Garden of Stars

by Rose Alexander

  First, she listened to her answerphone.

  “Hi, I’m trying to get hold of you. I can’t find the car key and I’ve got that meeting first thing, in Coventry of all places.”

  Her stomach muscles released and relief flooded over her. So that was all it was; no awkward questions. She knew about Hugo’s meeting, which for some reason had to happen on a Saturday, and had made sure her mother was happy to take care of the girls all day.

  “Can you call me ASAP and let me know where it is?” the message continued.

  The relief of a second ago gave way to annoyance and hurt. That the missing car key was somehow her responsibility, even though she hardly ever used the car. That he could leave a message without asking if she was all right, if the hotel was good, if the article was going well. And, most of all, bewilderment at his total lack of acknowledgement of her meeting with Scott. She had been worried about his reaction, but now found that no reaction at all was worse. He didn’t even seem to have registered that she had told him about it, let alone to think it worthy of comment.

  What would it take for him to notice, really notice, her?

  Before giving her frustration a chance to dissipate, she picked up the hotel phone and punched the numbers angrily into the keypad.

  “I don’t know where it is,” she said, as soon as he answered.

  There was a pause, then a sluggish “What?”

  She must have woken him up. He’d probably fallen asleep in front of the TV. Her anger softened; he worked so hard.

  “Sorry to startle you – you left a message asking me to call. About the car key.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. Sorry, then I remembered that I’d put it in my laptop bag.”

  “So you’ve got it?”

  Hugo coughed to clear his throat. “Yes, got it, thanks.”

  Sarah felt suddenly overcome with exhaustion, her head aching and her eyes heavy with the desire for sleep. “Oh, good,” was all she could manage to come out with. She ran her hand through her hair that she’d moussed and blow-dried in preparation for meeting Scott in an attempt to give it the body it lacked naturally. It felt flat already. She wanted to end the conversation now, crawl under the covers and shut her eyes.

  “The girls are all right? In bed?” She pictured them curled up under their duvets, Honor’s adorned with pink princesses, Ruby the tomboy’s with cars.

  “They’re fine. Sound asleep.” She could hear Hugo shuffling around as he talked, the sound of the fridge door thumping shut, followed by the hiss of a bottle of fizzy water opening. “I hope so, anyway.”

  Sarah yawned, unable to stifle it. “Thanks for looking after them. I’m glad they’re OK. But – I better get off the phone now – I’m shattered.” The words that came next were unplanned. “I meant to be in bed by nine, but what with meeting Scott and everything – it didn’t quite work out.”

  “Scott?” Hugo sounded puzzled for a moment. Then the penny dropped. “Oh yes, the friend you bumped into. Small world, eh?”

  “Remarkably small.” Once more, the old cliché.

  “Great stuff.” A swallow of water and a long exhalation followed.

  Sarah folded her left arm across her body and rested her elbow on it as she held the phone tightly to her ear. “He was more than a friend, really. He was my first boyfriend. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before. And yes, it was great to see him, catch up, reminisce.”

  Now she had caught Hugo’s interest. “Oh, that Scott. Boyfriend Scott.”

  “That’s the one.” How many Scotts did he think she knew? “He’s asked me to dinner tomorrow night, so that’ll be nice.” She paused, then added hastily, “Along with a few other people.”

  The lie was pointless and unnecessary but spilled forth regardless.

  “Well, just don’t get too friendly!” Hugo laughed, as if the idea were preposterous.

  Is it that unbelievable for you to think that another man might find me attractive? Sarah wanted to say, but didn’t. And then a sad voice of her own answered, Maybe I can’t believe it either.

  The time of youth and beauty, the whole world at her feet and anything possible, seemed to belong to someone else, someone utterly different. It was all so far away from the Sarah of today, with the husband and children, the mortgage and the bills. Now she felt like an orange that has sat too long in the bowl, the colour dulling, the skin hardening and cracking whilst the moisture dried up inside.

