What Will Survive

by Joan Smith

  She stared for a few seconds at Stephen’s left arm, brown from the sun and covered with fine hairs. As always he had dressed perfectly for the occasion, in chinos, a sports shirt and loafers worn without socks — a bit unconventional for their neck of the woods, but conveying an easy confidence that would stand him in good stead over the coming weeks. There had been talk, not in Stephen’s presence, of selecting a new candidate, which had gone far enough to prompt a call from the local newspaper. But Stephen was right, the afternoon had been a great success, and Carolina hoped that the dark mood he had been in for weeks might now begin to lift. She stepped back and put her hand up to hair, forgetting for a few seconds that she had had several inches cut off the previous week. Nicky liked it, he had actually commented on it when she picked him up from a friend’s house, but Stephen had been preoccupied with the arrangements for the party and hadn’t mentioned it.

  ‘Shit!’ A glass had slipped from his hand, shattering on the quarry tiles.

  ‘I’ll deal with it.’ As Carolina moved past him to get a dustpan and brush, she caught the smell of alcohol on his breath and wondered how much he had had to drink. When the fragments were safely in the bin, she straightened. ‘I’d better change,’ she said, feeling overdressed now the guests had gone.

  ‘Nice dress,’ Stephen said, noticing it for the first time. ‘Is it new?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’ Carolina felt herself blushing. She had found it in a new boutique in the High Street, drawn inside by a rather daring window display. The assistant was endlessly patient, pulling dresses from the rail and coaxing her into trying them on: ‘With your skin, you need either neutral colours or something very strong,’ she said firmly, steering Carolina away from her usual pastels. In the end Carolina had chosen a crepe dress in a shade the assistant called old rose. ‘You’re tall and slim, it’s perfect for you,’ the woman said as she wrapped it in tissue paper.

  ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘That new place I pointed out to you.’

  ‘You should go there more often — you look great.’

  She took a step towards him. ‘Stephen?’

  ‘Mum, Dad, can we get a takeaway? Please?’

  Carolina turned to see Frannie entering the kitchen, arms outstretched in imitation of an aeroplane. In one hand were a couple of menus from local restaurants, which had been pushed through the door the previous week. At Carolina’s urging — she hated the waste of paper as much as the mess they made — Stephen had recently put up a ‘no junk mail’ sign on the gate but it made very little difference. ‘Half of them can’t read, and the rest don’t speak English,’ he said when Carolina continued to protest about the leaflet-deliverers. Now they exchanged a glance.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Stephen said, as much to Carolina as his son. ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘Indian,’ Francis said instantly. ‘Or Chinese.’

  Carolina grimaced.

  ‘Indian. Your mother doesn’t like Chinese.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s the monosodium glutamate —’

  ‘Got a bit of paper? You’ll never remember what everyone wants.’

  ‘Me?’ Francis opened his eyes wide and rolled them.

  ‘Go on, Frannie. Phone in the order and tell them I’ll pay cash.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  A hand snaked over Francis’s shoulder and snatched the menus. He whirled round to confront his elder brother, who was a head taller and easily able to hold them out of reach.

  ‘It’s not fair! Dad said I could—’

  ‘Nicky, don’t tease Frannie. It’s been a long day and we’re all tired.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’ Nicky ignored his mother, making a show of opening one of the menus.

  ‘I’m just seeing if they do vegetarian.’

  ‘Just order some vegetables. Tarka dall, you like lentils.’

  ‘I want chicken tikka masala.’ Frannie snatched the menu from him. ‘And a nun.’

  ‘Nan, stupid.’

  ‘Stop arguing.’

  ‘And a Coke.’

  ‘Frannie, you know you can’t have sugary drinks. And isn’t chicken tikka that red stuff? It’s full of E-numbers.’

  She felt Stephen’s hands on her waist. ‘It won’t hurt for once,’ he said quiedy.

  ‘Can we get a video?’

  His arms slid further round and she felt his breath on her neck. ‘No, because I’ve drunk too much to drive. You can choose one from my office.’ Stephen kept a collection of videos — documentaries, old movies and his own performances on Newsnight and Question Time — in a room to the left of the front door that he used as his study. ‘Whose turn is it to choose?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Nicky. You picked that Clint Eastwood film we watched on Friday night, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, but it was crap. His hair was long and he looked really spastic.’

