Spitting expletives, Beth seized the crutches and propelled herself into the bedroom where she threw herself onto the carpet and began a series of frenzied exercises learnt at the body-sculpting class she attended in Stamford. She worked frantically, ignoring both the jolts of pain in her injured ankle and the dim, dispiriting notion of trying, like the king in the legend, to command back an unstoppable tide. How had she let things slip so badly? How many millions of crunches would it take just to get rid of the calories she had ingested that morning, let alone all the others packed into the construction of the hateful hefty holiday weight-gain?
‘I bet you don’t have to do this,’ she gasped, catching the soft blue eyes of Sophie Chapman watching from a small oval picture frame on the window-sill. ‘You and your beautiful English-rose looks and your exquisite skinny daughters and handsome husband and this wonderful casual old house you live in, all messed up but nicely … like none of you has to try …’ Beth pushed out the words to the rhythm of her sit-ups, finding it helped to take her mind off her cramping muscles. ‘Well, some of us do have to try,’ she hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Some of us have always had to.’ After managing a final agonizing ten, she rolled onto her stomach to recover, her eyes level with the dusty underside of the bed.
She sneezed violently, disturbing the body of a dead moth. In fact, Beth saw, looking more intently – enjoying a spurt of distaste – the state of the carpeted area under the bed was nothing short of disgusting. The moth was one in a veritable graveyard of stiff dusty insects, caught in the neglected dirt and fluff of the carpet. Scattered among them were other offending items – a small grey sock, a shoelace (at least, Beth hoped very much it was a shoelace), a teaspoon, furred with grime, and a small cardboard box, tucked against the skirting board. Beth reached for the spoon and then, simply to postpone the uncomfortable necessity of continuing her workout, wriggled further under the bed to retrieve the box. She lifted the lid without hesitating, but then paused, her eyes wide. Inside was what looked like a bundle of letters, secured by a desiccated elastic band.
Beth licked her lips, which were salty and dry from her exertions. She put the lid back on the box and then took it off again. The Right Thing to Do was not at issue. As she had said to Harry in the taxi, there were ways to behave that were acceptable and others that were not. She replaced the lid for a second time and reached for her laptop. Still lying on her stomach, she switched it on and summoned her emails. There was a grand total of five: three notifications of special offers from her favourite direct-mail companies, a newsletter from her New York cat-lovers group and a letter from her mother.
Hi, honey,
Are you having a wonderful time? Have you visited Buckingham Palace? They say you can go right inside these days. If my blood pressure were better I might have invited myself along too, but I guess I’ll just have to be content with the happy memories of visiting London with Hal all those years ago, when you were at summer camp, and we saw the royal guards on their horses and walked till the soles of our shoes wore thin.
I quite understand that you can’t call, with it being someone else’s phone and the cost of using a cell abroad – I look forward to hearing all about it on your return.
The reason I am writing is to say that I would like to stay a full week for Thanksgiving this year, from Tuesday to Tuesday, if that’s all right by you and that darling husband of yours. The journey wears me out so and my new specialist says I would be crazy not to allow my body some time for readjustment both sides of the Holiday. He’s called Larry and I am really thrilled with the quality of his care, though it does not come cheaply, of course. As usual, it’s thanks to Hal that I can manage.
Let me know soon about the dates, honey, won’t you? Airplanes from Florida to NY are always so busy in the holiday season – and pricier too, if you leave it to the last minute.
Mom
Beth posted a brief reply, saying the holiday was going great and she was sure the dates for Thanksgiving would be fine. The references to Hal she ignored, apart from fleeting irritation that they had been made at all. Her antipathy towards her uncle, together with her mother’s continuing financial dependence on the man, were old battlegrounds, for many years now as mutually avoided as they were irrefutable.
Elbows aching, Beth rolled over onto her back and studied the darkening skies through the bedroom window. The impregnable carapace of good cheer with which she had arrived in England was, she knew, wearing dangerously thin. She had seen no sights to speak of. She had almost broken her ankle. Her body was ballooning. She was bored. And, worst of all, William just didn’t – ever – seem to have time for her.
