When we get to the bottom of the stairs, she pulls on my hand and asks where I am taking her.
I turn to her and say, “You told me, ‘Whatever you want…Whenever you want’. So,…let’s go.”
She looks at me silently, her eyes searching mine, and then she half-smiles and says, “Let me get my coat…”.
Outside I hail a taxi on the Strand. There is no conversation between us on the way back to her flat, although my hand is on the inside of her leg, gently caressing her inside the top of her thigh. I am looking away from her out of the window, but I can hear her beginning to moan, enjoying the pleasure I am giving her.
We enter her flat, and she asks me to wait outside her bedroom for a few minutes. When she opens her door and says that it’s okay to come in, she takes my hand and pulls me on to the bed. I still have not yet spoken since we left the club, and silently I now proceed to remove her clothes until she is naked before me. Only then do we kiss for the first time, a long, slow kiss, which gathers pace and speed, until I too am naked and on top of her, thrusting in and out, furiously driving off the darkness and searching for that moment of true acceptance, which when it finally comes is so overpoweringly complete, but yet so empty and meaningless.
I lie there for a moment, listening to Dianne breath beside me. Her eyes are closed. We still have not spoken a word.
I stand up from the bed, slowly putting on my clothes. Dianne opens her eyes and watches me. She has also not yet spoken. I pick up my jacket, and walk out of the flat. An hour later I am alone in my bed in my flat. And I am crying.
Chapter Thirty Six
.
.
It is already a very warm day when I awake, and I throw back the curtains and lift up the old sash window, clicking it into place and letting the fresh air stream into my bedroom. Guy has left the flat by the time I wander into the kitchen, a note upon the table telling me that Mandy has agreed to spend Saturday afternoon and Sunday evening with Sal, and asking if I can do the Saturday night shift? Guy will be there the rest of the time.
The shower revives me, washing away the last remnants of my dream, a nightmare concoction of dark shadows chasing me through strange landscapes, and some locations and buildings which are, I am sure, places I used to know when I was a small child. Once during the night I woke myself up, having shouted loudly for my mother, but waking only to find myself twenty-six years old and not a child of four. When I fell asleep again, it was only to return to the chase, finding that the shadows had been waiting for me, expecting me to return.
There is an emptiness in me this morning that scares me. Before,…until last night…, I had lived with a plan that for the past three years had successfully staved off the otherwise undeniable fact that with the death of my father, there was no longer anyone in the world that had any authority over me. The search for my mother, or at least even the thought that my mother was out there to be searched for, was enough to prevent the dark clouds descending. Last night had changed all of that. Perhaps it would have been better if I had turned away and walked down the red tiled path without having knocked on the door. Perhaps it would have been better to have left the plan just as it was, as a plan, thereby leaving it as something that I could have drawn strength and hope from in the future whenever I had needed the reassurance that I was not an orphan abandoned in a big, wide, lonely world.
When I think about my mother this morning I realise that now there is no possibility of understanding, of forgiveness, of reconciliation. There is no possibility that one day she will be proud of me, or that one day she will come to my wedding, or bounce my son upon her knee.
The truth is that now, it is only me and Hannah. The last of the Jardines.
Walking back into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around my waist, I pour myself another cup of tea and decide to relax for a while by listening to some music and reading my book on the comfy sofa in the lounge.
As I settle down on with the new Scissor Sisters album playing on Guy’s hi-fi, I open Marrying Slovakia to where I left off and find a smile forming on my lips. The memory of my evening with Slávka fills my mind, and I recall and then replay over and over again the moment when she kissed me on the side of my cheek and thanked me for the flowers. I remember the feeling I was left with at the end of the evening that I no longer felt alone, and in a moment my mood changes from one of sadness to being filled with excitement.
Slávka.
Impatiently I wait for my mobile phone to power-up, swearing loudly when I press the keys too quickly and am sternly told off with a message saying “SIM CARD NOT READY”. Eventually allowed to move to ‘Messages’ and ‘Inbox’ I open the text from Slávka and re-read it several times:-
“Andrew. Thank you for taking me to concert. Very good singer. Want to buy album. I enjoy your company too. Please let me know what how friend Sal is. Perhaps, if you at hospital later this week, maybe you let me know and we go coffee in canteen?”
I hit ‘reply’, wanting very much to communicate with her, but not knowing what to say. I sit there for a while, listening to the music, running through a myriad of variations, trying to decide if I should ask her out for another date now, or wait until I ‘casually’ bump into her in the hospital. The last thing I want to do is to push it, or lose her because I may appear too keen.
I realise that Slávka needs a plan, she mustn’t be rushed.
“Hi Slávka, I’m just reading ‘Marrying Slovakia’ and I was thinking of you and how nice it was to see you this week. Are you going to be at the hospital this evening? I will visit my friend, and wondered if I could buy you a coffee in the canteen?...”
Should I just say I want to see her, or is it better to make an excuse why I want to see her? My fingers tap away at the keyboard and I add another sentence at the end of the text, “…I have some more questions about Slovakia.”
I delete the sentence. I type it back in again. I delete it again.
