by Sarah Mason
And with this I whisk them all out of the room and into the rabbit warren of corridors, all painted with gaudily colored countryside scenes in a transparently obvious effort to try and disguise the fact that we are in a hospital. My mother amuses herself by reading all the ward names out to us as we go along. I feel decidedly ill with all the adrenaline whooshing about inside me.
Morgan the Pekinese is waiting for us in the car and for once I am pitifully glad to see him. He is something familiar and loves me unconditionally. Not as much as he loves my mother, admittedly. This he makes very obvious as once he has greeted me with a wagging tail and a few licks he then goes on to blatantly fawn over my mother.
Once at home, I flop on to the sofa. I’m not terribly impressed with this love thing so far. Not impressed at all. Where is Cupid, the music, the A Room With a View–esque cornfields? I’ve been misled, that’s all I can say, because to be honest the whole experience is painful. Actually physically painful. A dull ache seems to have taken up permanent residence in my body.
“Can we get you anything, darling?” says my mother, hovering in front of me. “Anything at all?” She puts Morgan down on the sofa. He immediately climbs on to my lap and lies down with a contented sigh. Normally Morgan and I share a tempestuous relationship but today he seems to sense my need for comfort. Peculiar how animals can do that.
I shake my head wearily. “No, I’m fine.” Then I frown—she’s got that floaty, “I’m just off” feel about her. “Are you going anywhere? Are you going home?” I sit up suddenly, aghast at the thought.
“No, no, darling. We may as well stay here now and get some more stuff sent up. I’ll just tell my director that I’m taking another week off to look after you. No point in going back before the wedding next Saturday. Only if it’s OK with you though?”
“Yes. I would like you to stay.” She seems to relax at this and sits down opposite me. “Where’s Dad?” I ask as she lights up a cigarette.
“He’s gone to Sainsbury’s. Your fridge resembles the Marie Celeste.”
Lizzie comes out from the kitchen with a large tray. “Tea!” she says brightly.
There is a huge pregnant pause as Lizzie slowly and deliberately pours the tea out. She sloshes it into the cups. More silence. The air seems to pulsate with unspoken words; it’s charged with emotion.
“ALL RIGHT! I GIVE UP!” I yell.
My mother looks at me. “So you admit it?” she breathes.
“Yes, I admit it.”
“We knew it! Didn’t we, Lizzie? We knew it! I wish they had this category on Countdown! I’d clean them out.”
“He doesn’t love me though, that’s the problem,” I say in a small voice.
“How do you know?”
“I would imagine his marriage to another woman would be a small clue.”
They concede the point with a nod of their heads.
“But that was before he met you,” Lizzie points out.
“And he is still getting married.” We all pause for a minute, each occupied with our own thoughts. I fiddle with Morgan’s ears. “There’s also somebody at work he might be involved with.”
“Was that before you too?”
I nod.
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Is it still going on?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s Fleur really like?” asks my mother.
I look straight at her. “Beautiful, kind and works in a bereavement charity.” She reels a bit at that. I think she was hoping I would say “Spotty, mean and works part-time in an abattoir.” I then go on to tell them how James’ brother was killed in an accident and how he met Fleur. “He once said she saved him. So, you see, it’s hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. What’s her father like?”
“Miles? Oh, like practically every theater backer I know. Adores being associated with the famous. Likes to drop names over the dinner table. They’re all budding actors at heart; they thrive on being around the success of a first night, the smell of the grease paint, that sort of thing. Of course, when he wasn’t chasing me around my dressing room, he could be a terrible old stick in the mud. Kicked up a huge fuss if the director went a penny over the budget.” She shrugs. “But then that was his job and, more to the point, his money. I wouldn’t say we were ever good friends.”
“Are you sure James doesn’t feel something, Holly?” Lizzie says anxiously. “I mean, with what you’ve been writing, it just sounds like you both . . .”
