by Hilary Boyd
Plus ça change, thought Freddy, now, as he lay in bed and looked up at the white, freshly painted ceiling and the frosted-glass half-moon light shade above his bed. He felt relaxed for the first time since . . . well, he couldn’t remember. Years, maybe, back when he’d first met Lily, when things were still under control. This was his chance, he told himself. A clean slate. A job. Somewhere to live. Yes, he owed Max and Julie a fuck of a lot. But he would see them right. He had done what he had promised his wife he would do. So now the last piece of the jigsaw could be put in place: Lily.
Freddy had been temporarily disheartened by Julie’s reaction to his recent behaviour, but he was certain Lily still loved him. A few months’ separation wouldn’t be enough to change that. The thought of losing his wife was unbearable. The prospect of their reunion had kept him going through his strange exile in Malta – Shirley notwithstanding.
She was still calling him. Freddy knew he must have the conversation, let her know he wasn’t coming back. But talking to her would mean more lies about his father, more evasions. He just wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened. He wanted to start over as a new man, a sparkling fresh, perfect husband; a man who didn’t gamble, who kept down a good job, who wasn’t profligate or in any way reprehensible. A man Lily could be proud to love.
Freddy was sure he could make this happen. He hadn’t properly committed to Gamblers Anonymous yet, as he’d promised Max he would. He had tried, pushing open the glass door to the community centre in a street behind the British Museum and sitting at the back of the white room on a moulded plastic chair, a paper cup of coffee in his hand. He’d listened to a woman named Deborah recount how she’d stolen money from her boss, how the electric rush up the back of her neck – ‘It was better than sex’, she said – had made her gamble again and again until her life was in ruins. A well-dressed man in his sixties offered Freddy a friendly hand to shake, told him his name was John. But the trepidation Freddy felt in that atmosphere of confession was too intense, convinced every second as he was that someone was going to point at him and ask him to do the same. He waited politely till Deborah had finished, then quickly got up and left.
This was not honouring the bargain he’d made with Max and he vowed he would go back – he owed that to his friend. But he was not like the depressing people in that room. While he was under Max and Julie’s roof, for instance, he’d had no desire to gamble whatsoever. And now he was on his own, he had Lily in his sights. No, he didn’t have a problem: he had just temporarily lost control at a time in his life when things were going awry for his business. A natural reaction, he told himself as he practically ran along the pavement, away from the centre and towards his new home. I’m no more an addict than Max, who never puts his phone down for five seconds.
*
Looking around the flat one Friday morning, he decided he was finally ready to contact Lily. The place wasn’t completely finished: the tiles in the bathroom weren’t grouted, the washing machine had yet to be delivered and he hadn’t bought any throws or cushions to brighten up the sofa. But he felt it was somewhere he could bring his wife, somewhere they would be comfortable as they started their life again – they could choose the cushions together.
Screwing up his courage and trembling with anticipation, he dialled Lily’s number. It rang. And rang. No answer message option. But then Lily never answered if she didn’t know who was calling. She wouldn’t be familiar with his number now.
Deflated, Freddy stood by the French windows onto the tiny balcony, clutching his phone and gazing at the hotel opposite. The street was already busy although it was barely nine fifteen, a large party of Asian tourists emerging from the hotel and standing on the pavement, heads bent to their mobiles. Should I email? Text her? he wondered. But that seemed way too casual, almost cheeky, after three months of silence.
Unable to stay still, his mind wired for his mission, he snatched up his jacket, checked for keys, then raced down the two flights and out onto the street. It took him barely fifteen minutes to walk to Marylebone High Street and Prem’s shop. Standing for a moment by the window, he peered inside, past the large black desk chair on display, to see if Lily were there. He couldn’t see her, but she might be in the back. Taking a deep breath and pushing open the door, he strode in as confidently as he could, remembering the first time he’d done so and seen Lily, standing there like a beacon of hope.
Prem was sitting behind the desk at the back of the shop, looking as stunning as ever, her glossy dark hair pinned in an elegantly loose knot on the top of her head. She looked up at the sound of the bell, her face clouding as soon as she saw it was Freddy. Getting up and coming round the desk, she stood and waited for him to speak, arms crossed, making no move to offer the usual kisses of greeting. The showroom was empty so early in the day, and they had the place to themselves.
Freddy found himself intimidated.
‘What do you want, Freddy?’ she asked.
She knew perfectly well what he wanted. ‘I’m looking for Lily.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Does she work here, though?’
‘No.’
‘Could you tell me where she is, please?’ It irked him to have to beg like this. Lily was his wife.
Prem raised her eyebrows imperiously. ‘Why would I do that?’
Freddy faltered.
Before he could say another word, Prem’s expression darkened. ‘Do you honestly think I’m going to make it easy for you to ruin my friend’s life for a second time, Freddy March?’
‘Come on, Prem. I’m only asking where she is. You know I can find her on my own. Lily’s not a child. She can make her own decisions.’
