‘I can imagine. It’s your kind of place.’
‘Stuffy, you mean?’
‘No, I mean traditional, solid, comfortable,’ she smiles, but already the suggestion of tenderness has disappeared from her eyes.
‘That’s how I like to see myself. Solid and comfortable.’
‘I wasn’t having a dig at you, Malcolm,’ she asserts. ‘I said it’s very pleasant. Not exactly my cup of tea, but very comfortable,’ she says, nodding as she regards the leaded windows, the vellum lampshades, the fireplace. ‘What are you going to do when it closes?’
‘I’ve got something lined up, possibly.’
‘A little more information?’ Kate requests, with a raking motion of her upturned fingers.
‘There’s a new place in London, opening soon. I’ve made some calls. Something might come of it. We’ll see.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ she says. ‘Where, exactly?’ she asks, and for a while they talk about the new hotel in Kensington, and about the Oak, and about the Beltram Highlands, before circling back to the job in the Kensington hotel, though there is nothing more to be said about it. On the point of once more repeating a remark that was superfluous on its first utterance he suggests she might like a drink, a nightcap of some sort. She asks for a brandy, if he’s having one, and he fetches the drinks from the bar himself.
Rocking the glass in her cupped palm, she watches the wave of brandy travel around the bowl. ‘So,’ she resumes, then pauses, to look at him with a sly narrowing of her eyes, at which he guesses what she is going to say. ‘Any romance?’ she duly asks.
‘None,’ he tells her.
‘None at present or none at all?’
Anticipating that the truth would be misconstrued as evidence of a failure to remake his life as successfully as she has remade hers, he says: ‘The former.’
‘So there has been someone?’ she responds, her eyes brightening with plausible delight. ‘Tell me everything,’ she urges, tasting the brandy.
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Oh come on, Malcolm. I won’t tell a soul. Promise. Who was she?’ she asks, and he notices that the tooth she damaged in the cycling accident, which used to lift her lip a fraction when she smiled, is neither crooked nor chipped now, and is as white as an infant’s.
‘Nobody.’
‘You had a relationship with nobody?’
‘No. I mean she would be just a name to you, so there’s no point talking about her.’
‘Of course there’s a point. It’s about you, and you’re not just a name. Who was she? Someone local? A glamorous guest? Come on. Tell.’
‘There’s nothing to tell, Kate. If there were someone, I’d tell you.’
‘An unhappy affair,’ she persists. ‘Is that it?’
He offers an ambiguous wave of a hand, which might be taken for acknowledgement that her supposition is correct.
‘Poor Malcolm,’ she sighs, mirroring his expression, then releases a breath in a gentle puff, giving the subject up. She smiles weakly, seeming to commiserate at his bad luck and to invite him to take the burden of the conversation from her.
‘Robert’s work?’ he asks, touching a fingertip to his teeth.
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘You don’t often see a smile like that on this side of the Atlantic. Not in real life, anyway.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It didn’t quite come across as a compliment.’
‘No, really. It’s a fine job.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re looking very good. Distressingly youthful. You must do a lot of exercise.’
‘A fair amount. Not a lot. The gym three times a week,’ she says, preparing to take offence, clasping her hands on her arms as though to shield them from his scrutiny.
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Impressive results. Maybe I should try it.’
‘Maybe you should,’ she blandly agrees, then she raises the glass again, and her eyes leave him like the eyes of a woman cornered at a party, on the lookout for more scintillating company. The brandy merely dampens her lips.
‘The boy’s well?’ he asks.
‘Gareth is a treasure,’ she says, and leaves it at that.
‘And you’re happy? With Robert, I mean?’
‘Nicely put. Sounds like you’re asking if I’m going to take him back to the shop I bought him from.’
‘OK. I’ll try again. Are you and Robert happy together?’
‘Thank you. We are. As happy as we could be, in the circumstances.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes, I am.’
She reciprocates his insistence with a look that obstructs him. Once more she lifts the glass, but this time she drains it and at the same time takes a peek at her watch.
‘I had a surprising call the other day,’ he tells her, hearing the false levity of his own voice. ‘An old friend.’
‘Go on.’
‘From Henk.’
‘From who?’
‘Mr de Haan. Henk de Haan. The sommelier. Remember him?’
‘Oh yes, I remember,’ she says, with heavy reluctance.
