'He's fine. Tucked up in bed.' Brian held up his hands. 'And before you say anything, Anita helped him with his homework.'
'He told me he didn't have any.'
Isabel saw the smirk on Brian's face. Damn! She'd fallen into the trap again. 'What are you doing here then? Rose is out.'
'It's you I've come to see, Bel.' Brian leant against the doorframe. The outside light shone down on his face, highlighting his unshaven cheeks. 'It feels as if you've been avoiding me.'
'I'm busy.'
'Don't mess about. It's brass-monkey weather out here.'
Isabel opened the door wider, and Brian pushed past into the lounge. He pulled off his anorak and sat down.
Isabel hesitated in the doorway. 'Don't get too comfortable.'
Brian patted the space on the sofa next to him. 'Come and sit beside me.'
'What for?' After the humiliation of the lingerie present, Isabel had been much cooler towards Brian. It was obvious she wasn't going to get him back if she gave in to his sexual demands too easily. In any case, she didn't only want him back, she'd decided, she wanted him less cocky, more loving, more appreciative.
'Come on, Bel.' Brian stretched out his hand. 'Give a man a break.'
Isabel sat down on the edge of the sofa.
'I'm glad to have a few minutes on our own.' Brian leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His hands were clasped, his fingers interlaced. They were thick and powerful looking. Grease from the cars he worked on was ingrained in his fingers and the skin was split across the tips. Isabel used to rub cream into them. Once she'd bought him a hand massage as a birthday present, but he'd laughed at her and refused to go.
She fixed her eyes on the television set. 'I'm not going to bed with you, if that's what you're angling for.'
'Okay.'
She glanced across at him and caught a look of irritation on his face, but it was gone in a second.
'We need to talk about things,' he said.
'I thought talking was for wimps.' Images of Brian sprawled on the sofa, television control in his hand, sprung into her mind. How many evenings had they spent like that? She'd be perched in an armchair to Brian's right, waiting for his next request—a can of lager, cheese on toast smothered in tomato ketchup. 'Talk to me, Brian,' she'd say when she couldn't bear the gulf between them any longer. And he'd look round, his eyes bleary with alcohol. 'Bloody hell, give a man a break, will you?'
'I've changed.' He was leaning so close to her she could feel his breath on her arm. 'Aren't you pleased I want to talk?'
'What's there to talk about?' It was some sort of quiz show on the television, but the figures jumped about in a blur before Isabel's eyes.
'We've got loads of things to sort out.'
'It all seems clear to me. You've got a nice house, Anita, the baby, Josh. And I've got this flat, and Rose who doesn't really want to be here.' Isabel's eyes travelled around the small room crowded with furniture. 'And who can blame her?'
The front door of the neighbouring flat slammed. The monotonous beat of rock music thudded against the party wall. The room vibrated with the sound. Brian was across the floor in two strides. He hammered his fist against the wall. 'Shut that bloody row up!' He raised his fist again, but as suddenly as it had started, the music stopped. He looked back at Isabel. 'How do you stand that racket?'
She laughed. 'You ask me that?'
He sat down again. 'I'm sorry, Bel. This is why we've got to talk. Will you meet me on Sunday? I can get away for a couple of hours around lunchtime.'
Isabel felt herself soften. He looked just like Josh struggling with his homework, all creased forehead and earnest expression. He wanted her, she could see that. It would be so easy now to let him kiss her. To feel needed again. She moved towards him on the sofa.
'You've got lovely eyes,' Brian said.
Isabel gazed at him. She wanted to believe him. Every bit of her wanted to trust him. She could have her life back. Give Rose and Josh their family again. She stared at the broken veins on his cheeks. 'You've never said that to me before.'
He took her hand. 'There's a lot of things I didn't say. I'm not proud of myself. You were a good wife.' He reached out and stroked her cheek.
This was it. This was the tenderness she'd craved.
He brushed his hand over her hair, easing it back from her face.
