A Place for Us

by Harriet Evans

  Florence tugged at her hair, hanging on either side of her cheeks. “I—what?”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “I have never told anyone, anyone, about our relationship. Peter, how could you?”

  Peter’s voice dripped scorn. “It wasn’t a relationship.” He downed the rest of the wine in one gulp. “Florence, it was three nights. Four years ago. Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not a relationship.”

  “Four,” Florence said, her voice shaking. “It was four nights. And you said—you said you loved me.”

  “No! I didn’t !” Peter stood up, his face red with fury. “When will you give up this pathetic fantasy of yours, Florence? I know what you do. You hint and you nod your head and smile, you say these half sentences, and you make people believe it was something.”

  “I have never done that!”

  He wiped his mouth, looking at her with disgust. “Florence, you told Angela that you’d seen my bedroom, but that you obviously couldn’t say any more than that. You told Giovanni that we’d discussed getting married ! But that you weren’t keen and he wasn’t to mention it! I get a phone call from him asking me if it’s true! You have to stop this, it’s . . .” He searched around, shaking his head. “It’s—it’s rubbish! We had three—okay, okay, four nights. That’s it. Understand?”

  There was a terrible silence. “You d-d-did say you loved me,” Florence said after a pause, her voice breaking.

  Peter leaned over her. A white spot of spittle glistened on his lip. “One sentence said after too much wine against four years of total indifference? You’re building a case against me based on that? Doesn’t hold up, Florence.” He waved his long, thin hands at her. “Don’t you mind how damned tragic it makes you look?”

  Florence stood up, as though she were stretching. She took a deep breath, and patted his arm. “Peter. Don’t be horrible,” she said. She needed to recast herself. Needed to know this was going to be all right when he left. “I’m sorry I’ve made you angry. Obviously some people have . . . got the wrong end of the stick, taken things I’ve said out of context.” She peeked down at him, then pushed her glasses along her nose. “Now. What was it you wanted to discuss? Or was that the nub of it?”

  “That—yes. And, well, there was something else. It is linked. It’s all linked, as you will agree,” Peter said rather grandly, but he glanced at her uncertainly and Florence knew she had the power back, if only momentarily. He was scared of females, that indefinite group of humans with breasts and hormones and bleeding.

  “Well, have some more wine,” she said, turning back into the kitchen. She picked up the bottle.

  “For God’s sake, Florence,” Peter said. His heavy brows suddenly shook with rage. “Are you actually taking any of this in? Don’t twist this all to suit your ideas for once. Just listen.”

  “Gosh, Peter, how cross you are,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, but suddenly she was afraid. “Why are you being like this, is it ­b-because you’re a big star these days? And you don’t want to be reminded of your past mistakes? Mistakes, Peter. You have made mistakes, haven’t you?”

  “What does that mean?” He looked up warily.

  They’d never discussed what she’d done for him. Florence bit her tongue, but she was too upset now, and she couldn’t stop the words pouring out.

  “You know what it means. Remind me . . . how many weeks did The Queen of Beauty spend at number one?”

  “Shut up.”

  “How much have your publishers offered you for your next book?” The questions flew out of her, bitterly, eagerly. “What did you tell them when they said they wanted the next book to be just as good as the last book? Did you tell them you’d have to ask me to write another one? Did you tell them that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed, his eyes widening, his face going pale under his tan.

  She laughed. She felt quite mad, and really didn’t care anymore.

  “Jim asked me if I’d written it, you know. Out of the blue.”

  “Jim?”

  “Jim Buxton. At the Courtauld.”

  “Oh, come off it. The man’s a liar. And an idiot. What Jim Buxton knows about the Renaissance you could write on a matchstick.”

  “He knows me. He said he could tell it was my writing, not yours.”

  “That’s because he wants to sleep with you, I expect. He’s always been eccentric.” He looked at her with disgust, and she almost laughed; it was cartoonish, his revulsion toward her.

  “Jim’s not—” Florence wrapped her long arms around her body. “Nevertheless, he specifically asked me if I’d written any of it. Someone gave it to him for Christmas—he wanted me to understand he hadn’t bought it himself. I thought that was quite funny. He said the writing style is quite obviously mine, if you’re aware of my other work.”

  Peter Connolly laughed. “You’re pathetic.”

  “No, Peter, I’m not,” Florence told him smartly. She was feeling almost confident again. He couldn’t push her around . . . he had to see how much he meant to her now, that she was willing to subjugate herself totally to his needs, already had done. “You owe me so much, Peter, but you see, I don’t mind.” She walked toward him; had she judged this right? “I like it like that.” She stared up into his face, at the dark, clever eyes, the drooping mouth.

  “Oh, God,” he said.

  “I know,” Florence replied. “We’re even now, don’t you see? Darling, I’ll do anything for you.”

  He pushed her away. Actually shoved her, hard, in the breastbone, repelling her like a force field, and Florence stumbled, catching hold of the rusty railings. “God.” The revulsion on his face was horrible to see. “You don’t understand, do you? You don’t get it.”

  “What?” she said.