Blast.
I type it in again, and immediately hit “SEND”, watching nervously as the mobile tries to decide on my behalf whether or not the message should be sent, but after a pregnant pause which seems to last an age, “MESSAGE SENT” appears on the screen.
My tea is still warm, but for a man that needs an excuse to divert his attention away from the possibility of imminent rejection, going to the kitchen and pouring it down the sink and making a new one, is a brilliant way to kill time.
“Beep , Beep,” the mobile declares before I have even finished filling the kettle.
I hurry back into the lounge and pick up my mobile from where I had left it on the armrest of the couch, and click on messages and open it up.
“Hi Andrew, I will be fixing pipes in Hospital until 10 pm this evening. Would be very nice to teach you more useful facts about Slovakia. Also maybe I ask you question on Scotland or Scottish men.”
It only takes me a moment to type in my reply, but this time I wait all of fifteen minutes before I hit the SEND button: “I look forward to seeing you. I will call you about eight o’clock and see where you are and what you are up to. Andrew.”
.
After lunch I finally get round to calling Gail. When I suggest that we should meet up for a tea or coffee on the South Bank by the River Thames, she quickly agrees, sounding genuinely pleased that I have called her.
She’s wearing a very attractive summery blue dress when I see her an hour later, walking towards my table where I am already sitting drinking a tea and reading a couple of pages of Marrying Slovakia. Her long hair looks light and soft today, bouncing on her shoulders as she walks, and in a purely physical reaction I think again just what a lucky guy Ben is.
I stand up from the table, and she kisses me firmly on the cheek, her hand gripping my arm as she does so.
“So, how are you?” I ask her.
“Fine. And you?” she asks, her eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun.
“I did it. I went to see my mum last night at the address we found when we were
cleaning up my dad’s things after he died.”
Gail’s eyes open wide and she sits forward, her arms stretched across the table, grasping my hands.
“Wow. So what happened?”
“Nothing. She doesn’t live at that address anymore. My aunt does.”
“Your aunt? Had you met her before?”
“Not that I can remember. Maybe when I was a little baby. But until last night I didn’t even know I had an aunt. The best part is I also have an uncle, and two cousins.”
“That’s brilliant! You must be so excited. Wow. So when are you going to meet them?”
“I’m not. They want nothing to do with me.”
“What?”
“My aunt gave me a cup of tea, we chatted for a while, and then she threw me out. Apparently having anything to do with the Jardine’s.-my dad’s side of the family-is a mortal sin.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. My aunt even refused to give me my mum’s proper address, or tell me anything about her whatsoever. Then she kicked me out and told me never to go back there.”
“Wooaahh. Why so harsh?”
“I don’t know. The whole thing was really bizarre…”
“How do you feel?” she asks, squeezing my hands.
“Strange. I don’t know…weird. It’s like…I mean, I always knew that my mum was probably good for nothing, and that she must be totally inhuman, given what she did, but I suppose I had always wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. But yesterday just confirmed it.”
“I’m sorry. It must be hard.”
“Yep…it is…” is all I can answer. Gail squeezes my hands again and then sits back in her chair. We both look out towards the river, silent.
So, how are things with you and Ben?”
“The sex or the relationship?”
“Both.”
“The sex is good. When we have it. And Ben is lovely. When I see him.”
“What do you mean, ‘when you see him’?”
“He’s always busy. He’s always working late at work, or studying Italian alone at home or going to Italian classes somewhere in the city,…or going out with his ‘mates’,… and once a week he gets together with his pals and plays poker all night long. The next night he’s always so tired or hung-over that he doesn’t want to go out. At first it was all candlelit dinners with flowers, now it’s takeaways in bed with a video.”
“It sounds nice and intimate.”
“It is. Only it’s not. Oh…never mind, it’s my problem not yours. ”
“Gail, what problem are you talking about? Come on, let’s talk about it.”
“Not now. Maybe later. Honestly, it’s okay for now.”
“Gail, you’ve only been going out with him for a few weeks, if that. If it’s already not working out, just dump him.”
“What? First you tell me to go out with him, and now you’re telling me to dump him? Make your mind up,” the colour in her cheeks suddenly rising.
“All I’m saying is that when the pain outweighs the gain, it’s time to cut the cord before the attachment gets too big. Or at least talk to him about whatever it is that’s upsetting you so much. See if it’s something that you can get over. You never know, he might not even be aware that you’re upset about something.”
“Okay, fine, …enough. Maybe I will. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. Anyway, how is your love life then?” she asks.
“Ahhh…., I was dreading when you would come round to that particular topic of conversation.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Nothing. Well, actually, something did and I might as well tell you. Sort of a pre-emptive strike, because if I don’t you’ll just hear it from the grapevine anyway…”
“You DIDN’T! Not again. You didn’t do it again?”
“I did. I certainly did. And I don’t regret it. But honestly, last night was the last time. It won’t be happening again.”
“You promised that the last time. And the time before that…” She breathes in deeply, and exhales slowly as if someone has just placed a great burden upon her shoulders. She looks away from me into the distance for a moment, before turning to me and excusing herself. “Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom…”
She gets up and leaves and I watch her walk away. Why is she reacting like this?
