by Julie Cohen
‘I haven’t seen them for two years,’ he says. ‘I send them a cheque every month. Alana got remarried. She has other children, a brother and sister for Rebecca. I assume that they’re happy.’
‘You don’t see them? Not at all?’
He shrugs again. ‘It didn’t work out.’
‘But you’re her father.’
‘They’ve got a new life. They’re better off without me. Is that what you wanted to know?’
I stare at him. This was what I suffered all that heartbreak for, wandering around a cemetery in Paris, crying? So he could have a child with Alana and then leave her? What kind of father says his daughter is better off without him?
‘Lauren was right,’ I say. ‘You are a bastard. I shouldn’t have met you.’ I turn to leave, and then it all changes.
The air, the hot summer air, dry and dusty, is suddenly filled with the scent of frangipani. It weighs down the trees with sweetness, presses on the grass, brightens the sky.
I throw my arms around Ewan’s neck and kiss him on the mouth.
Oh, touching him is so wonderful. His lips are warm and full like I remember, slightly rough, chapped, his shoulders are broad, his body against mine is a perfect memory of happiness. I twine my fingers in his hair, shorter now than it was then but the same texture. Through my pleasure and my desire and the drugging scent of frangipani I can feel that his muscles have stiffened and he’s standing completely still. His hands aren’t touching me to pull me closer or to push me away, and his mouth is slightly open, in surprise or to take an interrupted breath. Kissing him is like kissing a single moment of time, frozen, not moving forward.
I love him. It’s a ball of heat in my chest where my heart is. I have never stopped loving him somewhere deep inside, and Ewan makes a sound in his throat and his hands grasp my hips. He holds me. His mouth moves, softens and opens, and then presses back against mine. He’s kissing me too. Like he used to kiss me, when we were hungry for each other, when we couldn’t get enough. Secret kisses, stolen kisses, kisses under the duvet in my bedroom as the stars rushed across the sky towards daylight.
Happiness makes tears spring up under my closed eyelids. I’m lost, I’m in love, it’s the feeling everyone searches for through their entire life and I can feel it now. It doesn’t matter what’s happened since. And I’m kissing Ewan and he loves me too …
And then he releases me and steps backwards, not out of my arms but far enough so that our lips break apart. ‘What are we doing?’
‘Kissing,’ I tell him, although one wouldn’t think it was necessary to explain, and I kiss his top lip, where it bows down slightly in the middle, and his bottom lip, plump and hot, and the side of his mouth, and he makes that sort of groaning sound again and he kisses me right in the middle of my mouth. Our tongues touch.
He takes hold of my wrists and removes my arms from around his neck, and then steps back some more so that we’re not touching at all except for his hands on my wrists. I can taste him on my tongue.
‘Why are we kissing?’ he asks me.
‘Because –’ I love you, I’m in love with you and frangipani is in the air and nothing else matters – ‘because you’re a very good kisser.’
‘Felicity, this is crazy. We don’t know each other.’
‘We used to.’ I try to step closer, but he holds me away.
‘You think I’m a bastard.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘And didn’t you say you’re married?’
It’s like a slap. I am married. I have somehow forgotten that in my rush to kiss him, in this overflow of emotion. I have forgotten Quinn.
‘Oh my God,’ I say. He lets me go and I cover my mouth with my hand. My lips are tender. I back away from him, staring. He’s dishevelled and he’s breathing hard, like I am. I’m still feeling a tug to him, all the love I felt a moment ago, so I find the tree we’ve been sitting underneath and lean against it, trying to glue my body to the bark so I won’t be able to grab Ewan again.
‘What’s going on?’ he says.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I can’t …’ Oh, I want to touch him again so badly.
‘It’s not a good idea,’ Ewan says. ‘Not that I’m the most practical person in the world. Or the most moral, come to that. But even I can see that it would be foolish at this point.’
‘We don’t even like each other,’ I remind myself.
‘Then why are you looking at me like that?’ Ewan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Maybe I should leave.’
