Mark told me that it was a dreadful time, but the police managed to piece together what had happened. They concluded that Mia had fallen down the stairs about forty-five minutes after Mark left the house. She must have run downstairs to go into the gym. She tripped and fell, a loose lace on one of her trainers being blamed for the accident. The thinking was that she must have trodden on it and gone headlong down the stairs. Her watch was shattered and had stopped, which was how they had been able to assess the time so accurately.
I always knew that there was something missing from that story – some small detail that Mark had chosen to omit. In the end, he told me the rest of it, or at least, the version he believed to be the truth.
I suddenly return to the here and now with a jolt. The only sound in the room is that of the waves crashing onto the rocks below, but both Mark and Cleo are staring at me. Mark must have asked me a question and I haven’t answered. Cleo, I know, has expressed concern about my ability to shut out the world while my mind explores some other place, some other time. But she has no idea where I go to. I don’t think she would like it there.
‘Is someone going to tell me what happened?’ Mark is looking from me to Cleo, sensing that he might get more of an answer from his sister.
He knows why I didn’t call him, and I wander into the kitchen to put the kettle on. I don’t drink alcohol often these days, and Cleo never touches anything that might put poison into her bloodstream, so I grab a single glass to pour Mark some wine. I hear him talking in a low voice to his sister. They know full well that I can hear them speaking, if not the words they’re saying. It’s a big space, and Lulu is producing the strange humming noise she makes when she seems to be trying to sing. The kettle is gurgling away as the water boils, but conveniently it clicks off at the exact moment that Lulu stops murmuring. Just in time for me to make out Cleo’s words.
‘What shall we do?’
6
I’m relieved when Cleo leaves. The evening has passed without incident, although I could feel the tension sizzling round the room.
Mark has been worried since he walked through the door and found Cleo here. He doesn’t know what I’m thinking. I could see he was unsettled, unbalanced, and he hates that. He worries that he might be sinking back into the depression out of which he believes I dragged him, and tonight isn’t the way he would have planned his triumphant return. I feel a pang of regret for what might have been.
Cleo watched the two of us all evening, trying to understand the dynamic and wondering why I was moving away from Mark if ever he came too close. I pretended I hadn’t heard what she said earlier. I knew what she was trying to do. Since Mark and I got together, there has always been the danger that Cleo will try to worm her way between us, and I think she might see this as her opportunity. ‘What shall we do?’ puts her and Mark on one side, with me on the other. It makes me the problem – my accidents, my clumsiness.
Alienating Cleo is not the answer though, so I insisted that she stay and eat with us as a thank you for all her help over the past week. Even one-handed I managed to griddle three steaks and Cleo chopped the salad ingredients.
I wasn’t ready to be alone with Mark. We both needed time to settle first, and I wanted Cleo to spend a little time with us both, to get a sense of how things are between us.
But she’s gone now, and we can’t avoid the conversation any longer. For once, I decide to have a large gin.
Mark sits down opposite me and leans back against the soft sofa cushions, watching me sip my drink.
‘How are you really?’ he asks, suspecting that I had put a brave face on things for Cleo.
‘I’m fine. It was painful – it’s still painful. But it’s done now.’
‘I should have come back.’
How can I tell him that I didn’t want him to? I know this is hurting him too.
‘Can we change the subject?’ I ask. ‘I haven’t been able to do any more writing, I’m sorry to say.’
I’m talking about his blog, which I’m supposed to update regularly to help promote him. I’m supposed to be contributing to his career and the online marketing has become my province. It’s my own fault – the blog was my idea in the first place.
The original commission for a series of photographs by Marcus North had done little more than introduce me to the man. I had been expecting long sessions in his studio, sitting for him as he tried to capture me on camera, getting to know him, getting close to him. But only one photograph was a studio shot, and that took no more than a couple of hours. The others were in settings of his choosing – each and every one dramatic in its own way. But I was instructed to meet him at the location, and while he was firing off shots his mind was only on his camera and giving me instructions.
‘Lean a little more towards me. No – just your upper body.’ Or, ‘Throw your head back and then bring it forward again.’ The camera would be clicking on continuous shooting mode as I turned, jumped, or balanced. There was no opportunity to talk while these works of art were being created.
And then we were done. The pictures were finished and he had to perfect each of them on his computer to turn them from the mundane to the extraordinary.
It was after I received an email from Mark asking me to go and view the final images that I had to share my tragic news with him. I arrived at his door in floods of tears.
‘Mark, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘It’s my father. He’s dead!’
I sobbed out the words, and despite looking perplexed and unsure of what he should do, Mark invited me in, sat me down and gave me a glass of water.
‘What happened?’ he repeated.
I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my head in my hands.
‘He had a heart attack. It was instant, which is great for him but crap for the rest of us.’
I cried some more, and Mark opened a bottle of wine thinking that might help, all the while looking as if he knew he should be doing something for me, but didn’t quite know what.