  “What? I’m getting married in a few weeks. Didn’t George tell you? Because before Tally arrives we’ll need to reorganize the department, and you and I need to discuss how best to do that.” His voice took on a beseeching tone. “Listen, we worked well together in the past . . . which is why I thought a one- or maybe two-term sabbatical might be the answer for you. To get you and Tally both used to the situation.”

  “Tally,” Florence said blankly.

  “Dr. Talitha Leafe. George said he’d told you.”

  “You’re marrying her ?”

  “Yes. Once again.” Peter glanced at her wearily. He jangled his keys in his jacket pocket as if to say, When will this be dealt with? When can I leave?

  “You can’t,” she heard herself say.

  “What?”

  There was that voice again, pushing her, like a finger jabbing in the back when one is standing on the edge of the precipice. “If you marry her . . . I’ll—I’ll tell everyone I wrote Queen of Beauty. I’ll sue you, Peter. And the publishers.”

  “You wouldn’t.” He sat back and laughed. As if he was so confident of his position at the top of the tree, and she some grubby little minion in the shadows. “Don’t be silly. Listen, Tally’s at the Sorbonne at the moment. You’ll meet her soon. You just need to get used to the idea, understand that some of your responsibilities will change. . . . After our marriage she’ll move to Florence, and of course George has very kindly done his best to be accommodating, and that means—” He broke off. “Florence? Florence?”

  For Florence had walked through the apartment to the huge old door. She turned and looked at him.

  She opened the door, Peter staring at her all the while.

  “No. You can’t treat me like that,” she said clearly. “Not anymore.”

  “Oh, come on, you can’t run off like you always do—” Peter began, getting up, exasperated, but Florence went out, slamming the door behind her so hard that the whole building seemed to shake. She ran downstairs, past old Signor Antonini and his little wife, past Giuliana, wailing loudly in h
er kitchen to Italian pop. She ran through the old palazzo door, down the street, the balls of her feet bare on the hard old cobbles, her hands deep in her pockets, hair flying behind her. She passed out of the Porta Romana, the ancient gate south of the city. The sun had set now, and the heavens swelled into a deep lavender-blue, clouds above her, gold stars pricking at the velvet sky.

  • • •

  As she ran the old memory resurfaced: the day Daisy had pinned her up against the wall and told her where she’d come from. Whispered this filthy, awful stream of stories into Florence’s small head, lies about their dad, about the Winters, about everything Florence believed in.

  Florence had run away then too, through the woods at the front of the house that covered the hill and led down to the village. She’d tripped on the brambles twined into the trees, torn gashes in her spindly legs, but kept on going. She’d ended up at the church and sat in the graveyard, hiding behind one of the angels guarding the grave of a child who’d died years ago. She was nine. She’d never been this far away from home on her own before, and she didn’t know how to get back.

  It was Dad who’d found her, much later that evening, feet drawn up under her chin, little voice piping out Gilbert and Sullivan songs to keep her teeth from chattering in the cold spring dusk. He’d crouched down, inky hand leaning on the angel.

  “What have we got here, eh? Is that my little Flo?” His voice was light but a bit strained. “Darling, we’ve been looking for you, you know. Mustn’t run off like that.”

  Florence had stared at the lichen blooming on the old stone. “Daisy said you’re not my mum and dad.”

  David had stopped stroking her hair and looked down at her. “She said what?”

  “She said you’re not my mum and dad, that my real mum and dad didn’t want me, and that’s why I’m here, and I’m not like any of the rest of you.”

  David had shuffled closer to her, sideways, like a crab, then put his arm round her thin shoulders. “Darling. Did you believe her? Is that why you ran off ?”

  Florence had nodded.

  He’d been silent then, and Florence was terrified, more afraid than at any time with Daisy. That he was going to say, Yes, it’s true, I’m not your daddy.

  She could still remember that feeling now. The black hole of fear that the one person in the world she loved more than anyone else would be taken away from her. That Daisy would win, that she’d have been right.

  Her father had pulled her head close to his. She could hear him breathing fast. She held her breath. Please. Please don’t let it happen. Please . . .

  But after a while he simply whispered in her ear, “That’s rubbish. You know you’re much more my daughter than she is.” Then he sat back a little. “Don’t tell anyone your old dad said that, hmm?”

  “Oh, no,” Florence said, giving a little secret smile, still looking down, but when she stole a glance up at him shortly after, she saw he was smiling too. Then he held out his hand. “Come back with me? Ma’s made a lemon cake and she’s been so worried about you. We all have.”

  She stood up, brushing the fresh black earth off her pinafore, her tights. “Not Daisy. She hates me.”

  “Wilbur’s just died, she’s sad about that. Let’s be kind to her, though. She doesn’t have what we have.” It was the only time he acknowledged it really, and she always remembered it. “Come on. It’s time to go home, Flo.”

  They trudged back up the road to Winterfold, and as they reached the drive her father had said, “Let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we? You pretend to Daisy she never said anything. And if she does ever say something, tell her to come and see me and I’ll set her right.”

