Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  ‘Dear Lewis. You never let me down.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  Dan was invited to spend a year in America, at the Rhode Island School of Design.

  ‘Won’t that interfere with your work?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘I think it would be stimulating. It’s a highly esteemed establishment and they’ve got some interesting people working there.’

  She shrugged. ‘It sounds as if you’ve already made your mind up.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I thought you might like to come. As wife of the Visiting Professor. I could probably swing you a Writer in Residence post. Brits seem to be in favour at the moment.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Before you say anything, I’d like you to hear me out.’ He was staring out of the window, as if the words he was searching for were written on the building across the street. ‘I love you. You must know that by now. I’ve tried bloody hard not to make you feel trapped or limited. It’s been tough at times, especially knowing that you were seeing someone else.’

  ‘Dan—’

  ‘But I thought, hang in there, Dan. So I did. And for a while, it was really good.’ He gave a dry little laugh. ‘I coped with your seeing someone else because you always came back to me. But I’m not sure I can compete with Gordon. He’s spirited you away completely.’ He turned to look at her. ‘I’m going to the States for a year. I would like you to marry me and come with me. You already know everything there is to know about me so I’m not going to try and sell myself. It’s up to you.’

  He was handsome and dignified, and if this were a Hollywood film she would say yes and fall in to his arms. But it wasn’t and she didn’t love him, at least not enough to weld herself to him for the rest of her life.

  Silent seconds ticked away.

  ‘So that’s it then,’ he said.

  They had been together for fifteen years and it ended there, in ice not fire.

  Dan brought his departure forward. He insisted that Tessa stay in the flat, saying that it was ridiculous to pay rent when the place would be standing empty; that she would be doing him a favour by looking after it and ensuring that squatters didn’t move in.

  The news of their split seeped out. Friends called round on the pretext of checking that she was okay, assuming that Dan had dumped her. Accepting sympathy for a misfortune which she hadn’t suffered didn’t seem quite right and, over a bottle of white wine, she divulged the circumstances of the break-up to Liza Costello. After that, it wasn’t long before Tessa discovered that most of the people whom she considered to be their friends were, in fact, Dan’s friends. Not only did they drop her but some of them accused her of treating him badly then having the gall to hound him out of his own flat.

  ‘Take no notice,’ Liza advised. ‘What do they know? It’s between you and Dan.’

  It was a crass thing to say when Dan was thousands of miles away and there was nothing ‘between them’ any more.

  When Tessa told Lewis he took it hard. He’d liked Dan from the start and they’d formed a close, uncomplicated friendship. Although Lewis didn’t have a creative bone in his body and Dan had failed O Level maths three times, each appreciated and respected the other’s skills.

  ‘Perhaps a spell apart will do you good. Prove that you’re right for each other after all,’ Lewis said.

  ‘Like your separation from Andrea did?’ she asked quietly.

  Once in a while, Jay and Liza invited her to share a meal, or go with them to see a film. They were easy company, amusing and original. What could be more agreeable than spending time with old friends?

  Then Jay started coming to the flat alone, turning up late at night with a takeaway and a half-bottle of whisky, telling her how much sexier she was these days. ‘You mean middle-aged and desperate?’ ‘I mean luscious and … imaginative.’ What could be more harmless than spending an occasional night with an old flame?

  But there were days when the phone didn’t ring and the only person she spoke to was the girl at the supermarket checkout or the man who sold newspapers on the corner. Voices often echoed up the stairwell and doors banged in the flat below but no one knocked to introduce themselves or invite her down for coffee.

  She hadn’t realised how few people she could count on. Amelie and Lotte. Jay and Liza. Lewis of course. And, in his own way, Rundle. There had been others. Magda at the temp agency. Linda – or was it Lynne? – in the editorial department at Ward & Cox. But they’d fallen out over something or another – a man or a broken confidence.

  So. Three friends, two lovers and a brother. It was a shame about Dan. He’d been a true friend and she’d sent him away.

