by Pippa Wright
I looked down at the wood-effect tabletop. I couldn’t take in everything Martin was saying – he’d destroyed our relationship for a fling with someone who didn’t mean anything to him? My mind seemed to close off, as if unable to even try to understand him. I felt my attention drift to the patterns I could discern in the smeared surface of the table. On the edge of the table, missed by the cloth, a clot of ketchup mingled with a dull yellow smear – mustard? It made me think, in a way that would have infuriated Martin if I’d been foolish enough to admit to it, of the Abstract Expressionists – giving a physical form to feelings and emotions that can’t be expressed figuratively. If only there was a way of speaking like that, blurting it all out at once without trying to form it into proper sentences, saying everything I’d been thinking for months. Everything I thought of saying at this moment sounded flat and clichéd – ‘You cheated on me,’ ‘I don’t know if I can trust you again,’ ‘I need some time.’
Or perhaps I just really did want to throw the ketchup in Martin’s face. He stretched his hand across the table and lifted my chin up so that I would look into his eyes.
‘Rory, Rory, Rory,’ he said. His face softened with sympathy. ‘It’s okay to be angry with me. I’ve been a terrible boyfriend. I don’t know how I can make it up to you. I just know that I want to. Please let me. I’m trying.’
I dropped my eyes down, although his fingers still tilted my face upwards.
‘I – I don’t know,’ I whispered.
‘Rory,’ he said firmly. I felt his fingers twitch under my chin as if he was about to shake my head to rearrange the contents into a form he found more amenable. ‘I know this is hard, but you need to think about your life. You’re thirty—’
‘Nearly thirty,’ I insisted. Had he forgotten my birthday was in September, on top of everything else?
‘Nearly thirty,’ he conceded. ‘You need to think about your future, Rory. Our future. It’s lonely out there, Rory, lonely and difficult. Remember how your aunt had to be taken to hospital alone? A single woman all on her own? Is that what you want for yourself?’
I pushed his hand away furiously. ‘Auntie Lyd is an amazing woman. She’s not a figure of pity,’ I snapped. But hadn’t I been guilty of thinking just the same when I’d accused her of being a victim of Jim’s supposed conartistry?
‘Not pity, no,’ said Martin. His voice seemed to become softer the more agitated I became. ‘Your Auntie Lyd has made choices in her life. And they’ve had consequences. I just want you to think about what sort of choices you are making in your life. That’s all. I’m thinking of you, Rory.’
‘I’d be happy if I was like Auntie Lyd when I reached my sixties,’ I declared, jutting out my chin. ‘You saw her on the ward, all those well-wishers, everyone sending her flowers. She’s got a brilliant life, I don’t care what you say.’
‘Rory,’ he said sorrowfully, his eyes sympathetic and pitying. ‘You really think that’s what you want? To live alone with strangers for the rest of your life? Never to have a family of your own? You’re not like her.’
‘I – I—’ I saw suddenly and horribly that I didn’t want that. I loved Auntie Lyd, but I didn’t want to be her. I did want a family of my own.
‘And what if your aunt hadn’t got better?’ he asked, gently. ‘Where would you be then? All alone, Rory.’
I blinked at him, unable to speak. I didn’t want to think about the possibility of life without Auntie Lyd. Martin leaned closer, his voice low and persuasive.
‘You have a right to hate me, Rory. I understand you’re angry. But please, don’t throw away everything we once had out of pride. Without even thinking about it.’
I looked away from him, studying instead my reflection in the smeared surface of my knife. What if I said no to him now and that was it? What if I never met another suitable man again? It wasn’t like I’d met anyone really wonderful in the time we’d been apart – if it was a choice between Martin and Malky or Teddy or Luke or Sebastian, then it was impossible not to see that Martin was superior to all of them. Would I torture myself for the rest of my single Auntie-Lyd-like life, remembering the morning when I sat opposite Martin and said no to the security and stability – and the family – that I’d always wanted? When I settled instead for one of the terrible men off the internet, would I think of this moment?
‘I – I need more time,’ I said. He was right. I should at least think about this properly.