“That’s the point, Liz. I’ve been writing it and, although I may not have realized it before now, it was my slanted viewpoint. Sure, we get on well, but that doesn’t mean he loves me. I love him. My writing is just wishful thinking. God, I feel such an idiot. Has the diary been that obvious?”
“No!” protests Lizzie, seeing my expression. “Take my office, as impersonal readers. We were all interested at first and read it every day. But once the photos started appearing, that’s when it really got exciting. He just looked so gorgeous and you’re not exactly bad-looking yourself. And then, after some more personal details about James started coming through, and the whole black eye incident, well, everyone began jumping to conclusions. I am sure the photos the paper put in were designed to make us think just that. There was a lovely one last week where you two were laughing, and then they had a nice one of you . . .” She trails off as she sees my face. “Anyway, before you know it, the whole office is talking about nothing else. Your whole diary is being analyzed. It’s like being back when Pride and Prejudice was on the telly, do you remember? God! We were so excited! You’re just like Elizabeth and Darcy!”
“Except Darcy actually got married to Elizabeth,” I point out.
“Ah. Yes. Maybe not exactly then.”
“No, Lizzie, it’s not the same at all, IS IT?” My voice rises dangerously at the end. “Because I don’t remember Elizabeth having to watch Darcy marry Miss bloody Havisham? Do you? DO YOU? I think the Beeb may have had a few letters of complaint if that had happened, don’t you?”
“Dickens, darling,” says my mother.
“PEOPLE LIKE HAPPY ENDINGS!” I roar.
“No, I mean it was Dickens. Miss Havisham is from Great Expectations.”
“Bugger Miss Havisham!” I move Morgan off my lap and get up.
“Where are you going?”
“Out,” I say, tempted to add, “and I may be some time” in an Oates-esque fashion.
They both look panic-stricken. “What are you going to do?”
“Chuck myself off Clifton Suspension Bridge. Do a bungee jump without the elastic.” They both squeal in horror. “No, I’m not. I’m going to finish with Ben.”
“Thank God for that!” says my mother as I stride out of the door. I knew she didn’t like him.
I set off round to Ben’s. My blood is really up now and I am mad. Hopping mad. I couldn’t even tell you what about. But I do know it is a good time to finish with Ben while I am like this. Before apathy seizes me and I end up going out with him for the next ten years. I didn’t say marry him, you’ll notice. No. I know now he would never have married me. In fact, I’m quite sure that if you just put another tall, blond girl in my place, who laughs at all his jokes and assumes a horizontal position once in a while, he might never even notice I’ve gone.
I am suddenly aware of what I am so mad about. My previous thoughts-embargo on Ben seems to have been lifted and now they positively flood in. When was the last time he did something for me? Just for me? When have I ever told him any of my worries, for fear of being branded a needy, insecure person? When did we last share a joke together as opposed to him telling me one? That’s why we’ve been going out for so long, because I’m such a pushover. In fact, pushover is completely the wrong word. There’s no pushing involved whatsoever; I go over completely of my own volition.
I thought I was being smart. Playing the game. Play it cool and eventually he’ll come round, isn’t that what I told myself? But it wasn’t smart at all because I fitted rather ne
atly into his life. Slotted in perfectly between his sport, work and social life. Imagine a girlfriend who never complains at the training sessions and the rugby games, never asks for anything back from the relationship. God, how stupid I am, I fume to myself. Just because outwardly he is so good-looking, so charming, so perfect, I thought he was the man for me. I thought I ought to be in love with him.
My footsteps slow as I realize he said he was going to be at a training session tonight. Right, I’ll just sit on his steps and wait until he gets back. He couldn’t even make time to bring me back from the hospital, could he? Couldn’t possibly skip a training session, even for his concussed girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, I tell myself grimly.
I turn the corner into his road and see that waiting outside won’t be necessary as there, sitting outside his flat, is his car. He must be back from training.