‘He’s retired now. Cashed all his investments and bought a holiday home in Corfu.’
‘Lots of girls to ogle in Corfu.’
‘Remember that bottle he gave us, for your birthday. What was it? Austrian? Something unlikely.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think it was Austrian. A fantastic wine, wasn’t it?’
She does not reply. She is looking at him as if his words have had a covert meaning that is now becoming clear to her. ‘Stop it,’ she says, firmly and coldly.
‘Stop what?’
‘Taking refuge in the past. It’s always been your problem. Always looking back. You’ve got an incurable taste for nostalgia,’ she tells him, with no audible emotion, as though she were reading a report about a person unknown to both of them. ‘It’s why you’re here, isn’t it, really?’ she goes on. ‘It’s tailor-made for you. A big fat slice of the past.’
But the letter from Henk de Haan, he protests inwardly, has nothing to do with any taste for nostalgia: it’s simply that he could not think of anything else to say to her, and having introduced Henk de Haan into the conversation he was trying to keep him there, that’s all. Indignant at Kate’s idea of him, doubly indignant at the tint of compassion that has risen into her eyes, he tells her: ‘I’m here because this was the job I found when you and Stephanie and Robert went away. I wanted to start again, somewhere else, and this is where I ended up. That’s why I’m here. I’m here because of what happened with you and our daughter. Or had –’
‘Right, right. It’s my fault. Of course it’s my fault. I thought we’d taken a decision together. I thought we’d agreed. But obviously –’
‘Yes, Kate, we agreed. But I didn’t have much choice, did I? What was I going to do? She didn’t want to be with me. You kept telling me that, she kept telling me. Or have you forgotten?’
‘And what was I supposed to do? Brainwash her? I tried my best, but –’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, Malcolm, I did.’
‘OK.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning OK.’
‘No. Meaning not OK at all.’ Twisting in her seat, she crooks an elbow on the back of the chair and begins to stroke the nail of her forefinger, looking at him under arched brows, challenging him, it seems, to say what he is thinking.
‘You know, Kate, I think we married too young.’
‘Relevance?’ she enquires, still stroking the fingernail as one would stroke a cat’s ear.
‘I wish it hadn’t fallen apart, but it did. We changed. We grew apart. It’s a shame, but that’s what happened, and I don’t think there’s a guilty party. I’ve never thought that. But I used to get the feeling that you held it against me, that I’d
betrayed you in some way, that I hadn’t lived up to some promise I’d made, that I’d wasted years of your life. And I suspect that Stephanie came to think that I was to blame. I don’t know –’
‘If you’re implying –’
‘And I get the feeling that you still hold it against me, and I think the business with Stephanie, the business now, has something to do with that. It seems to me that you think she might be going over to the enemy, that she’s –’
‘That’s stupid. Completely and utterly and totally stupid. I don’t hold anything against you. I don’t care about what happened with us, not any more, not for a long long time. I have a new life. I have a new husband. I have a son. I have moved on. You’re the one that’s hung up on the past, not me.’
‘I’m not hung up on the past, Kate, and I’m not saying I think you are. But I do think the past is what’s behind all this. Of course it is.’
‘Because I’ve been nursing a grudge all these years?’
‘That’s not quite how –’
‘Malcolm,’ she interrupts, laying a clenched hand on the table-top like a mallet. ‘Here’s the truth, right? Listen. I don’t care any more,’ she says, enunciating her words as though talking to a simpleton. ‘Understand? I don’t care. You’re right. I used to care. I used to care a lot. And I didn’t think you were completely blameless. In that respect you’re right. Who knows, if you hadn’t hung on in that place for so long –’
‘I didn’t hang on. We went back to London as soon as we could.’
‘No, we didn’t. We could have gone sooner. A lot sooner. It was always tomorrow. Just give it a while, everything will be fine.’
‘That’s simply not true. We had Stephanie. We couldn’t just up sticks and run away. I had to sort out a decent –’
‘Yes, yes. OK. It doesn’t matter now.’
‘It does matter, Kate. I want things clear between us. Now that Stephanie’s here, I want things to be absolutely clear.’
‘I thought I was being clear. I don’t care about the past. Isn’t that clear enough? It seems pretty clear to me.’
‘Shall I tell you what I think?’
‘You have told me, Malcolm. No need to repeat it. I caught it first time round.’