‘How much time?’ There was an almost imperceptible edge of impatience to his voice. Imperceptible unless, like me, you had spent eleven years listening out for it: the first tiny creak before the ice collapses.
Hot tears sprang up in my eyes. He’d forced me into presenting a united front to Auntie Lyd before I was ready, and now he was accusing me of leading him on. The waitress looked over from the counter with a sympathetic expression. I expect she was used to emotional customers coming over from the hospital.
‘It’s not even been twenty-four hours,’ I said, to the table. My eyes swam so that its surface was hardly visible.
‘Well, I’ve just had to buy a second twenty-four-hour parking permit, actually,’ Martin said, and there was no answer to that. He was always right. I didn’t need to check my watch to know he wouldn’t have made a mistake.
He raised his reassuring thumb to my cheek, where he wiped away a tear. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just because I love you, Rory. I want us to be together again. Happy like we used to be. Remember?’
I did remember. I remembered how he had taken care of me, how much simpler my life had been when I was with him. I hadn’t been tortured by indecision and confusion when I was Martin’s girlfriend; he was so sure of everything, so confident, that it calmed all of my anxieties. He made the decisions, and that made me feel safe. It would be so easy to go back to that. Not to have to start all over again with someone new. Not to have to get used to someone else’s quirks, and have them get used to mine. Martin was so tolerant of my weaknesses; would another man be so understanding? And we had been happy, we really had. It would be hard to trust him again, but perhaps it would be hard to trust anyone again. I could see how much he was trying. And he was being more patient than I had any right to expect. I couldn’t make him wait for ever.
‘I do remember, Martin,’ I whispered, picking at the label of the ketchup bottle. ‘But I do need time.’
‘As long as it takes for you to decide you’re coming home, Rory,’ he answered gently.
The waitress shimmied past our table, her fringe damp with perspiration, her arms stacked with dirty plates. Martin clicked his fingers sharply to get her attention.
‘’Scuse me, over here – what’s happened to our food? We haven’t got all day, you know.’
33
Stepping out into the hospital corridor on Sunday afternoon, I called the office to leave a message on Amanda’s phone.
The doctor had said Auntie Lyd would be in hospital for at least another two days, although her recovery had been significantly better than expected. Already she had been able to take an assisted shower, having haughtily declined the offer of a bed bath, and she had been persuaded to eat some of the snacks that Jim had bought yesterday. Now that Dr Prasad had revealed himself as a fan of Those Devereux Girls I had a slight suspicion that he was keeping Auntie Lyd in as much for his own satisfaction as for medical observation. He became quite giddy in her presence, especially when she had signed the DVD box set that he had promenaded proudly into the ward.
More flowers had arrived this afternoon, including a bouquet from Amanda Bonham Baillie and the staff of Country House. I was touched by this unexpected show of thoughtfulness from my employers. Given that they were already aware of the situation, leaving a message for Amanda was really only a courtesy call; I was sure she wouldn’t be surprised to hear that I had to stay at my aunt’s side until she was out of hospital. I dialled the office number and waited for the beep that would tell me to speak. Instead the phone was picked
up and Amanda’s voice barked, ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, er, Amanda, hello,’ I stammered, surprised to encounter a real voice at the end of the line at the weekend.
‘Who is this?’
‘Amanda, it’s Rory Carmichael,’ I said. ‘Sorry to interrupt, I didn’t expect you to be in the office.’
‘Well I am. What do you want on a Sunday evening?’ She seemed rather blunt, given her likely knowledge of why I was ringing, but then I would probably have been more surprised if she had gone all Samaritans-helpline on me.
‘I – I just wanted to say that I won’t be in the office for a few days, Amanda,’ I said. ‘For obvious reasons. I have to wait for my aunt to be out of hospital.’
‘Your aunt? What about her?’ Amanda snapped impatiently.
Yes, my aunt,’ I said, now utterly muddled. Had I misread the card? Had the flowers been from Country Living instead, or Country Life, or maybe even Country Pursuits? There were so many rural publications it was easy to mix them up. ‘My aunt, Lydia Bell. She had a heart attack. You sent flowers.’
