The Love of My Life

by Louise Douglas

  ‘Marian was a favourite of the great and the good of Watersford,’ said the professor as I clicked again, and there was a picture of the writer posing beside one of the city’s former mayors – a huge ball of a man complete with whiskers, medals and ermine.

  ‘She became a society darling, and a mainstay of the literary and social circuit. In her time, she was a huge celebrity, the equivalent, perhaps, of David Beckham today. However, she always professed to be happiest strolling along the seafront, or on the cliffs at Portiston, and enjoying the simpler pleasures of the seaside town.’

  Cue a picturesque shot of the town taken during our earlier visit. On the large screen it was possible to make out the frontage of Marinella’s in the centre of the picture. My heart gave a little lurch.

  There was no time for nostalgia.

  ‘Marian never married,’ said the professor, ‘and it certainly wasn’t for lack of opportunity or admirers.’

  Cue several slides of Marian’s beaux, all of them literary, and extremely hairy men with a predilection for felt fedoras and pipes.

  ‘There were rumours,’ said the professor, ‘that she was romantically involved with a much younger man, the son of the vicar, no less. It was rumoured that one of the sexiest fictional characters in nineteenth-century literature, Dan du Bruin, was based on the man in question, yet the fictional hero bears little physical resemblance to any of these real-life possibilities.’

  I curled my toes with anticipation. I knew what was coming. I glanced to my right, where the journalists were sitting. One of them, a very tall, bony man, was leaning forwards, balancing one elbow on the knee of his crossed legs, his chin in his hands, his spine making a perfect C. He was wearing Jesus sandals and I could see the curly hairs on his toes and their big yellow nails. The other was older, suited, with grey hair combed over a large, pink head. Neither of them was making notes. The professor made a little nod towards them, as if to tip them off that what came next was the important part.

  I returned to the job in hand. There was a flurry of slides as the professor described how Miss Rutherford never returned to America and never left her pretty little rented house. She lived to the grand old age of eighty-six, eventually dying in her sleep in her bedroom.

  ‘It was,’ said the professor, ‘according to Marian’s longtime friend and companion Daniella Urbin, a most peaceful and serene death.’

  He cleared his throat, and his eyes darted around the lecture hall. Nobody had made the connection yet.

  ‘Not much is known about Daniella. I came across a picture of her in the course of my research, and the letter from which I just quoted was actually framed on the wall of a bed-and-breakfast establishment in Portiston, so it’s quite incredible that nobody picked up on it before. Anyway, this is Daniella …’

  I clicked and on the screen appeared a young woman. She was attractive in a rather rakish and decidedly unconventional way but the first thing anybody would notice about this young woman was the fact that she was wearing an eye patch.

  The audience weren’t stupid. They’d read their Rutherford. They all knew that Daniel du Bruin had lost his left eye in a duel and ever after had to wear a patch. It didn’t take anyone long to solve the obvious wordplay.

  There was uproar in the lecture hall. There was applause and cheers and the professors, many of them women with an interest in lesbian influences on Victorian literature, crowded around my professor. There was talk of changing the nature of the Portiston Literary Festival next year. The professor was going to be a hero. He didn’t know it then, but within the month he would have been interviewed by the national newspapers. He would be invited to appear on TV arts discussion programmes and his face and voice would become well known and respected internationally. That was the professor’s future, but for now I, his assistant, had a promise to keep in the cemetery.

  The professor knew I had to go. I caught his eye and he held up his hand to wave goodbye. He smiled and mouthed, ‘Thanks,’ and I mouthed back, ‘My pleasure.’ I put the slide of Daniella Urbin in the zip-up pocket of my handbag, where it would be safe, and left the rest to be tidied up by Jenny. Then I trotted out of the room, blinking, into the summer sunlight.

  fifty-eight

  I was almost looking forward to visiting the cemetery on Luca’s birthday. I wanted it to be a special occasion. So after the lecture I went back to the flat and blew a kiss in Luca’s direction through the window, and then had a bath and washed my hair. It was so warm, I didn’t bother with the drier, but combed it out over my shoulders and walked round the flat in my towel tidying up bits and pieces. I poured myself a small glass of cold orange juice and fingered a couple of black olives out of a jar in the fridge. I played Irene Grandi, being in the mood for Italian love songs.