As if on cue the bedroom phone rang and the voice of William himself burst onto the line, asking if she was okay, but in a rushed way that seemed to Beth to preclude the possibility of saying no. It was spitting with rain and the light was bad, he reported from the cricket match, but they were going to sit it out. Harry had bumped into a friend and temporarily disappeared, which was annoying, but the younger two were being easier as a result.
After the call the house felt even quieter. And cold. Beth put on another sweater and then – with the sigh of one giving in to the inevitable – reached under the bed for the box of letters. Turning her back on the quizzical gaze of Sophie Chapman, she began to ease off the elastic band only to find it snapping between her fingers, intensifying the no-going-back feeling that had already taken hold. Her hands trembled pleasantly as she picked out the first envelope. It was like being in one of those nineteenth-century dramas broadcast on PBS. What secrets lay cradled in her palms? What hilarious revelations?
My dearest darling Sophie,
I should be writing a symphony not a measly letter – so great are the things I want to say! It has even crossed my mind to get my friend Geoff, who is much cleverer with words, to put something on paper on my behalf (like in that French story where the ugly guy with the long nose gets his mate to do the wooing … except that’s the other way round, isn’t it, because the ugly one could at least write the words and I think you rather like the way I look … at least that was the impression you left me with at the end of Winchester and if that has changed then please, for God’s sake, tell me right away before I make even more of a total idiot of myself than I have already. Christ, I’m writing DRIVEL and it’s all YOUR fault – four weeks, three days, two hours since we met and I appear to be out of my mind …).
Where was I? Wanting to say great things – but I’m clearly incapable, or at least in no fit state, so let me say instead that OF COURSE I want to come and stay with you! Yes, I would love to get to know your family and those dates look fine. I’ll come by train. There’s one that arrives at 4.45 p.m. Is there any chance you could be at the station so we can have a little time together – before (I admit I am terrified) I meet your parents? Any tips on how to win them round? Any pitfalls to avoid? Write soon – I’ll need all the help I can get!
Yours hopelessly,
Andrew
PS I AM writing a symphony as it happens … I vowed not to tell anyone until it was done, but since you are the reason behind it – my muse (I am sorry, but it seems only fair that you should know the very worst) – I couldn’t resist.
PPS Of course phone if you prefer, but during this miserable period of needing to live at home there is always the danger that you will be subjected to a grilling from my mother, who knows I have met SOMEONE and is horribly curious. I am certain your parents must be nice (they have to be pretty special to have produced you!) but I’m afraid mine are pretty terrible – annoying, embarrassing, etc. At my last concert they clapped BETWEEN movements – aagh!
What was it with Englishmen? Beth marvelled, clambering onto the bed and settling back among the pillows with the remaining letters. All that charm and romance and endearing muddle-headedness – how had the Pilgrim Fathers lost such things on a single voyage? She read each letter slowly, avidly, her heart swelling just as Sophie Chapman’s must have done by t
he end of that summer two decades before. They were all from Andrew, each a little more ardent, each a little more intimate. He met her and then longed to meet her again, and again and again. Interspersed with the passion there were tantalizing references to fragments of their lives – the sick younger sister, Tamsin, a dog called Boodle, a house in Cornwall, a stolen bike, endless rehearsals and concerts. The only consistent thread was to be found in the expressions of love, blossoming in a manner suggestive of total reciprocation.
‘I was kind of down today,’ Beth confessed later that night, keen to catch William before he fell asleep, which she could tell he was eager to do from all the sighs and pillow-punching as he clambered into bed.
He rolled over to look at her, pushing a strand of hair off her cheek. He had a red mark across his forehead where his cricket-watching hat had bitten into the skin. ‘Really? Because of your ankle?’
‘Yup, I guess, and … if I’m honest, I was sort of lonely.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I felt terrible leaving you, but last-minute tickets to Test matches are impossible to come by and when I bought them we agreed you wouldn’t come …’
‘I know.’
‘You would have hated it if you had.’
‘I know that too.’ Beth pressed her forehead against his chest.