  ‘Nicky.’ Carolina frowned.

  ‘Well he did.’ Nicky sauntered out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder that he’d like a vegetable biriani and two papadoms with his tarka dall.

  ‘Got that?’

  Frannie nodded in an exaggerated way and went to find some paper.

  ‘Where would you like to eat?’

  ‘Where?’ Carolina looked at Stephen blankly.

  ‘The conservatory? It cost enough, we might as well use it. Have we got any candles?’

  ‘In the drawer.’ She indicated with her hand and watched as he found them, tapered the ends with a knife and fitted them into the candelabra that usually lived in the dining room.

  By the time the curry arrived, twilight was falling over the hill that sloped away from the house. They sat in the flickering light of the candles, Carolina opposite Stephen, watching him as he chatted with the boys.

  ‘We should do this more often,’ Stephen said as Nicky picked up his empty plate and went into the house. Francis followed and a noisy discussion about videos began in the kitchen, fading away as they moved further into the house.

  ‘Whenever you like.’ Carolina gazed at him. ‘It was better than I expected — the curry, I mean.’

  ‘You’ve hardly eaten anything.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Lina, I know I’ve been — things haven’t been easy over the last few weeks.’

  ‘Oh, but you’ve had a difficult time — the election and everything.’

  He stroked the back of her hand with his index finger. ‘Yes, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s — it’s OK.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Well, you seem a lot — happier now.’

  He turned her hand over and twined his fingers through hers. ‘Another glass of wine?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Isn’t it rather late? And we’ve finished the bottle.’

  ‘I’ll open another one. I’ve got a free morning tomorrow — in fact I was going to suggest taking you out to lunch.’ He got up. ‘Let’s drink it in bed.’

  She glanced over his shoulder into the house. ‘The boys —’

  ‘The boys are watching a video. Frannie will fall asleep, and Nicky will watch to the end. It’s not as if they’ve got school tomorrow. Stop thinking about them.’

  ‘If you really think —’

  He pulled her to her feet. ‘I do. Go on.’ He pushed her gently towards the door. ‘I’ll be up in a moment.’

  In the hall, she heard Frannie talking loudly over the sound-track of something that involved a lot of shouting and outbursts of canned laughter. Not one of those Die Hard films that Nicky liked so much, then; more likely a teen comedy with lots of dirty jokes that Frannie, fortunately, was too young to understand. Resisting the temptation to go and check on them, she slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot up the wide oak staircase.

  Her bedroom — hers and Stephen’s, although he had barely spent two consecutive nights at home for weeks and had recently taken to sleeping on the sofa in his study so
as not to ‘disturb’ her — was at the side of the house, looking out over the swimming pool and across the valley. It was stuffy and Carolina opened the window, letting in a welcome draught of night air. She pulled the curtains together, leaving a gap for the breeze, and switched on the table lamp on her side of the bed; the nearest houses were on the far side of the valley and there was no danger of being seen. She sat down and listened for a moment for signs of Stephen’s approach, but decided he must still be in the kitchen. Stretching out, she lay still, then sat up again and began to take off her clothes. Hanging her new dress neatly over the back of a chair, she glanced down at her stomach and pressed it with her hand, checking that she had not put on weight. Her underwear still seemed to fit although it now occurred to her that she should have bought something new for the party — her bra and pants were a flesh-coloured set she had bought ages ago, not at all sexy. She hesitated, wondering whether she had time to change.

  ‘Darling? Darling?’ Stephen’s voice rose from the ground floor.

  She got up and moved round the bed, into the doorway. ‘Yes?’

  He called out something she didn’t catch.

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  She heard his feet on the stairs, then a sound as though he had stumbled.

  ‘Stephen? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, are you happy with red? I thought there was some white in the fridge but some moron’s drunk it.’

  ‘Red’s fine.’ She didn’t really want any more wine, but she’d have a glass to please him.

  ‘I’ll be up in two minutes.’

  His footsteps faded and she returned to the bedroom, sinking on to the bed. Stephen appeared a moment later, closing the door behind him with his heel and placing an open bottle of Rioja on the bedside table. He was carrying two glasses in his other hand and he filled one, handed it to her and then poured his own.