  There was a tone in his voice then, and she nodded. When Dad was angry he was scary, really frightening. Florence wondered if he ever said something to Daisy, because she left Florence alone for a month or two, until the next time, the wasps’ nest, which nearly killed Florence, and which she knew she couldn’t ever actually pin on Daisy. Daisy wasn’t stupid. She’d always known exactly when to pounce.

  • • •

  Eventually Florence stopped running. She collapsed onto a graffitied bench in an old square filled with bashed-up cars, staring at the cobbles below her. There was no one this time to come and pick her up, to tell her it was all a lie. No one who’d say, “They’re all wrong and you’re right.”

  She knew her dad hadn’t told her the truth. She didn’t know how or why, just knew. Daisy was never wrong about things like that, and when she’d pinched Florence’s arm and said, “You were a bastard orphan and no one wanted you, little sister, so they picked you off the scrap heap, otherwise you’d have been kept in a home,” Florence knew she was right. She didn’t know how she’d found out: Daisy knew how to get into secret drawers, how to hear private conversations, how to twist and turn situations to get what she wanted from them.

  It struck Florence then, sitting on this bench surrounded by empty Peroni bottles and cigarette butts, the night’s chill cooling her sweating limbs, that it was all the same now. She’d been fooling herself again.

  She wondered when she could go back to the flat, if Peter would still be there. She wondered how long it had been coming, this realization that despite how she liked to run away, she’d got it all wrong. How long she’d been kidding herself about her life here, about living away from home. And as she sat with her head in her hands, she wondered if she’d always known that at some point, she’d have to go home and face the truth again. What came next she didn’t know.

  Karen

  “HELLO, LOVE. SORRY I’m late. How are you?”

  “Oh, hello, Bill.” Karen didn’t look up from the couch where she was reading a magazine, or pretending to read. She raised an eyebrow and turned a page. “How was your day?”

  She didn’t need to watch to see his little ritual every evening. She knew it off by heart. The way he carefully wound his scarf once around the banister. Always just once. He’d take off his coat, thumb precisely flicking the buttons out, one-two-three in a row. A little shake before deftly hanging it up with one finger. Then the clearing of the throat and a rub of the hands. That hopeful, kind look on his face.

  He wore that expression now. “Good, thanks, my love. I’m sorry I’m late. Mrs. Dawlish . . . she’s very shaky since the fall. I paid her a quick visit to drop off the pills and ended up staying on for a cup of tea. And—how about you?”

  “Crap. Annoying.” Karen ran one finger over the bridge of her nose up to her forehead.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Bill picked up the post on the hall table, thumbing carefully through it. She watched him in silence.

  Their marriage was based on silence these days. More and more. What they didn’t say was everything, and what they did, inconsequential.

  After a minute or so Bill looked up from his credit card statement, his brow furrowed. She could tell he was trying to remember what she’d said, pick up the thread, carry on with the steps of the dance. “So, what’s up? Is it work?”

  Karen shrugged. “They’re announcing the layoffs next month.”

  His eyes flickered briefly to meet her gaze. “Are you worried? Surely not. Your review was great, wasn’t it?”

  She wasn’t in the mood for him to be right. “That was four months ago, Bill. It’s a big company. Things change fast. You don’t—” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Never mind.” She sounded hysterical, she knew. Sometimes she felt as though she was going mad with it all. “I can feel a headache coming on. I might go out for some fresh air in a bit. I said I’d pop round Susan’s birthday card.”

  “Oh, right.” He dropped the little pile of his post onto the bureau and stood behind her, then tweaked one of the cushions on the sofa. “That’s nice.”

  “What’s nice?” Karen had picked up the magazine again.

  “You. Seeing Susan. I’m glad you two are friends agai
n.”

  “After I set fire to her hair, you mean?”

  “Well, it’s nice you have a friend in the village.”

  She threw him a glance of amused contempt. “You make it sound like it’s a real achievement.”

  Bill went into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He never picked a fight, and it drove her insane. She really wanted him to tell her to shut the hell up and stop being such a cow. To grab her by the shoulders, kiss her, and tell her she was in need of a good seeing-to. To sweep the damned letters off the stupid hall table and push up her skirt, bending her over the immaculate cream Next sofa, until they collapsed on the floor, tangled, smiling, his hair ruffled, their warm bodies flushed with the sensation of nakedness. She wanted to see the man she’d fallen in love with, the sweetly awkward, fastidious, and kind man who was late for their first date because he’d stopped to help a young mother whose car had broken down by the A36. Who lived to be useful to others, who made himself indispensable, who chuckled with hilarity like a toddler being tickled when he spoke to his daughter, who used to look at Karen as though she were a goddess come to life before his very eyes. Everything was always all right when Bill was in the room.

  She blinked, staring into nothing, and then followed him into the kitchen.

  “How was your day?” she said, guilt making her attentive. She smoothed her hand over his close-cropped hair.

  Bill was rubbing his eyes, tired. “Oh, all right. I had Dorothy in again. She’s in a bad way. Oh, I bumped into Kathy, she said she’d had Mum’s invitation to the drinks on the Friday. Everyone seems excited about there being a party at Winterfold again. Very nice.”

  Karen went over to the fridge. “Supper’s ready, in fact. Want a glass of wine?”