Meeting Lydia

by Linda MacDonald

  Behind all this was some kind of fear. I was – am – scared of losing it: the ability to love you properly. You remember that time after we’d been to the Cedarwood barbeque? Maybe I thought that being more adventurous would solve any problem should it arise again.

  As well as all that there was the usual stuff … What have I done with my life? Where am I going? What have I left for posterity – apart from Holly – and is it enough? Is it too late now for anything else? I started wondering if we should have tried harder for more kids … Please don’t be upset – I’m telling it how it was … I know it was me who gave up on the idea. Selfish reasons at the time. Didn’t think how you might feel. And once I started wondering and regretting … But I’ve thought it through now and I wouldn’t change anything. Honestly.

  So that’s it. The sum total of my shit-state. A man who’s scared of growing old and being past it. A man who has forgotten how to hope for the future. I see the young people and want to tell them how short it all is, like people told us and we took no notice ’cos you don’t when you think you’ve got forever and that forever is a long, long time away.

  I’m so, so sorry for upsetting you – for making you feel less than the wonderful, beautiful person you are. If I could turn back time and unsay those things … I didn’t mean any of it. You, Mari, are my Perfect Woman. Always.

  I can’t bear seeing your eyes with the love missing. Please look at me again like you used to do. Please forgive me.

  I love you,

  Johnny

  Marianne held the letter tightly, looked up with closed eyes, hints of tears bursting between her eyelashes, she rocked on the floor, desperately trying not to cry, fearing that once she started she would never stop. Tears for Johnny found, for Edward lost, for the tiny scrap of life that hardly existed at all and that Johnny knew nothing of. Tears of relief, huge and precious relief that it was all over now and that they could put the lid on the box and move into their Indian summer years with hope again.

  And still she sat on the floor, in a trance-like state with the clock ticking away, the candle burning low and calming vanilla infusing the air with a luscious exotic scent.

  So this was it. The long months of craziness were coming to an end. Or perhaps not quite to an end, but at least to a point where it would end sometime soon and they would find a way to contentment again.

  What would she say to him? He would want a response. Need to be reassured that this act of complete trust and faith would not be abused or thrown back in his face. She’d been throwing things back at him for months now, paying him back for all the jibes and taunts, and for his dalliance with Charmaine.

  In all the twenty-three years that they had been together, they had never had a time like this. Never been cross for more than a day or two. Hadn’t known what it was like to feel resentful and trapped and wondering if you were married to the right person.

  She knew that every word she said now would have the potential to make the difference between unity and separation. So much power attached to the tiniest utterance; the smallest inflection. The merest glance could heal the rift or create a chasm that could never be crossed.

  When, eventually, she made her way quietly to the bedroom, Johnny was fast asleep and breathing quietly. He looked so vulnerable, on his back and naked, one arm outstretched on top of the duvet. Of course she still loved him; had never stopped. But she’d stopped showing it. Had purposely withdrawn her care and affection as a punishment because she didn’t feel he deserved it. Sex had become mechanical and on her terms. And it had been easy while her emotions were partially engaged with Edward.

  She crept about the room, undressing silently, padding softly to and from the bathroom, fearful of disturbing him but almost pleased to have the extra time before she had to respond, react, forgive.

  She was just about to put on her nightdress when she paused. Predictability, she thought, predictability, according to Taryn, was the enemy and must be avoided at all costs, so she left it on the chair. Then she slipped under the duvet and realised as she breathed in the familiar warmth of Johnny that her anger had gone.

  46

  Transported

  In Marianne’s dream the summer sky was blue with wispy clouds and a blazing sun, and on the grass idle groupings of young people chattered excitedly as students do. Edward was among them. Marianne kept catching glimpses and exchanging smiles. Again and again she tried to start a conversation, but he wouldn’t go beyond the pleasantries, the weather-talk. Wouldn’t let her show him how well they could get on as friends. Then he was off across the lawns until she caught up with him again.

  Sometimes they were twenty-something, sometimes just as now. Except she didn’t know what ‘now’ was as far as he was concerned, so there were even variations of that.

  Then she was lying on the grass in a z-shape with head raised and supported by her hand. The grass was summer-long and vibrant green, scattered with broken daisy chains and rhododendron blossoms. Edward lay opposite in similar pose. She was trying to get his attention, but although his body was facing hers, he was talking to someone else over his shoulder. Then suddenly he moved to get out of the way of something. A swivelling movement with a final flip. His back was up against her. Touching. He seemed disinclined to move away, yet still he talked to someone else. They lay like spoons. Who else would she let so close apart from Johnny and her most intimate friends? She could feel him and she breathed in his scent – somehow familiar – evoking memories of when they were young.

  But in this picture they were still young – perhaps twenty-two and still with the bloom of youth.

  Where were they? She thought this in the dream. Lots of little buildings scattered haphazardly. Some residential centre perhaps. They must be on a course. And Sasha was there, roaming sexily.

  Marianne was wondering why he wouldn’t talk to her when there was so much to say. Surely she could interest him if only he’d give her a chance? He must like her or he wouldn’t be this close. He must be going to talk to her properly sometime soon.

