Years After You

by Woolf, Emma

  So now what? This takes me back to last autumn and winter when he was acting so strange, working late at the office the whole time, and drinking when he was home, detached and somehow distant. I was convinced something was wrong, but was he cheating on me, or having a breakdown, or something else? So I began sneaking around, looking at his web browsing history, trying to listen in to phone calls and find his bank statements, even checking his jacket pockets for receipts—God, I despised myself for doing that. Then we talked and he agreed to go back and see Dr. Christos, and since then things have improved, at least I thought they had. We started having sex again, and he sent me on that amazing spa weekend for my birthday, and he’s booked for me and the boys to go to stay with my parents in Florida next month. But it looks like he lied about Frankfurt, so now there are other things I’m wondering about. The evenings he stays up in London—he always used to get the last train back, no matter how late he worked. His erratic mood swings: sometimes so depressed, then sometimes incredibly happy and full of joy. The constant texting and phoning late at night: yes, he still does. I haven’t written much on my blog about it, these past few months, because . . . I’m scared to admit it . . . Harry’s always been a bit volatile, he gets low, and he can be tricky sometimes, but what if this is different—what if there’s something fundamentally broken in our marriage? I’m scared to do any more snooping, in case I find out—because what then?

  I can’t get Fiona’s expression out of my mind: sympathetic but pitying. Why would Harry invent that about seeing Will if he wasn’t? What was he doing? What’s he doing right now?

  “I’d like to put in an offer.” She couldn’t afford it. But with Harry’s money, she could.

  Lily was viewing the Belsize Park flat again, alone this time, and she knew it was perfect for her. This flat at this price was a rarity—by rights it should have sold instantly. The only reason it hadn’t, according to the estate agent, was that the owner was very particular about the buyer. “She wants to share her house with someone nice,” he said, looking slightly weary.

  Lily had been back in the flat less than five minutes when she decided. She wasn’t being impetuous: she’d done the rounds of hopeless flats, and she could tell within a few moments of walking into a place whether she could live there. The estate agent was pleasant enough, but his professional patter was wasted on Lily. She wasn’t going to be talked into something which wasn’t right, even if he was losing patience with her. The flats he had shown her in Hampstead, Kilburn, and Kentish Town were either way too small or way too expensive, usually both.

  This flat was on the second and third floors of a huge leafy villa on England’s Lane, a road connecting Belsize Park with Primrose Hill. Huge bay windows meant that light flooded into all the rooms. There were two bedrooms at the top—the larger one with sloping ceilings and a skylight. There was also a small boxroom, ideal for a home office. The kitchen was a little battered but functional, large enough to hold a wooden table and chairs; the living room looked out onto the street, with stripped pine floorboards and lots of bookshelves. Best of all, there was a thirty-foot garden at the back of the house, and a small roof terrace, to which Lily would have access.

  Lily loved split-level flats, as she explained to Harry at that first viewing. “I don’t know why, but I really like stairs. There’s something about being all on one level which makes me feel confined.” Lily had already fallen for the flat, but she wanted it confirmed by someone more objective. “What do you think, isn’t the light fantastic?”

  “It’s perfect, Lil.” Harry stood in the middle of the empty living room and looked around. “And the cafés and bars along England’s Lane are great too.” The estate agent was outside in his car this time, catching up on phone calls. “The kitchen could do with some modernising, but it’s definitely all here. So much space—and you can really make it your own. And you said the old lady was happy for you to use the garden?”

  The “old lady” was Susan Archer—or Lady Archer as Lily had glimpsed on an envelope in the hall. She wasn’t really old, mid-sixties perhaps; on her second viewing, Lily had passed her sailing out of the front door in a whiff of Chanel No. 5 and a flutter of Hermès scarves. She had perfectly blow-dried ash-blonde hair, immaculate make-up, and an elegant pair of legs in black tights. Her pink suede kitten heels matched her silk scarf. She smiled, but clearly didn’t have time to stop and chat. In the street outside Lily saw her getting into a car with a handsome gentleman in his seventies. All steel-grey hair and navy cashmere coat, he could easily have been a cabinet minister.

