Not bothering to change out of the pants, Beth padded downstairs in her socks and fixed herself a camomile tea before curling up between two cushions on the sitting-room sofa and switching on her laptop. As the icons assembled themselves, she peered round the room through the steam of her drink, relishing how absolutely hers it felt once more. And the rest of the house too – not a trace of Chapman anywhere.
There were only two new items in her in-box: confirmation of a recently despatched direct-mail order from her favourite online fashion company and a brief message from her mother, listing the flight times for her Thanksgiving trip, already spelt out so frequently over the phone that Beth could have recited them to the correct minute by heart.
But nothing yet from London. Suppressing disappointment, Beth was about to quit the page when Sophie Chapman’s name obligingly appeared in the box announcing the arrival of new mail. Beth glanced at her watch, her heart racing. It was four o’clock in England. The Englishwoman had to be sitting at her own computer at that very minute, in the dank dining room probably, where the carpet was dark with the stains of careless eating and the shades on the wall lights sported bulb-burns the colour of spat tobacco. To be able to picture the scene so vividly was both comforting and compelling. The distance, the connection – the thrill of how she had managed to turn the tables: it was, Beth decided, like being the quiz master of some elaborate reality game.
She was on the point of pressing ‘read’ when a sound from outside made her look up guiltily. The sun had come out, showing up faint smears on the sitting-room windows. Apart from a few stray leaves and broken branches being pushed around by the wind, the yard, from what she could see of it, was quite empty. Not even William knew of the existence of Carter’s sorry little love-note and for the time being Beth wanted to keep things that way. The moment to play her hand might well come, but not yet, not yet.
To: Beth Stapleton
I have not replied to your email until now because I did not know what to say. I still don’t know. I cannot imagine why you wrote it or what you are hoping to achieve. You have drawn false conclusions about a situation you could not hope to understand and which I am under no obligation to explain to you.
That you saw fit to read my private correspondence appals me.
Andrew has a punishing schedule during his forthcoming trip to New York and has already told me he won’t have time for socializing.
We both remain grateful for the use of your house and deeply regretful for the loss of your pet.
I sincerely hope that this will be an end to our correspondence.
Yours,
Sophie Chapman
Beth pressed her knuckles into her mouth, breathing hard. It wasn’t what she had wanted, what she had imagined. It was too clever, too strong. Closing her eyes, she did her best to refocus, summoning an image of Sophie squirming on one of the big, uncomfortable, loose-springed dining-room chairs, her legs twisted under her, anxiety creasing that irksomely smooth, striking face. When she started typing her fingers flew over the keys.
Well, Sophie, how great to hear from you at last. I am only sorry that you wish for our correspondence to end. Maybe you will change your mind when I tell you I saw your good friend Carter the other day. He was with his wife Nancy at the grocery store. They are a fine couple, but I couldn’t help noticing that he looked kind of sad. Are you missing him too? Maybe I should put both of you out of your misery. Who was it who said ‘the truth will set you free’?
Such a fine saying, I’ve always thought.
With very best wishes,
Beth
Beth dropped her head back against the edge of the sofa, exhausted. There would be no answer that day, she sensed at once, from the deep silence that seemed to pulse out of the machine. She hoped it meant Sophie was reeling round her ugly dining room, tearing at her hair, gnashing her teeth, the panic rotting her. It was the least the woman deserved, Beth decided bitterly, her heart racing faster as her mind scrambled to justify what she was doing. The Englishwoman had sailed into her happy corner of the world and hijacked it – yes, that was it. She had stolen Nancy and Carter’s happiness too, bulldozed it, behaving as if actions did not have consequences. Who did she think she was? Actions always had consequences, especially where sex was concerned.
Beth pressed the points of her index fingers into her temples. Her pulse had grown so wild it was hard to think straight. William loved her – yes, that was all that mattered. She would hold on to that. Instead, the beefy Henrietta popped into her mind, followed by dim memories of conquests to which William had confessed during the honesty of early courtship, behind Susan’s back, some of them. The world was so riddled with deceit. How could she trust him? How could anyone trust anyone?