‘You should definitely leave.’ I hold on to the tree.
‘Are you all right, Flick? Is there something wrong?’
‘I don’t want to kiss you any more. Go away.’ I close my eyes and rest my cheek against the rough bark. I can feel every beat of my heart, every pulse of emotion pulling me to him. Without looking I can feel Ewan walking away from me, down the hill, walking on the grass without bothering to join the path. I can feel it as vibrations on the earth that we share between us. I keep my eyes closed until I know he must be out of sight, and still I feel him.
Chapter Seventeen
I WAS SITTING on a train from Cornwall, holding a thick paperback in front of my face, my mother’s ashes in an urn in a plastic bag at my feet.
I had spent the afternoon on Porthmeor Beach in St Ives, not far from where my mother had lived for her last four years. She had asked me to scatter her ashes there. The sea was clear, a lambent grey. I sat on the sand and I pictured myself going through the motions of opening the bag, taking the cap off the urn, reaching my hand in, throwing all that remained of my mother’s body, the grit and the dust, into the air. She had been dead for six months.
She had told me about the funerals she’d gone to growing up, with the mourners intoning the Kaddish, the black clothes and the bowed heads, all the heaviness. She had trusted me to let her travel lightly instead, even after she was finished travelling.
Her ashes were too light for all that they meant to me, and I could not let them go. I could not reach inside the urn and let her ashes fly away. It was another betrayal, but she was gone and I was untied.
The plastic bag made snapping sounds in the wind. I wrapped the urn more tightly inside it, and left the beach for the station.
‘I love that book,’ someone said. I looked up; a man was seated across the table from me, though I hadn’t noticed him before. He was young-looking, fair-skinned and dark-haired, wearing a neat grey hoodie, a polite smile. He had a broadsheet newspaper and a takeaway cup.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what it is,’ I told him, and turned the book over so that I could see the cover. ‘Oh. It’s Middlemarch. Yes, I love this book. I haven’t read it in ages though.’
His polite smile turned into a real one. ‘You’ve won.’
‘Won what?’
‘You proved me wrong. I noticed you hadn’t turned a page since you got on at St Erth, but I never suspected that you didn’t know what book you were holding.’
‘We were playing a game?’
He shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. ‘I was. Sorry. I try to guess what my fellow passengers are thinking about. It helps pass the journey. Sometimes I can’t resist finding out whether I’m right.’
‘What are you, some kind of a detective?’
‘Journalist.’
I sat up, wondering if he knew who my mother was, if he was looking for a story. I had received lots of phone calls and emails after she died. I didn’t return any of them.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not the kind who lurks with telephoto lenses. I work on a regional paper in Oxfordshire. This is more of a game that I used to play when I was a boy and wanted to be a spy. Silly, I know. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’ He looked genuinely embarrassed. He had slender hands and a voice that was slightly too deep for his body.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘No, n
o, not at all.’
‘Because I am in fact hiding a deep dark secret. I stole this book from the bed and breakfast I stayed in last night. They had a bookcase in the lounge. I didn’t even look at the title, I just wanted something nice and thick.’
‘I understand. You didn’t want to speak to anyone, and I’ve gone blundering in against all English codes of behaviour. Pretend I never said anything. Your secret is safe with me.’ He passed his finger over his lips as if he was zipping them, folded over a page of his newspaper and returned his attention to it.
I went back to my stolen book. Although I hadn’t read a word of it, it was open to here and I saw that I’d been staring at a paragraph about Will Ladislaw’s friend showing him Dorothea as if she were a piece of art in a gallery. I turned to the beginning of the chapter and tried to read on, but it’d been years since I read the book and I didn’t remember most of the names any more. I deliberately chose it not because I wanted to read but because its thickness would work as a shield. Outside, the landscape rushed by. If I’d done what my mother wanted, her ashes would be behind me. They would have been embarking on their own journey into the water cycle, into the sea to evaporate in the sunshine and fall down as raindrops. Maybe that was the purpose of scattering ashes into the sea. So that you can feel that your lost beloved person could be in any drop of water.