I bound up the steps, all traces of yesterday’s accident wiped away. I am a woman on a mission. I impatiently ring the bell. No answer. I frown and peer round into the window. The curtains are closed but light is shining out through a chink. I lean on the bell in sheer frustration. The door opens a crack and Ben’s face peers out.
“Holly! What are you doing here?”
“Ben, we need to talk.”
“What? Now? This really isn’t a good time, I’ve just come out of the shower.” He opens the door a little further and I see he has a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Fine. We can do this out here then. But I don’t think you’ll want that, will you? I think SHOUTING might be involved.”
He grabs my arm, pulls me inside and then gives me a nudge in the direction of the sitting room.
“What the hell is wrong with you? What is this about? Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?” There’s something not right. Something in his demeanor. His arrogant, just-don’t-care attitude, which used to be so attractive to me, isn’t there. He’s worried about something. We walk into the sitting room. My antennae are up and I cast a suspicious look around me. Nothing. Everything looks exactly the same. But there is something wrong with his appearance. And then it strikes me. For someone who has just come out of the shower, his hair is surprisingly dry.
“Good training session?”
He looks wary. “Fine, thanks. What do you want to talk about?”
“This and that. It just seems ages since I’ve seen you,” I say, playing for time.
He stares at me. “I saw you at lunchtime, Holly, at the hospital? Do you remember? How bad was that knock to the head?”
“Of course I remember! I just meant it has been a long time since we’ve actually talked. You know, had a conversation. How about some tea? I’ll make it!”
He jumps up. “No, you stay here, I’ll make it. Can’t have you racing about when you’ve had a knock to your head, can we? You stay right there.” He steams like a maniac through to the kitchen. Right, now I’m downright suspicious. Something is definitely up. I prowl about the room, looking for clues. Something on one of the side tables next to the sofa glints in the light and catches my eye. I walk over to it and look down.
It’s a small gold crucifix.
twenty-four
I pick up the gold chain and cross up and let it dangle from my hand in front of me. I stare at the necklace, unmoving for a second, disbelieving its significance. But there’s no denying it; in fact, I have no wish to deny it. I have been looking at this necklace on and off for the last twelve years. I know exactly who it belongs to.
I look up as Ben clatters through the doorway in double-quick time carrying two mugs of tea, the white towel wrapped around his waist somewhat at odds with the domesticity.
“Here we are! Just what the doctor ordered . . .” His words trail off as he slows to a stop in front of me and stares. He knows the game is up just from the look on my face, let alone the fact I seem to be holding a piece of jewelry which doesn’t belong to me. I gallantly ignore the fact that all that lies between his todger and a scalding cup of tea is a flimsy bit of towel and, before he can even open his mouth, slip past him into the hall and up the stairs. I stealthily make my way across the top landing and then throw open his bedroom door. My suspicions are instantly confirmed. For lying there, underneath the duvet, as cool as the proverbial cucumber, is Teresa the Holy Cow. Or Not So Holy Cow.
She seems to be expecting me. She is neither shocked nor distressed; in fact, her face shows no semblance of feelings whatsoever. Her eyes coolly meet mine and she looks squarely into them. I am not being as cool as the proverbial cucumber—my mouth is doing a good impression of catching flies. Although I knew damn well who the little gold crucifix belonged to, it is still a surprise to see the aforementioned owner languishing on a set of pillows that I myself have spent a great deal of time languishing on in the past. I set my mouth firmly. In a way, you see, this makes things so much easier. I gather my thoughts rapidly together.
“I believe this may belong to you,” I say, waving the necklace in front of her. She looks at me steadily.
“Yes it does and I would appreciate it back.”
“Take it,” I say and, slinging it on to the bed, turn on my heels and walk back down the stairs. I feel alarmingly calm. I stroll into the sitting room where Ben has put the two mugs down on a side table and is staring at them and anxiously biting his lip. I nonchalantly toss myself into an armchair.
“So! How long have you and the singing nun been going on for?”
“It was nothing. It was only a few times,” he mutters, still staring down at the mugs. Well, I’m sure that I can multiply “a few times” by at least ten.