‘Hey, you really have had a bad day, haven’t you?’
‘It was just long, that’s all.’ Beth swallowed till the threat of tears had subsided. ‘Nothing but an email from my mom for company, asking about Thanksgiving, of all things – Thanksgiving. When I last looked we were only in mid-August … and I guess I do kind of miss home.’
‘Me too.’
‘I don’t know if I’m homesick, exactly, just a little frustrated.’ Beth reached for a tissue from the box on the bedside table and dabbed her nose.
William pulled her more tightly into the crook of his arm. ‘My poor darling, that ankle sprain was such bad luck. But everything will get better from now, I promise. We’ve got a celebration lunch tomorrow, for starters.’
‘Celebration?’
‘Harry’s results – I’ve booked a noodle house in Richmond that Susan says is very good.’
‘Susan?’
‘She’s not coming, obviously – but she does know the local haunts pretty well. Then we’ve got the long weekend up north to look forward to – I’ve decided we’ll drive rather than go by train because of your poor leg – and once we’re there my parents will just take the boys over. You’ll see – it’ll be brilliant, loads of time to ourselves.’ William disentangled himself from her with a kiss and turned off his bedside light.
Beth waited a moment, fighting the knowledge that he wanted to be allowed to sleep, that the comforting of her was done with. ‘William, I love it that you want to spend time with your kids – I love how you are with your kids. The whole family thing, it’s so … impressive … but it’s also hard for me sometimes not to feel on the outside of it all.’
‘Silly.’ He groped through the bedclothes for her arm and patted it.
Beth lay still, her hands resting on the new hateful thickness of her stomach. After a few minutes she whispered, ‘William, would you write me a letter one day – you know, like a real old-fashioned love letter?’
But he was already asleep, and she was a dummy who needed to remember to buy a fresh pack of elastic bands, Beth scolded herself, aware of the stiffness in her over-worked abdominal muscles as she shifted onto her side. As she closed her eyes, a sliver of envy for Sophie Chapman slid into her heart and lodged there, like an invisible splinter. Willowy, smugly contented, no doubt, with her romantic English husband and their pretty children, and this clever trade-up of holiday homes – swapping the dog-muck and Styrofoam-littered streets of west London for the clean, green environs of her own beautiful Darien …
Beth hurriedly stoppered her thoughts, releasing a gasp of disbelief into the dark. What was wrong with her? She had her own dashing Englishman, after all, and a life that, current minor inconveniences aside, was equally perfect, just so long as she kept a firm grip on it … made sure none of the ancient bad stuff crept back in.
Sophie looked at her legs dangling in the swimming-pool next to Carter’s and giggled. They looked so disconnected through the prism of the water, and so weirdly white compared to his. In fact, after ten days of daily sunbathing, she was more tanned than she had been for years, with such a stark imprint of the outline of her main bathing costume that catching sight of her naked reflection in the Stapletons’ bedroom mirror was like glimpsing a hybrid creature inhabiting two entirely different skins – one pasty and old, the other polished and new.
‘When will he get back this time?’
Sophie interlocked her hands and stretched, peering at the American over her sunglasses. ‘Late.’ Lowering her arms, she leant backwards until her upper body was flat on the ground, letting the heat of the poolside stone burn her wet skin. The effects of the joint they had shared were wearing off now, although there was still the lovely feeling of weightlessness in her limbs and a musty taste in her mouth – faintly acrid, but not unpleasant.
Carter lay down next to her, turning to rest his weight on one elbow. ‘More golf?’
Sophie shook her head, flicking droplets of water across his face. ‘Nope. More music … thanks to the loathsome Ann and her Goody Two Shoes charity concert. The pull-out by the conductor is looking permanent, so Andrew – ridiculously, in my view, since he is supposed to be on holiday – has agreed to step in. The last couple of sessions were with the choir. Today is the first rehearsal with the orchestra there too … the first, no doubt, of many. It’s always like that with Andrew – full-on or not at all. The actual concert is on the last day of the holiday and, of course, the girls and I will have to go. Handel’s Messiah, which is an odd choice, you must admit, given that we are, thank God, still several months off Christmas …’
Carter sat up, extracting his legs from the pool. ‘I like Handel, especially Messiah.’ He got to his feet, offering a hand for Sophie to follow suit. ‘The guy could write.’