There was a long pause. I heard Amanda’s hissing intake of breath, as if she was inhaling through a straw.
‘Your aunt is Lydia Bell,’ she said slowly. ‘Of course, Rory, of course. Do forgive me. I’m a little distracted. A few things are – well, some things are going on here.’
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked. All thoughts of the office had been wiped from my mind over the weekend; instantly the spectre of redundancy tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me it had been there all along.
‘Yes, yes, everything under control. Nothing for you to worry about. Take as long as you need. And please do send my best wishes to your aunt.’ In the background I could hear the clicking of computer keys. I could imagine Amanda now, phone tucked under her ear, her thoughts already moving away from this conversation and back to work.
‘I will,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the flowers. It was really kind of you.’
‘Please don’t mention it,’ said Amanda, sounding embarrassed, and she hung up abruptly. I wondered if I would ever understand how her mind worked. Why send flowers to Auntie Lyd at all if she was going to be embarrassed about it? I supposed she didn’t like to be seen as having any kind of emotions, in case they revealed a weak spot in her armour.
Back on the ward, Auntie Lyd sat with Percy and Eleanor on either side of her bed, Jim kneeling on the floor next to her. The two actors gazed at her with devotion, and Auntie Lyd beamed back at them both like a beatific Madonna for aged thesps. You couldn’t mistake this woman, surrounded by her friends, for someone who was sad and alone, I thought, still troubled by Martin’s words. Although she was pale, Auntie Lyd was magnificent. She laughed at something Jim said and leaned over to ruffle his hair. He was in another one of his dreadful T-shirts –
It’s What’s Inside (Your Pants) That Counts
– and I wondered what on earth had possessed me to kiss him last night. He was so not my type. Of course he was attractive – you’d have to be blind not to see that – but he was pretty much the definition of unsuitable. A cocky wide boy who probably had a different dolly bird every week. Seeing Martin standing at the end of the bed, sleek in his expensive grey coat, just reinforced the difference between them.
Martin’s dark head was bowed as he tapped at his iPhone, no doubt taking care of important work business. Even in his weekend clothes he exuded authority. You didn’t need to know that he was a board director to see that he was unmistakably someone to be taken seriously; a grown-up. It wasn’t just me who thought so. This afternoon I had noticed that the nurses addressed most of their comments to him, as if his was the opinion that counted. He had subtly taken control of the situation, taking responsibilities out of my hands, offering to drive Auntie Lyd home later in the week even though it meant time away from his busy job. I might be unsure about Martin himself, but at least I was certain that this was my type – safe, confident, assured. He looked up as I approached the bed.
‘Rory,’ he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. ‘Visiting hours are nearly over. I’m going to take you home, and I’ll take Eleanor and Percy too.’
Jim looked up from his kneeling position next to Auntie Lyd. ‘I can take Eleanor and Perce back, if you like, mate. They might want to stay a little longer.’
‘They might indeed.’ Martin smiled down at him, close-lipped. ‘But visiting hours, as I said, are nearly over. I’ll take them home with Rory now.’
‘Okay,’ said Jim, shrugging. ‘Up to you.’
Martin cleared his throat. ‘I think I speak for the family, Jim, when I say that we are all grateful to you for your help over the weekend.’
Jim gave an embarrassed chuckle and looked up at Auntie Lyd. She patted his hand. ‘No problem,’ he said.
Martin continued. ‘Now that the immediate danger has passed, Jim, and now that I’m here to look after everyone, please don’t feel that you need to spend any more of your time at the hospital. I’m sure you have a busy week ahead of you with your – plumbing business, is it?’
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve finished at Lydia’s and I’m still waiting for the next job to be confirmed. I’m happy to help out while I’m free.’
‘But it’s not necessary,’ said Martin sharply.
Auntie Lyd pulled herself up to sitting, her mouth set firmly in a manner that I knew well. Jim moved as if to help her, but she brushed his arm away. ‘I believe I speak for my family, Martin, when I say that whether Jim’s help is necessary or not, I am happy to see him at any time, either in hospital or in my home. I hope that is clear.’
