Olivia, in contrast, appeared to have developed a new determination not to be impressed by anything. ‘A doughnut, eh?’ Sophie turned away from the glare of the museum’s curved white walls to slip on her sunglasses.
‘Yeah, a white ugly doughnut.’
‘So you preferred all that classical stuff in Vienna and Salzburg, did you?’ They had moved away from the busy entrance to an empty stretch of pavement, where Olivia plucked her phone out of her shorts pocket and quickly settled into a tidy cross-legged position against the wall. ‘Huh?’ She looked up blankly.
Sophie laughed. ‘We haven’t been able to get Milly to stop talking about it and you’ve barely said a word. It’s almost like the pair of you went on different trips.’ She peered fondly at her elder daughter over the rims of her glasses, relishing the easy family cohesion that had returned in full force during the course of the final week of the holiday. Across the road, the reservoir in Central Park glinted invitingly through the trees. It made her think of Carter’s pool, all those long, secret afternoons of talk over iced tea and dope. It felt incredible now, like the behaviour of someone she didn’t know.
She hadn’t seen the American since the day everything had slipped out of control, an extraordinary day for many reasons, the most significant being that she and Andrew – after surviving the swarm of bats – had made love, embracing with an intimacy that had felt all the more intense for having been so glaringly absent. Sophie had swum on several occasions since, but only at a place called Pear Tree Point, which she and Andrew, building on their new-found closeness, had discovered together and to which they had subsequently and eagerly introduced their daughters. A mere fifteen-minute drive from the Stapletons’, it was a breathtakingly picturesque spot on Long Island Sound, with plenty of room for parking and its own dear pristine little stretch of sandy beach, frequented by friendly locals, but never too populated for the easy accommodation of four extra somewhat faded British towels. Sophie’s happiest memories of the holiday were already rooted there, a marker in her own mind for all the trouble being done with, for equilibrium – her own and the family’s – properly restored.
‘Different tours? What a weird thing to say.’ Olivia caught a bunch of her long hair and squinted at the ends. ‘I just don’t go on about everything the whole time like Milly, that’s all. Anyway, you and Dad are the ones who look like you’ve been in different places. You’re, like, black while he is still the whitest, weediest white.’
Sophie cast a sharp glance at her daughter. ‘Dad has to be careful on summer holidays, as you well know. It’s either that or third-degree burns.’
But, of course, in a sense they had been on different holidays, at least to begin with, Sophie mused, turning her gaze back to the park as a tingle of shame tiptoed up her spine at the recollection of how willingly she had soaked up the American’s kindness. From the first gentle massage of oatmeal ointment into her inflamed hands it was as if something inside her had surrendered, something exhausted and needy. It had felt wrong, yet also deeply therapeutic. Attentive, older, warm-hearted, full of wisdom, Carter had appeared like some sort of rock-solid receptacle, ready to have anything poured into it that she chose. And she had taken full advantage, because she sensed he wanted her to and because it had felt so good.
But then, when things had got out of hand, all that goodness had vanished in an instant. And although Sophie had hitherto done a remarkable job of blocking it from her mind, aided by the wonderful night of reconciliation with Andrew and the arrival of the girls, on this last full day on American soil she was finding herself assailed by flashbacks to that fateful afternoon. On the face of it, she had done nothing wrong. She and Carter had simply been having one of their long, deep talks, lying side by side on the loungers. The American had accused her of being one of life’s ‘carers’ – a type, he claimed, who were notoriously bad at taking care of themselves. ‘Tamsin took away your right to complain,’ he had drawled, like some veteran analyst, knitting his brows against the sunshine as he fired one of his affectionate challenging stares. ‘She was so sick you couldn’t compete. Over time that stuff builds up, sometimes finding the weirdest reasons to come out. Like your scare with that kid breaking into your home. Maybe something in you broke that day, something that had nothing to do with the burglary.’