Paying no attention to his request, Prem went on, ‘Have you any idea how absolutely destroyed she’s been since you left?’ She gave a derisory laugh. ‘No, of course you haven’t, because you haven’t bothered to phone her and find out. You’ve been living it up, apparently – people have seen you – conning a new set of innocents out of their millions, no doubt. And without a single thought for poor Lily, abandoned virtually without a penny to her name. Frankly, it takes my breath away that you have the nerve to come here as if nothing has happened, and demand my help.’ She stopped, breathing hard from her rant. ‘Get out of our lives, Freddy. Just leave us alone. And don’t try to contact Lily. She’s moved on.’ Prem turned and went back to the desk, dismissing him with her silence.
Shaken, Freddy left the shop and wandered down Marylebone High Street in the morning sunlight. Moved on? He was aghast. Lily would never move on so soon. And who had seen him so-called ‘living it up’? He had barely been out in the evenings since he arrived at Max’s, except that Turkish place on Julie’s birthday. His heart contracted at the thought of Lily hearing he was having a good time without her. No doubt whoever it was who’d seen him would have taken great pleasure in spreading the news.
He couldn’t decide whether Lily was staying with Prem and her husband, Anthony, or not. She’d given nothing away. Standing in the street, he called Lily’s mobile again, with the same result. Where else might she be? He began to hurry towards Bond Street Tube.
*
Anthony opened the door to the Fulham house, dressed in grey jogging pants and a sweaty white T-shirt, his face flushed. He looked surprised to see Freddy, but smiled and ushered him inside. The house was calm and quiet, as always.
‘Just got back from a run so I’m a bit whiffy, I imagine,’ he said, walking through to the cream-painted drawing room decorated in modern Scandinavian style – clean lines, natural fabrics, functional – and way too tidy for Freddy’s comfort. Freddy watched as he picked up a bottle of water from the mantelpiece, took a long gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Anthony was tall and lean, darkly good-looking, a man who gave little away and was often silent in company. But Freddy knew him to be witty and wry when he relaxed. They had always got on in the
past, Freddy eternally grateful for the support Anthony had given Lily when her first husband had died.
‘This is a surprise,’ Anthony said when Freddy didn’t speak.
‘Yes, sorry to barge in like this.’ No point in beating about the bush, he thought, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m looking for Lily.’
‘Oh. She’s not here.’
‘I thought maybe she was staying with you?’
‘No. She’s been with Helen and David since . . . since you split up.’
Freddy wanted to say We didn’t split up, but Prem’s words were still ringing in his ears and he kept silent.
‘Are you . . .’ Anthony stopped.
‘I just want to talk to her.’
The other man raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he took another swig of water, his eyes never leaving Freddy’s face.
‘Listen, thanks,’ Freddy said.
‘Don’t hurt her again,’ he heard Anthony say as he turned to leave. His tone wasn’t threatening, just adamant.
Freddy turned back. ‘I’ve been an arse, Anthony, I’m fully aware of that, but I’m on track again now. If she’ll have me, I hope we can make a fresh start.’
Anthony pursed his lips. ‘As I said, Freddy . . .’
*
The journey to Oxford was interminable, the train seeming to drag its heels deliberately. Freddy had this feeling, now he had committed to the journey, that if he didn’t get there immediately and find Lily, he would be too late. He took the number 500 bus from outside the station, down Banbury Road, then walked the rest of the way to his sister- and brother-in-law’s house.
When he arrived he saw that both cars – Helen’s Saab and David’s Ford van – were parked on the gravel drive. He didn’t fancy another mauling, the front door slammed in his face, so he waited down the street, trying not to look like a criminal casing a joint. Helen and David should be at work on a Friday lunchtime. And then he remembered it was the holidays and Helen, at least, would not be going to college.
It was another hot day, and Freddy had had only two black coffees all morning. He was lightheaded, dehydrated, and beginning to feel ridiculous, wishing he’d just texted Lily from London instead of stalking her like this. Closing his eyes and leaning against a tree, he almost missed his wife as she walked past on the other side of the road, a canvas bag over her shoulder, her stride purposeful.
Seeing her again after so long made Freddy’s breath catch in his throat. He watched her, taking in her cream linen shorts falling just past her knee, her loose navy cotton top, the silver bangle she always wore, the scuffed plimsolls, the smoothly tanned legs, her hair falling shiny and chaotic around her neck. She looked different, more . . . He couldn’t name it.
Prem’s words haunted him as he set off behind her. He didn’t know why he didn’t call out now Lily was clear of the house, but he didn’t. Was he scared of confronting his own wife? Or was it more that he wanted to drink in her presence, enjoy her before the onset of recriminations, perhaps, or worse, outright rejection? He found himself following her through all the twists and turns of her walk, intrigued as to where she was going, whom she was about to meet.
After a while he saw Lily cross a small brick bridge onto the other side of the canal and walk left towards one of the narrowboats parked on the far bank. He saw her stop and call out and watched as a dark-haired man emerged from the rust and black boat. Standing on the bridge, he couldn’t hear what the man said, but he saw Lily’s warm smile, heard her laugh as she climbed aboard and disappeared into the interior.