  Lily was well aware that anyone who viewed this flat, at this price, would want to buy it. Estate agents were masters of persuasion, but when he said there had been a lot of interest, she knew it was the truth. Without working out exactly where it was coming from, she decided to offer the asking price on the spot. Then there was the anxious wait overnight while the estate agent spoke to the Lady.

  Until a few years before, Susan Archer had occupied the whole house with Rollo, her husband of forty years. When he died, Susan had moved to the ground and first floors, and converted the upper second and third floors into a large self-contained flat. Her daughter had lived there for a year or so, with husband and children, happy to share the garden with her mother, helping with housework and shopping in return for the odd night’s babysitting. Now the family were moving to Dubai for the husband’s work and Susan had decided to sell the flat. She had always been privately wealthy, so the selling price was reasonable—ridiculous for Belsize Park, really. In the first week that the flat was on the market, there were nine firm offers, four of them above the asking price. The estate agents were eager to hustle her into a quick transaction but Susan wouldn’t be rushed: she wanted the flat to go to “someone nice.”

  As it turned out, Lily was that person. Susan may not have stopped to chat, but she had noticed the young woman with the estate agent that morning. Something about Lily reminded her of herself at that age: she identified with that quiet, determined look, the anxious, pretty face. Susan’s life was busy—she sat in the House of Lords and was out most evenings too. She wasn’t looking for a carer or a replacement daughter, but she loved young people and she missed her daughter and grandchildren being around. When they lived upstairs, the house was alive with the sound of footsteps and laughter, comings and goings. Lily was offering the asking price, half in cash, and that was good enough for her.

  “Are you sure about this?” Lily asked Harry. He’d booked their initial viewing that day Pippa came home early and almost caught her in the shower. They were sitting in The Washington, a pub on the corner of England’s Lane a few minutes from the house. “It’s a lot of money, and I won’t be able to pay you back for years.”

  “Lily, forget it. You’re not paying me back. The flat’s ideal and I want you to have it.”

  “But how are you going to get your hands on so much money—won’t . . .” Lily hesitated to refer to his wife—she’d never said her name out loud. “Won’t anyone notice?”

  “It’s fine. It’s my money, I’ve got various accounts and investments, no one needs to know.” Like Lily, Harry avoided mentioning Pippa by name. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer you not to tell anyone—not even your family.” He knew she shared everything with Cassie and Celia. “I don’t want them to suspect me of ulterior motives or anything. It’s best kept between ourselves.”

  Lily nodded. “Of course. I won’t breathe a word. And I promise, if there’s ever anything I can do—or if I win the lottery or something—I want to repay you someday, Harry.”

  “Stop it.” Harry leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “The flat’s yours.”

  * * *

  “You know the problem with exercise?” Polly’s driving us back to her house after our Friday night Zumba class. We’re both red-faced from an hour’s thrusting and twisting to fast Latin music, all of us forty-somethings dripping with sweat inside our expensive athleisure wear. “
It makes me unbelievably ravenous.”

  I nod. “I do worry that the raging hunger after every class cancels out the exercise, Poll.”

  The back seat is covered in takeaway bags, a large selection of sushi, bento, and salads, but we both know that Itsu’s “light bites” aren’t going to cut it. Polly’s theory is that we should work out together three times a week, getting enthused by new and fun things like Zumba or capoeira, and eat small quantities of virtuous but nourishing food, and by the time the new year arrives we’ll be svelte, with glowing skin and abundant energy. But, as my sister points out, exercise makes you so damn hungry.

  “So . . . snacks, yes or no? Snacks?” Polly slows down as she approaches the petrol station, our last chance to stock up on carbs, chocolate, and ice cream before we reach the house. We both know the snack stop is coming, and we both know we can’t resist. At the crucial moment, I give in: “Yes!” She whoops and swings the car into the forecourt.