‘How you felt about me, that was the problem, that’s what I think. You weren’t tired of Amsterdam, you were tired of me. Amsterdam wasn’t the problem.’
‘Malcolm, I was sick to death of Amsterdam. I was sick of doing crummy two-month jobs, sick of working for peanuts and sick of typing letters all day long. But if you want to make out that you’re the one who’s suffered more, OK. That’s fine with me. If that helps you, it’s fine with me.’
‘It doesn’t help, Kate. I don’t need help. All I’m saying is it wasn’t anyone’s fault, and I’m asking you not to deal with me as if I’m your opponent.’
‘Oh Christ,’ she groans, clutching her brow.
‘I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request.’
‘You’re not my opponent, Malcolm.’
‘Well, that’s how it seems.’
‘God, God, God, God, God. You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you? I don’t think of you as my opponent. If you want to know the truth, these past five or six years I’ve hardly thought of you at all. You have not been a part of my life, and I would have liked to keep it that way. So leave it alone, will you? Leave the dead in the ground,’ she pronounces, getting up from the table. ‘Goodnight. See you in the morning.’
If Stephanie weren’t here she would leave right now. She would get in the car and drive back to London and try to forget the whole evening, but it has been a disaster because of the way Stephanie has behaved, and she cannot be allowed to behave like that. A pale cream light is shining on the carpet underneath Stephanie’s door, but she walks past it and goes to her own room, where she splashes cold water on her face to compose herself, and then she goes back. With her ear an inch from the door, she listens. Hearing no sound, she imagines her daughter on the other side, listening as she is listening, willing her to go away. At the recollection of her daughter’s nasty little smile, of the derision she put into ‘obviously’, she raises a hand. Right now the door might open, and Stephanie will see her standing here, lurking in the corridor like an idiot. Lightly, with a single knuckle, she knocks. Still there is no sound inside, but it is not possible that Stephanie is asleep, not at this hour. At the thought of the argument that is about to happen she can feel the pulse in her temples pounding. She notices that her hand is trembling, which is ridiculous. Putting her ear to the wood, she listens again, and this time she does hear something, a click, the catch of a cabinet. She presses against the door, straining to hear running water or feet on the bare floor of the bathroom, but all she can hear is a rumble inside her ear. Harder than before, she knocks twice. There is no response, no sound of any kind. She can imagine Stephanie sitting on the rim of the bath, glaring towards the door. Slowly her fingers close on the handle and begin to turn it, but she does not turn it fully. Releasing the handle, she stands back from the door. She stands in the musty corridor, looking at the door, then realises that her anger at being treated so badly by Stephanie is ebbing away, as is the feeling of dread that was mixed with her anger. Facing the door, she accepts that she is relieved by the thought that she does not have to talk to her daughter tonight, that she can leave her to stew. It causes her some guilt, this thought, but the sense of relief is so much stronger than the guilt that when she turns away from Stephanie’s room it seems to evaporate completely, and she finds herself visited by the idea of driving back home before anyone else has woken up, of writing a note for Malcolm and leaving them to get on with it. If she hadn’t had that brandy she could do it now, just drive off and leave them. Even if it did look like she was running up the white flag it might be worth it, to give her a bit of a shock, to make her think about the way she was carrying on.
It was a mistake to have brought her down here, she admits to her reflection in the TV screen, as she prises the shoes off her feet, and in return her reflection, sitting upright and looking straight ahead, seems to remind her that she has a right to be here, with her daughter and her daughter’s father. All three of them should be involved in this, of course they should – and besides, she had not imagined it would be so bad. She had thought Stephanie might at least be civil in front of her father, that she might call a truce or even show some pleasure at having got what she said she wanted. Which was a wildly optimistic thing to have thought, she agrees with herself, getting up from the bed. Two more years of this, probably, that’s what lies ahead, before Stephanie leaves home, and two years is not so long a time. Trying to recall what they were doing two years ago, she thinks of the holiday in Thailand, but that was three years ago, almost exactly three years, and it seems no time at all. She goes into the bathroom, where she washes by the light of the bedside lamp, watched in the murky mirror by eyes that her daughter’s eyes still resemble a little, and she can remember Stephanie in the pool of the hotel in Thailand, towing Gareth along in his inflatable boat. She remembers Stephanie putting her arm against hers to compare tans, and going with her to the beach, where they went to buy fish and watched the boat coming in, sitting together on the hot wooden platform and dangling their feet in the water, side by side. That was just three years ago and feels far closer, so close that it gives her a stab of sorrow, a blow that makes the breath catch in her chest.