Freddy felt bile rise in his throat, his knees weakening as he leaned over the sun-warmed parapet, swallowing hard. Who the fuck is that? he asked himself, having a mad urge to run down there and yank his beautiful wife out of the stranger’s clutches. What if they’re going to . . . The thought sickened him so much that he had to walk quickly away.
Chapter 43
Helen and David had left for Austria and Lily was thoroughly relieved. Her sister had not forgiven her for refusing to report the theft to the police, and the days before the holiday had been tense between them. But Lily just couldn’t do it. The stuff was gone: there was no getting it back now. And whatever Seth Kramer and her sister said, Lily couldn’t see how her snitching on Kit would change a single thing for the better.
She had spent too much money and time getting another laptop and phone. But Corey Ryan, a friend of David’s, had set up the new computer one long, hot afternoon in his messy shop on Marston Road, firing questions at her about passwords and iCloud back-up, mail accounts, Bluetooth and network preferences until her head ached.
Lily knew that while her sister was away she should be looking for more work and somewhere else to live – she could not spend the summer with Helen while they were both at home all day: there would be a massacre. But the heat was making her lazy. She decided to think about that particular nightmare next week, treat this time as a sort of holiday. She would focus on it then, when Seth would also be away, making a short visit to his sister in the Dordogne.
Today, however, as Lily set out for the boat around lunchtime, she realized she was nervous about seeing the doctor. Things had got a bit embarrassing between them – to say the least – the other night, when Lily had gone round to his house for the first time.
She had called Seth to update him about the new computer, and to ask him to send her back the typed up client interviews and spreadsheet she had originally sent him, so that she could reinstall them on her laptop. The weather had broken and a summer storm raged outside, the house echoing and chilly as she sat at the kitchen table in the semi-darkness. She had drawn all the blinds – which Helen and David never did – but she was still alert to every sound, nervous that her nephew might be hovering outside, watching the house. ‘You can always call the police,’ David had told her – looking slightly sheepish at the suggestion – when she expressed her concerns about Kit. But she wasn’t reassured.
‘Great, so you’re back on track,’ Seth had said. ‘Computer hassles are such a stupid waste of time.’
She had agreed that she was indeed ‘back on track’, but in fact she felt far from being so, her mood edgy and depressed, the joys of having the house to herself quickly palling in the dark, miserable weather. It was at such times, when there was nothing to distract her from her thoughts, that she would get out her sketchbook and draw. But that night she’d been too restless and the pencil had sat idly in her hand. All she’d wanted was to hear Freddy’s voice, to feel the reassuring warmth of his body close to hers.
When she mentioned during the call that Helen and David were away, Seth had asked her over. Instinctively, she’d been about to turn down his offer – she was so unused to socializing these days – but there didn’t seem any sensible reason why she wouldn’t go.
‘It’s pouring. Do you have a car?’
‘I have Helen’s.’
‘Right.’ He’d given her his address. ‘It’s just off Walton Street. Shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes.’
Seth’s house was semi-detached, in soft yellow brick with a half-basement and steps up to a red front door. Inside was stylish, a bit messy, with long windows stretching the height of two floors looking out onto the back garden, real wood floors, mostly abstract art on the walls.
He’d shown her into the kitchen, where soft blue walls, a distressed-oak dresser and table, and grey-blue units created a calm space. A bottle of red wine stood on the table, alongside cheese – a soft goat, Cheddar – on a patterned earthenware plate, a packet of heavy-duty charcoal crackers and a bowl of cherries.
Seth had looked slightly abashed by the spread. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten.’
She hadn’t and was grateful for the food.
They’d taken their wine upstairs when they’d finished eating, sat at either end of the big sofa in the sitting room, in front of the gas-log fir
e. Neither had referred to Freddy or to her nephew, and it was a blessed relief to sit with someone and talk about other things, such as art, books – his house was crammed, floor to ceiling, with all kinds – cutting the grass, parking in Oxford, the holidays coming up.
Lily drank way too much. She knew it, but she didn’t care. In fact she didn’t care about anything any more. If her life was a mess, she would sort it out. Or she wouldn’t. She was tired of worrying about it.
‘You can’t drive home,’ Seth said when Lily finally realized how late it was and got up to leave. He waved the empty wine bottle that was sitting on the coffee table. ‘This is the second. I won’t let you.’
Lily’s protest was feeble. Although the storm had passed, Helen and David’s empty house, with the lurking presence of Kit in every tiny sound, held no appeal in the darkness.
They had stood at the door of the spare bedroom. Seth had found towels, directed her towards the bathroom, closed the curtains for her.
‘Sleep well,’ he said, giving her a smile as he reached out to remove a small feather that had somehow got attached to the sleeve of her green cardigan. It was an oddly intimate gesture, which triggered in Lily a desperate need for comfort from someone, even if it wasn’t Freddy. Without thinking, she put her hands on Seth’s shoulders and drew him close, bringing her mouth to his and kissing him full on the lips.
For a brief moment he responded, his mouth warm against her own, and it felt like such a relief to be wanted again. But then he pulled back, removed her hands gently. She could see confusion in his eyes, a rare thing in someone always so sure, and when he spoke his voice was shaky. ‘We can’t do this, Lily.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded.
