Expectation

by Anna Hope

  Lissa checks her phone. She has had only one message from Nathan since Thursday.

  No regrets.

  At first she read it as a question, but then realized it was a statement, and replied: None.

  The music has changed – Greg has got hold of the stereo and is playing old dance tunes from the 1930s – and the actors have coupled up to turn each other around the floor.

  ‘Lissa.’ Johnny is before her, hand outstretched. ‘Would you like to dance?’

  She takes his hand and he pulls her to her feet. She is drunk, she realizes, and she leans on him for balance as he moves her around the room. She closes her eyes briefly, enjoying his proximity, his warmth, his smell of tobacco and soap.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says into his chest.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The other night. Standing you up at the bar.’

  ‘S’all right.’ Johnny’s voice rumbles against her ear. ‘He your boyfriend then?’

  She gives a gesture, part shrug, part shake of the head. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Ain’t that always the truth.’

  They stop moving and he steps back a moment, holding her at arm’s length, regarding her. He reaches out and tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s been a pleasure, love. Here.’ He takes out a piece of paper, scribbles a number on it. ‘Just so you’ve got it,’ he says, handing it to her. ‘Look after yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘None of my business,’ he says quietly. ‘I know.’

  Then he lifts her hand in that same courtly gesture, his lips to her knuckles, and turns away. She watches as he slings his black leather bag over his shoulder and slips out of the door without any elaborate goodbyes.

  On the other side of the room, Michael and Helen are kissing, their hands in each other’s hair. Lissa checks her phone again. The sand is running out – soon the magic will dissipate and the play will truly be over. Soon the night will end and there will be nothing but the flat and the call centre, and she will no longer be a queen.

  Mermaid’s blood.

  She lets herself out of the dressing room, walks down the darkened corridor. After a few steps she stops and calls Nathan. He picks up on the second ring. ‘Liss?’ Wherever he is, it sounds quiet.

  ‘I want you,’ she says. ‘Can you come here? Now?’

  There is a pause and then: ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the theatre.’

  ‘How long will you be there for?’

  ‘An hour. Maybe more.’

  ‘I’ll come.’

  She clicks off the phone, holds it lightly in her palm. Hears her breath in the corridor. It is as though she has taken half a step outside her skin, to a place where things are weightless, where there is only the logic of desire. She feels no guilt, only interest. She wonders if it would be this easy to murder.

  At half past eleven, her phone buzzes in her pocket and she slips out of the room without being seen, making her way through the bar, where the bar staff are clearing up, to where Nathan is standing waiting outside on the street, hunched into his winter coat, smoking a cigarette, smoke pluming in the cold air. It has started to snow, and flakes tumble from the sky. Already an inch or two has gathered on the pavement.

  She steps towards him, reaching and taking his cigarette from him, bringing it to her mouth. The smoke hits her bloodstream, mingling with the alcohol, meeting the cold, making her reel.

  ‘You’re her still,’ he says.

  She looks down at herself – her velvet coat, her boots. She had forgotten she was wearing her costume. ‘Yes,’ she says, and she can see how this pleases him – how it excites him. ‘Yes, I’m still her.’

  He takes her wrist and pulls her to him. His mouth tastes of smoke. She can feel him against her, already hard. ‘Where can we go?’ he says.

  ‘Here,’ she says. ‘You can come in here.’

  She leads him back through the bar to the dark corridor to the women’s dressing room, which is empty, the lights turned off. Soon the women will be back, changing from their costumes, moving out into the night, but for now they are occupied – she can hear the party continuing, the men Cossack dancing; she can hear the thump, thump of their heels on the floor.

  She sits on the table and lifts her long, heavy skirts, feels the cool air on her thighs. Nathan bends towards her, and puts his mouth on her flesh. There is the cold shock of his cheek, the warmth of his mouth, his tongue. When he stands before her, she opens herself for him, and he spreads her wide.

  Hens

  2008

  Hannah is getting married. She does not want a hen do. Instead, she wants to go on holiday with Lissa and Cate. Since she is getting married in May, she decides Greece would be perfect in late April. She clears the dates with the others and spends hours searching for a place to stay – finally booking them a villa for a week on one of the islands, close to the beach with its own pool. It is expensive, but not hideously so. She has recently had a promotion at work – since she knows neither of her friends is earning much, she does not ask them for any money towards the cost. And she gets a thrill from this, from treating her friends, her best friends, her best women, Lissa and Cate.

  They have fun in the airport. They try different perfumes and sunglasses. They drink champagne at the champagne bar. They make jokes about the gaudy horror show of late capitalism but they enjoy it really. They are so busy enjoying it that they almost miss their flight.

  The villa is beautiful. They each have their own room, their own bathroom. The towels are thick and the thread count is high. Hannah takes pleasure from watching her friends squeal like young girls as they run around the tiled floors, opening cupboards, finding chocolates and wine and fruit. They are all implausibly touched that the owners have left them a bottle of cheap wine. They drink the cheap wine from the bottle and they put on their swimming gear and jump into the pool.