And there suddenly, in spite of all her efforts, was Uncle Hal – the dry lips, the slightly overlapping front teeth, so vivid it was as if he was standing next to her, his fists producing the pounding at her temples.
Beth leapt to her feet and ran upstairs to her bedroom. With fumbling hands, she changed into her jogging clothes, lacing her trainers with extra tight double knots. On the doorstep she collided with Joe, their whistling moustachioed mailman. He handed over her two mail-order packages, saying it was good to see the sun and how she was to have a nice day. Beth retreated into the house to give him time to drive away. She stared hard at the packages before mustering the energy to open them. So must-have at the instant of purchase, she could see nothing but a pair of caramel suede boots with ugly tassels, and a red cashmere dress that would itch because wool dresses always did, no matter how high the price tag.
As she left the house a second time, the hazy lemon button of a sun looked like it was losing its fight to warm the day. Beth set off down the drive with clenched fists, propelling her legs into little more than a fast walk. Her mind had grown dark and blank. The Pilates had left her body feeling pleasantly stretched, but in the cold now her ankle was always cranky. One stumble and she would be back on crutches. She broke into a slow jog, keeping her gaze fixed on the clumps of dead leaves gathered along the edge of the road, aware of just how easily they might disguise potentially hazardous undulations in the ground. And yet, she remembered suddenly, at a similar time the previous year, before the leaf-sucking machines had done their job, she had run shin-deep in leaves and relished every moment.
Beth forced herself to go faster, pumping her arms. A few minutes later she was rewarded by the darkness in her head beginning to lift at last, letting the earlier high spirits from her exercise class back in. Winter would soon be upon them, after all, and she loved winter. The previous year William had taken some of the heaviest snow-days off work, giving them the excuse to nestle like hibernating animals in front of the then still novel luxury of a roaring hearth (the flames gas-powered, but not so as anyone would guess). Soon they would need the heating on all day and the town would be full of pumpkin sales and ghoulish kids’ costumes. Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving, the holidays … William’s boys were due to visit, but only for a week, which, surely, would feel like a blink of an eye after the ordeal of the summer.
The trick was to keep looking ahead – not too far – just a bit at a time. And the looking back – that simply had to stop, Beth scolded herself, at least until she had regained the knack of focusing not on the horrors themselves but on the far more important fact of having left them behind.
After the slam of the front door Beth called from the kitchen, asking if he had had a good day.
‘Okay. What about you?’ William draped his jacket over the banister and then, remembering that Beth preferred it put straight onto a hook, scooped it off again and opened the stair cupboard.
‘Fabulous. I did Pilates, I ran, I made brownies.’
‘Hmm, I thought something smelt good.’
As he entered the kitchen Beth, laughing, tilted her cheek towards him for a kiss. ‘The brownies were earlier. That smell is our dinner – a meat loaf, using up leftovers like the good thrifty girl that
I am. And I’ve put a bottle of that Chardonnay you like so much in the fridge to go with it.’
William managed an appreciative smile. The homely meal, the warmth of his wife’s good mood, there was nothing he wanted more, but he had opened a letter from his bank that morning which made the economies inherent in the production of a meat loaf look risibly insignificant. His overdraft either had to be cleared or converted into a loan, the letter said, at rates that had sickened William to the extent that he had spent most of the afternoon on the phone trying to argue a compromise. What was more, there were only three bottles of the Chardonnay left. It was indeed his favourite white and far too good – far too pricy – for a weekday meal. On top of which, he had been planning not to drink that night, so as to be at his most lucid for a day ahead of back-to-back meetings that included a summons from the chief investment officer.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ Beth asked, picking up on his reticence.
‘I might save my share of the bottle for the weekend, that’s all.’
‘Really?’
