Unravelling

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  Esme suddenly pounces on the watch. She holds it out to Cordelia. ‘Have another look at your present. It’s pretty, isn’t it?’

  Cordelia stares at it, cupped in Esme’s palm. She picks it up – it really is beautiful. She turns the watch over and over in her hand. Why did Patrick have to buy them such expensive presents? She would be happy with something much less extravagant. He and his mate, Lance, are setting up a new magazine for men. It’s struggling to get established, but he never seems short of cash.

  ‘He’s good for you.’ Esme has put her silk robe on over her clothes and is swaying from side to side, allowing the silky material to swirl around her legs.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re more relaxed.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  A look of alarm passes across Esme’s face. ‘I know … before … but that was my fault,’ she says quickly. ‘I shouldn’t – ’

  Cordelia laughs. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m fine. What were you going to say?’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Esme reaches out to the bookcase behind her. ‘Look at this.’ She picks up a photo of the three of them – Cordelia, Esme and Jake – that was taken just before Cordelia went to the States. Esme and Jake have broad smiles, but a curtain of hair half hides Cordelia’s face; her mouth is set and her gaze is fixed on something in the distance. ‘You were so tense.’

  ‘That must be years ago.’ Cordelia takes the photo from Esme. ‘I was probably anxious about the trip.’ She can remember the state she was in at the time. Her weight had dropped to below seven stone when she left for America, but it’s strange to look at that distant image of herself. Who was the person caught forever in that arbitrary moment? What’s her connection to the person Cordelia is today? She studies it, searching for answers.

  ‘It’s all a long time ago,’ she says, putting the photo on the table. ‘Tell me about Australia. You haven’t really said.’

  Esme yawns again. She stretches her arms above her head and the green robe falls open, revealing the outline of her breasts under the thin cotton of her T-shirt. She isn’t wearing a bra and the nipples stand out. ‘I’ll bore you with it tomorrow. I’ve got hundreds of photos.’ She pulls the robe tighter again. ‘Hey, Vanessa says you’ve sold a painting.’

  Cordelia reaches for the wine bottle and pours them both another glass. ‘Not exactly. Patrick’s bought one for his office. Can’t count that.’

  ‘You can. What are you working on now?’

  ‘I haven’t done much lately. No time since I met Patrick.’

  Esme laughs. ‘Isn’t that what Vanessa used to tell us? Men are okay until they want you to cook their supper and iron their shirts!’

  ‘Patrick sends his to the laundry.’

  ‘I didn’t mean literally, Cordelia. Supper and shirts – they’re symbols.’ Esme shakes her head and the little beads in her hair flash in the candlelight. ‘Don’t you remember that march Vanessa and her mates went on? We had to do the banners. Down with Marriage. Say NO to ironing. I deliberately made all my letters crooked!’

  Cordelia picks up her glass of wine. The glow from the candle lights up the red liquid. ‘She’s changed on that, you know.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘When she was here last, she told me she didn’t feel the same about marriage any more.’

  ‘Really?’ Esme takes a tangerine from the bowl on the table. She peels back the skin and drops one of the segments into her mouth. ‘Did she tell you Dad’s back?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not something I want to think about.’

  Esme puts another piece of orange in her mouth. She chews for a while. ‘I’ve been trying to decide whether to meet him.’

  ‘It’s an easy question – definitely not.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s different for you. I can hardly remember him first time round. And when he came back, there was only that one night and then we didn’t see him again, did we?’ Another segment of orange goes in.

  Cordelia stares at Esme’s mouth. We didn’t see him again, did we?

  As if conscious of Cordelia’s eyes on her, Esme looks up from her tangerine. Under her dark skin, her face flushes a dull red. ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I? First the letters, now never seeing Dad again.’

  ‘It’s okay, Esme. I’m not going to flip this time.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Esme’s screwed-up face relaxes. ‘I was sure I’d be out on my ear double-quick!’ She peels off another segment of tangerine.

