The Gravity of Love

by Noelle Harrison

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Irish. I’m a goddamn Irish woman!’ she yelled out to the wind. ‘This sea is mine.’

  He pulled her up the beach. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’ll see it tomorrow. It’s cold and dark, Joy.’

  She looked at him, her expression contrite. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve your jacket on – you must be freezing.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He smiled at her. ‘Let’s just get inside.’

  It was Easter Saturday, but still the hotel had an off-season air of desertion. The receptionist, a lanky woman with dark red hair, scrutinised them as he booked them into their separate bedrooms.

  ‘Enjoy your stay, Mr Bell and Miss Sheldon,’ she said, handing them keys.

  ‘Mrs Sheldon,’ Joy corrected her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the woman said, all prim and proper with a glint in her eye.

  The smug look on her face made Lewis wish he and Joy really were up to no good.

  They said their goodnights in the corridor outside Joy’s room. She was flushed from her run on the beach, and not for the first time he thought how young she looked for her age. The more he got to know Joy, the less like Marnie, and Samantha, he realised she was. Those women were more than aware of the power of their femininity, whereas Joy seemed completely unaware of her beauty. Her lack of vanity scattered around her in unexpected and endearing showers. On the whole trip from America to Ireland not once had he seen this woman check her reflection in a compact, or put on lipstick, or style her hair. When Joy had taken off her blue boots on the plane he couldn’t help noticing she was wearing odd socks. This was something neither Marnie nor Samantha would ever have done. Yet for some reason her lack of artifice appealed to him.

  In his room, Lewis sat down on the bed and stared at the beige walls and a washed-out watercolour of a sea view. He should have been tired. They had been travelling for over twenty-four hours, and yet he wasn’t in the least bit sleepy. He felt completely wired. It was like his head was playing catch-up with his body. He had finally done it. He had made it across the Atlantic. Not as far as London, true. But he was here, in Marnie’s homeland. He was so close to her now. Just a few hours in the car and he would see her again. He couldn’t quite believe it was true.

  What would he say when he saw her?

  Sorry. That was the first thing he needed to say. Sorry for that long night and what she must have gone through looking after Lizzie. He was sorry for drinking too much whisky with George, Rex, Pete and Frankie and letting the dinner linger on. Sorry for not telling George about all the hard work she had put into those Studio M designs, and the quick talent she’d brought to the Phoenix proposal. He had tried several times to talk about Marnie and her design work with George, but every time her name was mentioned his boss would make some comment under his breath for only the men to hear – about the size of Marnie’s breasts or wondering if she was as able in bed as she was in the office.

  Most of all Lewis was sorry for not going back to her flat after the dinner, instead agreeing to go on to a club because Rex was crazy about jazz, and George wanted them to see this new jazz musician. Why the hell had he not thought to ring Marnie before they left the restaurant? Yet he’d believed Marnie was so capable. Not for a minute had he doubted that she wouldn’t have Lizzie under control.

  London, 14 April 1967, 12.10 a.m.

  Lewis was behind Frankie, narrow-hipped in his pinstriped suit, his diminutive wife Gina in polka dots, hooked onto her husband’s arm as they descended out of the cool Soho night into the smoky dungeon of one of George’s favourite jazz clubs.

  Lewis should have been hailing a cab on the street outside. He should have been on his way to Lizzie and Marnie.

  But he couldn’t go. It was part of the deal. After dinner, the banter and the pitch, it was sealed in the early hours of the morning in a drinking den, or a club pulsing with the promise of tomorrow. It was the world Lewis had to operate in; the graphic designer had to be a jack of all trades: artist, salesman, psychologist, magician. He was a mirror to his clients, reflecting back to them the image they wanted to see. Lewis had played the game over dinner, convincing Rex Leigh that their image of the phoenix emerging from the flames was not a repetition of a cliché but in its execution a vibrant image of his dynamic airline emerging as powerful and bold into the future. The abbreviation of Phoenix International Airlines to PIA simplified yet strengthened their profile.