‘Tough day tomorrow.’ He pulled a face. ‘A string of difficult clients and a summons from Ed Burke.’
‘But you like Ed Burke. He got you your job out here, didn’t he? After you worked on the same team in London?’
‘He did indeed. But he’s a political animal and only a fool wouldn’t be on their guard.’
‘Well, one glass won’t harm, surely? In fact, it will do you good.’
‘Maybe … I’ll think about it in the shower. Back soon.’ William kissed her again, giving a gentle squeeze to her backside to remind himself of the pleasure of how physically close they were again, making love most nights – with added intensity, too, thanks to their new shared hope of having a child. ‘Hey, don’t lose too much more of these curves, will you?’ he whispered softly. ‘You know how I like them.’
‘Go clean up,’ Beth commanded playfully, shaking him off.
In the shower William sang snatches of opera as he lathered himself, unable to resist rejoicing – as always – in the powerful hot jets of water installed so effortlessly by Americans and beyond the wit of any plumber he had ever come across in England. Maybe he would have a glass of the Chardonnay, he decided; Beth was right, it would relax him and make tackling the thorny subject of money a lot easier. He had been too gentle with regard to the grim reality of their financial situation, he realized, too proud and protective. If he didn’t want her to rush back to work – which he didn’t – he had to make her see that the extra classes, the online shopping, simply had to stop, at least for the time being.
Finding Beth waiting for him as he stepped out of the bathroom – a towel tied round his slim hips, his hair in dark wet spikes – William almost blurted as much out loud. But she was holding the phone, her face fixed in what he had come to recognize as an effort at inscrutability. ‘That was Alfie. He said you agreed to try out Skype tonight. He’s logging on now.’
William groaned, and slapped his forehead. ‘Oh, God, I forgot. Yes, I did agree.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late?’
‘Yes, it is. But I’ve already loaded the software and I’ve been promising to give it a go for ages. I also thought it might be a brilliant way of bouncing dear Harry into a conversation at long last … It won’t take long, I promise. Hey, open that wine, why don’t you?’ William flashed his best rendition of a winning smile as he tugged on a shirt and jeans. ‘I’ll do it in my study … Dinner in ten, I promise.’
Twenty minutes later, William was still at his desk, legs splayed wide on the chair, his head in his hands. After hovering at the open door a few times, Beth ventured inside, bearing a glass of wine for him so as not to betray the impatience fizzing inside. She had guessed from the silence that the Skype session had been over for several minutes. William’s computer had withdrawn into its screen-saver mode – a photograph of a much younger version of his sons, sprawled, careless and laughing, on a patch of grass amid the remnants of a picnic and several tennis balls. What Beth knew to be Susan’s bare feet, the nails scarlet, protruding from the swirl of a long blue skirt, were just in view to the right of the scene – there, but not there, like always. William, to her surprise, appeared to be writing a letter, using the fat gold fountain pen of which he was so fond that still required a pot of ink and had a habit of leaking onto his fingers.
‘Could we eat?’ She pressed her palms onto the tops of his shoulders, which felt unresponsively flat and hard.
‘In a minute.’
‘How did the Skyping go?’
He twisted to look at her then, his eyes dark with a sadness that made her balk, both on account of its ferocity and for obviously having no connection to her. ‘Horrible, if you must know. Alfie cried. There’s been some sort of incident at school – bullying – I don’t know – I couldn’t get to the bottom of it. Susan said it was fine but, God knows, that’s little reassurance. George had nothing to say, and I mean nothing, like he didn’t know me. And Harry …’ He paused, grimacing. ‘It appears that Harry has left home.’
Beth hesitated. It didn’t seem such bad news to her. Harry was making his own way. Good for Harry. But of course William was worried – she wasn’t so dumb she couldn’t see that. ‘Where has he gone?’
‘Sheen, apparently … A basement flat, no phone, heating on a meter. It sounds hideous.’
‘And how is he going to afford that?’
