by Lesley Lokko
Maryam stirred again; she was getting hungry. There were tears in Rebecca’s eyes, which she quickly brushed away as she hoisted Maryam onto her hip and moved towards the gate. She wanted nothing more than to run after Tariq and beg his forgiveness, not just for the silly little incident that had just happened, but for everything.
‘He was an Arab,’ Julian said angrily, coming up to them. He brushed at his own jacket as though he feared some part of Tariq, perhaps, had rubbed off onto him. ‘Why they don’t stop them, I’ll never understand.’
Rebecca looked up at him, a sudden wave of revulsion and shame spreading through her. ‘Let’s go,’ she said tightly, not trusting herself to say anything more. ‘Maryam’s hungry.’
‘Don’t you want to—’
‘No, I don’t,’ she interrupted him coldly. ‘I want to go home.’ She didn’t wait for his answer but pulled Maryam’s hood more tightly around her head and marched ahead, oblivious to the stinging rain.
Pick up the phone. Please pick up. Please, please, please. The shrill, insistent single tone droned on, and on and on. There was no response, no pick up, no request to leave a message . . . nothing. It was perhaps the hundredth time she’d call him since the funeral three days earlier and still there was no response. She was back in the flat in Tel Aviv. Jerusalem was a good hour and a half away . . . how on earth would she explain it to anyone if she simply took the car and drove off?
From the kitchen she could hear the sounds of the twins being fed. Julian had gone out to dinner with a business associate and would be back any moment. Her mother had already gone home. She tapped her fingers on the sideboard, a sudden urgency blowing up inside her like one of those summer thunderstorms, bewildering in their intensity. Should she . . . ? Maryam was fast asleep. She was such a good little baby; she only cried when she was hungry and even then, softly, as though she were talking to herself, not crying. She was so unlike her brothers. They, like Julian, were full of passions. Arguments, tantrums, quicksilver changes of mood. Not Maryam. She slept and gurgled her way through the drama surrounding her without so much as a whimper. What are you thinking? Rebecca longed to ask her as she stared at her face, liquid black eyes opening slowly, blinking contentedly under the scrutiny, like Tariq sometimes did.
She hesitated for a second, then snatched the car keys from the dresser and thrust her feet into a pair of sandals. She stuck her head round the kitchen door. ‘I’m just going out for about an hour,’ she said to a surprised Dorit, who was busy spooning yogurt into Joshua’s unwilling mouth.
‘Mama!’ David called out in a panic. He could see she was on her way out. ‘Mama!’
She didn’t wait to hear the rest; from bitter experience she knew it was best just to run. In ten minutes they’d have forgotten all about her. ‘Just keep an eye on Maryam, will you?’ she yelled, grabbing her jacket from behind the door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’
The car was parked across the road. She jumped in, dumped her handbag in the child-carrier and started the engine. Her heart was racing. Was she mad? She pulled out, narrowly avoiding a bus, and tore off jerkily down the road. It was seven in the evening and traffic was slowly thinning out. If she were lucky, she’d make it to Jerusalem in just over an hour. She followed the signs to the motorway leading out of Tel Aviv, her foot almost flat on the accelerator wherever she could. The road ventured out of the city, parting the thinning suburbs with small outcrops of service stations and strip malls. Half an hour after leaving, the road began its slow ascent into the Judean Hills. It was dark now; in passing stretches of light, she saw the outline of the hills and the twinkling lights of settlements, Jewish and Arab, on either side. The small engine screamed in protest as she climbed the hills, her heart still racing in time to the speed at which she drove. Shoresh. Abu Ghosh. Nahalat Shlomo. Ein Naquba. The patchwork of competing names. The main junction outside the city swam into view and was bypassed; she wound her way down past the Botanical Gardens, along the roads she’d come to know so well . . . Herzog, Jabotinsky, David Marcus and finally, Pinsker.