  He couldn’t deny that he got a thrill out of selling their idea to the corporate man. He exulted in that moment when creativity and commerce collided. His sister was wrong. This was an art.

  The Studio M group wove between the tables to George’s favourite spot, a snug tucked to the left of the stage. The waitresses treated him with a certain reverence since he was clearly one of the regulars. There was a band playing already – trumpeter, bassist and guitarist. The music spiralled around them like the staircase leading into the smoky darkness of the club.

  Lewis took a slug of his Scotch, scooping an ice cube into his mouth. The whisky burned his throat, while the ice rolled around his tongue. He bit into it. He couldn’t get Lizzie out of his head. He hadn’t shifted the nagging feeling that had plagued him all evening, but he had to stay until the client left. That was the rule.

  ‘What’s wrong with Marnie?’

  Eva Miller was leaning across the table at him.

  ‘She felt sick.’

  ‘Yes, but what kind of sick?’

  ‘You know, the normal kind,’ Lewis said, trying not to show his irritation. ‘When you feel nauseous –’

  ‘Physically sick?’ Eva asked, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, wishing she would change the subject. She was just making him feel more anxious about Lizzie, and even more guilty that he had left Marnie to deal with her for so long.

  ‘Did she tell you why she’s sick?’

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ Lewis snapped. ‘It’s just one of those things.’

  Eva looked at him with interest. ‘Do you love Marnie, Lewis?’ she asked.

  ‘That is a very personal question,’ he said, affronted. For a moment Eva reminded him of his mother. How could she really love George Miller? She had surely just used her beauty and youth to trap him into marrying her, attracted by his prestige – just like his mother hunting down a new partner.

  ‘Lewis, do the right thing before it’s too late,’ Eva said, her voice solemn.

  He felt panic rising in his chest. She must know about Marnie’s design work. He had to tell George about Marnie’s designs before Eva did. Otherwise the humiliation, the damage to his credibility as a designer would be disastrous.

  He took a big slurp of his fresh whisky and felt the alcohol curling around his brain, fogging his mind. Maybe he was imagining Eva’s threat. What she’d said couldn’t have anything to do with the designs. She just wanted him to marry Marnie. He supposed married women always wanted to match up their single girlfriends. Marnie had sworn she had told no one about their work, and he trusted her. But should she trust him? As the drink relaxed him, his resolve began to weaken.

  He soaked in the atmosphere of the club. Who would have thought that Lewis Bell, the misfit boy with the scabby knees, every bully’s favourite, would be mingling with the in-crowd? He was rubbing shoulders with the people of the moment – young actresses with doe eyes and gamine haircuts, unshaven musicians, bespectacled film directors. The faces looked familiar even if he couldn’t remember their names.

  He should leave right now. He needed to get to Lizzie. Yet this world enticed him to stay, and George expected him to stay, so Lewis didn’t budge; he just lit yet another cigarette, crossed his legs and listened to the banter. Life was good, was it not? He was going to be made a partner in one of the top design agencies in London. He had a beautiful girlfriend. What more could he want?

  Marnie. Her name flew around his head like a trapped bird. If he loved her, he should do as she asked. He had to speak to Geor
ge now. There was a break in the conversation and Lewis took his chance.

  ‘All going well?’ he asked George.

  ‘An excellent evening,’ George said, with shining eyes. ‘And I couldn’t have done it without you, Lewis. You are stellar.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘What’s with this, sir? Call me George!’

  ‘You think the designs are good?’

  ‘Top notch, my boy – you’ve impressed me. We’re on the way up,’ he said, patting Lewis on the back.

  ‘I’d like to ask you something – a favour,’ Lewis said.

  ‘Indeed, I’m not sure I can grant it, but fire away.’ George looked him directly in the eye, and Lewis tried to hold his gaze, but he couldn’t do it. In the end he picked up his glass and studied the golden liquid inside.

  ‘Would you consider promoting Marnie?’ he managed to say.