She ran her fingers along his thigh, and he smiled. 'That's nice.' He pushed her blouse back from her shoulder and she felt his mouth on her skin, in that little hollow above the collarbone. She shivered. He freed her arm from the blouse and lowered her bra strap. Her nipple was in his mouth, and he was sucking on it. She gasped.
He lifted his head.
'Don't stop.'
His fingers were stroking her breast. His face was close. She could see her reflection in his eyes.
'It's you and me, isn't it, Bel?'
She nodded.
'Always has been. Always will be.'
'Yes.'
'You don't want anybody else?'
'No.
His fingers moved to her other breast. 'That's the end of this man you've met then?'
'What man?'
'This bastard Simon.'
It was as if he'd spat at her. She lifted her hand to cheek, almost expecting to find a globule of spittle.
'What do you know about Simon?'
'Aha! I was right.' His fingers circled her nipple. 'Simon? What sort of poncy name is that?'
She pulled away from him. It was horrible. Her breast was exposed. She felt as if a spider was trailing over her skin.
'What? What have I said?' Brian's voice had that hurt tone that reminded her of a child's whining.
She got up from the sofa, dragging at her blouse. The bra strap was in the way and she couldn't cover herself. She could still feel the sensation of hairy feet on her breast. 'Get out, Brian.'
He stood up, fiddling with his groin. 'Christ, what am I supposed to do with an erection like this?'
'You should have thought of that before.'
He tucked his shirt into his trousers. 'I don't get it.'
'No, you don't, do you?'
'All I said was that I didn't want you to see this other man. You can't blame me for wanting you to myself.'
She pulled the edges of the blouse tighter. 'I'd like you to go now.'
He put his hands on her shoulders. 'I can see you're upset. Why don't we have another chat when you've calmed down.'
'I don't want another chat.'
He squeezed her shoulders tighter. 'Meet me on Sunday. We could go to Hampstead Heath. You always liked it there.'
Isabel backed away from him. 'I'm going to Italy on Sunday to see Grace.'
'You didn't say.'
'I don't have to inform you of my movements.'
'What about Rose?'
'It's all taken care of. And I've explained to Josh what's happening.' She crossed to the television and turned it off. The scent of some cheap after-shave he was wearing was making her feel sick.
'What about Saturday?' he said. 'Are you coming to Josh's match?'
Her head jerked up. 'How do you know he's asked me?'
Brian smiled. 'Because I persuaded him to.'
Isabel swung her arm wide and clapped her palm against Brian's cheek. Her ears rang with the crack. She clutched her arms against her chest. Her palm tingled.
Brian cradled his cheek in his hand. The blue of his eyes was intense. She thought she could see tears.
'You bitch,' he snapped. 'You complete bitch.'
'You deserved it. You can't treat me like that.'
He straightened his shoulders and moved to the door. He was going. Thank God, he was going. Her legs were trembling. She couldn't collapse yet.
He looked back at her. 'Pleased with yourself, are you?'
'I told you—you deserved it.' Please go now. Just go.
'This… Simon.'
What now? How on earth had he found out about Simon?
'To
lerant sort of bloke, is he?'
'Leave it, will you? I've got nothing to say.'
'I hope he's tolerant.' The shock had gone from Brian's face, but a red weal marked his cheek. There was a cut on the cheekbone where her ring must have caught it. 'He'll need to be when he hears about your dirty little secret.'
'I haven't got any secrets.'
'No?' Brian laughed; a sound that grated. 'So he knows you've been fucking me behind his back, does he?'
Twenty-three
Isabel's eyes flicked to the departures board: Amsterdam. Berlin. Ottawa. Still no sign of her flight. They'd arrived far too early.
Simon must have sensed her impatience. 'Shouldn't be long now.'
'I hate waiting around like this.' She bunched her fists together in her lap.
He put his hand over hers. His skin felt cool, and her anxiety ebbed with his touch.
'I wanted to make sure I got you here in plenty of time,' he said. 'You know what I'm like.'
It was true he'd been late every time they'd met, and last time she'd teased him: 'Is your alarm permanently set on snooze?'