  Hugo yawned, his tiredness echoing through the ether.

  “Your mum’s been great – she even ironed the girls’ socks and underwear today!”

  “Gosh.” Sarah couldn’t think of anything to say about such a demonstration of domestic devotion. She was frankly amazed that her mother had found the iron; she herself had no idea where it was.

  “And she cooked spaghetti Bolognese for everyone’s supper and I’ve got to say it wasn’t bad – almost as good as mine!”

  Sarah laughed despite herself. “Thank goodness I’m not there!”

  Spaghetti Bolognese was one of their shared jokes; when they had first met, it was the only thing that Hugo knew how to cook. After a few months of death by minced beef and tomatoes, she’d become so desperate for him to expand his culinary repertoire that one of her first gifts to him had been a Delia Smith cookbook. It hadn’t been used for many years; Hugo never cooked these days and Sarah knew the recipes she habitually used off by heart.

  “OK, better go. Love you lots.” Hugo was clearly walking up the stairs; Sarah could hear his heavy footfall on the wooden treads. “Kiss, kiss.”

  She said goodbye, then pressed the ‘end call’ button and put the phone slowly and deliberately down onto the desk.

  She knew she should go straight to sleep but couldn’t resist re-opening the journal. It might calm her down, provide distraction from whatever madness it was that she had stepped into.

  Estoril, 1935

  We arrived at the hotel in Estoril late in the afternoon, as the sun was setting into the ocean. Immediately I laid eyes on the Palácio, I gasped in astonishment. The building is almost brand new and is famous for its white façade and beautiful grounds and I must say, I have never before seen anything like it. John pulled up by the main entrance and immediately a porter sprang forward to open the car door for me. I tried to behave as if I were completely familiar with places such as this and accustomed to being waited upon, hand and foot. Perhaps I’m finally mastering that elusive sophistication! John gave the car keys to another uniformed man who took it away to park, and then he ushered me to the door. It really was just like being in a Hollywood movie.

  Inside, the cool, tiled foyer echoed to the sound of cosmopolitan voices – I could hear English, French and German being spoken. Amongst those speaking Portuguese were many Brazilian accents. The women, adorned with galaxies of gold and precious stones, were a sight to behold. The cars waiting beyond the revolving doors to spirit them away to wherever very, very rich people go in the evenings were invariably the largest and shiniest on the forecourt. Apparently they find things cheap here in Portugal, compared to Brazil, and they are said to enjoy showing off their money. Now I can certainly vouch for that being the case; I had never seen such ostentatious displays of wealth as are on show here. It all seemed a million miles away from the sleepy little town nearest to the montado.

  I told John how beautiful it all was. I think he was pleased with my reaction because he squeezed my hand and smiled before attending to the questions of the receptionist. Once we were in the room, it seemed an age before the porter arrived with the luggage and arranged it all to John’s satisfaction. We were both a little weary after the journey and the long day and I, for one, wanted to kick off my ‘clodhoppers’ and sit down. John, too, seemed keen for the porter to be on his way and gave him rather a large tip as soon as he started to head towards the door.

  Once he was gone, the atmosphere became rather awkward for a few moments. I told John that I would have a bath but before I had a chance to move towards th
e bathroom he was standing in front of me and I had a sudden feeling that I had never met him before, that I had no idea who he was and couldn’t think of anything to say to him. There was a look on his face of such intensity as I had not seen in him previously, and even though his smile was as broad as usual, it had a firm determination to it that was quite unfamiliar to me.

  “A bath can wait a minute,” he said. “There’s plenty of time.”

  It wasn’t how I had imagined it all. His hands on my body, my breasts, between my legs, didn’t feel at all like when I have explored those places for myself. I had never contemplated, either, how hard his penis would become, a rigidity that took me completely by surprise, with a veiny feel that at first I wasn’t sure I liked. It seems incredible that something usually so small and flaccid can change so much, grow so much in size. At first I instinctively drew my hand away but he took it gently and placed it upon himself. He held my wrist and moved it up and down, and whilst he was doing this, he bent his face towards my breasts and took my nipple in his mouth. This felt so good I gasped aloud but then stifled my cries. He stopped and lifted his head and smiled at me and whispered in my ear, “Don’t be silent - I like to hear you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you’re supposed to enjoy it, too.”

