The Gravity of Love

by Noelle Harrison

  No one’s perfect, she told herself. That was the problem with a lot of wives nowadays. They expected an ideal, and when their husband didn’t match up to it they became bitter and ended up alone, even within their marriages. She didn’t want that to happen to her. She didn’t want to be angry and disappointed in the man she loved. Despite his flaws, Eddie was hers.

  *

  By the time Lewis got home, Samantha was upstairs packing for her trip to Santa Fe.

  ‘Are you going to stay for dinner?’ he asked her, leaning against the frame of the bedroom door and watching her fold up T-shirts. She looked good tonight, in her favourite white jeans and a pink halter-neck top, her long blonde hair shimmering in the evening light. ‘You want a beer, or a glass of wine?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to get going,’ she said, piling the T-shirts into a case.

  ‘How long are you going away for?’ he asked her, looking at the mound of clothes, the large suitcase. ‘Isn’t that rather a lot of stuff to be taking with you?’

  Samantha paused, lengthening up her spine. He couldn’t see her face, but he could sense there was something wrong.

  ‘Is there something going on, Samantha? What’s up?’

  ‘I’m not just going for the week,’ she said in a quiet voice.

  ‘Okay, how long are you going for?’

  She didn’t answer. He stepped forward, put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Sammy, what’s wrong?’

  She pushed his hand away and turned to look at him. To his shock he could see that she was crying.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lewis,’ she said.

  He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest, a constriction of fear in his belly.

  ‘I’m so unhappy.’ She wiped tears from her eyes. ‘And you’re unhappy too. We’re miserable together.’

  ‘It’s just a slump, Samantha. We’ll get over it – we always do.’

  ‘We’ve never been right, Lewis. You know that deep down.’

  ‘That’s not true. We were happy when we first got here, remember?’

  She turned from him then continued to pack, pulling random things out of her wardrobe and throwing them into the case.

  ‘Stop, please, Samantha – you can’t run out like this. We have to talk.’

  ‘No, it’s too late, Lewis.’

  ‘This is crazy. We’ve been together over twenty years. Nearly half our lives.’

  Samantha slammed the lid down on the case and zipped it up. ‘Lewis, we’ve been dead for years. Don’t you want to live again?’

  She dragged the case off the bed and stood before him. Her hair fell in blonde waves around her face, and she looked him squarely in the eye.

  ‘Tell me you love me,’ she challenged. ‘Tell me I’m the one, Lewis. More important than any other woman in your life.’

  ‘Of course I love you – you’re my wife.’

  ‘Yes, but am I the centre of your universe? Can you let it all go, everything about Lizzie, for me?’

  He was shocked at her mention of his sister after all these years.

  ‘This has nothing to do with Lizzie,’ he said, hearing his voice tighten, tension filling his body.

  ‘You’re wrong, Lewis. Our whole marriage has been about Lizzie,’ Samantha said, looking at him sadly. ‘I can’t live in her shadow any longer.’

  She picked up her case and walked past him, out of the bedroom. He stood for a moment, unable to move. He couldn’t believe this was really happening.

  ‘Samantha!’ he called as he ran down the stairs.

  She was still there, standing in the hallway, her case by the front door.

  ‘Please – let’s talk. Don’t leave like this,’ he begged her.

  ‘It’s the only way I can do it,’ she replied, her voice cracking.

  ‘Haven’t I stuck by you all these years?’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember I gave up my career for you?’

  He saw her clench her fists, her eyes flashing at him.

  ‘Of course I remember! Have you ever let me forget?’ she hissed. ‘I won’t let you blame me any more.’

  She opened up her handbag and took out her dark glasses. ‘I’m not coming back. I’ve thought about this for a long time and I need to get away from you.’ She pulled her wedding ring off. ‘Find someone else, Lewis,’ she said. ‘Because we were never meant for each other – you know that.’

  ‘No,’ he pleaded. ‘Samantha, please, don’t do this.’