He laughed. 'It is a bad habit of mine. I promise I'll do better.'
So today he'd arrived at the flat to drive her to the airport an hour early, and they'd been waiting for an eternity for the flight to appear on the board.
'I think I'll go through passport control now.'
She felt his hand tighten round hers. 'Stay a bit longer. Till your flight's up at least.'
'I get jittery hanging about,' she said. 'At least if I go through—'
'I wish you weren't going.'
'Do you?'
'I'm going to miss you.'
She knew from the tension in his hand that he was waiting. There was an implicit script for this conversation. The gap for her reply strained between them. 'Simon, we're just—'
'I know. I know. We're just friends.'
Isabel couldn't think of anything to say. She opened her handbag and checked her passport and ticket again. Dirty little secret… dirty little secret… the words circled in her head. Her fingers gripped the passport.
'I know it's a difficult time for you, Isabel. But when you come back… I wondered… oh, hell… I'm not very good at this.' Simon put his head in his hands.
She gazed at his damaged fingers, at the puckered skin over the stumps. She longed to put her lips to them.
'You know what I'm trying to say, don't you?' With his head buried against his chest, Simon's voice was almost inaudible. She inclined her head towards his. He looked up and she found herself staring into his eyes. She felt the current race between them.
Dirty little secret … dirty little secret.
There it was: Naples. Her destination on the board at last. She jumped up. 'I've got to go—the flight's showing.'
The plane approached Naples just before two. They circled over the city and Isabel had her first glimpse of Vesuvius. It rose from the plains like a monster from the depths. A haze hung over Naples, obscuring much of it from view. But beyond, she could see the sea glittering in the spring sunshine. Despite her heritage, it was only her second trip to Italy. There had been a disastrous honeymoon in Venice: mosquitoes had mercilessly bitten Brian, and he'd driven her mad with his complaints about the crowds and the smell of decay he insisted hovered over the canals.
Isabel glanced from side to side as she walked through the arrivals gate: crowds were crammed against the barrier. Some were holding up name cards; others waved at passengers behind her. Everyone seemed to be in intense discussion—the volume was deafening. There was no sign of her sister.
Then, from behind, her case was yanked from her hand and an arm thrust through hers. 'Bel! So sorry I'm late!' It was Grace.
Isabel turned and hugged her. 'Am I pleased to see you!'
'Crisis at the restaurant. I had to catch a later ferry.'
'I've had any numbers of offers while I've been waiting.' Isabel jerked her head to indicate the men clustered round them.
'Bel!'
'Joke, Grace.'
'Sorry.' Grace screwed up her nose. 'Sense of humour by-pass.'
She headed for the exit and Isabel had to run to keep up. Her sister's normally shiny hair was lank and her black jumper had a yellowish stain across the front. She studied Grace, as she hailed a taxi and dumped the case in the boot. Under her olive-skinned complexion, she was pale and tired looking and her brown eyes were ringed with even darker circles.
'I thought we'd have lunch in Naples.' Grace leant forward to give instructions to the taxi driver. 'They say you've never tasted pizza until you've had one in Napoli.' She pointed out places of interest as they sped down the dual carriageway.
'What's up?' Isabel interrupted Grace's description of the statue they were passing.
'What do you mean? What makes you think something's up?'
Isabel pointed to Grace's right thumb. Around the base of the nail, the skin was red and inflamed. One part had a brown scab where it was starting to heal, but congealed blood had settled on the remainder like a fly. 'You haven't done that to yourself for years.'
'Don't.' Grace clutched her thumb with her left hand. Her father used to tell her off constantly for chewing her fingers. But once she left home to go to university, it stopped. For years the skin had been smooth, her nails beautifully manicured.
'There's got to be a reason for that,' Isabel said.
'I'll tell you when we get to the restaurant. It's not far now.'
They settled at a table in a small pizzeria. The waiter, a short man enveloped in an oversized apron, arrived with the menus and a crisp white cloth, which he spread on the table with flourish. Grace waved the menus away. She ordered two pizza neapolitana and a jug of vino locale. The waiter reappeared with the wine almost immediately. He poured two glasses and backed away, bowing at each of them.