  There weren’t many summer clothes in my wardrobe. I hadn’t brought much from London, and I hadn’t had occasion to buy clothes except for work, but I wanted to dress up for Luca. Humming to myself, I went through the wardrobe, dropping unsatisfactory and rejected items on the floor. I ended up in a very old pair of Luca’s jeans which I held up with his leather belt pulled tight so that the waist bunched, and a white broderie anglaise top. I remembered Luca standing behind me and kissing the balls of my shoulders one day last summer when I was wearing that top. Possibly there were still some of Luca’s cells in the fabric. I liked the thought of his DNA being so close to my skin.

  I made myself up. The whole works: foundation, eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, lipgloss, blusher. I highlighted my cheek-and browbones. I sprayed perfume on my wrists and throat. I smiled at myself in the mirror. I looked as good as it was possible for me to look. Luca would have been proud.

  In my handbag were my car keys, my mobile phone and my purse. On the shelf by the door was a card for Marc and a bottle of wine in a shiny red gift bag. I had originally bought him a pale blue cotton shirt for his birthday, but had decided it was too personal. I didn’t want to give him anything he could remember me by. I thought I could leave the card and present on the doorstep of Marinella’s later. The family would probably be having a party for Marc and I didn’t want to interrupt that, but I also wanted him to know I hadn’t forgotten. Also on the shelf was a poem and present for Luca. I had bought him a silver eternity ring from a stall outside Watersford Cathedral. My intention was to bury it for him. Then when I wasn’t there, he would at least have something of me close by, for ever.

  I drove up to the cemetery. I was feeling light and insubstantial, as if my feet were floating fractionally above the ground.

  I parked the car at the bottom end of the ceremonial garden, nodded to a woman who was changing the flowers on a grave, took out the poem and held it with the ring tight in my hand as I began the long walk up the hill.

  It was one of those balmy, late-summer evenings when the air is hazy with midges and the day’s leftover heat. Flowers were wilting, dropping their heads over the edges of their vases as if disappointed, and overhead balletic swallows swooped and rushed while lazy pigeons gave their comforting calls from the trees.

  I walked up the path, which was fringed with buttercups and daisies. The grass had grown to seedheads and was dotted with meadow-flowers, and moths and butterflies were busy around my ankles. The sun was low and gentle now, as if it too were tired. I passed an old man with a watering can who said, ‘Good-evening,’ and a young man holding the hand of a small girl who looked at his feet and wouldn’t catch my eye.

  Up I went to Luca’s grave, my heart beating a little faster as he drew closer, my breath coming a little quicker through a combination of exertion and anticipation.

  But when I turned left at the ash tree that marked the point directly opposite where Luca had been buried, the grave was not as I had expected. When I saw what they had done, my hands flew to my mouth and the poem fluttered to the ground some way below me and the ring dropped into the long grass and was immediately lost.

  There was a black marble headstone on Luca’s grave, which was piled hig
h with flowers.

  Of course the family would have been to visit today, but there were so many flowers I was shocked, and I hadn’t known about the headstone. Nobody had consulted me. Nobody had even told me about it.

  My heart was pounding as I stepped forward to read it. It said:

  IN MEMORY OF LUCA FELICONE

  Dearly Beloved Son and Brother

  For ever in our Hearts

  And Always Loved

  Angela, Maurizio, Carlo, Stefano,

  Marc, Fabio and Nathalie

  That was all it said.

  There was no mention of the fact that Luca had also been a husband.

  There was no mention of me.

  ‘You’re a bit late for the party, love,’ said a kindly voice at my shoulder. It was the cemetery superintendent.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I felt shaky.

  ‘Is it a birthday or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, today would have been his thirty-fifth birthday.’

  ‘I thought so. I’m sorry.’

