by Silver, Amy
‘I love you,’ I said, my voice husky with tears.
‘I’m sorry.’ He took me in his arms, pulled me away from the railing, turned me around to face him, held me tight. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen. I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry.’
I pushed him away, started up the steps to the gangway, slipped. Again. This time he didn’t catch me. He tried to help me up, but I pushed him away a second time. I staggered to my feet, half blind, desperate to get away, to be anywhere else but here.
On the quai, I stopped for a second, disoriented, not sure which way I should be walking. I wasn’t sure I’d find the hotel on my own. I wanted to be sick. I could feel the mix of champagne and the cheap red wine rising in my gullet. That was it, I was the drunk girl, throwing up outside at the New Year’s Eve party. This was not what I’d imagined for New Year’s Eve in Paris, this was not the impression I’d wanted to leave on sweet Bertrand and hateful Laure.
Laure, with her perfect skin and her skinny arms, her insouciant French style, her supercilious looks. I hated her. I hated her. I wanted to go back into the party, tell her husband, her lover, whatever the fuck he was, that she’d been cheating on him – with a man he counted as a friend. I wanted to tell him that their partnership meant nothing. But what would be the point? He probably already knew. They were probably one of those nauseating French couples who had a completely relaxed attitude to adultery, for whom sexual jealousy was an absurdity. They probably came home from their respective lovers and compared notes in bed.
I knew I wasn’t getting back onto that boat, I didn’t have the guts and I didn’t want to give the patronising, smug bitch the satisfaction of showing her how crushed I was. I started to walk away, heading back towards to the sodding Eiffel Tower and all of a sudden all I could hear was Julian. Julian yelling at Aidan. I turned back. He was standing on the deck, with Karl at his side, Karl pulling at his arm, trying to get him to walk away, but he wouldn’t. He was up in Aidan’s face, shouting at him.
‘This is the last fucking time, Aidan. This is the last time you break her heart. You stay away from her. Do you understand what she means to me? You break her heart; you break mine. We’re done, you and me. I don’t want to see you any more, not after this.’
Then Aidan was grabbing his arm, trying to say something, but Julian shouted. ‘Will you fucking grow up? Will you ever grow up?’
I started to walk away again, but Julian caught up with me, grabbed me violently and pulled me into his chest. We stayed like that for a moment and then, with his arm firmly around my shoulder, he marched me away from the boat.
We walked in silence for what seemed like ages, me stumbling along beside Julian on the cobbles, him holding me up. From the apartments on the riverside and the boats on the quai we could hear the sound of people carousing, the cheers as the clock struck midnight. People greeted us as we passed, wishing us bonne année. I attempted to reply, Julian said nothing.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked him eventually. ‘What about Karl? And Alex?’ He stopped marching for a second, looked around.
‘There,’ he said, and pointed up a side street to a bar fifty yards or so up the road.
Le Rendezvous, a tiny dive stinking of stale beer and Gitanes was not a place I would have picked to celebrate the arrival of the new year. In fact, it appeared it wasn’t a place anyone would have picked to celebrate the arrival of the new year, since apart from a sullen barmaid and a couple of drunks at the bar, we were the only people there. Still, I didn’t care: it was warm and I could sit down. My feet were killing me.
Julian ordered a pitcher of red from the girl behind the bar. We sat in the corner and toasted the occasion.
‘Happy New Year, Nic,’ Julian said, clinking my glass. I burst into tears again. When I’d finished crying, and had been to the (disgusting) toilet to clean myself up, I sat back down at the table, smiled my brightest smile and said, ‘Okay. I’m done. No more tears. For tonight anyway.’
Julian looked relieved, but he just slid his hand over the table and covered mine. ‘You cry all you want, sweetheart. Not that he deserves your tears. He doesn’t deserve anything from you. Shithead.’
‘What about the others? We just left without saying anything.’
‘It’s okay. I told Karl we were leaving, I said that he should find Alex and they should go straight to the hotel when they were ready to leave.’
‘I’m sorry, Jules …’
‘For what?’