I briefly think back to last night and how I bedded Dianne, or Dianne bedded me, and then I think of the tears I shed, none of which were for Dianne or anything to do with her, but all of which were to do with my mother.
Still waiting for Gail to return, I close my eyes and for a few moments emptying my mind of any further thoughts about myself, my mother or anyone else, I enjoy the feeling of the sun’s rays warming my face.
I feel a hand on my head, ruffling my hair, and a soft kiss on my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” Gail says, returning to her seat. “I don’t know why, but I think that I’m a little bit jealous. Don’t worry about it, it’s my problem not yours…”
“Gail, come on…”
“Leave it. I’m fine.”
“So”, she says, breathing out and forcibly smiling. “What are you doing this evening?”
“I’m going to the hospital after I leave you. I didn’t see Sal yesterday, and Guy needs a break tonight.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”, she asks, offering again.
“No. Thanks. It’s alright. I’ll just take my new book along, and I’ll read it to her,” I say, picking it up from the table and waving it at her.
“So, what about this other woman?” she asks, like a bloodhound coming back to the scent.
“What do you want me to say?” I reply, feeling myself beginning to blush a little.
“What’s she like?” Gail asks, and I can immediately sense some sensitivity in the way she poses the question. “Is she pretty?”
“Yes. Very.” I ask, watching her closely.
“That’s nice. Have you kissed her yet?” she asks, smiling nervously.
“No. Not yet. I like her a lot and I don’t want to rush it.”
She is silent for a moment. She opens her mouth to say something, but decides against it and I sense that it’s probably best not to pursue whatever it was.
“How’s work?” she asks after a while, changing the subject.
“Busy,…” and the conversation drifts towards more practical matters and bringing each other up to date on all things Euro.com related, including the latest gossip in which I will probably once again be featuring heavily in the not too distant feature. Soon we are laughing together and talking about anything that pops into our heads. When it comes time to get another pot of tea, I return with some of the Saturday papers which I find lying around inside and we both settle back into our chairs to have a good read. At one point we both look up from our respective tabloid of choice and smile at each other.
“This is good,” I say. “Comfortable.”
“I know,” she says.
She reaches out her hand and I take it in mine, both hands resting on top of the table. We carry on reading, and the afternoon passes slowly by. In the company of friends.
.
--------------------------
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When I get to the hospital Guy has already left, but the nurse, -Mary-, hands me a note as she says ‘hello’ and informs me that Sal had been showing some signs of improvement this morning with some more obvious co-ordinated muscular movements in response to verbal questions or prompting. “It’s a small step, but in Sal’s condition, each and every step forward is a significant step in the right direction…”
The note is from Guy: “She moved her arm! I told her I wanted to marry her in March next year, somewhere on a beach in the Caribbean, and she moved her hand and her whole arm. She can hear everything we say, Andrew. Keep trying to get her to wake up. Talk to her, ask her questions, get her to respond. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Mary the nurse made me promise that I’d go out tonight for
a long walk in the sunshine. And then I’m going to get quietly pissed somewhere. Guy.”
Only one of the other beds in the ward has visitors this evening, the other two beds both have the curtains pulled back and for the first time I can see that two of Sal’s neighbours are an elderly man, probably around sixty, and a man of about twenty-five, probably around the same age as Sal. I remember that Guy said he was a motorbike accident victim. He’d been here for two years already.
I pull the curtain around Sal’s bed, putting ‘Marrying Slovakia’ on the mattress. Taking one of Sal’s hands in mine, I sit down, pour myself a glass of water and start to tell Sal all about my visit to my mother, and my evening with Dianne.
Sal is rapidly become my confessor and confidante. Only after I am finished telling her the whole story does it occur to me that if indeed she can hear everything I am saying to her and if she can also remember it all when she wakes up, that there may come a time when I might find myself regretting having been so frank and open with her.
By eight o’clock I am beginning to get rather bored, having run out of everything I can think of to say. I don’t feel like reading the book to her aloud. Not tonight.
When I return from a visit to the toilet to kill some time, Sal’s hand nearest me is lying palm upwards, exactly where I left it. I try tickling the inside of her palm but there is no reaction. A curious though hits me, and I lift her hand up, closely examining the lines on her palm, paying particular attention to the life-line. I am not a great believer in palmistry, but like most other people I pay it a passing interest, with a lay-mans knowledge of where the heart line and life-lines should be found.
Pushing her thumb gently towards the centre of her hand, I crumple up her palm, deliberately trying to exaggerate each of the lines etched into her skin. At first I see a line that is very short, but on closer inspection I see that I have overdone it and that when I let the thumb relax a little, the line extends comfortably from the crease between the thumb and forefinger and curls all the way around the base of the thumb and carries on some distance further up on the other side of the hand. Which, by all accounts, would mean that Sal is destined to live for a long, long time. An interesting and hopeful observation, particularly when remembering that Sal is currently lying in hospital almost half-way through death’s door.
The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two) Page 24