow. She would have to tell him. But first she would have to make absolutely certain. She would drive into Oxford, get a test from a chemist’s. She might be wrong. She had missed periods before. But the slight, tender ache in her breasts told her she was not wrong.
That Friday, eighteen miles away in Oxford, Sarah was getting ready to go out when the doorbell rang. There, on the doorstep of the terraced house which she shared with two other girls, stood James. Sarah had last seen him at a club in London during the Christmas holidays, coked up to the eyes, and not pleasant company. She had decided then, in view of the events of last summer, that James was someone who was best avoided. Despite the working arrangement they had had with Leo, he was really no more than an acquaintance. And quite without class. He had shown that. Accordingly, she was not pleased to see him now.
‘How did you know where I lived?’ she asked coldly, folding her arms.
‘I asked around,’ replied James, with a nervous shrug. She eyed him; he’d been a careful dresser once, sporting designer labels, vain about his hair, but now he was scruffily dressed and his blonde hair had grown long and unkempt. ‘Anyway, aren’t you going to ask me in, as an old friend?’ He grinned, shifting from foot to foot.
‘No, James, I’m not,’ said Sarah, tossing back her blonde curtain of hair. ‘I’m just on my way out, as a matter of fact. Just passing, were you?’
‘The thing is,’ said James quickly, ‘I’m in a bit of a jam.’ He seemed to be unable to stop moving, his arms twitching beneath his denim jacket. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘You can talk to me out here,’ said Sarah, leaning against the door frame.
He glanced up and down the street. ‘Thing is,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I was wondering if you could lend me a bit of money.’
‘No,’ said Sarah without hesitation. After a pause she said, ‘I know the kind of jam you’re in. I can tell just by looking at you. Drugs.’
‘Yeah, well.’ James grinned uncertainly again, glancing around. ‘I’ve been messing about with smack – a bit too much, I suppose. You know how it is.’ Beneath the carefully cultivated, careless Sloane accent there lay a trace of East End. Sarah’s ear caught it, and her innate snobbery rose in her. She really should never have had anything to do with this person.
‘No, I don’t,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, I can’t say you’re arousing much of my sympathy by telling me you’re into heroin. Do you think I’m going to give you money for that?’
‘Come on, Sarah, you used to do a bit of coke yourself,’ said James, growing irritable but still smiling and wheedling.
‘That was then, James,’ she said with sweet politeness. ‘This is now. I don’t like smackheads.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And I’m not giving you any money. Now, I really have to be going—’ She took a few steps backwards and was about to close the door when James thrust out an arm to hold it open.
‘Listen, Sarah!’ he pleaded. ‘I’m really desperate. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t. What about old times? What about last summer?’
‘I’d like to try and pretend last summer never happened.’ She tried to close the door, but James shoved back, determined to speak to her.
‘Yes, but it did happen, Sarah, didn’t it? And I’ll bet you wouldn’t want too many people to know about it, would you? A nice girl like you?’ He had his fo
ot inside the door now, holding it back with his forearm, his face close to hers. She suddenly let it fall open, and he leant back against the door frame. Her face was a mask of cold, concentrated fury.
‘Are you threatening me, James? Do you really think you can use last summer against me? Don’t you realise that it doesn’t matter to anyone? It doesn’t matter to me, and it doesn’t matter to Leo. Oh, yes, I saw him at Christmas. He couldn’t care less about you. No one could! You’re a mess, James, and you’re pathetic. You don’t frighten me. Now piss off!’ She pushed at him with both hands, using all her strength. Taken unawares, he stumbled from the doorway and back onto the pavement. The door slammed shut.
James regained his footing. ‘Bitch!’ he muttered, then lifted his head and stared at the door. ‘Bitch!’ he yelled, and then shouted it again, louder. ‘I hate you both! You and him! You selfish, smug bastards!’ His voice cracked with pain and need. He was not feeling good now. His voice died away and he stood hopelessly in the silent street. Then he turned and walked away, wishing he had the courage to put a brick through her window.
In the house Sarah stood, listening to his shouts, and then to the miserable silence that followed. She realised she could not go out straight away. She would have to wait until Alicia came back. There was no way she was leaving the house empty, not with him around.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Leo arrived at lunchtime the following day, by which time Rachel, who had been sick again that morning and was feeling generally vile, was in a state of nervous tension. The pregnancy test had been positive. She had stared and stared at the bright blue tip of the spatula, as if to will it away. She left it on the ledge in the bathroom, and when she came in a second time it was still staring at her, blue and accusing.
She had meant to go back into Oxford on Saturday morning to buy food for the evening, but she could do no more than wander aimlessly around the house, nursing her secret. She veered between panicking uncertainty and contained happiness. If only Leo were to take it well, if only he were to smile when she told him. She had no idea how she was to tell him.
She was standing at the kitchen sink, washing salad for lunch, when she heard the crunch of car wheels on the gravel; the bonnet of Leo’s dark blue Porsche slid into view. Fear tightened her stomach. She couldn’t tell him straight away. It would have to wait until the afternoon; but how was she to find conversation, how was she to take her mind off it until then?
She went into the living room as he came in through the hallway. She was wearing one of the dresses he had bought her, and a big, soft, cream-coloured cardigan which she had found in the chest of drawers in her room. It smelt of Leo, and she had had to wear it. It made her feel protected.
‘Hello,’ he said, kissing her, then chucking his car keys onto the mantelpiece. ‘How is it that you always look better in my clothes than I do?’
She smiled, they chatted, he followed her into the kitchen and planted a bottle of wine down on the table next to the half-prepared salad. Still the knot of fear inside her would not unravel.