Sophie had got off the lounger and sauntered to the edge of the pool, pondering the truth of these bald assessments and whether explanations for entire lives could be so easy. Carter, stepping up behind her, had caught her off-guard.
‘Oh, Sophie …’ Before she could move he was running his fingers back through the mess of her hair, tenderly raking the strands off her face.
Instead of resisting Sophie had leant against him, letting her back rest on the swell of his belly, thinking that a man who could be so kind – so fearless, so wise – deserved no less. The next instant his mouth was on her neck and then over her lips, his tongue probing feverishly for hers. For a few minutes – five? Ten? – Sophie had committed the sin of responding fully, so amazed at the American’s urgency that it seemed only right to try to match it. Until it dawned on her that the physical desire stirring deep inside her, after months of dormancy, was not for the large, hectic hands already sliding under the stretchy fabric of her bathing costume but for the gentler, familiar touch of the man she had married.
‘But I love you,’ Carter had groaned, when she eventually found the wherewithal to twist away, gasping protests. ‘You must have known that, you must.’
She had done wrong, Sophie reflected now, waiting for her heart to stop pounding as she watched Olivia’s slim musician’s fingers working furiously across the tiny panel of her phone, but good had come of it. Carter knew where he stood – she had spelt that out plainly enough during the course of scrambling for her book, her sun cream, explaining that, grateful as she was for their friendship, it was at an end; that what had just happened had never once been her intention and she was sorry if she had allowed him to believe otherwise. And her reward had been Andrew, arriving home from the rehearsal that night with a new light in his eyes, a light that had seemed to see her instead of looking through her, a light that, once his lips touched hers, had drawn all the suppressed, misplaced desire of the afternoon back to what felt like its rightful place.
And now, in just twenty-four hours, they would be returning to the familiar, welcoming clutches of their own home. As would the Stapletons to theirs. Sophie tipped her face to the portions of sky visible above the skyscrapers – the same dense indigo it had been for every day of the four weeks – conjuring an image of the two planes passing mid-way across the Atlantic. If England had proved half as magical as Darien had been for her and Andrew, they would be a happy couple indeed. William Stapleton, phoning the previous week for more details about the missing cat, had certainly sounded cheerful enough, saying not to worry and such things happened and how perfectly her and Andrew’s house had suited their needs.
‘Hey.’ Sophie poked her toe into Olivia’s leg. ‘You might want to go easy on that thing. We are still in America, you know, and your phone bill must already be astronomical.’
‘Not necessarily, because they only charge per text, don’t they? So all I’ve been doing is writing extra long messages.’
‘Okay, clever clogs.’ Sophie pulled a face, wondering how she could ever have allowed herself to lose enthusiasm for the relentless and wonderfully energizing business of being a parent. Normality – who would have thought it could feel so special?
A moment later Andrew emerged from the museum entrance, hands in his pockets, whistling. Milly trotted at his heels, twirling a small plastic bag containing her postcards.
‘Apparently, while on tour, Olivia acquired a boyfriend,’ he whispered, as they drew near. ‘Milly’s been telling me about it.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘A worrying development, I agree. A percussionist too – they’re always untrustworthy.’
Sophie giggled, looping her arm thr
ough his as they set off down the street, the girls a few paces ahead.
‘So – a last shopping session for you lot while I bash through a final rehearsal. There’ll be three reserved seats in the front row, did I say?’
‘Yes, you did.’ Sophie squeezed his arm. He was as excited as she had ever seen him. For whatever reasons he might have agreed to do the favour, the obnoxious Ann’s charity concert had clearly become a real source of joy. ‘Andrew, this holiday, you were a genius for organizing it.’
He grinned. ‘I know.’
‘And how I was … before … I think it was some sort of phase, tied up with my immune system being under par, of course, like Dr Murray said, but also something else … something perhaps unleashed by that horrible thug of a child breaking into the house –’
‘I always said that, didn’t I?’ Andrew patted her hand, scanning the street for taxis.
