I stare dumbly, then shake the envelope, as if some explanation, apology, defiance, regret, might yet fall out of it. The notes are crisp, fresh off the minier’s press, their edges sharp enough to slice more cuts into my skin if I was careless enough to let them. Down the corridor I can hear the quiet hum of music, footsteps and conversations as other students arrive. My room feels very empty in comparison, very silent, a world within a world. I fold the money into my purse and reach for the nearest box to begin unpacking.
The first object I pull out is my babushka doll, smelling strongly of the fresh coat of varnish that my father – in a pitiful quest for useful occupation – had recently insisted on applying. For a few moments I meet its bemused gaze, pondering that we are not so very different, with our selves layered inside, our carapaces to conceal and survive.
I plug in my stereo and pluck an LP at random from the box on the desk. Give me hope, help me cope, with this heavy load… I sing as I work, aware of the silent ebb and swell of my disappointment moving to a different, silent tune inside my head. Two hundred pounds will buy a lot of extras: fur-lined boots, guitar lessons, or a duffel coat like Eve’s to keep out the raw northern chill. It is generous and yet I feel let down. I had wanted so much more. Not many words, necessarily, but just enough to convey some acknowledgement of the truth upon which I had stumbled all those years ago under the scorched roof of the garden shed. There might have been allegiance, but there was such loss too, such terror; the tremble in my knees as I raced away across the scratchy grass, I can feel it still. Does he know that? Did he ever know that?
I tear open my purse and look at the notes again, fighting a sudden dark fear – far worse than the disappointment – that they might constitute an attempt to guarantee my silence after he has gone. I turn up the volume, sing louder, letting the fear burn itself out. He would never think in such a way. He would know, surely, that my discretion has never had conditions attached, that even at the age of seven it was as much about protecting the fiction of my own life as his.
Cycling back from the gym, Tim let go of the handlebars for long stretches, steering with a combination of balance, willpower and the strength of his inner thighs. He felt exuberant, masterful, in control, as he always did after a good workout. It was Sunday and spring was in full flow, evinced by the flowers streaking past him, palettes of colour, tumbling over garden walls, from tubs and hanging baskets.
At the garden centre he was forced to resume control of the handlebars to avoid a woman trundling a wheelbarrow of compost bags and bedding plants to the open boot of a double-parked estate car. An empty, dripping jungle just a few weeks ago, the place was now swarming. The woman had a small child who was skipping dangerously round the wheels of the barrow, ignoring commands to stay on the pavement. Tim glared at the pair as he braked. Spoilt middle-class women with kids and cars they couldn’t handle, it was enough to make one want to mow them down. Charlotte was middle class, of course, but not in any way that he could see typical of the breed. It was one of the things he liked about her – that while she operated within a certain social milieu she did not seem, quite, to be a part of it. There was something lost about her, something lost and, perhaps on account of that, deeply appealing. In fact, Tim’s only real reservation about her was the shrimp of a kid, Sam. He had seen it time and time again: perfectly fun-loving women ruined by their offspring. Although with Phoebe it had been the idea of having children that had helped to ruin things. Before they had got married she had been as anti the whole business as he was. Two years in, however, and he was regularly checking the little pack of pills in her bedside drawer to check she wasn’t playing games.
But then, Tim reasoned, changing down a couple of gears for the steepish slope up the last section of his road, a woman who already had a child was far less likely to get broody, especially one who was on the verge of turning forty with a crap marriage to her credit and a glint in her eye that suggested she knew how to have a good time. Tim breathed heavily as he pumped the pedals. He had to have her. He simply had to. He was fed up of imagining it. He needed to make it real.
Once inside his house (a three-bedroomed semi, which had put on a thumping fifty grand in the three years since its purchase), Tim sought solace by masturbating quickly and fiercely as he stood under the pummelling yet of his power-shower, then sat down in his favourite armchair to draw up a plan of action. As was his wont when under pressure, he jotted his thoughts in the form of a list. Number-one priority, both from a work and a personal point of view, was Mrs Stowe. Having promised to consult again with her husband, she had failed to return his last few calls. If he could just keep the dialogue going, Tim was sure he could bring the situation round. Mrs Burgess, on the other hand, was coming along nicely. She had found an eager purchaser with no chain for her house and was now waiting for the results of the survey with a view to securing Charlotte’s. Hurrah. One tick in the box there.