Sophie laughed as he helped her up. ‘I know – of course. In fact, of the many trillion concerts I’ve attended over the years, Messiah is probably my favourite. It’s just that woman’ – she pulled a face – ‘sticking her nose in, getting Andrew to run around.’
Carter went behind his poolside bar and pulled a jug of the iced tea to which he had introduced her out of the fridge, jangling it to shake the ice cubes. ‘Ready for more tea?’
Sophie sang, ‘More tea, Vicar?’ and laughed again because the phrase had made Carter look so puzzled. He did puzzlement very well, she decided, settling back on the lounger with the tall glass he handed her. He had a way of appearing like some endearingly gormless bear, with his wide, pleasant face and thick-set body, the arms hanging at a little distance from his sides, as if the sheer width of his torso prevented them making contact with his hips. But there was the grace that Sophie kept noticing too, a grace that spoke of the college baseball he had now told her about and which was still visible in the neat, bouncing dives he occasionally performed off the short board protruding over the deep end of his swimmingpool, legs and arms straight, hanging in the air for an instant before making a smooth, near-splashless entry into the water.
Witnessing it for the first time, on the afternoon when he had rescued her from the poison ivy and persuaded her to swim, Sophie had burst into a spontaneous round of clapping, at which Carter had grinned like a bashful schoolboy, burying his smiles in his swimming-towel. He had produced the first jug of iced tea shortly afterwards along with a tub of lumpy ointment (oatmeal, apparently, being the key ingredient), which he had gruffly insisted on smoothing over the affected areas himself, going on bended knee when it came to her ankles.
Sophie had regarded these attentions with incurious detachment. The wife not being there wasn’t right, she knew. A last-minute summons to a casting had been Carter’s explanation, the dog being taken �
� as apparently was the norm – for luck. And yet, with the shock of her private trauma among the trees still upon her, whether Nancy – or indeed the dog – even existed hadn’t seemed to matter much. It was as if the world had tilted, taking her already precarious sense of balance with it.
‘It could have been a lot worse,’ Carter had clucked, scooping out and gently rubbing the cream over the livid rashes. ‘You must have some resistance or something.’
Sophie had watched, like a meek patient, grateful for the kindness, almost to the point of tears. She felt so delicate – so fragile – and he seemed to know it. Yet more kindness had followed in the form of a towelling robe and an invitation to escape the heat into the ice-box cool of a state-of-the-art den of a cinema built onto the side of the pool house.
‘I’m a scriptwriter – or at least I used to be,’ he had explained, plucking Casablanca from a floor-to-ceiling unit of DVDs after she had backed away from the suggestion of choosing something herself. She curled onto the sofa to watch the film, tucking what she could of her bare legs under the hem of the robe, glad that he had his own separate chair for viewing, a deep, weathered leather bed of a contraption that had clearly seen many hours – years – of use. The first spliff had been produced, to the accompaniment of a companionable wink a few minutes later, from an attractive ornamental box parked on the table between their chairs. ‘If it won’t bother you.’
Sophie had said not at all and then accepted a few turns herself, aware even with her amateurish efforts to inhale of the drug’s deeply relaxing effect. The horror among the trees, the astonishing rush of anger and understanding that had followed, had instantly – pleasantly – begun to recede. Of far more concern had been the fictional events unfolding on widescreen in front of her: from the initial ‘Play it, Sam,’ to Rick’s square-jawed decision to sacrifice personal happiness for the greater good, she was spellbound. And there had been many fascinating interjections from Carter throughout the film too, about how certain lines had been cut and added, why one character was standing on the left or the right, how each small scene was called a ‘beat’, action triggering reaction and so on, ‘Like pearls on a string,’ he had murmured, as the final credits rolled, adding reverently, ‘All to prove in the case of this particular movie that love can exist without the presence of the other person.’
Before I Knew You Page 8