“How long?”
“A few weeks.”
“When did you two . . .” Ahhh. Light dawns. They met each other in the Square Bar that night when I was celebrating the diary thing. “Surely not since you met in the Square Bar?”
For the first time he actually manages to look at me.
“No. Not since then. She was very keen though. Made me take her number.”
“How long after that did you start to see her?”
“Not until you started trying to push me into a commitment,” he says sulkily.
“I tried to push you into a commitment?” I ask incredulously. Does he know what the word commitment actually means? Or does he still think making a date for next week qualifies?
His head snaps up as he thinks he might have happened upon some moral high ground. “Well, first you bring your parents up to meet me with some cock-and-bull story about how they just happened to be in the area. Then I actually find wedding magazines in your flat! I mean, do you think I’m stupid? Do you honestly think I believed you when you said they belonged to Lizzie? She’s not even engaged! What is a boy supposed to do when you plot and scheme to try and get me to marry you?”
OK, you know how I just told you how calm I feel? Well, scrub it from the records because now I am angry. Furious, even. I briefly let my blood come to a rolling boil before it slows back down to a simmer.
“They were Lizzie’s,” I say furiously.
“Oh, come on, Holly! You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Why would Lizzie keep wedding magazines in your flat?”
A nasty little thought occurs to me. “Did you call Teresa on the night of the hen do? Are you who she slipped away early to see?”
He stares down at the carpet. He doesn’t need to answer, it’s written all over his face.
“Would you believe the fact that I was coming round here to finish with you?”
“Finish with me?” he echoes, disbelief plastered all over his face.
“Yes, finish with you because we are finished. Over. Kaput.”
“You’re just trying to save face.”
“Oh, am I? How come I’m not more upset then? How come I’m not prostrate on the floor wailing over the fact I’ve found you in bed with another woman? How come I’m not slitting my wrists with despair because I’ll never get you down the aisle? I’ll tell you why. It’s because I. Couldn’t. Give. A. Shit.”
>
He stares at me open-mouthed. You know what the awful thing is? I don’t think anyone has ever done this to him before. I carry on before he can stop me.
“And as hard as it is for a catch like you to believe any girl would not wish to trap you into matrimony, I’m afraid you are just going to have to believe me. My parents did turn up accidentally and those magazines were Lizzie’s. I would not want to marry you if you were the last sperm-producing male on earth. I think you are egotistical, selfish and unamusing. Besides which”—I jerk my head up to the ceiling—“you are obviously spreading your sexual favors around like . . . like . . .” I search in my vocabulary for a suitably cutting Blackadder-esque line, “. . . like MARMALADE!” Oh well. Can’t have everything. He stares at me, aghast. Taking advantage of this momentary lull in conversation, I go to walk out and then turn back.
“Just two more things; firstly, I hate that restaurant you insist is my favorite.” He stares at me and does the very familiar gesture of pushing his hair from his eyes. “And secondly, get your hair cut. I prefer short hair nowadays, preferably accompanied by green eyes.”
I leave him to try and make some sense out of my words and stalk out of the flat, slamming the front door on my way out.
I march down the steps and self-righteously stride toward home. After a few minutes a voice behind me starts calling my name.
“Holly! Holly! Wait!”
I turn around to find Teresa running toward me. What the hell does she want? I stand where I am and wait for her to catch up.
“What do you want?” I ask as she reaches the spot where I’m standing.
She has the good grace to look a little sheepish. “Just to explain.”
I shrug; to be honest I’m a little curious. “I’m listening.” I turn and start walking slowly, but then I jump in before she can say a word. “I mean, what’s all this hypocritical stuff? No sex before marriage and all that?”
It’s her turn to shrug. “Look, Holly. You and I have never got on particularly well. Have you ever wondered why?” She lifts her chin defiantly.
It is on the tip of my tongue to say “Because you’re a miserable cow?” but instead I say nothing and let her continue.