‘Ruining your perfect soirée sur une peniche.’
‘You didn’t ruin it, Nic. Aidan did. Anyway,’ he said, pouring us each another glass, ‘the night isn’t ruined. It’s not over yet.’
I raised an eyebrow, then raised my drink.
‘To us,’ Julian said, clinking his glass against mine. ‘You and me, Nic. We never need anything more than you and me.’
‘And Alex,’ I said, ‘and Karl.’
‘But not Mike …’ Julian said, and we both started to giggle, and found we couldn’t stop. Tears streaming down our faces, we laughed hysterically. The sulky barmaid and the drunks eyed us with disdain. We didn’t care. Eventually, when we had regained our composure, Julian said, ‘I love Karl, and I love Alex, but you’re the most important thing in the world to me, Nic. As long as there’s you and me, everything will be fine.’
The barmaid started putting chairs on tables just after three, at three-thirty she opened the door and pointed to it. We left. We walked hand in hand along the Seine, stopping to admire the Place de la Concorde on the other side of the river. Its obelisk illuminated, it looked as though it were made of gold. We walked all the way along the Quai d’Orsay (I, abandoning all pretence of dignity and self-respect, took off my shoes and walked in stocking feet), swapping New Year’s resolutions as we went.
‘Well, I’ve got my film commissioned,’ I told Julian, ‘so I can chalk that one off.’
‘You see?’ Julian said, squeezing my hand, ‘in a few years’ time we won’t remember this New Year for him, we’ll remember it as the start of your brilliant career.’
‘Let’s hope so. In the meantime, I suppose I can put finding somewhere to live as number one. Not so much a resolution as a necessity.’
‘Move in with us!’
‘Into your love nest? I think not.’
‘Temporarily, anyway.’
Knowing I had the offer, knowing I wouldn’t have to sleep another night in the flat in Battersea, made me feel a million times better.
‘I resolve to try and do some more serious work,’ Julian said. ‘I’m tired of snapping models in their scanties. Even male models. It feels kind of soulless.’
We were walking along Quai Voltaire. We passed number nineteen, a hotel that, according to Julian’s guidebook, had welcomed Oscar Wilde and Baudelaire among others. Across the river, you could just make out the pyramid of the Louvre.
‘Oh my god, wouldn’t you just love to live here?’ Julian sighed dreamily.
‘Nope, I’ve gone off Paris. And the French. In fact, I’m crossing number five off my list, too. I think I’ll learn Italian instead.’
We turned down Boulevard Raspail, the last leg of the journey home. A car passed us, honked its horn, shouted something inaudible. God only knows what we looked like. I didn’t care.
‘There’s another resolution you need to make,’ Julian said, dropping my hand and putting his arm around me instead. He pulled me closer so that my head rested on his shoulder.
‘I know. I’m done with him now. I won’t see him any more, won’t even speak to him. He’s out of my life now.’
‘Mine too.’
‘You can’t cut him off, he’s your cousin. Plus, you love him, and he’s been good to you.’
‘I don’t care, Nic. You mean more to me than he ever will.’
We slept for a few hours in Julian’s room, me sandwiched in between the two boys. I couldn’t face going back to my room, couldn’t bear to hear his excuses, his self-justifications. Couldn’t bear his pity.
I needn’t have worried, though. When I woke, just after nine, and went back to my room, I discovered that the bed was still made, it hadn’t been slept in, and Aidan’s things were gone.
Chapter Eleven
28 December 2011
I HIT DELETE, too late.
‘I didn’t know you two were talking these days,’ Dom says, moving past me into the room. He reaches for the bottle of Scotch on the kitchen counter. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. He pours himself a glass, downs it in one, pours another. ‘There’s just so much I don’t know, isn’t there, Nicole?’
He puts the drink down and turns to face me, his arms folded across his chest, a look of resignation on his face. Here we go again.