  ‘Well, you’re right. We didn’t see him, did we? There’s nothing to get worked up about.’ It sounds definite, believable. Cordelia can almost convince herself it’s true.

  ‘She’s seen him, you know,’ Esme says.

  It’s as if Cordelia can see the words coming out, black squiggles on a line of tickertape streaming from Esme’s lips. Tangerine segments go in: words come out,

  ‘Seen who?’

  ‘Vanessa. She’s met Dad.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know, but they had dinner in London.’

  ‘I told her not to.’

  ‘Well, she has. Couldn’t resist him, I suppose.’

  The idea of her parents together after all this time slices through Cordelia. ‘I don’t care one way or another,’ she says.

  Esme tears the skin of the tangerine into strips. She lines them up on the plate. ‘He’s ill,’ she says.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what’s wrong?’

  Cordelia begins to stack plates together. ‘No.’

  ‘I think it might be serious.’

  ‘Esme, I’m not interested.’ Cordelia pushes coffee cups and saucers to the end of the table.

  ‘She’s promised she won’t see him again,’ Esme says.

  ‘She’s a free agent; she can do whatever she likes.’

  Cordelia puts the last few presents under the tree. The others have gone to bed, and the house is quiet. She checks the table, replacing candles that have burnt down and repositioning some of the gold balls. She picks up one of the sprigs of holly that nestle between them and tears off a leaf. She balances it on her hand. It lies there, starkly green against her pink palm. Its edges are scalloped, each minute semi-circle becoming a needle-sharp point. She half closes her eyes and the leaf grows faint. Her palm is blurred. She feels herself drifting away until she can just make out the shape of the leaf. Colour leaks from the scene before her. The vibrant green of the holly fades. Her skin whitens until, like the holly leaf, her hand is grey and dead. Her fingers fold around the leaf, the thumb crossing over her middle finger and pressing downward, until her hand is bunched into a fist. Pain bites into her flesh but she grips tighter and tighter. One particular point, below her ring finger, seems more intense than the others, and she focuses her attention on that. The pain in her hand blots out every other thought. She takes deep breaths, like the counsellor said, in through her nose … out through her mouth. She opens her eyes. Everything is sharp and clear again. Colour trickles into the broken leaf. The pinpricks of blood on her palm are a vivid red.

  So what if her father’s come back? So what if her mother’s seen him? He belongs to the past. There’s no place for him in her life now.

  Seven

  Vanessa pulls the top over her head and throws it on the bed to join the flared aubergine trousers and black knee-length tunic. Normally she loves the way the yellow of the top clashes with her hair. Today it seems too gaudy, too brash.

  How does she want him to see her? Elegant? Maybe. Glamorous? Not sure. Sexy? Difficult one. There’s the black dress she bought for Josie’s New Year’s Eve party. It’s tight and short and when she wears it with her pink boots, it’s sexy even on someone of her age. But what message is she giving if she goes dressed like that? She pulls on some jeans and a long blue velvet coat. She swivels round to look at the back in the mirror and it swirls round her ankles. Turning back, she studies her refl
ection. She smoothes the material down over her thighs and straightens the satin collar. The taxi’s not due for another hour: plenty of time to decide.

  The phone rings as she steps out of the shower. She wraps herself in a big white towel. It’s probably Josie. It’s not a good day to be away – Marcel Devereux, a quirky designer from Paris who’s begun to use their knitwear in some of his shows, is visiting the shop.

  She reaches for the phone on her bedside table. ‘Hi. Vanessa here.’

  ‘Good morning, Vanessa.’

  She recognises the voice – it’s Charles Miller, a man she met at a party in London some months ago. They’ve had dinner a couple of times when he’s been in the area on business and went to the theatre once in London.

  ‘Charles, how are you?’

  ‘All the better for hearing your voice.’ Charles was divorced two years ago and he’s made no secret of the fact that he finds Vanessa attractive and wants to move the relationship up a gear. ‘I’ve got a meeting in Bournemouth today. I was wondering if we could have a spot of dinner together this evening … if you’re free, that is.’

