Unravelling

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  ‘You know I’m besotted with you. You’ve never said anything about getting married before.’

  Gerald poured two more measures of whisky. He held one out to her, but she shook her head. She wanted her brain to be clear.

  ‘Darling, if I’d known getting married means so much to you, I’d have asked you that first night. Besides, the situation’s changed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘For one, Carla’s not going to keep her mouth shut, is she? I’ll have the powers-that-be crawling all over me if I don’t regularise our relationship. And two, butterfly, what would I do without you if your mother carted you off to the wilds of Ireland?’

  It rained on the wedding day, but Vanessa didn’t care. She was deliriously happy, she told herself. She’d been smuggling clothes and other belongings out of the house for days and storing them at Gerald’s, so that she wouldn’t have to go home afterwards at all. It was to be a secret wedding, just her and Gerald. They would find two witnesses when they got to the registry office, he said. It was such a romantic idea – she loved it.

  When she came downstairs that morning dressed as if she were going to college, her mother was waiting in the hall to kiss her goodbye. ‘Don’t be late tonight, Nessa. I’ve told Mrs Cochrane we’ll go round to look at the room.’

  Vanessa leant forward and her lips brushed her mother’s cheek. She caught the scent of the flowery eau de toilette her mother always wore. If she’d ever thought about getting married, it was in a long white dress, with all her family there; walking up the aisle on her father’s arm, him flashing one of his rare smiles across at her. She kissed her mother’s cheek a second time, breathing in her familiar smell, a mix of cakes just out of the oven and freshly washed-clothes. She’d left a letter in her bedroom, explaining what she was doing. Her mother would go mad at first, but she’d come round to it, especially when she met Gerald. And anyway, by then Vanessa would be his wife.

  Vanessa walked to the end of the road. She looked back and there, as always, was her mother waving. She turned the corner and climbed into the waiting taxi Gerald had sent to take her to his house. From there they would go to the registry office together.

  ‘We can’t do that,’ Vanessa protested when he first told her. ‘It’s bad luck for you to see me beforehand.’

  Gerald laughed. ‘You don’t believe all that bourgeois shit, do you?’

  Vanessa had planned to make a new dress for the occasion, but Gerald wanted her to wear the white lace one she’d worn that time at the pub. ‘You were the most bewitching thing I’d ever seen,’ he told her. ‘I wanted to fuck you on the spot.’

  She gave in. She bought some long white boots and a big floppy hat and her outfit was complete. Her dress was hanging on the wardrobe door in Gerald’s bedroom. A shiver ran through her as she eased it over her head. In an hour or so this would be her bedroom too. She tied her hair back from her face and carefully circled her eyes with black liner and brushed green shadow on to the lids. She outlined her lips with pearly pink colour. She stared at her face in the mirror. It was deathly pale, apart from the smudge of freckles across her nose.

  The boots felt tight as she pulled them up to her knee. They were pinching her toes. She settled the hat on her head and straightened her shoulders as her mother was always telling her to. She smiled at her reflection. ‘I’m ready,’ she told it. ‘I’m ready.’

  Eleven

  The Cobb is precarious on a blustery day, especially in her high-heeled boots. The harbour wall slopes steeply in places and its surface is slippery where sea water has poured over it. A gust of wind whips at Vanessa’s cloak. She pauses to steady herself. At the far end she pulls up her hood and stares into the water foaming against the rocks below. She thinks of Gerald and the text he sent last night: It’s lonely here. When are you coming to see me?

  There’s no reason to rush up to London, she tells herself yet again. She’s got a business to run and her relationship with him died a long time ago. He’s not her responsibility. But with every email and text that arrives, it gets harder. Two weeks ago, when he emailed to say he had to have another operation, she almost gave in. But then the hospital phoned to say his condition was giving cause for concern and she should come.

  ‘Why are you ringing me?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re down as his next-of-kin,’ the nurse said.

  ‘He’s nothing to do with me.’