‘Yes, yes, you did …’ Sophie swallowed, gripping his arm a little harder, needing to get the rest of it out – not Carter’s version of events, but her own. ‘I think the whole business made me feel fundamentally unsafe … but also – and, Andrew, here’s the really awful thing – I realized that there was this huge part of me that had been blaming you …’
‘Me?’ He wrested his gaze from the traffic with a grimace. ‘Of course you blamed me. I invited the little shit in, didn’t I? Offered him a glass of water … Christ …’ He flicked his attention back to the street, which was streaming with traffic, but none of it the right kind, muttering, ‘And I thought every second car in New York was supposed to be a cab.’
‘He was such a boy, you see,’ Sophie pressed on, ‘so I think there was this old-fashioned-damsel side of me that thought you should have wrestled him to the ground and –’
‘With a knife in his hand? I might be a romantic, but I’m not stupid.’
No, she was the stupid one, Sophie saw suddenly, wanting a knight in shining armour instead of a real man – a man sensible enough to be scared. It didn’t matter when the knife had appeared: the threat of it had been there all along. Andrew had stayed calm and co-operative, and if big situations were tests of character then hers was the one that had failed – perhaps because of what Carter had said: some overstretched, coping part of her caving in.
‘Forgive me,’ she urged, tugging on his arm. ‘Andrew, say out loud that you forgive me for how I’ve been … for everything.’ She had meant to utter the last word with real force but it died on her lips, thanks to a familiar figure emerging from the park across the street, arms hanging loose and wide, the slight bow in his legs visible even though he was wearing trousers rather than shorts.
‘Hey! Wait up!’ Carter yelled, hurling himself into breaks in the traffic, light on his feet as always, in spite of his girth.
If Andrew murmured his forgiveness, Sophie never heard it. He was too busy stepping forward to greet their holiday neighbour, surprise lighting his face and then pride as he introduced his daughters. Sophie hung back, looking at the middle of Carter’s forehead rather than his pleading eyes, offering a stiff windscreen wipe of an arm by way of a greeting.
‘I phoned a couple of times to try and entice you over, but your mother said you were too busy,’ Carter joked at the girls.
‘As, indeed, we have been,’ exclaimed Andrew, loyally, adding, ‘But what a coincidence, bumping into you.’
‘Well, sir, New York is a very small place.’
Sophie looked at the pavement, wondering if the rest of her family could hear the intensity in his voice.
‘You guys leave tomorrow, right? Well, Nancy and I will sure miss having you around. Hey, Sophie, you know what?’ He clicked his fingers, as if just remembering something. ‘You left a book at our place, which I’ve been meaning to return. I’ll leave it on your porch tonight, okay?’
Sophie looked at him then, hard. All her books were packed, layered between clothes to spread the weight. ‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Is there a trick to finding a taxi round here?’ Andrew interjected, with an anxious glance at his watch. ‘We need two – one for downtown, as this lot are going shopping, the other for the Upper West Side, where I am supposed to be conducting a rehearsal.’
‘Retail therapy, eh, ladies?’ Carter grinned at the girls, thrusting his hands into his front pockets and rocking on his heels, as if the five of them had all the time in the world. ‘I wish you well, though the pound–dollar exchange rate isn’t so good these days, is it? As for taxis …’ He pulled one hand free and looked at his own watch, a heavy chain-linked, multi-knobbed contraption that he had once instructed Sophie to use for timing how long it took him to swim four lengths of his pool. He had asked her to fasten it back on, she remembered now, turning his wrist to reveal soft, boyish white skin streaming with long black hairs. She had struggled to work the catch and he had laughed.
‘Sorry, folks, but it’s a quarter of four, coming up to shift-change time, which means you could have quite a wait …’
‘There’s one!’ Sophie shrieked, hugging Andrew with wild relief when he insisted she and the girls get into it.
As they sped away, she kept her gaze fixed through the front windscreen. Flanked by its shimmering skyscrapers, the busy avenue stretching ahead looked more like a tunnel than a road. Even when the girls turned to wave at their father she remained stiff-necked, fearing that one swivel and Carter would be there waiting for her, his big, bear-like body radiating desolation.