  She took a ten pence piece from her purse. How many times had Lewis’s coin come down heads? She flicked hers spinning into the air, catching it on the back of her hand. Heads. Then tails. Then heads again. What did that prove?

  Tessa was struggling with her book. It was difficult to keep at it when she knew that it was a poor effort which the publisher would, very possibly, reject.

  It turned out to be a gloomy, cold winter which meant hefty gas and electricity bills. Someone snatched her handbag as she was coming out of the flat and she had to pay a fortune to get the locks changed. The car tax and insurance were due. Her boots need replacing. Fares went up. Funds dwindled. Three pounds for this, five pounds for that and – hey, presto – her purse was empty. The truth, which she’d chosen to ignore, was that Dan had been supporting her for years.

  How did people earn money? Correction. How did forty-seven year-olds without qualifications earn money? Her looks, which would once have counteracted her lack of skills and clinched a cushy job in a posh office, were fading. The brave new world of ‘information technology’ intimidated her but ‘temping’ – her old standby – was a non-starter unless she got to grips with it. She asked Lewis’s advice, making out that she was thinking of upgrading from an electric typewriter to a computer, not wanting him to twig that she was short of money. He suggested that she sign up for a beginner’s course somewhere. It was a good idea but, on making enquiries, she was deterred by the fees and a lack of enthusiasm for the subject.

  She nagged her agent to get commissions but the work soon dried up when she failed to meet deadlines.

  She looked for ways to economise, determined not to dip into her savings before it was necessary. She’d taken to eating at the local Italian restaurant, enjoying the bustle and banter after her solitary day. But, even if she chose the cheapest dish on the menu, she could no longer afford it.

  She dismissed the private investigator. Then, within days, she received a letter from a woman claiming to have information about Gordon and, not able to trust her own objectivity, she re-engaged him. He didn’t take long to establish that the woman, a clairvoyant from Leeds, was a charlatan but the short-lived buzz whetted Tessa’s appetite and she was drawn back into the hunt.

  She scanned faces at bus queues and Tube stations, in restaurants and shops, convinced that sooner or later she would see him. On one occasion she spotted a man who looked as she imagined he would look. She chased him up Tottenham Court Road but when she got closer she saw that he was much too young.

  Dan wrote to say that things were going well. He was staying on in the States and was thinking of selling the flat. I’m in no hurry to put it on the market but I wanted to give you time to find another place. Or perhaps you’d be interested in buying it? The first time she read the letter, she imagined he was trying to conceal his unhappiness at losing her, the second time she understood that he no longer cared.

  Her introduction to the new edition of Lost evidently dredged up memories for many readers who insisted on sharing their stories with her, as if she were the patron saint of family tragedies. Amongst these letters was one from Diane Stoddy, saying how much she’d enjoyed the book, wishing her well in her search and inviting her to a school reunion. I’m sure you would remember lots of the girls and they would love to meet Tessa Swinburne, the famous writer. Tessa associa
ted Diane Stoddy with failure, a colourless nonentity hovering on the periphery whenever things went wrong. If she’d had more energy and a less dilapidated pair of boots she might have gone to remind herself that, however bad things were, she had at least escaped being one of ‘the girls’.

  Rundle broke their rule and phoned her at the flat. He didn’t know that Dan was no longer in her life and she was determined that he shouldn’t.

  ‘When can you come down?’ His voice, once electrifying, now got on her nerves.

  ‘Soon. I’ve been up to my eyes.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll try.’

  Why was she going on with this? She and Rundle were like two has-been boxers, slugging it out in the ring, too punch-drunk to throw in the towel. Jay was on hand if she wanted a bedfellow. And, if she fancied something more dangerous, there were always men in bars.

  The weather next day was foul and she decided to travel to Brighton by train. But there had been a bomb scare and the Underground wasn’t running. It was the perfect excuse not to go but, having geed herself up for what she’d decided must be their final meeting, she drove.