  ‘Cheers.’ He tossed the wine back, almost finishing it. Sitting on the bed, he leaned across and kissed her on the cheek. Pouring a second glass, he added, ‘Here’s to us.’

  ‘To us.’ Their glasses clinked.

  ‘Is it me or is it hot in here?’

  ‘I’ve opened the window.’

  ‘Mmm, I can feel it now.’

  He pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it on the floor and stretched out beside her, his legs crossed at the ankles. Carolina waited, not daring to move. They lay in silence and after a while she edged closer to him, turning on to her side. He glanced down, as if he had forgotten her presence, and reached out his right arm to encircle her shoulders.

  ‘This is nice,’ he sighed.

  Carolina twisted her head and saw that his eyes were closed. In the distance, she heard the faint whine of an emergency siren — police or ambulance, she couldn’t tell the difference. She lifted a hand to his bare chest and began gently massaging it, feeling his body stiffen and then relax.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ He sounded amused.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She waited but he did not push her away. She snuggled closer, pressing her body against his. He turned towards her, crushed her to his chest and kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth in a way he had not done for a very long time. He grunted and felt for the fastening of her bra, pulling it off and flinging it to the floor. His head moved down to her small breasts and he began sucking her right nipple, not very gently. Carolina cried out.

  He pulled back. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No, I mean, yes. Don’t stop.’

  She guided his head down again, trying to enjoy it, and he grasped her other breast, squeezing it for a few seconds. Then he was pulling at her pants, dragging them as far as her knees and kneeling to unzip his trousers.

  ‘Stephen?’

  He rolled her on to her back and lay on top of her, pinning her to the bed and guiding his erect penis inside her with his hand. Dry and sore, Carolina was aware of two things: his hard thrusts into her vagina and the fact that he was not wearing a condom. She tried to pull away but he would not let her go, gasping and pushing deeper into her.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’

  He let out a series of cries, came inside her and collapsed sideways on the bed. Rolling on to his back, he threw one arm out and breathed nosily, his chest rising and falling.

  Carolina lay beside him, too stunned to move until she felt a wetness between her legs. She let out a cry — she hated sex without condoms — and twisted away, angry tears starting in her eyes.

  ‘Hey — are you OK?’ She was really crying now. He put out a hand and touched her shoulder: ‘What’s the matter?’

  She pushed him away.

  ‘Lina, I know I should’ve used something but it’s only this once —’ He was still for a few seconds. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s not as if you’re going to get pregnant. What is your problem, it’s years since you had your tubes tied.’ He swivelled to sit on his side of the bed, his feet on the floor and his head in his hands.

  Carolina sobbed. When he did not react, she rolled over and the sight of his back enraged her: ‘Who do you — get out! Get away from me!’

  He turned, his face showing genuine surprise. ‘What?’

  She was scrabbling away from him, pulling at her pants, which were still round her knees. She almost fell to the floor, teetering on one leg, and grabbed at the bedside table to steady herself.

  ‘Carolina, please —’

  ‘Get away from me! Get out!’

  ‘What?’ He backed towards the door, pulling his trousers up and fumbling with the fly. ‘All right, I’m going. I’m going.’

  The door opened and banged shut. Carolina stayed where she was, panting for breath and sinking to the floor beside the bed. Speaking to herself in a barely audible undertone, she began rocking backwards and forwards, her knees clasped to her chest.

  A child was splashing in the shallow end of a swimming pool, supported by a woman wearing a bathing cap. At the other end, adults were swimming in circles, too far away to make out their faces. Voices called to each other in a foreign language but Tim could not make out what it was or where they coming from, near the pool or inside the house.

  He stepped back from the window, which was at the top of the building, and turned to see his mother trudge past the open door, wearing a dressing gown. Tim started to call out but was interrupted by cheers from the garden, which sent him hurrying back to the window. There were bars across it, which he had not previously noticed, and when he raised his hands to clutch the painted metal, he felt rust crumble under his fingers. From below, there were more cheers, louder than before. Tim tilted his head to peer between the bars and saw Aisha rising up the steps from the shadowy end of the pool in a glittering dress, her hair piled on her head. She gave herself a shake as a boyish figure in jeans surged towards her — Ricky, Tim thought, although he could not be sure from this elevation. Aisha brushed him aside, almost knocking him over, and extended her hand instead to a man in a dinner jacket. He seized it and began leading her away from the house, encircling her waist with his other arm. They reached the end of the terrace and started downhill, across a dry escarpment strewn with rocks, and the man helped Aisha when she slipped, steadying her until she regained her balance.