  They sleep late. They eat long breakfasts of yoghurt and honey and nuts and toasted white bread and strong coffee. They angle their chairs towards the sun. It is twenty-two degrees at ten o’clock. By noon it is twenty-five. There are wild flowers everywhere. They agree this is the perfect time of year to visit Greece.

  In the afternoons they go to the beach, a short walk along a rocky path that is fragrant with thyme. They take books and rent loungers and swim in the blue sea.

  They put cream on each other’s backs, exclaiming gently over the softness of each other’s skin. They eat lunch at beach tavernas which are knocked together with driftwood and serve inevitable but delicious Greek salad peppered with oregano. They drink sharp retsina served in small glass jugs, misted with condensation in the heat.

  In the evenings they go out to restaurants. They try several and then settle on one they like and go there every night – a small pretty place with tables overlooking the harbour. They dress carefully for these outings, even though the restaurants are only village tavernas – they wear dresses and put on make-up, they thread earrings in their ears.

  They grow peaceful on this holiday. They go to bed early. They soak up the sun. They remember how well they live together. It does them all good to get away.

  But as the week comes to a close, happiness grows gritty and begins to chafe. Lissa thinks of the call centre, realizes she has forgotten to book shifts for the week of her return. Which means she will not have enough for her rent. Which means she will have to ask Declan again. And Declan is growing tired of these requests, she knows. Just as he is growing tired of her.

  On the final morning, Lissa regards herself in the mirror in the early-morning sun. She knows she is beautiful, has always known this, but now, in her thirties, this beauty that once was something abundant, something she threw away on cigarettes and alcohol and late nights and coffee and no real exercise to speak of, lately this beauty has come to seem a finite resource, one she must attend to, take better care of. And this care, it would appear, takes money, money she does not have. More than once, la
tely, she has come to find herself standing at the counter in Boots or Selfridges or Liberty’s holding an expensive face cream in her hand. More than once she has considered slipping the expensive face cream into her bag.

  Last week, her agent dropped her.

  These chances, Lissa, her agent told her on the phone, they come along once in a blue moon for people your age. I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can represent you any more.

  In the mirror, Lissa’s mouth is set in a straight, tight line. She is angry. Angry with Cate. Cannot help but blame her for what occurred. And angry too – though she knows this is unfair – with Hannah, all this generosity, this villa, this holiday. She wishes it were her, able to be generous, able to treat her friends. But Hannah is good. Hannah is dutiful. Hannah works hard, and so is justly rewarded. Whereas she is broke. Perhaps it is her beauty that is to blame. Her beauty, this unasked-for gift. Perhaps it has warped her – made her lazy. Made her expect too much.

  Last week, before coming out here, she bought a dress in Liberty’s, on her credit card, a wrap in silk crêpe de Chine. It has a print of Japanese flowers. She has brought it out here but she knows she won’t wear it. It stays at the bottom of her suitcase. It is the outfit of someone who has achieved things she has not. Who is living a life she is beginning to expect is not destined for her.

  On the last evening of the holiday, Lissa insists they go for cocktails. There is a little bar she has seen tucked down an alleyway. They all go out to the bar and drink Kir Royales and champagne cocktails in its dark interior. They have three cocktails each but they do not feel drunk, just merry, as they make their way down the cobbled streets to the harbour and to their restaurant. It is their restaurant now. They order wine and drink it quickly, and then have more. They eat bread dipped in olive oil and salt, and drink more wine. They start to feel drunk.

  So, says Lissa, lighting a cigarette. What happens next? She is speaking to Hannah.

  What do you mean?

  Well, after you get married. You going to have kids?

  I suppose so, says Hannah. Yes.

  Does Nathan want them?

  Yes. I think so.

  You think so?

  Yes, says Hannah. He does.

  Right. Lissa nods.

  What? says Hannah.

  Nothing, says Lissa.

  What? Why are you making that face?

  I just, it’s quite a big deal, isn’t it? Having kids. Don’t you think you ought to think about it a bit more than that?

  I have thought about it, actually. I’ve thought about it a lot. And I want children. What about you? Do you want kids?

  No.

  No? Just no?

  Yeah.

  Don’t you think you ought to examine that a bit more? What if you regret it?

  Sure, says Lissa, blowing the smoke of her cigarette out into the evening air. I’ll examine it. I don’t want kids because I think you should really, really want kids to have them. And if you want to do anything else in your life, then maybe you should do that instead. I saw enough of that with my mother.

  What do you mean? says Hannah.

  I was in the way. Of all of it: her art, her life. Her fucking activism. She should never have had me. Everyone would have been a lot better off.

  Oh, for God’s sake, says Hannah. Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother is amazing.

  Is she? says Lissa. Of course. Of course she is, Hannah, and you would know. Since you know my mother so well.

  Hannah stares at her friend. She has rarely seen this side of Lissa before. This drunken curdling. This bitterness.

  Leave it, Lissa. Cate leans in. Give Hannah a break.

  Oh? Give Hannah a break? Lissa turns to Cate, her teeth bloody with wine. What about me? What about giving me a break, Cate? Cate the moral compass. Showing us all the way. You think you’re so fucking squeaky clean? Whose fault is it that I didn’t get that part?

  Not mine, says Cate.

  Fuck you, Lissa spits.