  She could feel his heat on her hand under his back. He did not move for an age. Then without warning he was off again, disappearing among the throng and she kept catching sight of him, not little Edward anymore, but tall and lean in black open-necked shirt and black jeans, with shortish tousled dark hair and sometimes with glasses, sometimes not; confident and full of charm as he shared a word with everyone – everyone, that is, except her.

  She was hungry, but couldn’t find the food. She saw Sasha go into an old-fashioned refectory with high ceiling and arched glass windows, pine tables and long benches. Sasha went and sat at the same table as Edward and some other young men. Gave him the eye, she did, and Marianne watched through the open door feeling jealous. He would never look at her now. Sasha came bouncing out all blonde and glowing. “He wants to be called Benjamin,” she said loudly, smiling.

  “No, no! Not Benjamin! He wants to be Edward! It’s Ted he doesn’t want to be. He told me …”

  “He said Benjamin … You call him Edward if you like, but he prefers Benjamin.” She paused. “What’s your astrology?”

  “Leo and Capricorn. Fire and Earth,” Marianne gabbled, struggling with the words as if speaking with mud in her mouth. Then more clearly: “But we have perfect trining Mercuries – within two degrees – and harmonious moons and interconnected T-squares … What about that, then? What do you know about astrology anyway? It’s me who knows about astrology.”

  “I know much more than you think. I know that you can’t make assumptions about anything until you know the Ascendant. Surely you know that? You must find out his Ascendant. Then you’ll know for sure.

  “You wait,” Sasha continued, “he’ll be over here in a flash.”

  And sure enough he started to approach. “But it’s you he wants to see,” Marianne said despairingly. “Not me. You were flirting with him. It’s you he wants now.”

  Sasha brushed this problem aside. “I’m not free. I’m
not interested. He’s nice, but far too serious. Now it’s your turn. You have to be less available. That’s how it’s done.”

  “But then he won’t speak to me at all,” Marianne wailed.

  “Grab attention, then leave,” she said. “Never stay too long. Leave them wanting more. Run away, they’ll follow.”

  Deep down she knew Sasha was right. She had never listened before; always tried too hard. Was it too late to change? Game playing wasn’t her thing. Especially not with friends … Or prospective friends.

  He looked first at Sasha, she thought, adoringly, but Sasha smiled and was gone. He looked at Marianne.

  “Tell me about archaeology,” she said. “I want to know, honestly.”

  He was on a dusty floor unfolding maps for them both to pore over. Enormous maps … Maps from the pens of old cartographers, now worn and torn and faded.

  She slipped onto the floor opposite him, hoping not to startle him, hoping he wouldn’t run away again. She held her breath. At last he looked up and for the first time met her gaze with those beautiful brown eyes she remembered noticing first as Lydia’s. Seconds passed. Wordlessly they embraced in a hug that understood all the hurt and pain of long ago.

  She thought she heard him say, “What do you want from me?” A muffled sound lost in her hair. She wondered if she had imagined it; that it was what she wanted him to say so she could answer and put his mind at rest.

  “Just friends. That’s all …”

  He hugged her even tighter and for a precious instant she felt so safe.

  But then the floor seemed to slide and a wind whipped up and ruffled the edges of the maps under their knees. Now it was Marianne who was pulling away; pulling back from the closeness she’d been chasing, it seemed, for hours.

  No, she thought, please no. Let me stay a while with this gentle man whom I need to know. Let us talk a while …

  But it was not to be, she was mercilessly dragged back to wakefulness, aching awake, with beating heart and gasps of breath, dripping in sweat and with feelings of oh such overwhelming sadness at not being close to him anymore.

  She blinked away the tears and sighed a long and quiet sigh of resignation. She lay till she was quite composed again and then turned on her side.

  A pair of bright blue eyes stared back at her.

  “Hello. Where were you?” whispered Johnny, with furrowed brow. “What was it? Tell me.”

  She shook her head against the pillow and smiled. “Nothing … Nothing important … Hey …” She reached for him under the duvet to distract his attention.

  “Where’ve you been?” he brushed the tears from her eyes and folded her up in the warmest of embraces. “These past few months … where have you been?”

  Where had she been? Away on a voyage of middle-aged madness. Thankfully all in her head. No harm done. On the contrary.

  “I’m back now,” she whispered, looking at him like she used to do.

  47

  Renaissance

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 25th February 2003, 22.43 Subject: Re: Is there anybody out there?

  Dear Lucy,

  Many apologies for long silence. Guilty for not being in touch …

  Felicity’s mother died, so back and forth to Surrey every weekend. An emotional time; impossibly busy and very distracted. Long story.

  Then computer problems: hard-drive failure, lost email addresses … Still catching up.

  I’m sure I don’t deserve all you say. But thanks, anyway. Intrigued by the sound of your book!

  Lots happening as a result of maze discovery. Exhibition at BM … Lectures too. Should start next month. Will write with details soon in case you’re free …

  Packing for Norway tomorrow! love,

  Lydia.