‘I don’t know what to say to you. All Dad’s money is tied up in probate, and it’s going to be so bloody difficult to unravel. He’s got too many dependents and his ex-wives are all clamouring over what’s theirs – which should be nothing, but I don’t know how it works. They reckon it will be at least six months until some money is freed up, and then the whole lot will no doubt go to my witch of a stepmother.’ I kept my head down, afraid to face him. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to pay you, Mark. I’m so very sorry.’ I spoke quietly, the shuddering shoulders stilled.
He let out a bark of relieved laughter, as if I might have been expecting something more of him. This, however, was something he could handle.
‘God, that doesn’t matter, Evie. It’s only a pile of photographs, and I hardly need the cash. I’m just sorry for you – did you live at home with your dad?’
‘Sort of. I had my own apartment in the house, but now that will have to be sold of course, so I’m going to have to move out.’
Mark topped up my wine glass. ‘Do you have somewhere else to go?’
‘No.’ I let that lie for a while and took a gulp of wine. ‘I was thinking of moving down here. I can work from anywhere, and I’ve liked what I’ve seen of this part of the world. Beats London anyway. I only stayed there to be near Dad.’
He moved around the kitchen, giving me some space, I think. Or maybe he had run out of words of sympathy.
‘I should go.’
‘No – it’s fine. Stay a while and look at the sea. I always find it soothing.’
We chatted, off and on, and I did as he suggested. It had turned dark and there must have been an electric storm out at sea, because every few moments the sky lit up and the bright white light reflected off the rippled surface of the water. Finally, Mark asked about my job and why it was that I was able to move around freely, and I told him that I create and manage blogs for customers.
‘I did a degree in creative technology at Kingston University,’ I told him. ‘A bit too far from home to travel daily, but close enough that I was able to get back most weekends.’
Mark feigned interest in my course, but I already knew that he thought design done solely on a computer didn’t count for much.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ I said suddenly, looking up at him, enthusiasm bursting from me. ‘I’ll create a blog for you – for free, of course – as a kind of payment for your time on the photos. It’ll give you a presence on the internet, and you need that. I’ll set it all up and then it just needs updating every so often. I could do that too. Can I? Please say yes.’
‘Why would anyone be interested in me?’ The amazement on Mark’s face hadn’t been faked. ‘I’ve hardly done anything worth blogging about, surely? What on earth could I talk about?’
I had to persuade him that he was wrong; that he was a beacon of hope for young artists in all fields. He was a young man with his own successful gallery, living what many of his contemporaries would consider the dream.
‘Oh, come on!’ he said, his eyes wide with astonishment that I might think this. ‘I married an American heiress, for God’s sake. That’s the only reason I have the house and the gallery. Mia paid for the lot.’
That had been hard to argue against. I wasn’t ready to walk away from him, but I could feel Mia’s eyes watching me as I spoke.
‘How you got here doesn’t matter. It’s your art people are buying – not hers.’
Mark had shaken his head and run his fingers through his hair – always a sign of confusion – leaving him looking slightly wild.
‘People go into the gallery mainly because of Cleo’s jewellery. She’s an artist too, but she won’t take any credit. They go in looking for a £200 bracelet and she breaks her neck trying to sell them a £2000 photograph, or an even higher-value commission.’
I told him that was an excellent point. We could put Cleo’s jewellery on the site too, emphasising how he couldn’t have done any of it without her.
‘Have you always been close?’ I asked.
‘She looked out for me. She’s two years older than me, and when I first went to secondary school I was the butt of a few jokes because all I wanted to do was take photographs. I was bullied for being different. One boy in particular was a complete bastard to me.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’ Mark glanced away from me for a second and I couldn’t read his expression. ‘In the end, the problem went away. Cleo was on to him, but… it’s a long time ago.’
I could see in his face that he was ready for me to leave. My tears had long since dried, and I stood up, turning to him as I reached the door.
‘Look, I’m going to try to find a place around here this week to rent for a month or so. When I’m sorted, why don’t you join me for dinner one night? I’d ask Cleo too, but maybe it’s better if you make the decision about the blog yourself, because you know what Cleo will say.’ I was standing close to him and I raised my face and smiled at the idea of Cleo’s excitement, my breath caressing his chin. ‘Perhaps we should make our plans and we’ll tell her when we have a clear idea of what we’re going to do.’
It was the first move I’d made to place myself with Mark. The two of us together, facing Cleo.
And so it began.
‘Where would you like me to take you to dinner?’ I hadn’t paused for his answer, carrying on with enthusiasm. ‘Ooh – I’ve got an idea. This might be a bit off the wall, and if you prefer something grander, please do say, but I discovered this brilliant little crab shack down the coast. It’s a bit rough and ready, but the food is to die for – if you like crab, of course. What do you think?’
His face lit up. ‘How did you find it? It’s a gem of a place. I haven’t been for ages. I used to go a lot before Mia but it wasn’t her kind of thing. I’d love to go there again.’