I glanced at the man across from me, but true to his word, he didn’t take his eyes from his newspaper. He wasn’t as young as I had originally thought he was, but around my age. Suddenly, though there was no reason for him to know, I wanted to ask him when this raw, empty feeling would end. When I wouldn’t see women resembling her in the street, when I wouldn’t reach for my phone whenever it rang and expect it to be her.
‘Tea, coffee, sandwiches, crisps?’ said the woman pushing the refreshment trolley. I asked for tea and she reached for a cup.
‘Make that two, please,’ said the man. ‘You’ll let me buy you a cup of tea, won’t you? To make up for being rude.’
‘You weren’t rude,’ I told him. ‘It’s a day in the life of a superspy.’
‘I do in truth like George Eliot. I wasn’t just telling you that to ferret out your misdeeds. Though to be honest I haven’t read that book in a very long time, either.’
The woman put two cups of tea on the table between us. I watched the man digging in his pocket for the money. ‘Sugar?’ he asked me, and I noticed that his eyes were clear grey, exactly the same shade as the sea had been in St Ives.
I awake completely, with no confusion. I know I’ve been dreaming about the first time I met Quinn. I know I’m in the flat in London with the light that’s always in London even at night seeping around the blinds, and that yesterday afternoon I kissed another man in Greenwich park. I know that I’m dreaming about Quinn because I feel so horribly guilty and wrong, because I’m thinking how kind my husband is and always has been, and how I’ve repaid him by clinging on to him as if he could save me from sadness, when at the same time I’ve been shutting him out.
I close my eyes and I try to conjure up Quinn’s scent. Non-biological washing powder, shaving lotion, tea, newspapers, his favourite jumper, the back of his neck, the sweat under his arms on a hot day, the scent of his skin naked after his shower.
I can’t do it. It’s like looking at words on a page without being able to read them. He’s not there.
My phone is near my bed. I press his number, then notice the time. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m about to hang up when Quinn answers it. He must have his phone by the bed as well. ‘Hello, love,’ he mumbles. His voice is rough from sleep. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I just wanted to hear you,’ I say.
I want to tell him about all the confusion I’m feeling. About how guilty I am for kissing Ewan, and yet how much I want to know why Ewan has changed. How I’m curious about why he asked me to meet him in Greenwich, and about why I keep on having these emotions towards him. I want to ask Quinn what I should do, because Quinn has become my best friend. He has become the person who is always there.
He’s the one person I can’t ask.
I hear him shift in bed, the rustle of the sheets and pillow. ‘I miss you,’ he says.
‘Let’s pretend I’m there. Let’s just go to sleep.’
So I lie there in bed, phone pressed to my ear, listening to him breathing, knowing he is listening to me. The sounds are familiar and comforting. I listen harder, trying to hear his heartbeat.
I remember how, after he bought me the cup of tea on the train, I asked him to remind me of what happens in Middlemarch and he admitted he didn’t remember, either. Instead he told me that he was on the train going home early because his weekend in Penzance with his mates had gone wrong when one of them had broken an ankle leaving the pub on the first night. The story had me laughing, and when the train pulled into Paddington he took down my case for me from the overhead rack and asked me, blushing, if I’d like to have a drink with him. When I asked if he didn’t have to catch a connecting train, he admitted that he’d been supposed to get off at Reading and hadn’t. ‘Some spy I’d make,’ he said ruefully, and when I laughed again, I realized that this was the first time I had forgotten about the emptiness. It hadn’t gone away, but I had forgotten about it.
If I put my hand out, I would know that Quinn isn’t here in bed with me. But with my hand tucked under my cheek, the other one holding my phone, I can pretend to feel the warmth of his body, the security of his presence. I listen to his breathing deepen in sleep, and when the scent of frangipani comes to me, I try to pretend that this feeling I’m having is about him, too.