‘God knows. I just wish something had come up for him over here, but there’s nothing. Nothing.’ William dropped his head back into his hands, raking his fingers through his hair – pretty grey now, Beth noticed suddenly, underneath the top layers. ‘His sixty quid allowance from me isn’t going to get him far, is it? Two other members of his so-called band are living in the same hovel. They’ve been busking, apparently, to raise funds … Christ, Susan is hopeless,’ he shouted, banging the keyboard of his computer so hard that Beth caught her breath, while the screen-saver was momentarily overlaid by columns of options and menus. ‘She has no control, no fucking control whatsoever. We agree one thing and then the moment Harry asks she agrees to something else. If I was there …’
The sentence hung unfinished, filling the silence with its implications.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re not,’ Beth said tightly, groping for William’s free hand while he clicked the mouse to remove the menus and restore the picture of his sons.
‘Of course. Me too.’ He squeezed her fingers and then pressed the palm of her hand, which was cool and smooth, against his forehead. ‘It’s just difficult … with Harry rebelling, or whatever the hell he’s doing. But, hey, we’ll probably be going through the same sort of thing with our own in a decade or two … or not,’ he finished lamely, aware of how crass the remark sounded. He released her hand and turned back to his desk. ‘So I’ve decided to use that old-fashioned weapon of last resort,’ he picked up the fountain pen and waggled it, ‘a letter, appealing – begging – for the little bugger to see sense.’ He laughed sharply, lifting the flap on a pad of paper parked next to his keyboard.
Screwing up her eyes, Beth could make out the opening, Dear Harry, and then several lines of writing that seemed to consist mainly of crossings-out. ‘William, we need to eat – the meal is near ruined as it is.’
‘I’m sorry, Beth, I can’t – not until I’ve done this.’
Beth dug her nails into her palms, summoning patience from a well that felt dry. ‘What are you going to say? Can I help?’
‘I was thinking of bribery,’ William muttered, ‘except I can’t afford it … which reminds me ….’ He swivelled in his chair to look at her properly at last, his voice and face alert. ‘This may not be the best time, my love, but I have been meaning to say, your – our – efforts at cutting back, I’m afraid they’ve got to get tighter. So no more new classes, or shopping for anything but necessary items, okay? I’m sorry if that sounds harsh but …’
‘Shall I cancel Thanksgiving, then?’
‘Beth, don’t
be silly.’
‘Or get a job after all?’
‘Beth, whoa there. All I’m saying …’
‘I know what you’re saying. You have also said that we’ll be fine come December and bonus time, that I wasn’t to worry. It’s not like I’m extravagant …’ Beth faltered, remembering the dress and the boots, still in their boxes, hastily pushed to the back of her closet. ‘And what about those company shares, anyway, the ones you told me about from a previous pay deal that are due to vest in January? I thought you said they were worth thirty thousand, didn’t you?’
William raised his eyebrows, impressed in spite of himself. He hadn’t been going to bother her with that. ‘You’re right, they do. But the fact is, with the WFC share price having been on the slide for months, they’re not going to be worth anything like that. It would take a miracle …’
‘Miracles happen,’ said Beth, stoutly, and then burst into tears. ‘We are a miracle, William,’ she sobbed, ‘or at least we were until we loaned our house and everything went wrong.’
William put down his pen with a sigh, pushed back his chair and pulled her onto his lap. ‘What nonsense … eh?’ he chided softly, picking the strands of hair off her wet cheeks. ‘What balderdash and codswallop …’ The sentence, comfort-talk from his own childhood, died on his lips. It was what he had wanted to say to Alfie, he reflected bleakly, remembering his youngest’s miserable, puckering face on the computer screen, fighting for composure in a manner all the more heart-rending for the dreadful, still-Sellotaped glasses sliding down his small nose, lop-sided, the lenses steamy with grime and tears. ‘I want you, Dad,’ he had sobbed. ‘Mum doesn’t understand.’
Before I Knew You Page 19