  She dropped the ring on the hall table and opened the front door. Behind her the sky was flaming violet and orange as the sun sank towards the horizon.

  ‘What happened isn’t your fault, Lewis, and it’s not mine. I’m letting it all go.’ She slipped her dark glasses on. ‘You have to stop living in the past.’

  And she turned on her heel and walked out.

  He should have run after her, pulled her back, but he didn’t. It was as if his emotions had paralysed him. He could see Jennifer in the driving seat of her station wagon, waiting for Samantha as she threw her bags in the trunk. He waited for his wife to relent. Come back up the path and tell him she had changed her mind – she needed him. He was her saviour and always would be. But she didn’t even give him a backward glance.

  If Lewis had been a different kind of husband he would have made a scene, run down their drive, begged her to stay, but instead he stood quite still and watched his wife being driven away. And then he stepped back inside, closed the door and pressed his head to the cool wood. He felt hollowed out. A husk. He stared at Samantha’s wedding ring on the hall table, glinting in the waning light. His wife had spoken the truth, and deep down he knew it.

  London, 13 April 1967, 5.14 p.m.

  Hands in his pockets, Lewis walked up to the front of the house where Lizzie lodged. The path was strewn with rubbish, the front lawn forlorn and abandoned. He could see missing bricks and crumbling plasterwork. The place was even worse than the last time he’d been here. He pressed a loose coin in his palm and tried to suppress his growing anxiety.

  His sister opened the paint-peeled door before he had a chance to ring the bell.

  ‘There you are!’ she exclaimed, a cigarette hanging from her lips, a drink slopping out of a glass in her free hand. ‘Where have you been?’

  Lewis’s heart sank. Lizzie looked completely wired. She was wearing a paisley minidress so short it barely covered her bottom. Her legs, in regulation black tights, were so thin that her calves were almost the same width as her thighs. What with her red hair, even longer and wilder than usual, and her cat-like kohl eyes, the overall image was disturbing, rather than the bohemian look he guessed his sister was going for.

  ‘I told you I’d be a while. We have an important meeting tonight. I need to prepare for it.’

  ‘Oh yes, the commercial artists all come together to discuss the importance of some brainwashing advertising campaign,’ Lizzie said, opening the door wide for him to enter.

  ‘I am not a commercial artist. I’m a graphic designer.’

  ‘Same thing,’ Lizzie said, stomping up the tattered staircase into her dingy hall. ‘None of you believe in anything, do you? Nothing moves you; nothing you say is of any real importance.’

  ‘I’m too tired for this conversation now. I’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘You see.’ She swung around, flashing him a triumphant smile. ‘You can’t even be bothered to stand up for what you do. It’s all just meaningless rubbish about selling that brand-new car, or fizzy drink, or electric shaver . . .’

  Lewis put his hands in his pockets and jangled his car keys. ‘Shut up, will you? Do you want a lift or not?’

  Lizzie took a gulp of her drink before slamming the glass down onto a table so thick with dust a puff of it billowed into the air.

  ‘It was inevitable you would end up doing something like this,’ she continued. ‘You were always a trickster. If not graphic design, you would have been a car salesman.’

  ‘You�
��d be better suited to that profession, Elizabeth. You’re quite the performer yourself!’

  ‘Touché!’ She gave him one of her magnanimous grins. Their little tiff was over. That’s the way Lizzie was. From one extreme to the next within a moment. She ushered Lewis into the kitchen, which looked like it hadn’t seen a mop or scouring pad in weeks.

  ‘Christ, Lizzie!’ He gave a long whistle.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ she corrected him. ‘It’s not that bad.’ She shuffled some old newspapers off the table and onto the floor. ‘I don’t have a housewife or a maid at home all day, cleaning up for me.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re at home yourself.’

  ‘I’m working.’ She picked her way through the kitchen. ‘Come and see my new paintings.’