  I gave him a little widow’s smile to disguise whatever emotion it was that was hammering in my chest. ‘Did they all come together? The family?’

  ‘Oh aye. It’s a shame you missed it. It was a lovely ceremony. There must have been about twenty people here.’

  The flowers, heaped on Luca’s grave and deprived of water, were already beginning to smell oversweet and slightly rotten. It didn’t feel like Luca’s grave any more. I didn’t know where Luca was. I had never felt so far away from my husband.

  The superintendent wandered off and I stood there in the heat, staring at a headstone which, for all eternity, had erased me out of Luca’s life. At my feet were the remains of a ceremony and commemoration to which I hadn’t been invited.

  I felt a great pool of sadness inside me. It was heavy and lapped against me, black and deep and cold. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, a long way off, like the possibility of trouble to come.

  Then something happened.

  The water in the pool of grief began to bubble and boil. Instead of sadness I felt anger. Not just a little anger but a great, steaming fury.

  I turned and took off my sandals and ran down the hill, pushing past the superintendent with his wheelbarrow and the young man and child. I jumped into my car and screeched out of the cemetery. I don’t remember the journey to Portiston, but I do remember that I had a huge energy and a huge anger and it was great, it was magnificent.

  I skidded the car to a halt outside Marinella’s, slammed the door with a strength I didn’t know I had and climbed the steps. I pushed open the door so hard that it swung all the way back and the inside handle banged on the wall behind it. This small act of violence had the desired effect. The family and friends who were milling around inside the restaurant helping Marc celebrate his birthday stopped in the middle of their small-talk and their memories and their condolences and turned to look at me.

  The restaurant had been decked out for a party, but in a more subdued way than normal. There were no balloons or HAPPY BIRTHDAY banners, just coloured tablecloths, flowers and wine on the tables. The children were wearing their Sunday clothes, fresh from the church and the cemetery.

  The last time I had seen many of the assembled faces had been at Luca’s funeral. I recognized a couple of his old schoolfriends amongst Angela and Maurizio’s neighbours and friends. Carlo was there, and Sheila with her slapped-arse face; Fabio, oblivious of the tension, wiped glasses behind the bar; Maurizio was probably in the kitchen but Angela was standing closest to me, a stack of plates in her hands, and Nathalie was looking right at me, one hand on her belly, and beside her was Marc. My dear Marc. My comforter, my lover, my confessor, the only person in the world who understood the depth of my grief, was standing with his arm around Nathalie’s shoulder. My anger erupted spectacularly just as the thunder boomed over Portiston, flickering the lights and frightening the little children.

  ‘Olivia,’ said Angela calmly, putting the plates on a table and stepping forward towards me, one arm extended in greeting. ‘We knew this would be a difficult day. Why don’t you sit down and have a glass of wine and …’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ I said in a voice that didn’t belong to me, and I pushed her so hard that she stumbled into the table, which rocked, sending the plates crashing to the floor. There was a communal intake of breath. I felt furious. I felt strong. I felt marvellous. I was seeing them for what they were now. For the first time ever I was seeing the truth about this family.

  ‘Liv …’

  This time Marc stepped forward. His face was pale and pinched. ‘Liv, sweetheart …’

  ‘You knew!’ I cried, staring right into his eyes. ‘You must have known about the headstone but you didn’t tell me! You didn’t make them talk to me! You bastard!’

  ‘There’s no need for language,’ said one of the neighbours.

  Marc gave a helpless shrug. ‘I didn’t want to upset you. Please, Liv …’

  ‘Please what?’

  A flash of lightning lit up the restaurant and I saw Nathalie’s face and I swear she looked happy. She was happy that I had come to this crisis. I wondered if the whole thing had been planned by her and Angela to make me look like a madwoman in front of everyone.

  If that was the case, then they had made a mistake. They didn’t know that they were actually the vulnerable ones. Not me. I had the power to bring their world crashing down about them. It would take just a few words.

  ‘Please don’t …’ whispered Marc.

  ‘What you said a few days ago …’ I said, but quietly. ‘What a load of lies that was.’