  There are two customers in the shop when she arrives, a middle-aged man and woman. She listens to Josie as she explains about modern yarns, their colours and textures. When she first started looking for someone to work with her, she knew that Josie, with her eye for shape and pattern, for the quirky, the distinctive, was the one she wanted. Josie’s also organised and practical – a side of the business Vanessa finds tedious. She has ideas for their own yarn range and has launched an online magazine for knitters.

  The customers buy a jacket in a wonderful moss green. It has a stand-up collar, fits snugly at the waist and skims the hips, one of Vanessa’s designs from several years ago. It costs £265. ‘It’s for our daughter,’ the man tells her as he hands his credit card to Josie, and his eyes shine. Josie waves the couple off down the street and turns her attention to Vanessa’s new designs, spread out on the big worktable at the back of the shop.

  ‘This one’s divine.’ Josie studies a floor-length coat with a wide turn-back collar. ‘It would be good in an Astrakhan yarn.’

  ‘I was thinking of the Italian one we used for that range of bags and hats.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful. All little pigtails. Great fun for a coat.’

  ‘The UK supplier’s dropped it.’

  ‘We can order online.’

  Vanessa studies Josie’s face as she leans over the design. The skin around her eyes is soft and unlined. Her cheek is smooth, her jaw line clear and strong. Vanessa touches the corners of her own eyes, the puffy flesh underneath. Josie is twenty-six; she has a boyfriend who lives in Cardiff and they see each other only at weekends. ‘Means I can concentrate on work during the week.’ If Vanessa could have her time again, if she could be twenty-six, instead of sixty-two – that cruel inversion of digits – would she be like Josie, dedicated and ambitious? Would she be free of toddlers and a husband, ruthlessly in pursuit of his talent, while hers was ignored?

  Her stomach knots at the thought of those lost years. What she might have been if she hadn’t sacrificed herself for Gerald. Why should she feel guilty for not visiting him? He’s the one to blame for everything. He needs to be told.

  ‘I won’t be in for a couple of days, Josie,’ she says. ‘I’m going to London.’

  ‘Oh.’ Josie looks up from the drawings. ‘I thought – ’

  ‘I know we’re supposed to start work on the new collection, but … ’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Josie fills the gap left by Vanessa’s attempt at apology. ‘There’s plenty to get on with.’

  Vanessa takes her mobile from her bag and searches contacts. She clicks on Charles Miller. He answers immediately.

  ‘Vanessa! Lovely to hear from you.’

  ‘I’m in London tomorrow. Are you free for dinner?’

  ‘I’ll make sure I am. Eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall we try Romano’s again?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Are you staying at the same place?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll see you at Romano’s. Eight o’clock. Bye.’ She drops the phone into her bag.

  *

  The smell is horribly familiar. White coats hurry past, stethoscopes dangling. A porter, a nurse by his side, pushes a trolley at speed down the corridor; the patient’s eyes are closed. Vanessa arrives at Balmoral ward. She gazes up at a board with its list of names and rooms: G. Blackstone – 5. She waits outside for her heartbeat to slow and then pushes open the door.

  The man is leaning on the bed with his back to her. He’s wearing a hospital gown, one of those
stupid things that flap open to reveal people’s behinds. She can see his buttocks, scrawny and shrunken, and his legs look too skinny to support him.

  She feels as if she’s going to be sick. ‘Gerald?’

  The man looks round. He’s got a hooked nose and a thin vicious-looking face. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She backs out of the room.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The nurse sounds concerned. ‘Who are you looking for?’

  ‘Gerald. Gerald Blackstone.’ Vanessa hears her voice squeaking the name.

  The nurse indicates a room further up the corridor. ‘He’s been moved. He’s got some company now.’

  There are four beds, one in each corner. A man with yellow skin looks scarcely alive. A fan plays on his face. In another bed, a younger man is propped against the pillows, various tubes and machines attached to him. The occupants of the other two beds are sitting in armchairs.

  The nurse comes back down the corridor. ‘Have you found him?’

  Vanessa shakes her head. She shouldn’t have come. How could she have fooled herself with all that rubbish about thrashing things out with him once and for all?

  The nurse gestures to one of the men sitting in an armchair. ‘Look, he’s over there by the window.’