  It was dark by the time she pulled up outside Rundle’s flat. Taking the silver hip flask from her bag, she unscrewed the top, comforted by the rasp of metal on metal. She would do the deed then be on her way back to London in no time at all.

  She let herself in to the flat.

  ‘Hi.’ He stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘Steak and salad okay?’

  She glanced in to the living room. He had set two places at the table. Napkins. Candles. Bottle of red wine, already open.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. I’m tired.’

  ‘Take your coat off and relax. Here,’ he handed her a glass of wine, ‘the food’s nearly ready.’ He returned to the kitchen.

  She drank the wine then poured and drank another before joining him. ‘I’m not staying.’

  He looked up and smiled and she knew he hadn’t heard. ‘What?’

  ‘I came to give you these.’ She held out his keys.

  ‘Look, if it’s because I phoned—’

  ‘I can’t see you any more, Tony. I’m sorry but I can’t. It was a mistake thinking we could get back together.’ She paused, wanting him to say You’re right. It was fun while it lasted. But that was never on the cards. She tried again. ‘It’s nobody’s fault but it’s run its course—’

  ‘That’s bollocks and you know it. You need me. You need this.’ He grabbed her, forcing his mouth against hers, kissing her violently.

  She tasted blood where his teeth had cut her lip. ‘Fuck you.’

  She raised her hand but before she could strike his face he caught her wrist, pushing her back against the table and trapping her other arm against her side.

  ‘This is what you like, isn’t it? What you come here for.’ He pushed his hips hard against hers, tearing at her shirt and kissing her neck, her breasts. He was strong but she wasn’t going to let this happen. Wrenching her arm free, she reached behind, running her hand across the table and snatching up the knife that he had been using to slice tomatoes. She jabbed it hard in to his thigh.

  ‘Christ,’ he moaned, letting her go and dropping to the floor. ‘Christ, Tessa, I thought it was what you wanted.’

  She looked down at him. He was holding his leg, the knife still protruding from it, blood trickling across the back of his hand. The pan was still on the gas ring and the sharp smell of burning steak, the heat and the blood combined to make her feel faint. She had to get away from there, to get into the fresh air.

  She drove for a while then, when she could no longer fend off the horror of what she’d done, she drew up at a phone box and dialled nine-nine-nine, requesting an ambulance be sent to Rundle’s flat, giving a fictitious name to the matter-of-fact voice on the end of the line.

  She drove on. It started to rain again, the swish-swash of the wipers and the hum of the engine merging hypnotically. Now and again she rolled down the window, the wet blast first reviving then chilling her. Lights from oncoming cars caught the raindrops on the windscreen, dazzling her. Her eyes ached from peering at the cats’ eyes in the road. She felt queasy.

  Crawley. She was half way home. Swish-swash … Frankie and Johnnie were lovers … Swish-swash, swish-swash. God, she was tired.

  Chapter 37

  Lewis was halfway through breakfast when someone from the hospital phoned to tell him that Tessa had been involved in a car accident. They said that she was ‘stable’ but would give no details of her injuries or the circumstances surrounding the accident. ‘Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ was all he could think of to say.

  He had little recollection of the train ride from York to London, filled as it was with grim speculation. The Tube journey from Kings Cross to the hospital was a straightforward one but, unable to face dizzying escalators and the press of bodies, he splashed out on a taxi. On arrival at the hospital he was directed to the fourth floor, where a nurse led him away from the main ward, down a corridor that smelled of tomato soup.

  ‘She’s in here.’ The nurse opened a door and he saw Tessa, lying on her back, her eyes closed. ‘The medication’s making her drowsy,’ the nurse explained. ‘Don’t stay too long. Just five minutes.’