Over lunch he told her that the flat had been cleaned up. ‘I went round yesterday afternoon after work. Got a chap to put some new locks on. I think most of the damage can be repaired. There’s a place in the Brompton Road that can probably match up the curtain fabric, and I’ll get a glazier in to do the kitchen cupboards. The kitchen actually came out of it surprisingly well. You just need a few new cups and saucers. And the sofas can be reupholstered. I can see to all that. Just a matter of a few phone calls.’
‘Leo, you can’t do all that,’ she murmured, watching his face as though she might be able to anticipate, from his expressions and gestures now, the manner in which he would receive her bombshell of news later.
‘Yes I can,’ he replied. ‘Did you get this bread from the village shop? Don’t. It’s always a day old.’
The truth, as Leo acknowledged to himself, was that he wanted to get Rachel re-established in her flat as quickly as possible, so that they did not become too domestically enmeshed, so that the gentle severing of their relations could recommence. It was easy to be generous, it was easy to let her thank him, but there was more to it than simple altruism. This was for his own self-protection.
They went into Oxford that afternoon and bought more provisions. Driving back, Leo glanced at her face, which looked pale and pinched, and wondered why she was so quiet. Possibly the shock she had received was still having an effect. At last, out of curiosity rather than concern, he asked, ‘What’s up? You’re terribly quiet.’
The car had drawn to a standstill outside the house. She glanced away from him and looked across at the tracery of bare branches against the gathering dusk; a bitter wind swept suddenly, stiffly across the fields and the garden. She turned to look back at him, remembering how, talking to Felicity, she had wondered what it would be like to lose all pride, to love someone so much that you would abase yourself in any way just to keep their affection. She knew now what it was like, she thought. She would do anything, give everything, for this to make no difference to them. But she knew, too, that everything was about to change for ever.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said, and dropped her gaze from his face to the steering wheel. Her heart was thudding.
Leo felt as though he had been struck hard in the midriff. ‘I see,’ he said. There was a silence. ‘I see.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, aware of impotent anger rising up in him. Then he looked at her. ‘Weren’t you doing something, taking the Pill?’
She shook her head.
‘Why not, for God’s sake?’ He leant one elbow on the car windowsill, resting his forehead in his hand, staring at her in wonder. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, wondering if this was a lie. Leo just gazed at her, as if seeing her anew, critically, appraisingly.
‘You wanted this, didn’t you?’ he said at last, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
At the sound of his anger she felt despair, and tears rose to her eyes as she looked helplessly at him. He watched, marvelling at the way the tears trembled, unspilt, above her eyelashes, blurring her blue eyes. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered slowly, and stared out across the garden. It was as though something was closing in on him, like the night sky gathering across the fields of Oxfordshire. ‘How pregnant are you?’ he asked, his voice expressionless. She tilted her head back, willing the tears to slide away, determined to control herself, not to slip into pitifulness.
‘Five weeks – six weeks. Something like that.’
The tension in his mind eased a little. Still early enough to do something about it. That was something, at least.
‘We have to talk about this,’ he said after a moment.
‘Shall we go inside?’ Rachel’s voice was tentative, hopeful. Maybe something could be resolved. She was aware, too, of a new feeling which had crept over her since she had told him, since she had seen his face turn to stone and his glance stray away from her into contemplation of the future – guilt.
‘No,’ he said, with sudden determination in his voice, and turned the key in the ignition. ‘I don’t want to discuss this in the house.’ He could not bear the claustrophobia, the clogging coupledness of himself and Rachel, within the four walls of his own home. ‘We’re going to the pub. I need a drink.’
They sat opposite one another at a corner table far from the bar and listening ears. It was only six o’clock and the place was almost empty. Rachel sat, eyes fastened on the table, as Leo went to the bar and bought himself a pint and her a tomato juice, and came back with a drink in either hand and a packet of peanuts clenched between his teeth. She glanced up and smiled; the way he was carrying the peanuts cheered her up, for some reason. As though things were nearly normal. But as he put the nuts and the drinks down on the table, she could see that his face was still grim, intense. There was nothing light about the atmosphere. She sipped at her tomato juice, barely tasting it, and struggled to feel brave. She was accust
omed to being strong and independent, and she detested the state of abject dependence to which she had been brought.
‘So,’ said Leo, taking a sip of his pint, then leaning back and looking at her thoughtfully, not unkindly. He had been choosing his words carefully as he ordered the drinks. ‘If you want an abortion, we can arrange it. I will pay for it.’ The words, which had sounded frank and forthright in his head a few moments ago, now sounded brutal. But they could not be altered or retracted.
Somehow the bluntness of his suggestion gave her strength. She felt instantly detached from him; she and the baby were on one side, he on the other. ‘I don’t want an abortion, Leo,’ she said, her voice quite cool and considered.
Leo ran his tongue along his upper teeth and looked reflectively at the picture which hung on the wall above Rachel’s head, a print of a hunting scene.
‘Rachel,’ he said, looking back at her, ‘I don’t want a child.’
‘It doesn’t have to affect you,’ she said, thinking that if it had to be so, then – well, it would have to be. The idea of losing Leo tore at her. But at least she would still have something, someone.
He was stung to fury by her mild utterance. She had never seen him angry before, and the effect of it quite shook her.
‘Doesn’t affect me?’ He kept his voice low, but its anger was potent. ‘Don’t be so bloody irresponsible! Or perhaps it’s too late for that. You already have been. You must have known there was a chance you would get pregnant! And yet you said nothing, just carried on as though there was nothing to worry about. Good God! And then you say it needn’t affect me.’