‘If we’re going to go over that old ground, you’d better pour me one of those, too,’ I say, closing my laptop. He doesn’t move. ‘But before we get started, can I just tell you that I’m not talking to Aidan? He rang me, a couple of times, he left messages, something about a job. I haven’t rung him back—’
‘But it has been lovely to hear his voice …’ Dom’s voice drips sarcasm.
‘It has. He’s an old friend.’
‘Ha!’
‘He is, Dominic,’ I shout, getting to my feet. Mick, who’s been sleeping under the table, lets out a little whine and retreats to the laundry room. He hates it when I raise my voice. I pour myself a drink – if Dom’s going to be like this, I’m going to need it. I continue, more calmly: ‘I know there’s been other stuff between us, but I’ve known him half my life, more than half my life. And he’s—’
‘Julian’s cousin, yes, I know. He’s the only person who could possibly understand how you feel. Unless, of course, you count me. Unless you count Alex …’
‘Oh right, you can say her name now can you?’ Silence. ‘And you don’t understand how I feel, and neither did she.’
Dom sits down at the other end of the kitchen table.
‘You know what, Nic? It doesn’t really bother me that you’re talking to Aidan. It bothers me that you didn’t tell me he’d been in touch. It bothers me that you couldn’t talk to me about your dad being ill before running away to see him. This is supposed to be a marriage, a partnership. We’re supposed to be on the same side. I thought – after everything – that we’d agreed that we would talk to each other, that we wouldn’t keep secrets.’
I gulp down my Scotch, it burns in my chest. ‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘Fine. You want honesty? I can do honesty.’ I rattle off the facts: ‘Aidan rang me, he left a message on my phone. He’s running a production company in New York now, he has a project he thinks would be perfect for me. It’s a film about the role of women in the Libyan uprising. He doesn’t have a director because the person who was supposed to do it is having a nervous breakdown or something. He needs someone to start in January. And I want to do it.’ Dom says nothing, just raises his eyebrows and passes a hand over his mouth. ‘Because I hate doing what I do now, Dom. I hate it. It’s pointless, it’s trash, I hate it.’
‘So you want to go running off to Libya?’
‘Oh, I’m not finished,’ I say. The alcohol is burning in my belly now, it feels like courage. ‘Since we’re being honest, I should tell you that I’ve been talking to Alex. Well, emailing Alex. For months now. She’s supposed to be getting married again. Only the guy she’s with is cheating on her. She wanted my advice. Knowing, of course, that I have some experience in that area.’ He breathes in sharply; that punch landed. I’ve hurt him. It doesn’t feel good, it feels awful. I can’t believe we’re doing this, the day before we’re due to go on holiday.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, and leave the room. We retreat, wounded, to our respective corners, him to his study, me to mine.
Later, he calls up to me. ‘I’m taking the dogs out. You want to come?’
An olive branch.
It’s dark outside, so we don’t go onto the common. We walk along the road up towards Wimbledon Village, the dogs on leads. I take Marianne, he takes Mick. Dom takes my hand, he sings to me: ‘You can’t always get what you want.’ An old joke, but it seems to have resonance now.
‘Do you really want to go off around the world again?’ he asks me. ‘Staying in fleapits, getting jabs, popping malaria pills, getting ill all the time, getting shot at all the time, feeling afraid … Do you honestly want to go back to all that?’
‘This is an opportunity, Dom. To do something worthwhile again. And to be honest, I feel stifled here. I need to get out there again.’
‘I didn’t know I stifled you.’
‘You don’t,’ I say, squeezing his hand tighter. ‘You don’t stifle me, I just … feel stifled.’ Why can’t I explain this to him?
‘In any case, you can do worthwhile stuff here. You don’t have to go to Libya to film something real. There are plenty of awful, gritty, hard-hitting stories right here in good old Blighty, you know? There’s no reason you have to work on the kind of crap … on the kind of stuff you’ve been doing for the past few years.’
I ignore the slur on my work. It’s a fair comment. ‘I know that, Dom, but I’ve got the commission for this job, and it’s with a really good production house. That’s a big deal. I don’t have the contacts I once did. The industry has completely changed over the past few years, everyone I knew has moved on …’
We reach the end of the high street and turn right, it’s a mini-circuit we do when we’ve left it too late to take the dogs on a proper walk. Dom lets go of my hand and walks on ahead.