  Tim strained to watch them but it was getting dark and soon all he could make out was the glimmer of her dress. Fear tightened his chest.

  ‘Aisha!’ His mouth opened but his voice was no more than a squeak. He tried again, certain that something terrible was about to happen, and this time no sound came out at all.

  ‘Mum’s dead,’ said Max’s voice behind him. ‘Didn’t you know?’ Tim whirled round and was just in time to see his younger son disappear into the wardrobe.

  Beside him, someone cried out. Tim blinked several times, blinded by bright sunlight, and tried to think where he was: not, obviously, in his parents’ Tuscan villa, which he hadn’t visited for years, even before he quarrelled with his father over selling it to pay for his mother’s nursing care. Confused,
he glanced round and realised he was on a train — and that he had flung his arm out in his sleep.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said to the elderly woman on his left. ‘I must’ve dozed off—’

  She glared at him but said nothing. She was at least seventy and wearing far too much make-up. Her eyebrows were pencilled in, and Tim could see powder in the creases around her eyes and mouth. For Christ’s sake, did she think he had struck her on purpose? He was about to explain that he had slept badly the night before, which had been hot even for late August, then decided there was no need to justify himself.

  ‘You must’ve been dreaming?’ It was a young woman on the other side of the table.

  He looked at her, unable to recall her boarding the train. From her accent, he thought she was Australian. ‘Yup,’ he said shortly. ‘If I do it again, perhaps you could wake me up.’

  ‘Sure.’ Unoffended, she returned to her magazine.

  Tim glanced at his watch and was astonished to discover he had been dozing for at least half an hour. He put one hand on the table, his fingers moving as he thought about what he needed to do.

  ‘You want anything?’ The girl was sliding out of her seat, revealing a couple of inches of tanned flesh between her top and trousers — a pair of those shiny, shapeless things Max’s friends were fond of wearing. A fake diamond winked in her navel. ‘From the buffet,’ she added, pronouncing the final ‘t’.

  ‘No thanks.’

  She began to move off, putting her hands out to steady herself as the carriage lurched.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  She stopped. Tim felt in his pocket and produced a couple of pound coins. ‘Actually, could you bring me a coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’ She turned back, tossing streaked blonde hair back from her forehead. Tim saw she was older than he had thought, and really quite pretty. ‘Cappuccino? Latte?’

  ‘Whatever. With milk will do.’

  ‘No problem.’

  She set off again. With a sense of dread, Tim stood up, lifted his briefcase down from the overhead rack and drew out some papers. His final appointment in London that day was with a solicitor, a firm he had never had any dealings with until Aisha died and one of the partners got in touch out of the blue. She had offered her condolences a bit too briskly, Tim thought, and asked a couple of questions that puzzled him. When he demanded to know what it was all about — this had all happened about ten days after the accident, when he was even more exhausted — the woman told him that Aisha had made an appointment a few months before and asked her to draw up a new will. At first Tim had not understood, insisting rather short-temperedly that there must be a mistake; he and Aisha had made wills years ago, using a solicitor in Taunton. He had, in fact, taken Aisha’s out of an envelope a couple of days earlier but had not been able to make himself look at it. He knew the contents pretty much by heart: each had left their share of the house to the other, along with the contents of their bank accounts and some investments. They had agreed that a percentage of the estate should be settled on the boys, with some complicated formula to make sure that the surviving spouse would not be left short. At the time, Tim’s architectural practice was doing quite well and his assets were almost as large as Aisha’s, although that position had changed a couple of years later. Neither of them had mentioned the wills since and until this total stranger, Miss Stefani she called herself, got in touch, Tim had simply assumed he would inherit most of Aisha’s estate. It had also occurred to him that at some point he would have to consult a solicitor about winding up her trust, but it was not at the top of his list of things to do. He’d asked Becky to come in and answer urgent letters and phone calls for the time being, much as her pale, ghostlike presence irritated him.