  ‘Marnie?’ George exclaimed. ‘And just what position would I promote her to? Office manager? I mean, she’s the only secretary we have, Lewis . . . I know you have feelings for her – I mean, we’ve all noticed it apart from Pete, but that boy is a world to himself –’

  ‘No, I mean promote her to the position of designer,’ Lewis interrupted. He had done it all backward. He had meant to tell George first about Marnie’s input on the designs and then ask him to promote her. He looked across at his boss’s astonished face.

  ‘Why on earth would I promote our girl Friday to a design position, Lewis?’ George’s eyes narrowed, hardening to flint. In that look Lewis could see there would be no forgiveness. His fall would be fast, and irredeemable.

  ‘Well, she’s always told me she was interested in that side of things.’

  ‘It’s a ridiculous idea, Lewis. We can’t let that girl play around and make pretty little pictures for us. Studio M is cutting-edge, Lewis, with a team of professional graphic designers. Surely you know that? Love has addled your brain, young man.’

  ‘Sorry, George, I just promised her I would talk to you.’

  ‘Well, very nice of you, old chap, but a completely outrageous suggestion. She’s a great little secretary. I appreciate her skills, and Eva seems to adore her, as do the boys, so I will certainly give her a raise. How about that?’

  ‘Very kind of you, George –’

  ‘And if she’s hitched to your cart, she’ll benefit from your successes now, won’t she? Your star is rising, young man. Mark my words. What I saw today was the sign of a very great designer in the making. I don’t give praise easily, believe me.’

  ‘I do believe you. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘George!’ He clapped Lewis on the back. ‘Now you’re going to have to shut up because the reason I brought you to this rather dingy club has just walked on stage.’

  The final act came on, and Lewis was surprised to see that it was a lone guitar player. George was tapping Rex Leigh’s arm.

  ‘Amancio D’Silva just arrived in London from Goa. He has an incredible sound,’ George enthused. ‘A fusion of modern jazz and Indian music.’

  D’Silva took his place centre stage, moving with such grace that he didn’t look like he belonged in a smoky jazz club in Soho. Lewis imagined him sitting cross-legged on the sand, under a desert sky at night. Each star polished bright by the clear, crystal air.

  He began to play. Lewis closed his eyes and the music took him away from his guilt over Marnie – his anxiety over Lizzie. All that was yesterday, and yesterday was over now. But even with his eyes closed, his mind shut down, he hadn’t quite stepped over the threshold of tomorrow yet. He was travelling backward, in time to the strum and quiver of the guitar strings, back through this day, this year and all the years of his life. He was himself as a little boy, holding his sister’s hand, and they were climbing down the staircase of a house he had long since forgotten. Those big stairs, gripping the rail and his sister’s uncertain steps, waddling in her nappy. Yet now as he saw the rosebud-papered walls, smelled the furniture wax on the shiny banister rail and slipped on the Turkish rug in the hall, he knew exactly where he was. This was his home, where his mother and father had lived, and where he and his sister were born. He was three years old, Lizzie two, but he could see with the knowledge of now. His sister’s need to be loved, and his too.

  They ran down the hall together, these two cherubs, bubbling with excitement because Daddy was home. The hall door was open, rain falling in on the doormat where their father crouched, trench coat swinging open, his officer’s cap tilted sideways and his arms open wide for them. The sun came out and a rainbow arched over his head. Daddy was home!

  Lewis gasped as if his heart had missed a beat. He opened his eyes. Everyone should have a father, especially Lizzie.

  The others around the table were staring at Amancio D’Silva, bewitched by his music, as if they also had been transported into private memories. When he finished playing there were a few seconds of silence, as if the room was collectively drawing breath. Then there was an explosion of applause. The young man made a slight nod of thanks and walked off stage without fuss, his guitar in his hand as if it were an extension of himself. They all looked at each other as if for the first time.

  ‘I guess that was the perfect conclusion to a great evening,’ Rex Leigh eventually spoke up.