I had somehow managed to raise a spark of interest in a man who had thought he was emotionally dead, and I set in motion a chain of events that led us to where we are today. I spent nearly every day with him after that, claiming I had to make recompense for my failure to pay for the photographs, working on the blog but often offering to make him lunch, dinner. I became indispensable. The blog – my excuse to be around him – did bring him business, commissions that took him away from me. But I stopped working as soon as I became pregnant, claiming I was struggling to concentrate.
I have only recently started to post articles about Mark again, mainly because Cleo kept going on about it. But now – with my hand in plaster – I’m not able to continue, and I apologise again.
There is a flash of irritation on Mark’s face. ‘I’m not the one who cares about the blog. You know that. It’s the least of our problems.’
We end the evening with a mountain of unspoken words between us, and Mark decides it’s time for bed.
‘I’ll be with you in a while,’ I tell him. I don’t want him to see me struggle to get undressed and I don’t want him to help me. I don’t want to be needy. ‘I’m going to sit with Lulu for a bit. You go ahead.’
‘Evie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper before I left. And I should have called you to apologise. Will you forgive me and come to bed?’
‘In a while,’ I say, with neither anger nor forgiveness in my voice. But I feel my heart break a little more at the look in his eyes.
He’s disappointed. Despite the friction, Mark is a man of routine. His rituals keep him focused, and tonight’s his first night back after a trip. We should be making love, but we won’t be. I’ve disrupted his plans, unsettled him. He won’t like that.
7
One of my pleasures in life is watching my daughter sleep. It takes me away from reality and gives me peace. When she sleeps, all I can see are the naked features of her face, as if the sea has washed over her skin and taken away everything but the pure beauty of her tiny nose, her pink lips and the bluish tinge of her eyelids.
I reach out a finger and stroke her soft cheek. I made this child with Mark, and I want to enjoy every moment I can with her before the inevitability of what is to come.
I wonder if it could have been different, if I could have taken an alternative path? I’m always fascinated by the thought of how one single decision can alter the course of not just one life but potentially so many. How might things have turned out if Mark hadn’t chosen that night – the night that Lulu was conceived – to talk to me about his childhood? Would we ever have become a couple? We had known each other for a few months, and with each passing week Mark had begun to reveal more of himself. I knew he found me attractive, but I also knew I had to let him make the first move.
I had been working hard for him that day, and had cooked him a simple, but tasty, home-made pizza for dinner. He took great delight in eating food that would have made Cleo run for the door. He wouldn’t tell her about it though; that would mean telling her how often I cooked for him, and he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
We’d finished eating, and had moved to sit in comfort while we shared another glass of wine. Mark encouraged me to talk about my father as he assumed my grief was still raw, but I deflected the conversation and asked him about his own parents. He told me he and Cleo had an unsettled childhood – not quite on the scale of my own, but difficult enough.
‘I barely remember my mother. She left when I was just seven, and I’ve never known why. My dad wouldn’t talk about it – we weren’t allowed to mention her name. All I know is that Cleo and I came home from school one day and Dad said, “She’s gone.” I do remember that we never needed to ask who. I ran upstairs, crying, but I stopped when I reached the doorway to my room. There, in the middle of my bed, was her camera. She’d left it for me. The only memory I have of her is the three of us on the beach. She was laughing at Cleo and me pretending to be pirates, fighting with swords made from pieces of driftwood, and she was snapping away with her camera like crazy. But I don’t remember mu
ch else. She loved that camera and after she’d gone it was the only thing I had left of her.’
I perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning towards where he sat on an adjacent armchair, hanging on his every word. I felt my pulse quicken. Tonight was going to be the turning point. I heard a voice in my head, ‘Walk away, walk away.’ It was my last chance, and I didn’t take it.
‘Dad tried his best, but he was lost. When Cleo and I finally left home, he gave up the battle and took his own life. I don’t think he’d ever recovered from Mum leaving. Cleo saved me after that. I wanted to look for Mum, but Cleo said she’d made her choice years ago and we had each other. We didn’t need anyone else. I realised at quite a young age that I need to live by a set of rules, routines. I felt as if life had always been outside my control, so Cleo told me what to do. Not in a bossy way, but because she understood that my head was – and still is – a jumbled mess. Mia took over from Cleo, but when she died the rules were broken and life seemed too difficult. That’s why I was so depressed – not just the thought of losing her, but the thought that I had no structure to cling onto.’
I reached out both hands and grasped one of his, smiling gently at him. He could read this as the caring touch of a friend, or he could see it as something more. His eyes met mine and I knew he wanted me. I edged forward on the sofa and I felt a slight tug on my hands. It was all I needed. I dropped to my knees in front of him, letting go of his hand so that both of mine were free to rest on his thighs. He gripped my upper arms with his fingers, harder than was necessary but not because he wanted to inflict pain. It was more to do with his uncertainty. I moved closer, my hands sliding up to his hips, urging him towards me, and he slipped his hands around my waist and lifted me into him.
The following days were exciting. I felt as if my life was slotting into place and I was right where I wanted to be. Mark was keen that Cleo knew nothing of what was happening – at least for now – and I was happy with that. I knew she would cast doubt on my suitability and question my motives.
And So It Begins Page 4