  ‘Charles, how sweet … I’d love to – ’

  ‘But … why do I feel there’s a but coming?’

  Vanessa laughs. She likes Charles. He’s attractive, entertaining and obviously well heeled. How much easier it would be to stay in Lyme Regis today. She could go to the shop and drink champagne with Marcel, meet Charles this evening.

  ‘I have to go to London,’ she says.

  ‘I wish I’d known. I’d have stayed in town. We could have done a show.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll be tied up.’

  ‘What about a late supper? I can get back by eight, if you’re staying in London, that is.’

  ‘My ex-husband’s having an operation and I’ve said I’ll be there.’

  ‘I see,’ Charles says.

  Vanessa wonders if he does. Ex-spouse territory is not one they’ve explored and she has no idea what sort of relationship he has with his.

  ‘I didn’t realise you still saw each other.’

  ‘We don’t.’ Vanessa feels as if she’s been caught out in some misdemeanour. ‘At least, we didn’t. He’s been abroad, but now he’s – ’

  ‘I’d better not keep you.’ Charles is suddenly business-like, brusque almost. ‘I’ll ring again in a week or two. Perhaps we can arrange something.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  Vanessa replaces the receiver. She can picture Charles’ face: his grey eyes, normally cool and quizzical, looking hurt and perplexed behind his glasses.

  In the end there’s hardly time to consider her clothes. She pulls on a pair of sequined trousers that she bought in a boutique in Dorchester last week. She drags a black polo neck over her head and shakes out the tunic she’s discarded on the bed. She winds a cream silk scarf round her neck, just as the doorbell rings.

  It’s not John, her usual taxi driver, but it’s his car that’s waiting for her. A woman gets out of the driver’s seat.

  ‘Morning. I’m Vera. John’s off with his leg.’ She comes round the car and lifts Vanessa’s bag from her hand.

  ‘Hello, Vera.’ Vanessa’s often heard about John’s wife.

  ‘Back or front?’

  Vanessa hesitates. She’s got a feeling Vera might have strict ideas on the subject. ‘Front’s friendlier, don’t you think?’

  ‘Makes no odds to me. Axminster station. Eleven o’clock train. £10 whether you sit front or back. It’s not the theatre. You don’t pay more because you get a better view.’

  At Waterloo station, Vanessa scans the crowds as she comes off the platform. She switches her bag from one hand to the other. She can’t see Jake anywhere. Dumping the bag on the ground, she leans back against some railings. There’s a throb across her temple.

  ‘Mum! Hi … Mum!’

  She looks round.

  ‘Mum! Over here.’

  Still some distance away a young man is walking towards her. He’s wearing torn jeans and a motorbike jacket and his head is completely shaven.

  ‘Jake!’

  He stands in front of Vanessa, his mouth wide with a smile. ‘Comes to something when my own mother doesn’t recognise me.’

  She reaches up and hugs him. ‘Of course I knew it was you!’ The leather of his jacket is hard and cold against her cheek, but he smells wonderful, that fresh out of the shower smell he always has.

  He pulls back from her embrace. ‘Fancy not knowing your only son.’

  ‘You must admit you look different.’ His scalp is almost blue in its whiteness.

  Grinning, he runs his hand over the top of his head. ‘It’s for a job. I’ve got a part in The Bill.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, but did you have – ’

  ‘It’s a four-week contract, Mum. I wasn’t going to turn that down because a shaved head offends my mother’s aesthetics.’

  She laughs. ‘I’m obviously spending too much time in Lyme. I hadn’t realised I’d got so provincial.’

  ‘You? Never! I’ve only got an hour. Let’s get a drink.’

  The pub across the road from the station is almost deserted. A couple are sitting in the far corner and two labourers, still in their working clothes, stand at the bar. Vanessa buys a glass of wine and a pint of Guinness. They carry the glasses to a table.

  ‘Tell me about this part,’ she says. ‘Why the hard man image?’