‘When did he ask you?’ he calls back over his shoulder. ‘When did Aidan offer you the job?’
‘A couple of weeks ago.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.’
‘And you didn’t think I’d be able to help you make a decision?’
‘Not really, no. Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to him. And not when it comes to the question of me spending time elsewhere.’
We complete the rest of the walk in silence. When we get home, I feed the dogs, wash my hands, open the fridge and stare mournfully at the leftovers. I really can’t justify getting takeout again. Behind me, Dom is opening a bottle of red wine.
‘I’m not sure all this alcohol is going to help us sort this out, Dom,’ I say, trying to sound jokey.
‘Did you honestly think we were going to get anything sorted out? Because I thought you were just going to do whatever you wanted to do, having made the decision yourself, without discussing it with me.’
I feel like I’ve gone back in time. It’s two years ago, and we’re going round and round in circles. He’s hurt and angry because I won’t open up to him, won’t tell him exactly how I’m feeling; I’m frustrated because I don’t want to have to explain everything. He’s my husband, he should get me – I shouldn’t have to spell everything out.
I take the bottle from him and pour myself a glass of wine.
‘What do you want for dinner?’ I ask him. ‘Shall we eat the rest of this bloody turkey or shall we give it to the dogs?’
‘Turkey curry?’ he says, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. I reach over to the spice rack and lob him a jar of ground turmeric.
We chop vegetables in companionable silence. I’m flooded with relief; the argument is over. I shouldn’t have told him I felt stifled here, even if it’s true. He’s right, I don’t need Aidan to kick-start my career; there’s no reason I can’t start over all by myself, in London. It’s just the thought of it: heading off on my own again, into the unknown, a small bag packed, a cameraman at my side, not really knowing what’s going to happen or how things will turn out. It’s intoxicating.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Dom asks me, tossing the remainders of the turkey, cut into chunks, into the pan.
‘Nothing,’ I say, regretting it the moment the words leave my lips. Dom raises his eyes heavenward.
‘Why can’t you just say it? Just tell me?’
‘All right,
I was thinking about work. About how much I’d like to get my career back on track. That’s all. I wasn’t thinking about Aidan.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’ He picks up the pan, jiggers it about, coating the turkey in spicy, creamy goo. There’s a long, dangerous silence. This argument is not over. I was an idiot to think it was over. Dom takes a sip of wine, he takes a deep breath. Here we go.
Round two.
‘What about the baby?’
‘Dom …’
‘You said you wanted to try.’
Not exactly true, this. He said he wanted to try and I said all right, I’d stop taking the pill. Only I haven’t. Not yet. But I don’t correct him.
‘I did, I do. But I’m thirty-four, Dominic. There’s plenty of time.’
‘We don’t know that …’
‘Well, no, of course. We don’t know anything. But there’s no reason to think we’ll have trouble. We’re both healthy, we’re not overweight – not by much, anyway, we don’t drink too much, we don’t smoke—’
He snorts.
‘Oh, for god’s sake. One cigarette every now and again …’
‘Every now and again? There was half a pack in the glove box when I took your car in to be serviced before Christmas. It was gone when I looked this afternoon.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ I throw the knife I’ve been chopping with into the sink. The dogs scarper. I storm out of the room, then turn around and storm back in. ‘I can’t believe you! You’re counting my fucking cigarettes now!’
‘Stop swearing at me.’
‘Oh, god! Don’t smoke, don’t swear, don’t talk to your friends … I was stressed, all right? I’d just found out that my father has cancer …’
‘Stop using that, Nicole. It’s ugly.’ He’s right, and I feel ashamed. ‘In any case, I would have thought that finding out your father had cancer would be a very good reason not to smoke.’ He takes another deep breath, reaches over to me and takes my hand in his. ‘Do you want to have a baby, Nic?’
‘I’m not sure.’