  She led him into the main living area, which was in an even worse state than the kitchen. His sister had set up a sort of makeshift studio in the corner of the room, and a jumble of paint tins, brushes and jars of dirty paint water were heaped around the floor, and on any clear surface. The sofa was covered in pieces of torn paper and tiny sketches, as well as a jumble of sheets and blankets as if someone had been sleeping there. Clothes were scattered on the backs of chairs or hanging off the dado rail; a cacophony of colour and length. A fuchsia miniskirt hung next to a pair of scarlet flared trousers, next to a print blouse in shades of jade and gold.

  In the centre of the room were three large canvases in a colour scheme that was an extension of his sister’s wardrobe. The first picture was a whorl of green, blue and yellow – a jungle garden. It hurt Lewis’s head to look at it. But there was a figure in all that jungle. A small girl with long red hair. Naked, tangled up in the brambles, her bare flesh punctured with thorns.

  The second painting was much like the first, but this time the jungle was pulsing with red, as if all the trees were in full bloom, and down the centre of the painting wove a river. A silver fish was leaping out of the river and, next to it, stood the same girl, thigh deep in water, arms outstretched, water flooding from her eyes into the river, as if she had made it with her tears.

  The last picture was the worst. It was a clear self-portrait of Lizzie now. Again she had employed garish, psychedelic colours, with more purples and pinks in this one. The background was a confusion of jazzy hues and shapes, and in the foreground there was a giant Lizzie, naked, apart from a long daisy-chain necklace. Her gaze challenged the viewer provocatively.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked Lewis, flopping down onto the jumbled sofa.

  ‘It looks like you’ve been taking lots of drugs, that’s what I think. You know you’re not supposed to while you’re on the antidepressants.’

  ‘I paint better when I’m stoned,’ she responded. ‘It’s only the odd joint now and again. Don’t worry – I’m careful.’

  She pulled a shell box out from behind the cushions at the back of the couch.

  ‘Ah, there it is – the missing stash. I was getting worried! Do you want a quick smoke before we go?’

  Lewis shook his head. ‘I don’t have time. I have to prepare for this meeting.’

  ‘Always rushing – you’re like a hamster on a wheel.’

  Lizzie took her cigarette papers from a pocket in her paisley dress and picked up a Rolling Stones album from the sofa, placing it on her knee.

  ‘Chill out, man, as Jim always says.’

  ‘Who’s Jim?’

  ‘One of my lovers.’ Lizzie grinned at him, licking the cigarette papers together. ‘He’s American.’

  ‘One of your lovers. How many do you have?’

  Lizzie spread a trail of tobacco along the papers. ‘You can hardly talk, Lewis.’

  ‘I just have one girlfriend actually. Besides, it’s different for me.’

  ‘Because you’re a man? I didn’t take my own brother for a chauvinist.’

  Lizzie lit a match and heated a chunk of black dope. She crumbled the hot dope and sprinkled it along the tobacco before rolling it up into a perfect joint.

  ‘Come on, Elizabeth, you know what I mean. It is different for women. You should know that. Look what happened to Mother.’

  At the mention of their mother Lizzie frowned. She tore a strip of card from the cigarette-paper wrapper and rolled it into the end of her joint.

  ‘I am not remotely like our mother,’ she said, lighting up and taking a deep pull. ‘She was always looking for one man. Her dream was to be the good wife. I’m not like that. I’m into polyamorous relationships.’

  ‘Whatever!’ Lewis threw his arms up. ‘It’s all sleeping around at the end of the day.’

  His sister offered him the joint. ‘Go on,’ she cajoled him. ‘You look so uptight – as if you might snap.’

  He supposed he could do with a quick puff. It might relax him – help him think of some ideas to pitch to the Phoenix fellow. That afternoon at the office he had been completely blocked. By 4 p.m. panic had been about to swallow him. He’d begged Marnie to think about an idea herself. After he dealt with Lizzie he was going straight over to Marnie’s flat. They’d have about an hour to get something together.

  Lizzie handed Lewis the joint.

  ‘So which painting did you sell?’ he asked, taking a drag and passing it back.