  Perhaps alerted by her voice, the man looks over and waves. Vanessa sets off across the room towards a blur of white: T-shirt, face, hair, arms, all anaemic white.

  He tries to stand, as she gets close, his hands clutching the arms of the chair.

  She bends down and kisses his cheek. He needs a shave and his skin scrapes against hers. A warm stale smell drifts up from him. She rests her hand on his, and her eyes are drawn to his fingernails. Gerald always kept them clipped short for work, but these nails are long and yellow, curved over at the tips.

  He slips back into the chair. ‘You’ve come. At last.’ He smiles up at her and she sees the gold tooth she once thought so exotic. Gerald from the past, the Gerald she loved, appears in the gleam of his black eyes, his wide smile.

  She pulls up another chair. It’s higher than his; she looks down at him, at the ridges of wrinkles on his forehead, the pouches under his eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d never come,’ he says.

  All the way from Axminster to Waterloo she told herself: one visit and that’s it. One visit. He’s caused so much pain. Too many people hurt. Too much damage. She can never forgive him.

  ‘Vanessa? Are you okay?’

  He’s staring at her and she can see the wounded look in his eyes, the droop of his mouth. She knows immediately that he’s disappointed at her reaction to him, that she’s not behaving as he wants her to. She only ever had to glance at him to recognise one of his black moods.

  She nods. ‘I’m fine. What about you?’

  He tells her about his progress. The consultant is on holiday, but when he comes back, they expect Gerald will be well enough to be discharged. He waves his hands around as he talks, in that way he always used to, and his expression gets more animated. She senses some of his old vitality waiting to leap out and captivate her all over again. The sound of his voice finds an echo inside her like the vibration of a drumbeat. Deep and melodic, with that faint suggestion of foreignness, it’s the only thing about him that hasn’t changed. An image of his naked body emerges from her memory. It’s not weak and shrivelled as it is today, but heavy, the muscles in his arms bulging under the skin, as he carries her towards the bed, and the hair on his chest tantalises her cheek.

  ‘I can’t wait to get out of here,’ he’s saying.

  Vanessa blinks the memory away.

  ‘Sabina and I have been talking about how I’ll cope.’

  ‘Sabina? Is she here?’

  ‘Gone for some lunch.’

  Vanessa thinks of Gerald’s half-sister, the product of one of his father’s flings, this time with a South American actress. She remembers the days when she was married to Gerald, when Sabina would arrive on one of her frequent holidays and sit chain-smoking in the kitchen.

  ‘Here she is,’ Gerald says, and Vanessa turns to find Sabina behind her. She stands up. Sabina must be in her late sixties by now, and after a lifetime of smoking should be like a wrinkled prune, but her skin looks smooth. She is wearing a white wool dress that clings to her voluptuous curves. Her hair is swept up, immaculate as ever. Vanessa has to stop herself apologising for the jeans and old sweater she’d deliberately chosen to wear.

  Sabina leans across the chair and Vanessa feels her cool lips brush her cheek. They both pull back and proffer the second cheek, exchanging dry kisses of mutual dislike.

  Sabina places her hands on Vanessa’s shoulders. ‘You’ve hardly changed, darling.’ She pronounces the word with that exaggerated accent Vanessa’s always hated. She studies Vanessa’s face. ‘And no surgery either.’

  Gerald laughs. ‘Just because you’ve lost count of your face-lifts!’

  Sabina slaps his hand. ‘You naughty thing!’

  Behind Sabina’s back, he sticks his tongue out. Vanessa smiles at him. In the old days he never used to support her against his sister.

  Sabina takes Vanessa’s seat, leaving her to hover awkwardly. Gerald pats the arm of his chair. ‘You can squeeze on here.’

  It will make more of a fuss to refuse, so she perches with one buttock on the chair. She feels Gerald’s arm against her thigh.

  ‘So, darling,’ Sabina begins, ‘how are we going to look after our man when he comes home?’

  Charles is waiting for her at Romano’s. Vanessa usually teases him about his dark business suits, but this evening she can see from his white cotton shirt and blue chinos that he’s made an effort to look casual.