Chapter Eighteen
ALL MORNING, I’VE tried not to leave the flat and find Ewan. I’ve tried to come up with an idea for a new story.
Igor the Owl and the Eagle Enigma
Igor the Owl and the Pellet Puzzle
Igor the Owl Kisses His Ex
Why is Ewan so sad? When I knew him, he was full of energy and life. He was optimistic and sure of himself. And now he’s changed in every way except for the way he kisses.
At eleven o’clock, which is noon in Brussels, Lauren rings. ‘Have you burned down the flat yet?’
‘No, the flat’s fine. Don’t you meet your trainer boyfriend at lunchtime?’
‘Hans is history. I’ve got another trainer called Gordon who does not fancy women. Going out with an MEP called Jan tonight. I don’t have high hopes.’
‘Lauren, is your life the way you thought it would be?’
She pauses to think. ‘In some ways, yes. In some ways, no.’
‘In which ways no?’
‘I thought I would be married and have a yacht by now.’
I can’t help but laugh at that. ‘Which are you more disappointed about?’
‘The yacht, of course. Why are you asking?’
‘Oh. No reason. I was thinking about how you believe your life is going to go one way – you think it’s a straight line, and then it turns out to be curved.’
‘Have you spoken to Quinn? Have you made up and decided to have babies?’
I haven’t been thinking of Quinn. I’ve been thinking about Ewan. He was supposed to carry on with his band. He was supposed to be famous; he was supposed to be a father. What went wrong?
‘I speak to Quinn every day,’ I tell her.
‘Because I was lying. Marriage is more important than a yacht. Except in my case. I want the big boat, baby. Do you want me to come back? I can get the Eurostar tonight.’
‘No, no, no, there’s no need. I’m fine.’
‘Have you left Quinn? Tell me the truth. I can sense that you’re up to something.’
‘I haven’t left Quinn. We’re having a break so I can work and so I can sort my head out.’
‘Tell me the truth, Felicity.’
‘I’ve …’
‘Please tell me you haven’t met someone else.’
I slump into Lauren’s structured sofa with a sigh. ‘I haven’t met
someone. It’s someone I already knew. I … ran into him. And I can’t stop thinking about him.’
‘It’s Ewan the Tosspot, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know these things, Lauren?’
‘I work in finance. I can put two and two together. You’re not having an affair with the man who broke your heart, are you?’
‘No! No, I’m not having an affair. Nothing’s happened.’ I cross my fingers. ‘But he’s changed. He seems … defeated. Angry. I want to know why. I’m curious.’
‘Quinn is good for you, Fliss.’
‘But Lauren, I’m not sure I’m very good for him.’
She’s quiet, but says at last: ‘Don’t leave him for someone who’s a phantom in your mind. Just … don’t. Okay?’
‘I have no intention of doing that,’ I say.
I put down the phone and I immediately leave the flat, my heart pounding. It doesn’t slow down for the entire tube journey. Ewan looks surprised to see me at his door, but not as surprised as he was last time.
‘What is it, Flick?’
‘I’m not going to talk about it on your doorstep.’
He hesitates, but eventually steps back so I can enter his flat. I walk into the open-plan living room and look around: one bare brick wall, leather furniture, a glossy stereo system including an actual turntable. ‘Nice place.’
‘I rent it.’ He’s standing with his arms crossed. ‘Now can you tell me what you want?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to attack you and kiss you again.’ Although if the urge hit me, would I be able to resist it? I’ve been wondering this all the way here, but I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. I won’t stay long enough to find out. If I get the merest whiff of frangipani, I’ll leave like a shot.
‘I want to know why you’re sad,’ I say.
‘Are you taking something?’ he asks.
‘Taking something? Like drugs, you mean? I didn’t kiss you because of drugs.’
‘I wasn’t thinking that.’
‘I forgot how healthy your ego is. Of course no one would need drugs to want to kiss you. Everyone wants to kiss you. Stone-cold-sober people fall at your feet.’