  Lewis, Pete, Frankie and Gina surged up the stairs as one. As they emerged onto the street Lewis could see that the sky was streaked with strands of pale yellow and washy grey light. How could it be dawn already? Had he really been down in that club for all those hours?

  Rex and Meryl Leigh, and George and Eva Miller seemed to have vanished in the other direction. The rest of them walked through Soho together. After the crowd in the club, the street felt like a morgue with its shuttered shops, no buses or cars. Gina’s heels clicked loudly on the wet pavement, and the noise of Frankie lighting a cigarette seemed amplified.

  ‘That was a long, long night,’ Frankie said. ‘Did we actually get the deal, do you think?’

  ‘We bloody better have,’ Lewis growled. ‘That man was a bore.’

  He nearly walked into a red telephone box as it loomed up in front of them.

  ‘I’m just going to make a call. You all go on. I’ll follow you in minute.’

  He went into the phone box, making sure the door was shut behind him. Frankie and Gina meandered on, but Pete waited for him, uneasy at being left with the couple. Lewis waved him away before dialling Marnie’s number. To his surprise the phone was picked up almost immediately as he slipped a coin into the box.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that you, Lewis?’

  ‘I’m just calling to check Lizzie is okay, and to thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you.’

  ‘Lewis, where were you?’

  Her Irish accent was more pronounced than usual and there was something about her tone of voice. His whisky head was gone in a flash, as if someone had tipped a bucket of ice water over him.

  ‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lewis . . .’ Marnie’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Your sister . . .’

  The tick, tick, tick of the telephone line echoed in his head.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She won’t wake up . . . I don’t know what to do . . . Should I call an ambulance?’

  The words seemed to come from the air inside the telephone box, not his own mouth, not his own words about his sister. ‘Is she still breathing?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t wake her. Lewis, where are you?’

  ‘I’m coming. Five minutes.’

  He slammed the receiver down and hurled himself out of the phone box, running to the end of the street where the others were waiting.

  ‘What’s up?’ Pete asked.

  ‘There’s something wrong with my sister. I have to go.’

  He could feel panic swelling inside him. He pressed it down; he had to stay calm and in control.

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ Pete offered. ‘My car’s parked just round the c
orner, and I’ve only had a couple of pints.’

  He felt Pete’s hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s okay, mate.’

  Pete’s reassurance steadied him. Everything would be fine. It always was in the end. It would just be one more of Lizzie’s dramas. Marnie was overreacting.

  But as he and Pete rushed off to the car, Lewis knew this wasn’t like any of the times before. The whole day he had felt this sense of foreboding, and now he knew why.

  Eleven

  Time

  Skerries, County Dublin, 25 March 1989

  ‘Fancy a nightcap?’ Lewis stood in her doorway, proffering a bottle of whisky.

  ‘I don’t really drink liquor,’ Joy said.

  She was embarrassed. She had already put on her pyjamas and was conscious of her face scrubbed clean.

  ‘It’s a special occasion.’ He smiled at her, although his eyes looked dark and sorrowful. ‘For both of us. Let’s make a toast to the first night of our Irish quests.’

  She opened the door wide. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Just one.’

  She got two plastic cups from her little en suite, and he sat on her bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. There was nowhere else to sit but the bed so she climbed up onto it, sitting next to him awkwardly.

  ‘I like your pyjamas,’ he said. ‘More flowers.’

  She blushed as she held out her plastic glass and he poured the whisky in. ‘I wasn’t expecting company.’

  ‘No, really, I like them. You’re always wearing flowers.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘When you came in to order those wedding invites, you were wearing a shirt with lots of little red flowers on it.’

  ‘That old thing.’ She tried to sound casual but was touched that he remembered.

  ‘I thought it looked pretty. And that time in the Botanical Garden you were wearing a shirt with flowers on it.’

  ‘That’s my gardening shirt,’ she said.

  ‘And you had on a sundress with white daisies on it when you came into the Rusty Spur.’