Benedict’s throat grew so tight that he could hardly breathe. He reached up to press and ease it. Please, don’t let them kiss, he prayed. Please, not this. He didn’t know whether to stride forward and demand that Lawrence take his hands off Estelle. He would grab the arty lothario by his shoulders and wrestle him away. His alternative was to walk away and slink off into the night.
Or he could stay and wait.
Eventually Estelle took a few steps back. Lawrence tried to take her hand but she continued to back away. He stared after her.
He’s thinking about following her, Benedict thought queasily. He’s going to make a play for my wife...
His feet felt like they were glued to the ground, but he had to get to Estelle.
He could go around to the front door, but Lawrence might be there, and Romeo didn’t use an intercom buzzer.
Benedict thought quickly. What could he do to get her attention?
He waited, giving Estelle time to return to the apartment. Then he reached down and picked up a small stone. He threw it up at the balcony, where it pinged off the glass door. After a few seconds, he picked up a handful of gravel and tossed that, too. It showered through the air and hit his target.
The patio doors slid open and Estelle stepped out. “Is anyone there?” she asked loudly. “Lawrence?”
Her saying that name made him want to gag. Benedict stared at the hat and mask on top of the trolley. He had to do something, even if it meant making a prat of himself.
Without allowing time to talk himself out of it, Benedict put on the hat, slipped on the mask and took hold of the sword again. It felt as if an invisible person gave him a shove in the small of his back, and he stepped out from behind the bush.
“Estelle,” he called out, his voice echoing in the night.
She walked to the edge of the balcony. “Hello...?”
“I’m here. It’s Benedict.” He gulped.
“Benedict?” She sounded confused.
How did Romeo do it? Benedict racked his brain. What did he say? Did he get down on one knee? Did he have a skull, or was that Hamlet? “I wanted to see you.” His voice wavered.
“What are you doing down there?”
“I’ve, um, brought your paintings.”
“Well, you startled me. Did you throw stones?”
“Yes,” he admitted, feeling foolish. “I was on the canal towpath. I thought you might be...busy.”
She didn’t speak for a while. “Are you holding a sword?”
He stared at it. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He ignored her question but took a deep breath and held it in his throat. “I have to tell you something.”
“And you need a sword to do it...?”
This was his jousting moment. He thought of Cecil’s encouragement and Gemma’s insistence that he fight for his wife. He wanted to tell Estelle that he was Romeo and that she was his Juliet, and that they should be together. He wanted her to invite him up to the apartment and for them both to smile at his silly outfit. But the words began to stack up in his head like bowling balls lining up in an alley. He couldn’t pick which ones to say first, or know which would have the most impact.
“Is that a feather in your hat?” she asked.
He gripped the sword more tightly. “I want to say...” he started. Even though all the words were in his brain, about how much he wanted her back, none of them wanted to come out first. In the end, he said something. Anything. “I need to tell you about... Gemma...”
His heart sank. Damn it. Those were the wrong words.
“Gemma? The girl in your shop said her name was Gemma.”
Benedict shook his head, dismayed at himself. But there was no going back. He didn’t know when Charlie was going to get in touch, and he didn’t want to pretend that Gemma wasn’t staying with him any longer. His lies in the past had got him into enough of a mess. “She’s my niece, Charlie’s teenage daughter.”
Estelle was silent for a long time. “She was staring at us in the shop. Why didn’t you introduce us?”
“I’m not sure. Her arrival was a surprise and I was still getting used to it. I didn’t know how long she was going to stay, or what to say to you...” He felt that with every word, he was deflating like a tire with a slow puncture. “Anyway, I’ve brought your paintings for you.”
“Great,” Estelle said, though she didn’t sound like it was great. “Can you bring them to the front door?”
Benedict pushed the sword into the struts on the back of the trolley and tugged off his hat. He pulled the trolley to the front of the apartment block and Estelle opened the door. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was mussy. Benedict wondered if it was because of Lawrence, or from coming downstairs.
When Estelle saw him she held her hand to her mouth and laughed. “Why on earth are you dressed like Zorro, Benedict? Where is your cape?”
Damn. He was still wearing the mask.
It all seemed so stupid, to tell her that he was Romeo and that he wanted her back. He mumbled something about Gemma and a fancy dress party at the Pig and Whistle, and it all sounded very garbled and not at all plausible. He imagined her picking up the phone to Lawrence, after he’d gone, and the two of them laughing about him.
He hitched the mask up onto his forehead. “Shall I help you to bring the paintings up to the apartment?” he asked hopefully.
“No, it’s fine. I can handle them. You go and attack the bad guys, or whatever it is Zorro does.”
Benedict gave a weak smile.
“So, how long is Gemma staying with you?”
He didn’t know, so he conjured up something that sounded feasible. “For a week or so. She’s sleeping in your studio, if that’s okay?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “It’s certainly a surprise, after all this time.”
Benedict took the paintings off the trolley and stacked them against the wall. “We’re just getting to know each other,” he said and looked up hopefully. “I’ll introduce the two of you properly next time.”