Sophie wished with all her heart that they were en route to the airport. A mounting restlessness to get home had been brewing anyway, but now that restlessness felt closer to panic. The American might have played a key role in restoring her sense of well-being, but the hateful chance encounter had made her see that he had the power to remove it too. So visibly, intensely forlorn, lying about some book – who knew what else he might do? Maybe bumping into him hadn’t been chance at all.
Carter’s image haunted her all afternoon: every other shopper seemed to be a man with a bald head or loose swinging arms. Entering the concert venue on the Columbia campus three hours later, she found herself nervously scanning the rows as they made their way to their reserved seats. Even in the restaurant afterwards, waiting while a flock of waiters moved tables and flapped tablecloths to accommodate the fact that they were eight not six (the soloist Meredith and her mother having been persuaded to join what Geoff and Ann were insisting was to be the Chapmans’ farewell treat), Sophie strained for glimpses of every face in the room, half expecting to see Carter huddled over a bottle, keeping his hopes alive.
It wasn’t until after a couple of glasses of wine that the world came properly back into focus, aided by excellent food and an irresistible atmosphere of mutual good cheer. Andrew was the hero of the hour, followed closely by Ann (the takings were apparently fantastic) and Meredith, the quality of whose voice (it was volubly agreed) had easily outshone the efforts of her three fellow soloists and electrified the hall. Even Olivia seemed a little star-struck by the young soprano who, with her soft blue eyes and breathy voice, seemed to have time for everyone, and who looked so undeniably resplendent in her long midnight blue chiffon dress, her glossy curtain of hair pinned up off her slender neck. It was Milly, seated on Meredith’s left, who hogged the singer’s attention most, bombarding her with questions throughout the meal and at one point pulling out a dog-eared programme and asking for an autograph.
‘You,’ said Ann, meanwhile, wagging a fond, accusing finger at Sophie the moment the other three adults were absorbed in conversation, ‘are a different woman from the one who arrived a month ago.’
‘I am indeed,’ Sophie conceded, smiling sheepishly, aware that the prospect of saying goodbye to Ann made it a lot easier to feel warmly towards her. And how could one not like someone who had gone to so much effort on behalf of homeless infants? She had made an excellent speech at the close of the concert, looking almost as stunning as her star soloist, in towering heels and a black silk cocktail dress, topped with a blac
k velvet choker that emphasized the impressive plunging triangle of her décolletage. Andrew was to be kidnapped, she had joked to the audience, so eager were his adoptive choir and orchestra to persuade him to stay. She had concluded with heartfelt thanks to all ticket-buyers, not just for helping the worthy cause of chicos perdidos, but for proving that the most famous choral work in the world could be summoned for good use a little earlier than was seasonally traditional.
‘And you and Geoff have given Andrew the time of his life,’ said Sophie, eager to shift the spotlight from herself. ‘He’s the one who is different – so much happier.’
‘But he’s made us so happy,’ Ann cried. ‘The kidnap joke was real, you know. We’d all keep him if we could.’ The index finger was wagging again. ‘You are one lucky lady there, Sophie, as I hope you know.’
Recalling the remark during the taxi ride back to Connecticut (a pre-paid treat organized by Ann to round off the evening), Sophie experienced a frisson of irritation, although there was no denying that seeing Andrew through the eyes of others had indeed served as a reminder of just what a gifted and extraordinary man she had married. Spilling out into the street after the meal, with the girls engaged in a last-minute flurry of exchanging email addresses, he and Geoff had hugged like parting lovers, while first Ann, then Meredith’s mother and finally Meredith herself had swamped him with embraces and effusions of praise and gratitude.
As the taxi joined the freeway, Sophie let her head flop back and closed her eyes. The girls, on either side of her, snuggled against her shoulders.
Before I Knew You Page 13