  ‘This one,’ she said, slapping her hand against the giant nude.

  ‘Why do you have to deliver it today? And do you really have to sell that one, Lizzie?’ He was appalled at the idea of any stranger possessing such an exposed portrait of his sister.

  ‘Yes, because the buyer has the money for me now. Jim says he might change his mind by tomorrow.’

  Lewis knew how wilful Lizzie could be. There was no point in trying to dissuade her.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said taking another toke. ‘Where do we have to take it?’

  ‘Jim’s place.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Paddington.’ She rasped on the joint. ‘And you don’t have to bring me back here either.’

  Lewis insisted on wrapping Lizzie’s painting in one of the blankets off the sofa. He couldn’t bear the thought of parading an image of his naked sister out onto the street. He honestly didn’t want to be part of this at all. Yet, despite her early successes, his sister hadn’t made any real money for over a year, and she’d been sponging off him for months. The pragmatist in him couldn’t stand in the way of a sale.

  They sped through the streets. The sun was beginning to sink behind St Paul’s Cathedral as they drove over Waterloo Bridge. After a day of showers, the evening was clear, the sunset a combustion of sultry fuchsia, mauve and indigo splashed across the sky. For Lewis, nowhere was as splendid as London. In his whole life he would never feel such awe for another city, not even New York. London was as majestic as a wise old king, and as powerful and strong as a modern mogul.

  As he drove across its width, from Vauxhall to Paddington, for a few moments he felt a sense of contentment. He began to hum ‘Light My Fire’, a song by a new band called The Doors that he and Marnie sometimes played on her record player when they made love. Again and again he would drop the needle on vinyl as he and Marnie set each other alight.

  For once quiet, Lizzie lit another joint beside him in the car.

  ‘Do you want some more?’ she offered.

  ‘Best not.’ He was feeling a little heady. Tonight was going to be a big night and he didn’t want to crash too soon.

  Lizzie took a long toke on her joint and he glanced across at her, worried that she might be overdoing it. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I am, Lewis.’ She patted his knee. ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I was thinking there’s something I’ve always meant to ask you. Did you ever really believe that Mother was actually going to find us a new father?’

  ‘I suppose I did because she kept promising,’ he started, surprised by her question.

  ‘And children always want to believe their parents, don’t they?’ Lizzie said. ‘But you know, the more I
think about it, the more I realise that deep down I never believed she would succeed. Lewis, I think the problem wasn’t that she couldn’t find a husband but that she just didn’t want us.’

  Lizzie rarely talked about their childhood and now her words were bringing him down. He didn’t want to discuss their long-ago misery tonight. He had enough on his plate.

  ‘Maybe we’re lucky, Lizzie,’ he suggested. ‘Mother could have married some bastard who would have made our lives hell. Moving around meant we had a certain amount of freedom.’

  ‘When we were little maybe, but there’s not much freedom to be had in a convent boarding school, Lewis.’ His sister tossed the finished joint out the window.

  ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘I missed you so much. It took a while to adjust.’

  He said nothing. He couldn’t tell his sister he had missed her when he’d been sent to boarding school. The truth was it had been a relief not to worry about her any more when they’d been separated for their education. Plus he’d still been angry with her about why they’d had to leave Uncle Howard’s.

  They’d circled Paddington Station three times before Lizzie finally picked the right street.

  ‘Stop! Stop – here we are!’ she shouted, causing him to slam on the brakes and bring the car to a shuddering halt.

  The houses were all pretty grand. The antithesis of Lizzie’s shoddy abode. This Jim clearly wasn’t short of a bob or two.

  Lewis carried the painting up to the entrance. He had an urge to smash it onto the railings either side of the door. Why the hell was he helping his sister to sell this pornographic picture of herself?

  ‘Elizabeth, are you sure you want to sell this painting?’

  His sister looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘It’s just so private . . . of you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a prude, Lewis,’ Lizzie retorted as she slapped the knocker against the glossy black door.