  Polly’s husband, Andrew, and the kids are out at the cinema, so we have the house blissfully to ourselves. We take it in turns to shower, change into cashmere pants, and open a bottle of red. Having devoured all the Itsu in about five minutes, we adjourn to the sofa with large glasses of wine, Love Island on the TV, tortilla chips and dips, a family-sized bag of mini Mars bars, and two kinds of Ben & Jerry’s waiting in the freezer.

  The subject turns, naturally to Harry, and the latest on this “interfering bitch” at work. (Forgive me, I’d had a lot of wine, but she is a bitch, interfering with my husband.) “Let’s google her,” Polly says.

  Oh my God, we get sucked in. Big time. I should disclose at this point that I know what she looks like. I actually looked at her photograph on the Higher Ed Press website the very first time Harry oh-so-casually mentioned her name. A nice young woman had joined his editorial team, he said, and I knew something was up. It was in his voice. The look in his eyes.

  “Forget the boring work profiles,” Polly says. “We need to check out her social media.” Lily’s surname is unusual, German or Dutch or something, so she’s easy to find. Her Facebook page is public, the usual mix of cute cats, news stories, uplifting quotes, and pictures of her with her family and friends. Then we find her on Twitter and that leads us to Instagram. Which is where it all goes wrong.

  Polly’s scrolling through Lily’s photos, being loyal and critical for my sake, telling me she’s not all that pretty really, and my goodness what’s she wearing in that one? Then I spot something and grab the tablet from her hands. Lily is lolling on a rumpled white bed, her hair damp, her skin tanned, wearing nothing but a man’s blue shirt. My body goes cold. I recognise that shirt; I picked it out, for God’s sake.

  I zoom in to confirm what I already know, on the top pocket, a tiny HL monogram in dark blue. I bought this shirt in Italy on his fortieth birthday.

  I check the date below the image—September, which I know coincides with a weekend Harry spent in Lisbon. He told me he was at an international publishing convention. Feeling sick I look again at the photo. I don’t need to see it’s my husband’s watch on the bedside table, his glasses. She’s tagged the image #portugal #paradise #perfect.

  Unlike Lily’s previous experiences of moving flats, this time it went like clockwork. In the weeks leading up to the December moving date, she found a man-with-a-van on the internet and booked him for the whole day, negotiating an affordable rate by paying in cash. The driver of the van was a young Polish man called Pawel, and he offered to bring a few friends to help with packing as well as moving. For an extra fifty pounds, his girlfriend would give her old flat a final clean when it was empty.

  So there wasn’t much for Lily to do. She boxed up smaller, personal things in the Camden flat—her clothes, toiletries, essentials from the kitchen—and left everything else to Pawel’s team. They packed the contents of the bookshelves into large crates and hauled out the few items of furniture she was taking with her to England’s Lane. On the morning of the move, Lily went to work as usual. At six p.m. her phone rang; it was Pawel calling to give her the all-clear. The Camden flat was empty and clean, the Belsize Park flat was full. She took the bus to her new home, stopping on her walk from the bus stop to buy a wintry spray of delphiniums and a bottle of white wine, lingering in the chilly evening air, delaying the thrill of putting her new keys into her new door.

  She didn’t tell anyone, that first night. Fortunately, Harry wasn’t at work—he’d left early for a rare family weekend away. Although she was looking forward to celebrating in the flat with him, she wanted it all to herself in those first few hours.

  That weekend, Lily’s family descended en masse, in theory to help her settle in, although they created more chaos than order. Her brother, James, came over and helped her paint both bedrooms, and she and Cassie made a trip to IKEA for essential supplies: a large desk, bookshelves, a swivel chair for her new home office. They were barely home with all the flat packs before Cassie was online searching for beds to replace the perfectly serviceable one which Susan had left in the flat.

  “But this one looks practically new,” Lily said. “OK, it’s at the smaller end of double, but I can’t really justify buying a new one, can I?”