Tim sucked at the water-bottle he had bought at the gym. A litre after exercise was his aim, though he seldom managed it. He preferred drinks with a bit of fizz and bite, the ones that forced burps between mouthfuls. But then he also liked looking younger than his forty-two years and was determined to do all he could to keep things that way. Water was good for the circulation and the skin and he had worked up a hell of a thirst. His stomach muscles were still pulsing from the push of an extra twenty repeats. He had fixed upon an image of Charlotte to see him through: naked and sitting astride him, the ends of her tremendous hair tickling his face, soft-mouthed and admiring. It had worked a treat.
The next thing for his list was Charlotte herself. She had called him back the previous weekend, but only to say she was ill. Various subsequent communications relating to the house had arrived through the channel of his assistant, Savitri. Where some might have confronted this with a certain lowering of spirits, Tim, his self-esteem riding high on endorphins, viewed it merely as a new aspect of what was proving a hugely enjoyable challenge. He would call her that afternoon, he decided, play up the progress on the house, ask about the boy – yes, that would work – the bullying thing, and about her, of course. Tim paused to suck the end of his pen, musing on how best to play his hand. ‘Birthday 8 June,’ he wrote, after a few minutes, inwardly congratulating himself on having unearthed this gem of a personal detail from his work files. A beautiful divorcée approaching her fortieth, desperate to move house with a sulky son in tow and no distractions beyond board games with girlfriends and a part-time job with two puffs in a bookshop. Christ, if he couldn’t use some of that to his advantage he really was losing his touch.
Absorbed in such thoughts, forcing more squirts of water down his throat, Tim almost did the nose trick when his phone rang and Charlotte’s voice was on line. ‘Tim, I’m sorry, I meant to ring before but what with one thing and another… and now it’s Sunday which is probably –’
‘Fine,’ Tim chipped in happily, his ears popping as he swallowed. ‘Absolutely fine.’ The water-bottle had somehow rolled out of his hands and was dribbling a dark stain on to the Indian silk rug that Phoebe had wanted and he had refused to surrender. ‘Fine,’ he repeated, aware that the things on the list, his clear thinking, had turned to mush at the sound of Charlotte’s voice. ‘I still have high hopes of Mrs Stowe, by the way – very high. I know how much that house means to you,’ he added tenderly.
‘Thank you so much… and, Tim, about dinner…’
Ah. At last. Tim slid from the chair on to the floor, stretching his legs and tipping his head back against the seat cushion. ‘I was hoping that was the reason for your call – that you hadn’t forgotten.’ Using both feet, he had managed to right the water-bottle. Gently, he told himself. Easy does it.
‘Of course not but I was going to suggest that maybe we should wait until the… our business transactions have been completed before –’
‘And I think that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,’ Tim cut in, sitting up in panic.
‘But you must admit
it is somewhat –’
‘One little dinner, Charlotte, as friends. It’s hardly going to threaten world peace, is it?’
Much to his relief, she laughed. ‘I suppose it can’t do any harm.’
‘Might it even be nice?’ he teased.
‘Hmm, yes, I –’
And then, suddenly, the kid was there – obviously having barged into the room. The laughter had left her voice in an instant. ‘Sorry, Tim, but I’ve got to go now. Sam and I are off for a Sunday roast with friends.’
‘Let’s say Thursday, then, shall we?’ Tim suggested hastily. ‘My place, eight o’clock? I’m sure Jessica will be free – I’ll give her a call right now. It’s Ferndene Drive, by the way, number sixty-three. Turn left by the garden centre – you can’t miss it.’
He clicked off the phone, already picturing how it would be. No tacky bar stools and over-garlicky snacks this time. He would consult the French cookbook he had given Phoebe and never once seen her use. He was good at cooking when he put his mind to it; three courses, the best wine, flowers on the table, soft lighting, soft music, he would woo the hell out of her. She was beautiful, classy, a little mysterious, down on her luck; a creature more in need – more deserving – of wooing it was hard to imagine. Jessica was bound to be free. Jessica was always free. With the pustules and the teeth it was little wonder. He would offer to match whatever Charlotte paid, warn the girl that it might be a late one, promise to make it worth her while.