‘Of course, Lydia,’ said Martin, conceding obediently. I was glad to see that he wasn’t going to argue. He draped his arm heavily over my shoulders and nudged me very slightly towards the door as a signal we should leave.
‘Rory,’ said Auntie Lyd, holding out her hand towards me. ‘Would you mind very much staying for a little while? Just you?’
I stepped forward to the side of her bed. ‘Of course not, Auntie Lyd, I’ll stay as long as you like.’
Martin coughed behind us.
‘Martin,’ I asked, ‘is it still okay to take Percy and Eleanor back? I’ll catch the bus, it’ll be fine.’
‘Well,’ said Martin, discomfited by this change to his plans, ‘why doesn’t Jim take them back and then I can stay here with you?’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Eleanor’s hand steal into Percy’s, embarrassed at being an inconvenience.
‘Of course,’ said Jim, straightening up to standing. ‘My pleasure, mate.’
‘I’d like Jim to stay too,’ said Auntie Lyd quickly.
Martin smiled tightly. ‘In that case I’d be delighted to escort Eleanor and Percy home. At your service, Lydia.’
I helped Martin gather up Eleanor and Percy’s belongings, and walked with them to the lift. Martin’s polite affability didn’t hide from me the fact that he was annoyed. It seemed that his keenness to offer help was less deeply felt when I wasn’t its direct recipient. I made sure to kiss him goodbye, on the cheek, and he said he’d call me later.
When I went back to the ward Auntie Lyd was alone.
‘Where’s Jim?’ I asked.
‘I sent him off to get us some tea,’ she said, settling back against the pillows. She straightened the yellow blanket and pulled it up her lap.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s happening with Martin?’
Trust Auntie Lyd not to pussyfoot around the issue, I thought. And here I was trying to keep everything calm and serene around her.
‘He wants you back, doesn’t he?’ pressed Auntie Lyd, when I failed to answer immediately.
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘And what has happened to Miss Bathroom Products?’
‘He says that’s over. He says it didn’t really mean anything to him at all.’
‘Is that enough?’ she asked.
I sighed. ‘I don’t know,
Auntie Lyd. It shouldn’t be. But I’ve missed him so much.’
She nodded and said nothing.
‘He’s been really great this weekend,’ I offered. ‘So supportive.’
She nodded again.
‘Do you think he’s changed?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Can people ever really change?’
‘Yes,’ she said, to my surprise. ‘They can.’
‘Right,’ I said uncertainly. I had expected her to be firmly against giving Martin a second chance, and yet here she was seemingly encouraging me to get back together with him.
Auntie Lyd turned her head away from me and looked at the flowers that surrounded her bedside. The small pot of primroses had, I noticed, been moved to the table next to her.
‘Auntie Lyd, who’s Paul?’ I asked, very quietly, so that she could pretend not to hear me if she didn’t want to answer.
She answered without looking back. ‘Someone I used to work with, darling, I told you that.’
‘Someone – someone you were in love with?’ I asked carefully.
‘Yes,’ she said.
If I had been Ticky I would have pushed my advantage here; gone in for the kill. This was the most I had ever heard Auntie Lyd speak about her personal life; I hadn’t dreamed she would answer my questions. Instead I stayed still while she continued to stare at the flowers.
Her head turned slowly towards me, and her eyes were oddly bright, almost feverish. ‘You ask me if people can change. Paul is the reason I know they can.’
‘Who was he, Auntie Lyd?’ I asked.
Auntie Lyd sighed deeply and smoothed the blanket again on her lap. ‘Paul Johnson was my agent,’ she said softly, her eyes gazing at the ceiling. ‘Linda’s too. Quite the big shot at the time.’
Her voice drifted off and her eyes half closed. I wondered if she was falling asleep again. Outside the drawn curtains the ward doors opened and a trolley rattled in, someone asking if anyone wanted snacks; it seemed to startle her out of her reverie. Her eyes snapped open.