  He shook his head. He was wringing his hands.

  ‘Please …’ he mouthed.

  Nathalie stepped forward. ‘I think it’s best if you leave, Olivia,’ she said. ‘This is our home and you’re not welcome here behaving like this.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ murmured some of the guests.

  Marc stepped forward. ‘Liv …’

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ I hissed. ‘Don’t you ever touch me again.’

  Angela was looking shaken and worried. She was moving almost imperceptibly towards me, as was Carlo. I wished I had a knife or something, some kind of weapon to keep them all at bay, but I didn’t. All I had was my anger. Outside rain began to crack against the window like gunshot.

  Nathalie was looking from Marc to me. I knew she was thinking about the photograph she’d found on his phone. I knew she had doubts. Her hand was still on her belly and I recognized the top she was wearing, printed with sprigs of roses. It was her preferred maternity top.

  One of the children was crying. He was frightened of the thunder. Or maybe he was frightened of me. Outside, the sky had turned almost black. Inside it wasn’t much better.

  Marc tried again.

  ‘Liv, I’m begging you …’

  ‘Begging me not to tell the truth, Marc? God, you’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘What does she mean, Marc?’ asked Nathalie, tugging at the back of his sleeve. ‘What is she talking about?’

  Marc was pale as a ghost. He was panicked. I despised him. He wasn’t half the man Luca was.

  ‘Tell her, Marc,’ I said. ‘Go on, tell her.’

  Marc turned to Nathalie and took both her hands in his. ‘Nat, I …’

  ‘Olivia.’ It was Maurizio. His hand was gentle on my arm. ‘Don’t do this. Think of Luca.’

  I thought of Luca.

  Marc was watching me. Nathalie’s poor, plain face was vulnerable as a baby’s. Maurizio put one hand on my shoulder, and squeezed.

  I gave up.

  What was the point of destroying her again? I had done enough damage the first time.

  ‘There’s nothing to know, Nathalie,’ I said, quieter now. ‘You have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want anything to do with any of you any more.’

  My voice had to compete with the rain which was banging on the window like a million tiny fists desperate to come in. I took
a step sideways, away from Maurizio. I didn’t want his kindness now. It was too late. I looked at their faces, half of them linked by blood and genes, and I thought I understood. They didn’t hate me, they were jealous of me. They were jealous because Luca had chosen me over them. The epitaph on the gravestone was just another symptom of that jealousy.

  ‘You’re hypocrites,’ I said. ‘All of you. You said you loved Luca and that you wanted what was best for him. But you didn’t, none of you. Because what was best for Luca was me.’

  It had all gone very quiet inside Marinella’s. Outside, the evening had plunged itself into dark grey and still the rain lashed against the window and I felt very tired. Marc, his face collapsed in gratitude, passed me a glass. It was some kind of clear spirit. I drank it in one. I felt as if my knees might buckle and steadied myself on the back of a chair.

  Once I heard an astronomer talking on the radio. She explained that nothing is ever really lost or over. She said it would take eight years for light from Earth to reach the closest habitable planet in the universe. This meant that an extra-terrestrial being looking at Marinella’s through a telescope on that planet at that precise moment in time would see Luca, standing right here beside me at his and Marc’s birthday party eight years ago. How I envied that alien and his telescope.

  fifty-nine

  I walked out of the restaurant. They were all watching me. I walked out and I didn’t look at them and I knew I would never go back.

  The door swung shut behind me. I stood beside the giant plastic ice-cream cone on the terrace and looked out across the sea. The rain was still falling hard, and it softened the outlines of the railings and the seafront shelters and the ferry ramp. In the distance, Seal Island was a pale grey shape like something sleeping, something forgotten. The whole world was different shades of grey and it smelled of wet pavement and regret.

  The rain came down and I had to keep blinking to get it out of my eyes and soon it was trickling down my neck and my bare arms and my clothes were stuck to me and I stood there and felt my history wash away. All of it. It puddled at my feet and then ran away down the terrace steps and into the stream that was coursing down the road towards the drain that would take it directly into the sea.