With the sun streaming through the window it was so warm standing by the till on Thursday morning that Charlotte asked Dean if they could turn the heating off. Her employer, who had arrived with half his face masked by a cashmere scarf and sniffing volubly, responded with a dark look.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll take this off instead,’ she offered hurriedly, stepping as far to the edge of the square of sunlight as she could and peeling off her cardigan.
‘Nice colour, by the way,’ Dean croaked, indicating the garment, which was bobbled from too many excursions through the washing-machine but still a handsome pea-green. ‘Exactly your thing.’
‘Thanks,’ Charlotte muttered, knowing the compliment was because he felt bad and thinking how much easier Jason was to have around. She returned to unloading a box of recent customer orders, inwardly marvelling that while her two employers complained regularly about the difficulty of keeping afloat against supermarkets they made no obvious efforts to economize. Aside from uncomfortably extravagant attitudes to radiators, the shop front was being painted again, unnecessarily, from lemon yellow to Wedgwood blue, and Dean had recently announced that the perfectly decent worn wooden flooring was to be covered with chintzy mushroom carpet, which Charlotte knew, because she had seen the estimate, would cost several thousand pounds.
But there was only an hour to go, she comforted herself, abandoning the box of books to take payment from a man who had spent ages browsing and bought nothing but a birthday card. Only sixty minutes and she would have a couple of hours to herself before she collected Sam from school. And then there was her dinner with Tim to look forward to. And she was looking forward to it, Charlotte realized, with some surprise. And why not? The man was unattached, in the right age bracket, attentive, funny, attractive – a perfect companion for a woman in her position, with no interest in anything heavy or long-term. Phoning on Monday to confirm that Jessica could do the baby-sitting, he had made her laugh several times with self-deprecating quips about overdoing things in the gym and needing a walking-stick to get out of bed. He had asked about the Sunday lunch too, sounding genuinely sympathetic when she tried to explain that she hadn’t enjoyed it much and how weird and upsetting this had felt because Theresa and Henry were such good friends. Anyone who had the pleasure of her company should be bloody grateful, he had protested, which was a daft thing to say but endearing all the same.
‘Still too warm?’ asked Dean, as the door jingled shut behind the man and his birthday card.
‘No, I–’
‘Not a hot flush, I hope?’ he teased, picking up on an earlier conversation that had somehow – without her meaning it to – got round to the subject of age and birthdays.
‘Not that I know of,’ Charlotte replied, tempted to take offence, but unable to because the gibe had been followed by a bout of vicious coughing. ‘Hey, you’re not well.’
‘I’ll be all right. It’s not like we’re busy.’ Dean dabbed his mouth with a tissue and disappeared into the stock room.
Left alone, Charlotte found her thoughts returning to the shortcomings of the lunch on Sunday. The tedious subject of her birthday had come up then, too. Henry and Theresa had even managed to argue about it, Henry saying through mouthfuls of plum crumble that such milestones were important and thoroughly in need of celebration, and if she wanted their help in organizing something she had only to ask; to which Theresa had replied that she would, of course, be happy to throw a party for her best friend but what piffle because forty-one was as important as forty and who gave a damn?
Feeling caught in some baffling, invisible crossfire of noncommunication, uncomfortably aware of Sam swinging his legs with unnecessary violence back and forth under the table while George did nothing but engage in irritating joshing with his siblings, Charlotte had been tempted to cut her losses and leave. Instead they had set off on a group walk to the park. But even this had proved unsatisfactory, with Theresa too engrossed in zipping her younger ones in and out of anoraks and herding trikes and scooters to talk properly, and the boys managing a half-hearted dart at each other, then charging off in separate directions.
The only cheerful member of the crowd had been Henry, who had remained in step beside her for the entire walk, discussing dates for her borrowing the cottage and saying that he had been planning a work-retreat there himself around the same time. When Charlotte had offered to change her plans, he had protested that, with the granny flat up and running, two sets of tenants wouldn’t matter a jot, that each would hardly know the other was there.