  I began to realise how much my mother had left out when she had a little chat with me before the wedding! Perhaps the biggest surprise of all was how long it took once he had put himself inside me. I grew up watching the animals on the farm during the mating season and had somehow got it into my head that this is what it was – a few intense seconds before it’s all over. Now I know that it is not like that at all – John seemed to be thrusting inside me for minute after minute, until finally he gasped, and I felt his entire body tense and saw all the veins on his neck stand out as he cried out “Yes, yes” again and again in English, and then slumped down on top of me, exhausted.

  I lay underneath him, not sure what to do. He was heavy and his right shoulder was crushing my left breast, but he seemed completely immobile and was utterly silent, so much so that I felt it would be rude if I said anything. I shifted my position as much as I could to get comfortable, and soon John was snoring rhythmically and sonorously, and I thought, so that was it. That’s what all the fuss is about. Finally, John rolled over in his sleep, enabling me to wriggle out from under him and get up to write this momentous entry.

  So what, dear diary, is my verdict? Good; enjoyable. Full of potential. I giggled to myself as I wrote this; how strange to give something so primal, so fundamental, such a school-bookish judgement.

  We have enjoyed the opulence of the Palacio for a week now. Tomorrow, we leave for our new home in Porto. Over these last few days, spending all our time together, our intimacy has grown. John’s appetite for me, once aroused, has been insatiable; he has wanted to make love not just at night but before breakfast and during our siesta as well. I have begun to know his body and to learn what he likes, how, when and where to touch him.

  But even while we become acquainted in such a primordial way, the paradox is that I have realised that I hardly know him at all; to all intents and purposes, I have married a stranger. We fell in love the moment we set eyes on each other at a dinner dance in Setúbal. I was swept away by his looks and charm and urbanity, he by my youth and innocence and vitality (so he tells me). Our short, whirlwind romance led quickly to our fairytale wedding but I forgot to even consider the practicalities. Now here we are together, with a lifetime in front of us to find out if we even have anything in common. The long days of idleness that I am not used to have given rise to the making of philosophical enquiries of myself, such as whether it is possible to ever really know another human being? To see inside their soul, to truly understand the meaning of their words and what makes their world go round? At times, over the course of this week, whilst playing baccarat or roulette in the Casino, or walking arm-in-arm with John along the seafront promenade, I have found my mind full of questions to which I simply have no answers.

  7

  Portugal, 2010

  Sarah woke the next day with a strange and unsettling sensation of otherness, as if the world had subtly altered as she slept. What she had read in Inês’s journal had surprised her, the intimation of doubt about her marriage. But of course it was only to be expected that there would be minor strains in any relationship, especially one so young and untested. Maybe Inês wanted to give her this message – that everybody has doubts and difficulties, that relationships require resilience and perseverance and a lot of hard work if they are to succeed. For most certainly Inês had detected that everything was not perfect between Sarah and Hugo right now, although she would never dream of prying. So was it to help Sarah that Inês had wanted her to have the journal, and not so that Sarah could help Inês as she had first thought? The question buzzed furiously around Sarah’s mind like a bluebottle against a window pane.

  A phone call from her mother, Natalie, woke her from her reverie. She and the girls were off to the zoo with plans for pizza for lunch.

  “Everything’s fine,” Natalie insisted, as if Sarah had questioned her ability to cope. “You really don’t have to worry about me, you just concentrate on enjoying yourself.”

  “I’m working, mum, not having a holiday,” Sarah protested, trying not to sound defensive. “But thank you so much for holding the fort. It’s great to know you’re there.”