  Lewis edged in and lowered himself onto the bedside chair. The room was painted an unsubtle pink, the window obscured by a venetian blind, its slats dusty and misaligned. A plastic jug containing water stood on the bedside locker, a beaker next to it. Nil by Mouth was scrawled on the white board above the bedhead and below it, in neater script, Consultant – Denner-Brown. She wasn’t in the intensive care ward and there were no machines, bleeping and pinging away. That had to be a hopeful sign.

  He stood up to get a better look at her. She was wearing a hospital gown, the geometric pattern on the much-washed fabric all but invisible. She had a support collar around her neck and a drip taped to her hand. Her hair was drawn back, her face sallow, her nose prominent. There was a dressing on her temple and another on her cheekbone. The area around both eyes was reddish-purple and badly swollen. Her arms were bruised, too, and the bed covers were mounded up in the region of her right foot.

  He concentrated on her face, waiting until she moved her head before reaching down and touching her forearm. ‘Hi, Tess.’

  She opened her eyes and he leaned over to bring his face into her line of vision. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  She stared at him for several seconds then murmured, ‘I think I killed someone. I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Ssshhh.’ He stroked her arm. ‘You mustn’t worry. We can sort all that out later. You’re okay. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘My ankle hurts like hell. They’re going to operate. Maybe they have.’ The phrases emerged in fits and starts. ‘I’ve got to lie flat. Until they know if my spine’s damaged.’ She moaned gently. ‘God, I ache all over.’

  ‘Don’t talk too much or they’ll throw me out.’

  He wanted to ask whether she’d been driving the car and if she’d been alone but the nurse appeared, saying firmly, ‘That’s enough for now, Mr Swinburne. Why don’t you go and get a coffee? Come back a bit later.’

  He kissed Tessa’s cheek, ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  He tracked down the doctor on duty and introduced himself. ‘What happened exactly?’

  Doctor Briscoe, his name on a badge fixed to the lapel of his white coat, cleared his throat. ‘Your sister was admitted last night, at about nine o’clock. She’s sustained multiple fractures to her right ankle and we’re keeping her under observation for other possible injuries. The police will be able to give you full details but, as far as I can gather, the car she was driving collided with a van. Her vehicle mounted the pavement.’ The young man studied his shoes. ‘Unfortunately, there were several people waiting at a bus stop …’

  Lewis pictured a car, spinning across a wet pavement, mowing down a queue
of people. ‘Oh, God. She said she’d killed someone but I assumed she was delirious.’

  ‘Several people were admitted to A&E at the same time as Miss Swinburne. Unfortunately one of them…’ Briscoe’s technique for relaying news seemed to depend on the recipient supplying the endings to his sentences.

  ‘Was my sister alone in the car?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Was she … drunk?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. We haven’t had the test results back yet. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

  Briscoe hurried off towards the lifts.

  Lewis pushed a handful of change into the drinks machine in the waiting room. He didn’t want the thin, scalding coffee but he had to do something to occupy himself. There was a payphone in the corner and he rang Kirsty, telling her the little that he knew.

  ‘What’s the best thing to do?’ he asked.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The best way to help Tessa.’

  There was a pause. ‘The best way to help Tessa is to encourage her to tell the truth. There’s no wriggling out of this one.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Lewis,’ she spoke quietly and unemotionally, ‘if Tessa was drunk and killed someone, the only thing you can do is make sure she has a good lawyer.’

  He returned to Tessa’s bedside. This time she was awake.

  ‘I’ve been trying to remember what happened. It was raining. The lights were reflecting off the road and—’

  ‘Don’t. Not yet. Concentrate on getting well first.’

  She was silent for a while. Her eyes were shut and he thought she’d gone to sleep but suddenly she said, ‘I was coming back from Brighton.’ She brought her hand up and covered her eyes. ‘I didn’t plan it. Honestly. He was going to rape me.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Rundle. I killed him,’ she whispered.

  This made no sense. It simply didn’t square with what Briscoe had just told him. She was confused, maybe suffering from concussion. Bizarre, though, that the crash had sparked off memories of that dreadful bloke.