  “It’s absolutely tiny,” Cassie said. “More like a large single than a double, if you ask me. It may be fine for one person, but as soon as you’re sharing it, you’ll notice. And trust me, if you don’t order a new one now, along with all the rest of the furniture, you’ll end up keeping it for years.”

  “I have been wanting to upgrade to a massive bed for years,” Lily said, eyeing the spacious super-king-sized models on Cassie’s screen. “But they’re so expensive—and look, those prices don’t even include the mattress!”

  “Lily, sleep is essential for optimum health, and you’re always saying you don’t sleep well anyway.” Cassie looked stern. “We spend around a third of our lives in bed, so why wouldn’t you give yourself the best? A high-quality bed and mattress are one of the most important investments you can make for your own well-being.”

  “You know what?” Lily smiled. “You’re right. When I think about how much the flat itself is costing . . .”

  She had kept her word and told no one, not even Cassie. Harry had bought a quarter of the flat—had paid £150,000 as a cash deposit, in fact. It still worried Lily, not so much the secrecy as the obligation it put her under, the sense of culpability that she was accepting money from a man who was married to someone else.

  And yet Harry had been very clear, he wasn’t buying a share in it. Even when he transferred the money into her account he said, “This is your place, Lil, I want you to understand that. I’m not expecting to get twenty-five per cent of the proceeds when you sell it, or spend a quarter of my time there or anything like that.” Although Lily knew that if she’d asked him to move in with her, he’d be there like a shot.

  In those first few weeks in the flat, she worried a lot about the situation with Harry. A few days before Christmas, they had a small celebration: Harry wanted to bring over her presents before he left for his obligatory trip to Pippa’s family up north. “I’m dreading it,” he said as they sat in front of the living room fire, next to the small Christmas tree Lily had bought. “I wouldn’t mind a day or two, but for some reason we have to stay until New Year, it’s torture. The in-laws are OK, but mobile reception is hopeless and there are no pubs for miles around. I’ll be taking their dogs for very long walks, I think!”

  As Harry stretched on the rug talking about Christmas with the in-laws, Lily tuned out, watching the firelight flicker in his eyes. She remembered a line from one her favourite writers Haruki Murakami: “. . . how people’s eyes have something honest about them when they’re watching a fire.” Harry made light of the family situation, but the strain was etched into his face and the sadness showed in his eyes. Years of depression and the constant back pain he suffered were taking their toll, although he would never admit it. That combination of strength and vulnerab
ility wrenched at her heart.

  Harry was a big man—not fat but tall, six feet three and powerfully built. He was robust, what used to be called hale and hearty. In truth, he wasn’t healthy. He smoked and drank far too much, and never did any exercise except for the odd game of tennis, but he had that outdoorsy colour of a certain class of Englishman. His skin was tanned, his hair was brown, floppy, streaked like a yachtsman’s from the sun. He was in his late forties and looked it: crumpled and handsome and confident.

  Harry’s eyes were blue; piercing, bright, forget-me-not blue. In the years to come, Lily would always remember those eyes, and see his big hands cradling the stem of a wineglass, cupped around the flame as he lit a cigarette, the span of his fingers across her naked body.

  Faint sounds drifted up from Belsize Park far below, people leaving restaurants and wine bars and Christmas parties. Harry wandered over to the window to smoke a cigarette. She wouldn’t ask him to move in with her, not until he was free. He was a good man, for all his demons, and she loved him. But she couldn’t be the reason for him leaving his wife and sons. She already knew too much about broken families.

  Lily picked up their empty wineglasses and moved towards the kitchen to make coffee. She had been thinking more than usual about families recently—about her father, in particular. Perhaps it was her relationship with Harry, or the death of his own father, or just part of getting older. She had started wondering if she might meet her father again one day.

  Christmas had been a big occasion for the de Jongh family ever since they were little, and it was always spent at Celia’s house in Hampstead. In the England’s Lane flat on Christmas Eve, Lily had wrapped piles of presents, listening to the choristers singing the “Nine Lessons and Carols” on Radio 4 whilst sipping a sherry.