  Sarah could see the way her mother would sigh and wave her hand dismissively, enjoying the compliment while shrugging it off.

  There was a pause, then a muffled sound of banging and clunking and a child’s voice saying, “Mummy?” Sarah had to think for a moment whether it was Honor or Ruby.

  “Mummy, is it far away in Portugal?”

  “Not too far, Rubes,” reassured Sarah, not wanting the child to worry.

  “Mummy, I’ve got a new song for you.” Ruby seemed anything but worried. “Shall I sing it? It goes like this:

  Honor and William in a tree

  K-I-S-S-I-N-G

  First comes love and then comes marriage

  Last comes the baby in the golden carriage.”

  Sarah smiled at the childish innocence of the song. “That’s funny, Ruby, where did you learn…”

  Her words were cut short by an enormous howl that had erupted on the other end of the line. Sarah could hear her mother’s voice, getting louder, demanding that Honor stop pulling Ruby’s hair, telling her to behave, and then talking to Sarah again.

  “Oh dear, what a noise, but all sorted now. Just a bit of a disagreement about the song. Honor doesn’t seem to like Ruby saying she’s kissing her little friend William.”

  I’m not surprised, thought Sarah, recalling William and his seemingly incessantly snotty nose. “Sorry, mum. Thanks for everything you’re doing.”

  “If I can’t step in to help my only child… what sort of a mother would I be? When there’s just the two of us – we have to stick together!”

  “Absolutely, mum. As I say, I really appreciate it.” Sarah picked up the car keys from the desk and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I better get on. Love to you all, kisses for the girls – and thanks again.”

  In the hire car, she turned on the radio and sat half-listening to the rapid Portuguese as she got out the map and traced the way to the processing plant, the next stage of her cork’s journey from harvesting to becoming a stopper. It suddenly seemed a long way to go for a small part of her article. Throughout her tour of the factory, with its vast yard piled with towering stacks of cork bark, enormous vats which simmered and seethed as the cork boiled, and long rows of green-overalled workers, images of Scott constantly invaded her mind. The morning passed in a blur. Her host, Amoral da Silva, was solicitous and helpful to a fault; his corks, spewing forth into giant buckets at a rate of thousands an hour, were perfectly formed. But Sarah’s heart, and her head, were elsewhere.

  Driving back, the evening to come looming large and imminent, her mind drifted inexorably to a t
ime she usually tried to forget. To the last time she and Scott had dined together, just the two of them, in Lisbon, at the Cervejaria Trindade. Sarah had studied its antique tiled walls as Scott dangled Vancouver temptingly in front of her.

  “Think of all the things we could do there!” he had urged. “All the fun we could have. My family has a log cabin in the mountains – we’ll go horse riding there. And in the winter, we’ll ski and snowboard, ice-skate, if you like.”

  “It would be amazing,” she had concurred, even though the truth was that she didn’t know how to do any of those things.

  “In spring we’ll make love in the meadow, and in winter we’ll stoke up the fire and keep each other warm whilst the storms rage outside.”

  Sarah could smell the woodsmoke and hear the maple branches crackling in the stove, taste the bitter roasted coffee brewing on the hob and hear how silently the powdery snow fell onto the already-white ground outside.

  But there was her mother to think about, having chemo for breast cancer and embroiled in a bitter divorce from her dad. The image of Natalie had been impossible to ignore, poised in Sarah’s mind’s eye as if she were listening in on the conversation, willing her not to abandon her as she perceived everyone else had done. That was on top of the call of her degree, the place at university that she had studied so hard to win, that she could not just throw away.

  “Let’s not talk about it now,” she had said. “I want to eat and drink and dance.”

  And so they had done all three, and then taken a taxi back to the little pink and blue house. He sat on the bed behind her to undress her, enclosing her with his long, muscular legs, deftly removing her bra and running his skilful hands over her body and her breasts.

  She had looked down at the floor, at the splintered wooden boards that had seen so many people come and go.