“That would be good, and more suitable than our first meeting.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, at least I know now. I appreciate you telling me. Good night, Benedict.”
Benedict couldn’t think of anything to say, so he said good-night and started to push the empty trolley back along the Noon Sun high street. After a few steps he realized that he wasn’t carrying the bouquet of flowers, and he hadn’t presented them to his wife.
“Estelle,” he called back as the front door closed.
“What?” She poked her head back around it.
Benedict looked over and saw the bouquet lying on the grass, the cellophane shining under the streetlamp, as the Jack Russell scampered up and cocked his leg up on them.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, wondering if tonight could have gone any worse. “Good night.”
* * *
When Benedict got home, he left the sword by the front door and stuffed the mask and feathered hat into the bin. The front room and kitchen lights were switched on, but Gemma wasn’t in either room. He locked the front door and turned off the lights.
As he made his way upstairs, it sounded as if someone had left a TV set on in one of the bedrooms. He could hear voices and muted laughter. But he didn’t have a television upstairs.
He stopped, leaned against the banister and listened for a while. It was Gemma’s voice, though the sound was muffled. Now and again, he heard her laugh. He hoped that she hadn’t invited anyone back to the house.
When he reached the landing, he stood and faced her door. It was shut, so he rapped on it. The talking stopped. Benedict felt a bit like a pupil waiting to be invited into the headmaster’s office. There was a shuffling noise.
“Who is it?” Gemma s
houted out.
“It’s Benedict. Uncle Ben.” It was an absurd thing to have to say in his own house.
There was a thud and the door opened by a couple of inches. Gemma pressed an eye to the gap. “Okay?” she asked a little breathlessly. “How did it go, Romeo?”
Benedict wanted to forget all about this evening. “Fine. I heard voices from inside your room. Do you have anyone in there?”
“No. Of course not.” She tutted. “I, um, talk to myself sometimes.”
“There was laughter, too.”
“It was a funny conversation.”
They looked at each other through the gap.
She huffed loudly and opened her door wider. “Go ahead. There. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
Benedict saw that she had a small lamp turned on. The duvet cover was folded over on one corner. The gemstone journal lay open on the bed. Everything looked normal and he felt guilty for questioning her.
“See?”
“Well, so long as you don’t have any boys stowed away in there,” he half joked.
Gemma laughed also, rather too loudly. “There’s nothing going on. Good night, Uncle Ben.”
9.
AQUAMARINE
openness, expression, clarity
WHILE GEMMA MADE a fruit salad for their breakfast, Benedict opened the curtains upstairs in the studio. He spotted that his niece had emptied the contents of her rucksack on top of the chest of drawers. There was her hairbrush, the teddy bear with the purple ribbon and a small heap of clothes. She had a half-used shower gel and a toothbrush. A phone charger was tangled around a gray vest top.
There was a small notepad and she had left it open. Gemma had drawn a heart in blue ink and inside it were the bubble letters GS and DJ 4eva. He smiled at it, remembering when he’d found similar doodles on the covers of Charlie’s schoolbooks.
D, he thought. David, Derek, Dennis? Perhaps Gemma’s boyfriend, or a secret crush?
He pondered on her belongings for a while, again wondering why she hadn’t brought more things with her, especially as it was cold in England at this time of year. Surely a young girl would want things like deodorant and shampoo, and maybe perfume. It was almost as if she’d left home in a hurry.
Benedict went back into his own room and opened one of the drawers on Estelle’s bedside cabinet. He took out a small scented candle, a can of hair spray and an eye shadow with MAC written on the lid. Then he carried them through and left them on top of Gemma’s untidy clothes pile.
* * *
Later that morning, Benedict sat in his showroom and replayed the image of Lawrence and Estelle on the balcony over and over in his mind. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone.
“Tell me what happened last night.” Gemma stuck her head around his door. “Did Estelle invite you in?”
“No,” Benedict said. He studied the anniversary necklace. It was now half the length it should be.
“So, what happened? Did you wear the costume?”
“Yes.” He thought about the stupid hat and mask. How had he let Gemma and Cecil talk him into it? He felt like a total idiot now. But, he supposed, at least Estelle had laughed at him, which was preferable to the stony silences and stilted conversations they’d had over the last few weeks.
“And did it work? Was she surprised or amazed? Did she like the flowers?”
Benedict decided not to tell Gemma about the Jack Russell ruining the bouquet. “It’s not like we can fall back into each other’s arms. Things are more complicated than that.”
“Why are they?” Gemma frowned. “It’s like when my mom left my dad. He should have followed her and tried to get her back instead of letting her go. Then none of this would have happened...”
Benedict heard frustration rising in her voice. “None of what?” he asked, but she turned away from him.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
* * *
Benedict gave Gemma some space. He stayed in his workshop and made some links for the anniversary necklace. After half an hour of silence, he felt a bit fidgety and wondered what she was doing. “I’d love a cup of tea,” he shouted.
