by Jean Levy
‘You get nicer Christmas decorations here. Are you grumpy because of my shopping?’
‘No, I’m delighted it’s been such a fulfilling trip for you.’
She frowned. ‘Are you cross that Lucy’s gone off with David?’
‘No, not at all.’
Sarah watched him watch the road and was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to offer an opinion. ‘I don’t understand you two. Don’t you mind if she goes off with other guys?’
He glanced at her then smirked at the road ahead. ‘No.’
Sarah disapproved of his answer so she resumed silence. She listened to the repetitive sound of the wheels thudding along the Autobahn, the sound of the wiper blades screeching across the not-wet-enough windscreen. ‘Doesn’t she mind?’
‘Mind what?’
‘Mind you sleeping with other women.’
‘Not usually.’
Sarah continued to watch him. ‘You are cross about something, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not. I’m just stressed.’
‘Is it because Poppy decided to fly home early and it’s just the two of us driving back?’
‘No!’
‘What then?’
‘Nothing!’
‘You can’t be stressed about nothing!’ She caught sight of a heron perched on a fence, grey and wet, with nothing better to do than watch the cars go by before retiring to his swamp for the night. She could write a story about that: Wolfgang the Heron … ‘We should have left earlier. Then we’d be nearly there by now.’
‘Sarah, your powers of logic astound me. And if we hadn’t had to go back to the stand and look for your laptop we would have left earlier.’
Sarah chose not to defend herself and, instead, took out her mobile and checked for missed calls. There was a text from Annabelle reminding her about the theatre next Thursday. Nothing else. She decided to ring home, then she rang Jeff’s mobile and left a voice message: ‘Sarah here. We’re just leaving Germany. I’ll text when we get to the hotel. It will probably be late.’
Matthew spoke without taking his eyes off the road. ‘No luck?’
‘He’s probably with a client.’
Matthew nodded. ‘When’s the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Why?’
‘I was just wondering whether he phoned to ask how your interview went.’
‘He’s not interested in my success.’
‘Well, he ought to be. If you ask me, he’s jealous.’
‘Don’t be stupid. He thinks I write crap!’
‘Nice. Put some music on.’
‘No, you put it on.’ She located Coldplay and pressed play.
After ten minutes or so, Matthew turned off the music. ‘We could do with a filling station. There’s not been one for ages.’
‘Oh God, are we going to run out of petrol?’
‘Not yet. Just keep your eyes open. We should have filled up before we left but I was keen to get away.’
The next thirty-three kilometers were accompanied by Sarah’s attempts to use the satnav on her phone to find a service station. Eventually a large road sign saved her further anguish.
‘It says services in fifteen kilometres,’ said Matthew. ‘That’s less than ten miles.’
‘Have we got enough petrol to get there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we get some sandwiches as well? I’ll start to feel sick if I don’t eat something soon. I’ve never been able to travel far on an empty stomach.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
While Matthew was inside paying for the fuel, his mobile vibrated. Sarah pulled it out of the drinks well to see who was calling. It was Poppy. She answered.
‘Hi, Poppy, it’s Sarah … He’ll be back in a minute. Where are you? … He’s paying for petrol. What’s up? Why didn’t you say goodbye? I looked for you.’ She caught sight of Matthew hurrying back through the rain. ‘Here he comes now. Speak to you later.’ She handed the phone over as Matthew threw himself into the car. ‘Poppy wants to speak to you.’
He handed her a wet plastic bag and took the phone. ‘Hi, Poppy … Yes … Oh …’ His expression became weirdly furtive. ‘OK … no, I don’t think that will be a problem … yeah, obviously I will … OK, see you in Blighty, safe flight … bye.’
Sarah waited for an explanation. Matthew pulled away. ‘His flight’s been cancelled. He won’t be able to leave before tomorrow morning.’
‘When did he tell you he’d decided to fly home?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘He never mentioned it when I was with him. He just left without saying goodbye.’
Matthew changed the subject. ‘Can you phone the hotel and say we’ll be arriving after nine but we’ll still want supper. The number’s in my contacts under Chagny.’
Sarah investigated his contacts page, found the number of the chateau and frowned.
‘There’s no signal.’
‘Well, keep trying. Have a sandwich. In case you start feeling sick.’
She investigated the contents of the plastic bag, helped herself to a cheese sandwich, took a bite and grimaced. ‘Yuck, I hate this smoked stuff. It tastes like dustbin scrapings!’
‘Well, I’m sorry, your majesty, but bland cheddar is not a popular dairy product along the Rhine. Just eat and try not to think about it.’
Sarah finished her sandwich then poked around in the bag for something else. She helped herself to a bar of chocolate. Matthew handed her his phone. ‘See if there’s a signal yet.’