  Hannah watches Cate reel back as though she has been hit.

  Then – I’ll tell you why you don’t want children, Lissa, says Cate, leaning back into the fray. Because you’re fundamentally selfish. Because you’re never going to want to put another person before yourself.

  They have never argued before, Cate and Lissa. Not like this. It is exhilarating. With the wine and the cigarettes and the balmy spring night, it is like a drug. They want more. They could imagine brawling in the street. Tearing each other’s hair out. Taking bites out of each other’s skin.

  Hannah watches them. There is something erotic, she thinks, in their arguing. She feels strangely bereft.

  People look towards their table. These three English women with their quirky clothes and their loud voices and their empty bottles of wine. How rude they are. How incontinent they all seem.

  2010

  Cate

  Since the dinner Sam has refused to meet her eye. He is asleep in the mornings, waking late and hurrying out of the house to work, then stays out later and later after his shifts. Still, she is often awake herself when he comes in at one, two, three o’clock. She does not go to him.

  She has called Hannah but Hannah has not picked up. She has sent her messages – Can we talk? Call me when you’re ready. Han, we need to talk, call me. Please. Hannah has not replied.

  She remembers Hannah’s face on the bridge. The cold, clipped way she spoke. The razor-sharp edges of her hurt.

  She wants to say sorry, but she wants to say, too, that it is not fair. That Hannah did not tell her – did not give her the chance to do the right thing.

  The only person she has heard from is Dea.

  Emergency Mum Club? Whenever you’re ready. Just say the word.

  She has not written back.

  The days are short and bitter and she stays inside, the heating on too high. Tom is fractious, picking up on her lack of ease, and her patience with him is thin and frayed. She shouts at him often and often he cries. And then she shouts some more. When she does go out, the pavements are icy and treacherous. There are carol singers raising their reedy voices to the spires in the centre of town. They are selling Christmas trees in the garages of Wincheap – trussed in plastic. The students are still in the Senate building. The wet black branches of the trees.

  At the weekend Sam rises early and dresses Tom himself. They come in to where she lies in bed, Tom dressed haphazardly in an ill-fitting jumper which barely covers his belly. ‘We’re going out,’ he says.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Mark and Tamsin’s. Mum’ll be there.’

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘I don’t suppose I’m welcome then.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you are.’

  When they have gone she takes out her computer. Checks her emails. Searches again for Lucy Skein. Nothing.

  She leaves the curtains drawn and burrows back into bed.

  The sound of the front door wakes her in the late afternoon. She pulls on tracksuit bottoms and a sweater, makes her way downstairs, sees Tom asleep in his buggy in the hallway, finds Sam in the kitchen, sitting at the table, a small zippered bag in front of him.

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘You should be so lucky. They’re from Tamsin. For Tom. Jack outgrew them.’

  Cate unzips the bag. A pile of clothes, neatly folded. They smell aggressively clean. ‘That was nice of her.’

  ‘Yeah, well. She’s pretty nice. But you could always give them back. I mean, we wouldn’t want too much of my family. Contaminating the air.’

  ‘Sam—’

  He holds up his hand. ‘Wait,’ he says. He leaves her, goes upstairs. She hears his footsteps above her head. When he comes back down he has the prescription bag in his hands. ‘What are these?’

  ‘They’re pills,’ she says flatly. ‘Anti-depressants.’

  ‘And are you taking them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think you might need to?’

  ‘No. Yes. I don’t know.�
� She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  ‘For what? For marrying me? For saying I’m not that bright?’ His face is twisted.

  ‘I just – I think I’ve been confused.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Me. You. Everything.’ She looks at the floor. ‘There’s someone—’

  ‘Someone else?’

  ‘Not like that.’

  ‘Like what then? Like what?’ He bangs the table in front of him. ‘Come on, Cate. You might as well tell me now.’

  Behind her in the hall, Tom stirs, grizzles, then is quiet again.

  ‘Someone I used to know,’ she says. ‘A long time ago. I’ve been thinking about her. A lot. That’s all.’

  Sam nods. ‘OK. A woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what, you’re gay now?’

  ‘No. I mean … I was. I wasn’t. It was just her. Just Lucy. I just loved her.’

  He looks at her for a long time. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Eleven years ago.’

  ‘And where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you want to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He looks at her for a long time, then nods, as though something has been decided. Then he stands, takes a can of Red Bull from the fridge. ‘I’m late for work,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you later tonight.’

  The next afternoon, when Sam comes home she is screaming at their son. Tom is wailing, some half-eaten food on his high chair, the rest on the floor. ‘I’m calling Mum,’ he says, going to pick up Tom. ‘She can take him for the day tomorrow.’

  Alice arrives with Terry the next morning, and Cate hands Tom over. It is a cold clear day, the sun low in the sky. They exchange few words. She thinks she can see the relief on her son’s face. When they have gone, she closes the door and cries. When the crying has stopped she goes upstairs to the bathroom, pulls out the bag of pills, and sits on the floor of the bathroom with them between her legs. In her pocket her phone rings. Dea. It rings and rings, then stops. The buzz of a message is loud in the silence of the house. She lifts the phone and listens.