It was ten past eight by the time she pulled up outside the villa. She quickly checked her mobile; no one had rung. Whatever else might happen next, for the moment, everything at home was under control. She got out of the car, struggled into her jacket and ran across the road. The little wrought-iron gate was locked but there were two buzzers, one for the office, and the other for the house where Tariq stayed when he was in Jerusalem. She pressed the bell for the house and stood back, smoothing her hair away from her face. She waited for a few moments, her heart beginning to race even faster, and pressed the buzzer again. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he might not be at home. Panic beginning to mount, she pressed it for the third time. A few seconds later, a voice suddenly crackled through the intercom. ‘Aiwa?’
She jumped. ‘Is . . . Is Tariq there? Tariq b’bayit?’ she repeated in her halting Hebrew.
A torrent of words poured forth in Arabic, which she understood even less.
‘I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand,’ Rebecca shouted back. ‘I don’t speak Arabic.’
‘Hello?’ A second voice came on the intercom. ‘Who is this?’ Rebecca recognised Aysa’s voice, Tariq’s shy, quiet assistant.
‘Oh, Aysa, thank God. It’s Rebecca. Rebecca Harburg. Is . . . is Tariq there, by any chance?’
‘No, sorry, he’s not here.’
‘Oh. Um, wh-when will he be back?’ she asked, wondering what Aysa was doing in the house.
‘I don’t know. He’s in America. He left on Sunday. I don’t know when he’ll be back.’
Rebecca had to hold onto the low wall for support. ‘Am . . . America?’ she croaked.
‘Can I give him a message?’
The words were a clench of panic, deep in her belly and chest. She must have staggered and lost her balance. She found herself leaning over the low wall, with the disembodied, disconnected voice coming from the box above her head. ‘Rebecca? Miss Rebecca?’ Fortunately there was no camera attached. No one there to see the look of sickening defeat spreading across her face. She turned slowly and crouched down, bringing her forehead to rest against the cool Jerusalem stone. In her bag, her mobile started to ring. She fumbled for it, half of her torn by the wild, irrational hope that it might be Tariq, the other half by the fear of something happening at home. She stared at it. It was Julian. She took in a couple of deep breaths and then picked up.
‘Rebecca? Where the hell are you?’
‘Is something wrong? Are the kids all right?’
‘Of course they’re bloody all right! Where are you?’
‘I’m . . . I’m just . . . I just popped out for a minute—’
‘A minute? Dorit said you left around seven. Rebecca . . . what the hell’s going on?’
‘I . . .’ She had no answer for him. She had no answer for herself. She listened to his voice for a few seconds more, to the rising anger in his voice, and then she slowly ended the call. She would think of something to say when she got home, not before. Not now. Now she couldn’t even breathe. He was gone. She knew he would never come back.
109
NINE MONTHS LATER
ANNICK
London
After more than two years, she had a routine again. She got up early, showered and dressed in near-silence if Yves was home, sometimes humming to herself if he wasn’t. Dressed for the office, her hair and make-up in place, she would walk down the corridor carrying her high-heeled shoes, swinging them by the tip of her forefinger, and peek in on Didier. If he were awake, she would put a finger to her lips and kneel down in her stockinged feet beside him, burying her head into the sleepy warmth of his neck. If he were still asleep, she’d still kneel down and gaze at him, observing every single moment of his life passing. That half hour she spent with him early in the morning before the au pair arrived and Yves woke up was precious to her. Despite the fact he couldn’t yet quite speak in whole sentences, she sensed from his solemn, quiet demean
our when she entered his room and the smile on his face as he saw her, that he too understood the significance of those moments. Moments that would never come around again. At seven on the dot, Birgitte, their Latvian au pair whose English was as excellent as her French was atrocious, arrived. In two months, she’d never once been late. Sometimes with half a piece of toast still in her mouth, Annick would run out the door, briefcase banging against her legs as she ran. Fifteen minutes later, she was hanging onto a strap on the Underground, one of thousands of other young working women, most of whom had left behind a child or two, a partner, a whole other life imperfectly balanced between the opposing demands of each.
‘Morning.’ Frances breezed into the office ten minutes after Annick, an almost identical briefcase swinging from her arm. ‘Good weekend?’
Annick nodded, her attention already on the screen in front of her. ‘You?’