‘Yes, there is.’ She had a short schoolgirl French conversation which did not go well due to the large lump of chocolate she had in her mouth. She put the mobile back into the drinks well. ‘We can arrive at any time. Our rooms are assured but she is afraid zat zere is no ‘ot food after ‘arf past ten. I hate Europe. Do you want a bit of chocolate? It’s disgusting.’
Sarah abandoned the bar of chocolate then slept. So Matthew was able to drive dangerously fast. Soon he had left Germany behind and was heading at breakneck speed through Burgundy. Suddenly, his phone vibrated against its plastic surround. Sarah opened her eyes.
He glanced down. ‘It’s Lucy! Don’t answer it!’
The vibration stopped. Sarah’s mobile rang. ‘It’s Lucy,’ she said. ‘I’d better answer in case something’s wrong. She never rings me.’ Matthew groaned. Sarah ignored him. ‘Hello, Lucy … He’s driving … no, it didn’t ring. He probably needs to charge it … no, I didn’t know that.’ She looked at Matthew who was concentrating on not looking back at her. ‘Really? Do you know why? … Yes, I’ll get him to ring when we get there … Thanks for calling. Bye.’
She rang off and glared at Matthew. ‘That was Lucy. Nothing in particular. She just thought it was important that I knew that as soon as you found out she was going to Strasbourg with David, you phoned Poppy and bribed him to fly home. So you and I would be travelling back alone together.’
Episode Thirty-three
‘You knew I was married. How could you not tell me? How long did you think it would be before I found out? When we became lovers, was I still married? Am I … I can almost remember. Am I still married?’
‘No, you’re not. Let’s go downstairs.’
He tried to put his arm around me but I pushed him away as hard as I could. I pulled myself to my feet, clutching my wedding, my husband, my past, against my chest, my mind brimming over with half-formed memories, with hate and fear and hopelessness, emotions that seemed to be unattached to anything. Just there.
‘Why am I not still married?’
He stood up and looked around at my piled-up possessions. ‘Sarah, love, we can’t have this conversation up here, surrounded by all this.’
‘These are my things!’
‘They thought you’d be confused by them.’
‘Confused? They’ve been hidden up here, and you knew. When we were together you knew these things were up here above our heads.’
‘I did what they told me was best for you.’
<
br /> He tried to touch my shoulder but I moved away. I wanted to hurt him. Really hurt him. Because I knew that somehow he was to blame, that he alone was responsible for the hate and fear and hopelessness. So I closed my hand into a fist and struck out at him. I aimed for his pale eyes but he was too tall, and the blow fell low. The impact pushed me off balance, forcing me to stumble towards him and grab at his sleeve to save myself. I lost my hold on the photo frame, felt it sliding away from me, heard it crash down to the tiled floor. Matthew moved to pull me clear as the sound of shattering glass echoed off the metal shelves, the empty pots and pans.
The room was silent. My head was filled with betrayal and anger, and a desperate desire to run away. But I also felt an intense need to stay in the arms of this person who had allowed me to live this lie. A suffocating tightness was growing in my chest and that odious child was laughing at me. My legs were becoming too weak to support me. I needed to touch the ground.
‘Sarah, mind the glass!’
I felt myself lifted.
‘Are you all right? Speak to me! Can you hear me?’
Yes, I could hear him.
‘Sarah, can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God. We need to go downstairs.’
I looked around me. I had no idea where I was. I was sitting on a golden chair. Matthew was sitting on another golden chair, close to me, so close our legs were touching. He was holding my hands. His face was smeared red.
‘Sarah, love, we’re upstairs, remember? Above your flat. Do you know what’s happening? You came up here and found these things.’
I pulled a hand free and touched his face, moved my fingers down his cheek. He turned to kiss my hand then eased it away and I gasped at the blood smeared across my fingers.
‘I bit my lip. It’s nothing. Try and remember. What were you doing up here?’
I grappled with my memories. ‘I found a key.’
‘A key?’
‘I had to find Alfie. In case he was bringing animals in here.’
‘Alfie was coming in here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great. They didn’t bloody think of that, did they! How long have you been up here?’
‘I don’t know.’ I glanced beyond Matthew’s shoulder, to the broken glass and the fat woman eating a cream cake. ‘How did you bite your lip? Did I do it?’
‘It was an accident. I’m fine.’
I looked again at the glass. ‘It’s a picture of me and … Was I married?’ He said nothing. I studied the concern in his eyes. ‘Did I hit you with that?’
‘What?’ He turned to look at the debris across the floor. ‘No, of course not. You just … punched me. I deserved it. I ought to punch myself for letting them talk me into this.’
‘I’m so sorry. I hurt my wrist.’
‘Let me see.’ He turned as Alfie walked in through the open door, a large moribund rodent twitching between his teeth. ‘Oh God, that’s all we need! Listen, we should go downstairs …’ But he was interrupted by the sound of small bones splintering in Alfie’s jaws. ‘Thanks, Alfie,’ said Matthew. ‘That’s really made my day.’