  He kisses her cheek. ‘Vanessa! Lovely to see you, and looking wonderful as always.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vanessa spent a long time getting ready when she got back from the hospital. Not so much for Charles’ sake, if she’s honest. She soaked in a bath, trying to rid herself of the odour that had invaded her pores. She dressed carefully, black flared trousers, closely fitting orange jacket, and spent a long time over her make-up.

  ‘Your table is ready.’ The waiter gestures and they follow him.

  ‘Shall we have a bottle of champagne?’ Charles asks.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘You suggested meeting tonight. Usually I have to persuade you.’

  The waiter takes their order and returns with the champagne in an ice bucket. He pours them each a glass.

  The bubbles fizz, golden in the flickering light of the candle on the table. They begin to subside and Vanessa raises her glass. ‘To you, Charles. Thank you for your company.’

  He clinks his glass lightly against hers. ‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

  She laughs. ‘You’re an old charmer. There aren’t enough people like you around.’

  ‘It’s not just charm, Vanessa. I’m serious.’

  ‘Charles – ’

  ‘No, I made up my mind I would say this.’ He takes off his glasses and lays them on the table, crossing the arms carefully. Without them, he looks different. The skin under his eyes is paler than the rest of his face and slightly bruised looking.

  ‘I’ve made no secret of my feelings for you … ’ He stops and his adam’s apple moves up and down as he swallows. ‘I sense you don’t feel the same about me.’

  ‘I – ’

  ‘Vanessa, it’s okay. Obviously there’s something with your ex-husband. Unfinished business or what, I don’t know and I don’t want to. It’s nothing to do with me. I just want you to know that … as far as I’m concerned … I would like to think we have a future together.’

  ‘Charles, that’s so sweet – ’

  He stops her saying more, putting his finger to her lips. She feels as if she’s an actress in one of those silent films.

  ‘You are a beautiful woman, but there’s a sadness in your eyes.’ Charles is clearly into his st
ride. ‘Some pain and I wish … well … I don’t want to sound arrogant, but I think I can help heal it.’ He stops. Is that it? Is he going to say any more? His face creases into a broad grin. ‘That was some speech, wasn’t it? I practised the whole way here, but I’ve even impressed myself!’

  Vanessa laughs and the tension spiking the atmosphere disappears. ‘You are a lovely man, Charles. I’m glad I met you.’

  ‘That’s enough to keep me going for now.’ He finishes his champagne and looks round. ‘Where’s that waiter with our food? Emotional outpourings make me ravenous!’

  Vanessa can’t sleep, and she gets up to look for tablets. She rarely drinks more than a glass or two these days and the champagne and wine have given her a headache. She puts on a bathrobe and sits at the window looking out over London at millions of lights. Even through the double-glazing, she hears the hum of traffic. She can scarcely believe she spent so many years in the middle of this city; now she longs for the darkness and tranquillity of home, only the owls and the shushing of the sea to disturb the silence. Out there somewhere, Gerald is lying in his hospital bed. Is he asleep? Wide awake, unable to settle? Perhaps he’s thinking about her. ‘Please come again soon,’ he whispered in her ear as she left, so that Sabina couldn’t hear. ‘I’ll be counting the days.’ She squeezed his hand and he held on to it as she tried to draw away. ‘And the girls,’ he said. ‘I’d love to see Cordy and Esme.’

  ‘I’ve already asked them. I can’t keep on.’

  ‘Just once more. Please.’

  ‘I’m not promising anything, Gerald,’ she said and saw the light die in his face.

  Her mind drifts to Charles. It was a good evening: once he recovered from the emotion of his declaration, he set himself to entertain her. He knows how to make her feel special. She’s never been to his flat but it’s somewhere in central London. She could phone him and go over there now. Tell him she’s decided. Maybe he’s sitting in his kitchen – it will be all stainless steel and black marble surfaces, she’s sure – wearing striped pyjamas and drinking the cocoa he probably makes when sleep eludes him. She imagines him holding her in his arms, his tentative, gentle kisses. Fate might have decided to give her another chance, a chance to have a different life, with a very different sort of man. Perhaps she could begin to feel the healing he spoke of.