‘Not bad. Hubert’s been posted to Nigeria.’
Annick looked up. ‘Nigeria? Whatever for?’
‘God knows. I’ve long since given up trying to figure out why the EU does what it does.’
‘But . . . won’t that be hard for you?’
‘Me?’ Frances looked genuinely puzzled.
‘Going up and down to Nigeria. It’s a long way.’
‘Why on earth would I be going up and down?’
‘Oh, I just thought . . . no, never mind.’
‘Where are we on the Dowd case?’ Frances’ expression indicated that the personal chit-chat was at an end.
‘More or less up to speed,’ Annick answered, pulling a stack of files towards her.
‘More or less?’
‘I’ve just got a few more things to check,’ Annick said hastily.
Frances sat down at her own desk and switched on her computer. ‘Then do so,’ she said, smiling very, very faintly to take the sting out of her words.
Annick bent her head and did as she was bid.
An hour or so later, when the only sound in their office was the occasional opening and closing of the adjoining door as one or other of the PAs tiptoed in and out, Annick raised her head again and asked a question that took them both by surprise.
‘What would you do if you thought your husband was hiding something from you?’
It was hard to tell who was more flabbergasted. Frances frowned, as if she hadn’t heard quite right. ‘Sorry?’ Neither woman was given to exchanges of such a deeply personal nature.
‘No, I’m sorry . . . it . . . it just slipped out. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even . . . forget it.’ Annick’s cheeks were on fire.
Frances glanced at her quizzically for a second, then turned back to her screen. She continued typing in silence. Annick swallowed, embarrassed beyond belief. What the hell had possessed her? She tried to concentrate on her own work, praying the heat in her face and throat would dissipate. A minute passed, then another. Then Frances spoke. ‘What sort of thing is he hiding?’ she asked, eyes still fixed on her own screen.
The heat returned to Annick’s face. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I found something . . . a couple of years ago. I don’t know why it came to me just now . . . it’s been on my mind, I guess.’
‘Two years? And you’ve not said anything?’ The look on Frances’ face said it all. ‘Not a thing?’
Annick shook her head. She picked up a pencil from the pot on her desk and began studying it, as if she’d never seen a pencil like it before. ‘I kept waiting for the right moment,’ she began hesitantly. ‘I . . . I just never seemed to find it. It was right about the time Didier was born and it just didn’t seem . . . well, fair, really.’
‘Nothing fair or unfair about lies,’ Frances said quietly. ‘Even small ones. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?’
Annick glanced nervously at the clock.
‘And don’t worry about the time.’
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ Annick said hesitantly.
‘The beginning’s usually a good place,’ Frances said drily. She swung her chair round towards Annick’s and crossed her legs. ‘Go on,’ she said, her voice softening a fraction. ‘I’m listening. And don’t worry about this going any further either.’
Annick swallowed. She drew in a deep breath, unlaced her fingers and put the pencil she’d been scrutinising down. Frances’ expression was carefully neutral, as though she were prepared to hear whatever it was Annick had decided to say. As she began to speak, she could feel the weight slowly lifting from her shoulders, unburdening her, finally setting her free.
‘Go away,’ Frances said slowly, after Annick’s voice had died. She got up suddenly, and walked to the window. She laced her hands behind her back. ‘Go away, just the two of you. You need to talk, without the emotional distraction of your child. And I’m saying that for your benefit, not his. Is there someone you can leave Didier with?’
Annick chewed her lip nervously. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I suppose so . . . there’s Tash, I suppose. She’s his godmother. I wouldn’t want to leave him with the au pair.’
‘Then do it. And do it now. I don’t know how you’ve managed to keep this in for two whole years. I’d have exploded after a weekend.’
Annick nodded slowly. Now that she’d finally let it out, she too had begun to wonder how she’d managed to suppress it for so long.
110
TASH
London
It was nearly eight by the time she put the phone down and her jaw actually hurt from all the laughter and the giddy, girlish excitement of the conversation. Annick was the first person – aside from Adam, of course – whom she’d told about the house.