I left Matthew excavating my wedding from the glass and carried Alfie downstairs away from his secret lair. Moments later Matthew came into the kitchen and put the photograph on the table, then went to the bathroom to repair his face. I followed him, reluctant to be on my own in the same room as that image of the person I had once been. And the man I had married. I sat on the side of the bath and watched him observing his lip in the mirror.
‘I’m sorry, Matthew.’
‘No worries, I think it suits me. But I’d better try and disguise the damage before tomorrow. They’ll wonder what we get up to if I walk in looking like this. And we’d better order in some food. Then we’ll talk. OK?’
Despite being only a two-minute walk away, the Indian takeaway was to take thirty minutes to be delivered, so I improvised Matthew an ice pack with a tea towel and a bag of frozen peas then went to the lounge to avoid the photo and any conversation that might relate to it. Matthew followed me, carrying the photo and sat down beside me. I avoided his eyes.
‘You knew I was married and you never told me. I’m not married now, am I?’
‘No, you’re not. Sarah, they warned me that telling you might make things worse.’
I glanced at the photo. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Jeff Blake.’
Blake. Not Clark. Mrs Parkin had lied about why I didn’t share my grandmother’s surname. Lies. Not harmless untruths.
‘Where is he now? Why am I not still married? Or have you got to tell me more lies because it’s not best for me to know?’
‘I haven’t lied, it’s just not been the whole truth.’ He sighed. ‘Jeff died.’
‘He died?’
‘He fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. He died six weeks later of an infection. He never regained consciousness.’
‘Oh my God! Was I sad? Am I sad?’ I remembered my conversation with Peggy: knowing is not the same as remembering. ‘Were we still married when he died?’
‘Yes, but you were going to leave him.’
‘To be with you?’
He pulled the ice pack away from his mouth. ‘Yes.’
I leant forward and looked at the photograph. Shook my head. ‘I was married to him and I don’t recognise him.’
I knelt down on the floor to take a closer look at this man who had been my husband. He was tall, but not as tall as Matthew, and he had a nice smile. I couldn’t make out the colour of his eyes but they were probably brown because his hair was dark brown and curly. You could tell it was curly even though it was cut short for his wedding day. I studied his face, his hand with its new gold ring. What can you know from a photograph? A new husband and wife, both smiling at the camera, believing they would always be together, me and this person who was now so utterly gone not only from my life but also from my memories.
‘When was this? When did I get married?’
‘It was before we met. Almost eight years ago.’
I tried to imagine speaking to this person, this husband, tried to imagine making love to him, deceiving him, deciding to leave him to be with Matthew. ‘Did he know about us?’
Matthew put the ice pack on the floor.
‘Yes, but he was with someone else. He was pretty much always with somebody else. You just used to ignore it and concentrate on your writing. But things changed and you decided to leave him.’
I tried to imagine the conversations, perhaps seven years after this smiling day: shouting, saying it was all over, that the promises were all broken.
‘And we lived here? Me and Jeff Blake?’ I paused to digest this new information. ‘Is that why you didn’t live here with me?’
‘Yes. This was Jeff’s house. He owned it before you were married.’
I looked at him: ‘This house belonged to my husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘All of it? Even that huge kitchen upstairs?’ I looked up at the ceiling. ‘Matthew, why is there a giant kitchen upstairs?’
He pulled me up onto the sofa. ‘Jeff ran his catering business up there.’
‘Catering?’
‘Yes. Amazing Days Catering. Weddings, luxury garden parties.’
‘But why was the kitchen upstairs? Why wasn’t it downstairs?’
‘It was like that when he bought it. Something to do with kosher food preparation. He got it cheap for that reason. He had the whole elevator and stairs re-constructed. You used to be able to drive in through the back of the Indian restaurant. He had an agreement with them over access, but he was always in dispute over dustbins. Anyway, they’re fencing it all off now. I think Jeff was planning to move to larger premises and convert this into bedsits. I’m not sure.’
‘Was it those metal stairs that broke his neck?’
‘No, not those stairs.’ He took hold of my hand. ‘Jeff used to buy flowers from the florist where you were working. The
n you went to work for him.’
‘I worked for a florist? You could have told me that.’
‘Didn’t Annabelle …’
But I’d turned my attention towards the big cupboard. ‘There are loads of vases …’
‘You used to practice new ideas. Whenever I came to see how the writing was going, you’d be messing around with flowers. I used to moan at you to get on with your writing. And you used to throw twigs at me.’ He winced and touched his lip.
I picked up the ice pack and held it to his mouth. I needed to be angry with him for deceiving me, but I was too tired to be angry. ‘Did we ever make love here? When I was … When Jeff Blake lived here?’