She goes back into the bedroom and lies on the bed. She is tired and slightly drunk, and the past is beginning to resurface, but she will not allow it, she will not give in to pity for herself. The life she has now is better than the past, or has been better and will be better again. She calls to mind the dingy bars of Amsterdam, the geriatric hippies and the rainy grey canals, the clapped-out bicycles clanging everywhere, and the drunks and shifty businessmen sniffing around the women in the alley by the church, like that one who was staying at the hotel, with the peeling shoes, who saw her looking at him when he
was making a sign through the glass to the African girl in the see-through nightie, and bought them a drink in the hotel bar that night. ‘And for your lady wife?’ he said to Malcolm, as if she were a mute, and you could tell from his eyes that he was trying to work out if she’d said anything about seeing him with the African girl. He really did call her that: ‘your lady wife’. And Henk de Haan, he was even worse, the slimy old fraud, hovering around any table with a good-looking woman at it, gawping at their cleavages over the wine list, and that blazer he wore on Sundays, with the regimental cufflinks he must have bought in a junk shop. She remembers seeing him one Sunday afternoon, stalking a couple of Swedish girls across the square by the concert hall, trotting through the puddles to keep up with them. He was wearing his medal that afternoon, and his hair was newly dyed, as black as his umbrella. And the way he would kowtow to the better-off guests, never looking them in the eye, as if their wealth gave off a light that forced him to avert his eyes, like angels of money, and Malcolm could be just as bad, wringing his hands, accepting their tips and little gifts like a grateful serf. It’s not true that she was sick of him before they left, and she hadn’t completely stopped caring about him when they came back to England. She must have felt it was still worth a try, otherwise she would have left straight away, though she can’t right now recall any good days, so probably there was not much left by then. But he’s wrong about Amsterdam: there would have been a chance if they’d managed to get away before they did, because it was the city and the hotel and what his job was doing to him, to them, that depressed her so much. In a different place he’d have been a different person, but he seemed stuck there and was getting five years older with every year that passed, as if he’d caught middle-agedness off the people he worked for. Yet even after Stephanie was born there were days in Amsterdam when she loved him, definitely there were. She searches for an instance to prove her point, and despite the distraction of the phone ringing upstairs she does find something, from the winter when she was pregnant, perhaps the very week they found out. They were on their way back home, having been to a restaurant where the food was so spicy they both came out into the street gulping at the cold air. On a small bridge not far from the flat they stopped, and he stood behind her with his arms crossed on her waist. The sky was so clear that the stars seemed to be swarming above the buildings. It was very late and quiet, so quiet that they could hear the ice crackling as it sealed over the canal below them. They didn’t talk. For half an hour they stood on the bridge, listening to the crackling of the ice on the canal. At one point he took her gloves off to blow into them to make them warm. And, perhaps the same winter, there was the time the tram came to a standstill, and when he put his coat around her shoulders there was a diffidence about the gesture that was so touching, it was as if they weren’t married, as if they were back in the day they first spoke to each other, when they were still kids, and he took her up onto the roof of the hotel and put his jacket around her, while they looked across the town. He was so guileless and earnest and determined, outlining his future to her, how he would go abroad to learn his business, how he would work on the Continent, mastering every aspect of the business. And now he’s ended up here, in a place like his father’s hotel, with yellowing plaster and auction-room furniture, and hardly any guests, and no future. This room could be a room in a museum house, the residence of some obscure Victorian, yet as she looks around it, breathing its air of deathly gentility, she feels sorry for him, mildly, and even an inkling of the feeling she used to have for him, which she repels at once, reminding herself of how he greeted her when they arrived, of the sarcasm of the very first words he spoke to her, as if he and Stephanie were immediately sharing a private joke at her expense. Tomorrow Stephanie will be telling him lies about her. A headache is coming on, and upstairs a voice is rumbling like a washing machine in a distant room. She reaches for the remote control and flicks from a James Bond film that must be nearly over, to Red Cross lorries in a desert, to girls playing volleyball on a beach, to some politician talking.
Invisible Page 16