‘A holiday house? Where?’
‘Martha’s Vineyard.’
‘Isn’t that in—?’
‘In America? Yes, it is. Cape Cod, just north of Boston. It’s absolutely stunning, Annie, absolutely stunning . . . you should see it. It’s got five bedrooms and there’s a barn that we’ve almost finished converting and there’s a pool and—’
‘But you never said you were buying a holiday home,’ Annick protested, interrupting her. ‘And in America? It’s an awfully long way, Tash.’
‘That’s the whole point,’ Tash said excitedly. ‘It’s a home away from home. Far away. You have to get on a plane, rent a car – or I’ll have someone pick you up – and then you drive off towards the sea. It’s like being on another planet, and that’s exactly what I wanted. It’s nearly done – we’ve had architects and interior designers in there for almost six months – it’s perfect. And next month will be just the right time. It’ll be hot, but not too hot. There’s the pool and there’s the beach . . . everything you need. We’ll all go out for ten days or a fortnight, whatever time you can get off . . . I’ll make sure there’s a nanny to look after the children and you and Yves can go to New York for the weekend, or Boston . . . wherever you want. Just spend some time on your own.’
‘God, Tash . . . it sounds amazing,’ Annick said, excitement slowly growing. ‘But . . . what about Rebecca and Julian . . . and Adam?’
‘We’ll all go together. It’ll be fun, darling. It’ll be more fun than any of us have had in the last couple of years . . . and God knows, we’ve worked hard enough. I can’t wait, I just can’t wait. I was thinking I’d surprise you all – you know, tickets in an envelope and all that, but this is just perfect. Let’s fix the dates, I’ll phone Rebecca . . . we’ll get it all organised – don’t you worry about a thing. Just book the time off work and let’s go.’
It had been a while since she’d heard Tash sound quite so excited about anything, Annick thought to herself, smiling as she hung up the phone. It was sometimes easy to forget just how hard she worked. With no children to distract her and few interests outside the business, she lived, breathed, ate and slept [email protected]. In hindsight, it was understandable that she’d been so preoccupied over the past few months. A holiday home on Martha’s Vineyard. She began to laugh. Tash Bryce-Brudenell just didn’t do things by half. All or nothing.
Not for her some pied-à-terre in Norfolk, like most other people. No, it had to be Martha’s Vineyard.
She was still laughing ten minutes later when Yves walked in. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked, evidently surprised to see her in such a good mood. She felt a pang of sadness.
‘It’s Tash. She’s gone and bought a holiday home in America. She’s invited all of us for a late Easter holiday. Well, early summer, really. The second week of May. She says it’s the perfect time.’
‘All of us?’ He looked at her quizzically, opening the fridge and reaching for a bottle of wine.
Annick nodded. ‘You, me, Rebecca, Julian, the kids. Everyone. She’ll organise an au pair for the children. It’s right on the beach, apparently. A private beach. Can you imagine it?’
Yves shook his head. ‘No, I can’t.’ He carefully poured two glasses and slid one across the counter to her. ‘When did you say?’
‘Next month. The builders and interior decorators’ll be finished by then, apparently. Come on, Yves. We haven’t had a holiday since . . . well, in years. It’ll be the first time with Didi. It’ll be wonderful, I know it will. You know what Tash is like. She’ll have spared no expense. Let’s do it.’
Yves said nothing for a moment. ‘A holiday,’ he said finally. ‘All of us.’
‘Tash said we could slip off somewhere on our own,’ Annick said hesitantly. ‘Just the two of us. There’ll be a nanny and an au pair. We could go to New York for the weekend. I’ve never been, you know? It’d be nice . . . just you and me.’ She looked at him, suddenly shy. There’d been a time when Yves had been her only friend in the world. Frances was right – she owed it to him to hear whatever his explanation was. Her fear, both of what she might find out about Yves, and her very real fear of confronting him, had cost them both. Like so many marriages, Frances murmured, the woman begins to withdraw first and eventually, the man follows. ‘Stop it now whilst you still have time,’ she’d said. ‘Fix things whilst you can.’