'Salute, Bel.' Grace held up her glass. 'It's good to have you here.'
Isabel sipped the wine. 'It's not bad news, is it?'
'What are you on about?'
'I can see there's something,' Isabel said. 'I'm imagining all sorts of things.'
Grace reached into her bag and drew out an envelope. 'Read this.' She pushed it into Isabel's hand.
The letter had an English stamp. That made sense. Grace had come to England just before Christmas. She was ill and she'd had tests done. If Isabel opened the letter, was she going to be reading her sister's death sentence? She studied the front of the envelope. It was creased as if it had been handled many times. She didn't recognise the handwriting, but surely it would have been typed if it was from a hospital.
'Go on,' Grace urged. 'Read it.'
Isabel drew the blue pages from the envelope and sought out a signature. She raised her eyebrows. 'Archie Stansfield?'
'Read it.'
Isabel's eyes raced across the lines of elaborate heavily looped writing. Archie Stansfield's letter made her father seem so vivid. When she got to, Henry was the best friend I ever had, she thrust the pages back at Grace: 'I don't want to read any more.'
'Go on. You've got to read the rest.'
As you know, that friendship ended. Well, in a way it ended. I hated him for what he'd done, but in a way I still loved him. Hope that doesn't sound too soppy. I don't mean nothing by it. I loved my wife dearly. It's lonely since she passed on last year. But any road, it's your dad as you want to hear about.
Even though we didn't speak, I always knew what was happening. How he was getting on. There was the odd letter from him, and his mam and dad still lived nearby. Not that I spoke to them. I blamed them for what happened, especially her—she was a hard woman, his mam—but it's a small town and people talk.
Course he won his music scholarship—our Dottie always said he would—and he went off to London. He wrote to me, inviting me down to his graduation concert. But I didn't go. Then I heard he'd got married. Richard was born and then Isabel. It's all right for him, I used to think. Then you came along—'his little Grace' he cal
led you in his letter. And I saw you that once when he came to the house. Pretty little mite, you were.
Next I knew Eva had left him. I know as you said she went to Italy to nurse her mother, but his mam told my auntie Joan that she'd left. She took you with her, and his mam went down to London to look after Richard and young Isabel. I had a letter from Henry while Eva was gone: 'She's not coming back, Archie. I've lost her,' he said. In spite of everything, I felt sorry for him. I wanted to write and tell him 'You've got to fight for her, like you should have done for our Dottie. Go over there and bring her back.' I didn't write, but he must have gone, cause next thing I got a letter and he said 'she's back, but she's pregnant and it's not mine.' Happen he's got his comeuppance, I remember thinking. I didn't hear from him again, but his mam came home, so I presumed Eva had stayed.
I only saw him once more at his mam's funeral. I sat at the back, but I'm positive he knew I was there. I was surprised how different he seemed. He looked like his dad.
It was a shock when your mam phoned to say he'd gone. I'd never met her, but she said Henry had told her about me and she thought I should know. I don't know how she got my number—it was hard to understand everything she said. I wish now I'd made my peace with him before he went.
Yours truly,
Archie Stansfield
Isabel dropped the letter on the table and looked up.
Grace was staring at her. 'Well? What do you think?'
Isabel couldn't believe it: 'pregnant, and the baby is not mine.' She was off the hook. She wasn't going to have to betray her mother's confidence. Someone else had done it for her. 'I don't know what to say.'
'Aren't you shocked? Do you think…' Grace began to prompt her.
'I'm shocked at the letter. Not what it says.'
Grace didn't seem to take in what Isabel was saying. 'But Bel…' Two spots of colour had appeared on her cheeks as if she'd applied dollops of rouge. 'Don't you realise what this means: Mum had an affair; Dad colluded in covering it up and…'
'George is our half brother.'
'It can't be true!'
'Grace…'
The Piano Player's Son Page 16