  Jake takes a long drink. ‘I’m on secondment from another police force and this week I’m infiltrating a gang running a protection racket.’ A moustache of creamy foam attaches itself to his top lip. He wipes it clean with the back of his hand. ‘If it goes well, I get another four weeks.’

  ‘Are you enjoying it?

  ‘It’s the break I need. Everyone’s been on The Bill at some time. If Lawrence Olivier was still alive ...!’ Jake takes a packet of tobacco from his pocket and begins to prepare one of his roll ups. Ever since she gave up smoking, Vanessa has hated being near smokers, but she doesn’t say anything when Jake lights up.

  He turns his head away as he blows out smoke. Vanessa studies his profile – his strong jaw, heavy brows and aquiline nose, features made more prominent by the shaven head. This handsome man is her son. Not that she can take much credit for his looks – in appearance, he’s entirely his father’s child. Apart from his eyes, that is. When he turns back and fixes his gaze on her, it’s like meeting her own dark eyes in a mirror.

  ‘What about this visit to the hospital?’ Jake’s tone is casual, but she knows this is not a question carelessly dropped into the conversation.

  Vanessa makes a face. ‘You’ve obviously been talking to Cordelia and Esme.’

  ‘What do you expect?’

  ‘He’s asked me to visit him. That’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Probably scared. He always was a hypochondriac.’

  Jake laughs, a grating sound that stays in the back of his throat and doesn’t reach his lips.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘The thought of him being scared. There is some justice in the world.’

  ‘Jake.’ Vanessa tries to meet his eyes but his stare is hot and accusing.

  ‘Why you? Why do you have to visit him?’

  ‘He’s been away so long. I don’t expect he knows many people.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, Mum.’ Jake takes a pull on his cigarette. ‘He’s sniffing round you again, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s ill, Jake. He’s not in a position to ‘sniff round’ anyone, as you put it.’

  ‘Do you think he’d let that stop him?’

  Vanessa picks up her glass: the smell of the alcohol makes her feel sick. She pushes it away. Jake’s lips are set in a thin line, his eyes half closed as he studies the froth on the surface of his drink. If only she could get inside his head.

  ‘I don’t want you to go to the hospital, Mum.’

  ‘It’s no b
ig deal. Half an hour’s visit …’

  ‘You know it’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Okay. Okay!’ Vanessa feels as if she’s on trial. ‘It’s not easy. I loved him. I had children with him.’ Tears push at the back of her eyes. ‘That sort of stuff doesn’t disappear.’

  Jake is silent. His right leg is jigging up and down.

  She puts her hand on his knee. ‘Jake, I’m sorry. I loved your father too.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘I know bad things happened, but try to understand. When it’s your first love …’ She trails off, wondering when she managed to convince herself that it wasn’t Andrew who came first.

  He twists his knees to one side, rejecting her hand, so that it’s left hanging between them. She slides it into her lap, trying not to let the hurt show in her face.

  ‘You might be able to wrap it up like that,’ he says. ‘A neat package – bad things happened – but it was fucking well more than that for me.’ He glares at her, his lids opening and closing over his eyes as if in slow motion, his chest rising and falling. He looks stunned, like a wounded bird.

  ‘Jake,’ she says, hating the mewling note in her voice, ‘it’s only till he’s better.’

  Jake drains his glass. He places it carefully on the table, lining it up with Vanessa’s. ‘It’s up to you,’ he says. ‘But don’t pretend to yourself it’s for his sake.’

  The taxi drops her at the hospital. He should have been back from surgery several hours ago. Vanessa searches for directions. She’s looking for Balmoral ward. Her eyes skim the list – Windsor, Kensington, Frogmore, Sandringham. She can’t help smiling. The great radical, one of those expelled after the 68 sit-in at college, facing his most serious challenge in a ward named after a royal establishment.

  She takes the lift and steps out on to the third floor. A white arrow on the wall directs her to the left. She thinks of looking for a ladies to adjust her make-up and run cold water on her wrists, but manages to stop herself. She’s been through that routine on the ground floor.