‘It’s just a number, sweetie,’ said Dean, returning with a glass of water and observing Charlotte’s dazed expression with amused concern.
‘What? Oh… that.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘Everyone seems determined to keep reminding me about it, but I couldn’t care less, I really couldn’t. I was thinking about something quite different.’
‘And you’re such a looker, darling,’ persisted Dean, ‘you couldn’t possibly be worried, could you? Those cheekbones, that hair. You’ll be one of those who go on for ever.’
Charlotte raised her arms in protest. ‘My God, you’ll be offering me a pay rise next.’
They were both still laughing when the phone rang. Dean answered it, then handed the receiver to her, mouthing, ‘School,’ and looking slightly less amused.
‘Mrs Turner? It’s Miss Brigstock at St Leonard’s. I’m sorry to call you at work.’
‘Miss Brigstock?’ During the course of the four years in which Sam had moved through the junior to the senior ranks of the school, Charlotte had never received a phone call from the headmistress. A fierce fifty-something with pouchy eyes and an unflatteringly geometric haircut, the head was a somewhat monochrome but dedicated creature, who normally limited communication to wordy introductions at parents’ evenings.
‘I’m afraid there has been an incident, Mrs Turner. I would be most grateful if you could come into the school.’
‘An incident?’ Charlotte’s puzzlement surged into anxiety. ‘What’s happened? Is Sam all right?’
‘Yes, Sam is perfectly well. But we would like you to come in now if you would.’
‘Now?’ Charlotte glanced at her employer, who was pretending to rearrange the carousel of cards in the far corner of the shop. ‘Right now?’ she repeated stupidly.
‘If you wouldn’t mind. Sam, I assure you, is fine,’ she added, in a gentler voice, ‘but I would prefer to explain everything when you get here.’
Charlotte’s hands fumbled as she replaced the receiver. ‘
Dean, I’m so sorry but –’
Her employer was already rolling his eyes and gesturing at the door. ‘Go. It’s fine. Just go. No worries. It’s quiet anyway.’
It was only after the doorbell had fallen silent that Dean saw she had forgotten the green cardigan. He picked it up and folded it carefully, wondering what it must be like to experience all that parental angst, to have a creature other than one’s partner to cosset and worry about. For a while he had wanted badly to adopt but Jason had said no and weren’t they enough for each other and bought two Siamese kittens instead.
Dominic Porter did his best to compose his long limbs into some semblance of relaxation on the slippery leather sofa parked opposite Miss Brigstock’s desk. Hateful furniture but a good woman, he mused, recalling their first visit to the school, when she had, quite rightly, given her attention to Rose rather than him, conveying such a gentle genuine interest in his daughter’s responses – skilfully letting them control the direction of the conversation – that Rose had opened up in a way Dominic had never seen her manage with an adult before, not even during the days when Maggie had been well and they had had nothing to trouble them but run-of-the-mill things, like bad weather, managing on one salary and what colour to paint the hall.
Rose had closed up again, of course, like some eccentric flower attuned to a private schedule of blooming – seldom, secretly, or when least expected – but it had given Dominic faith in the school and in the difficult decision to take the plunge and leave the Hampshire farmhouse Maggie had so loved and move to London. Setting about it in the middle of a school year had been far from ideal, but having not moved earlier for Rose’s sake, Dominic had suddenly seen how stuck the two of them were, treading water and nearly drowning as a result: each handmade curtain pleat, the angle of every knick-knack, the smell on Maggie’s side of the wardrobe (jasmine or whatever the hell it was she had always worn) – all of it such a comfort during the early months, it had simply grown too painful to bear. Without her, commuting made no sense either. Maggie’s parents had helped for a while but after that it had been up to a string of sweet, gauche au-pair girls to plug the gaping hole until he got off the train each night. When challenged, Rose always said she liked the girls, that she didn’t mind him being late, but since her mother had gone she had become a master at saying the right thing and Dominic had learnt not always to believe her.
Life Begins Page 10