“I don’t know how to make one,” she called back.
“You don’t? It’s a British institution.”
Gemma appeared at his door. “That’s a place you lock people up.”
“You can’t come to England and not know how to brew up.”
“Brew up?”
“Yes.” He stood, flicked on the kettle on the windowsill and explained to Gemma that she should always put the tea bag into the cup first and never the water, which had to be boiling. “Stir the tea bag until the tea looks nice and strong. The bag must stay in for at least three minutes. Then top it up with three glugs of milk,” he said. “You’re looking for a rich caramel color. And, if you’re ever making tea, for me, I take it with three sugars.”
“That will rot your teeth.”
“It hasn’t done yet.”
“There’s still time.”
“Tea should be taken, where possible,” Benedict continued, “with a digestive biscuit. You can dip the biscuit in and hold it for four seconds. That way, it’s nice and soggy, but bits don’t fall off in your drink.”
“I’ll stick with water, thanks. Or juice.”
“You’ll be missing out.”
Gemma raised a bushy eyebrow. “So are you going to tell me about Estelle and the balcony?”
“No. Are you going to tell me more about your parents?”
She sighed heavily. “There’s nothing to say. You’re prying again.” Lord Puss wove around her ankles in a figure eight. His purr revved like a Porsche engine. “Good kitty.” She reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
The cat stood up on his two back legs and head-butted her hand. Then he jumped up onto the counter and trampled around on his purple cushion to find the perfect position. He tossed his head and glared at Benedict as if to say, See, someone recognizes my superiority.
Benedict reached out to scratch the cat behind his ears but Lord Puss recoiled. He lifted his leg and proceeded to lick his nether regions, whilst holding Benedict’s gaze.
“He can sense that you don’t like him,” Gemma said. “Cats are very sensitive.”
“It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s just that he hates me,” Benedict said, aware of how childish he sounded. “I let him live here, feed him nice food and clear up after him. I even made him a kitty den.”
“But you’re giving off negative energy. Communication isn’t always about words.”
Estelle had said something similar to this before she moved out, but Benedict hadn’t understood. If communication wasn’t about words, what was it about?
He thought it would be great if women came with an instruction manual or journal so he could read and understand what Estelle meant by things. Then he would know what he needed to do to attract her home. He could turn to the page on disillusionment and know what to carry out to prevent it. Another page might give him tips on satisfaction or communication. Then he could have communicated his feelings up to Estelle on the balcony. “I do my best,” he said.
“Hmm.” Gemma reached into her pocket and took out a small browny-gold polished stone. “Tiger’s-eye.” She showed it to Benedict and placed it under Lord Puss’s cushion. “It stops animals from thinking they’re the boss.”
“Great. Let’s hope it works on him.”
Gemma walked around the display cabinets, trailing a wavy line with her finger across the glass. “You have some nice things, though your test pieces are more exciting.”
“Why would you want to be excited by jewelry?”
“Because it says something to you. It makes you feel passionate, or surprised...”
Th
e only inanimate thing that spoke to Benedict was food. In fact, he could smell Bake My Day from here. Why not pop in and buy one of us, he imagined a croissant saying to him. We’re all so flaky and buttery.
“I make jewelry because I need to earn a living, because my mother showed me how to do it and it was the only thing I could do, when she died.” He could feel a touch of grumpiness setting in through lack of carbohydrates. “Passion and surprise don’t come into it.”
Gemma gave a deep sigh and her eyebrows twitched. She took Joseph’s journal out of her bag. “So, I’ll read through this and make some notes. I’ll wait for customers to come into the shop.”
“Good. And I’ll be in my workshop,” Benedict said. “Working on my nonexciting jewelry.”
* * *
Benedict slumped at his desk and made sure that all his tools were nice and straight. The peace and quiet felt good.
Something rustled in his pocket and he took out the crumpled photograph of him, Charlie and Amelia. A memory emerged of him telling them a joke. It was something about an escaped gorilla. Amelia laughed until tears ran down her face and it was the first time Benedict had seen his brother ruffled. Charlie’s cheeks flushed red. “I’ll leave you two jokers to it,” he said as he stormed out of the room. Amelia and Benedict stared at each other and dissolved into even more laughter until Amelia got the hiccups.
Benedict swallowed then reached out and regretfully touched his brother’s mop of hair in the photo. “I’ll look after Gemma until you get in touch,” he said. “But please hurry up.”
He opened a drawer and his heart leaped as his fingers wrapped around a half-eaten Mars bar. Congratulations, you found me, it said. It was a bit squashed, but with each bite and swallow Benedict felt calmer, and the stress of having to deal with his niece drifted away.
After he’d finished the chocolate, he took the anniversary necklace from the drawer and picked up a length of gold wire. He concentrated hard so he wouldn’t think of Estelle and Lawrence, and of his own clumsy attempt at romance. He lost himself in the roundness and perfection of each link and hardly rejected any.
Rise and Shine, Benedict Stone Page 8