Exposure

by Talitha Stevenson

  While Luke poured himself a glass of wine, his mother unpacked a plastic bag full of foil boxes. She spread them out on the table. 'OK, apart from the prawn biryani, everything else is up for grabs,' she said. She put out three forks. 'Shall we not even bother with plates? It's rather wonderful out of the boxes, isn't it?'

  Luke stared at her. 'D'you mind if I have a plate?'

  Suzannah giggled as she tipped half a packet of boiled rice into the lamb jalfrezi. 'Oh, go on, then, youth of today—show us up.'

  Luke got his plate. He was not sure he had ever been so hungry—even after rowing or tennis. It was true that he had forgotten to eat lunch again, and he had smoked a joint, but even so, this was a disproportionate hunger and he wondered if it was caused by the ZylamaproneTM. Perhaps the tablets had actually done something. The more he thought about it, the more worried he became that his hunger might never be satisfied, that there might simply not be enough chicken tikka.

  'Goodness! Do chew, darling,' Suzannah told him.

  'Sorry,' he said. Gradually, he began to feel better. The panic seemed to pass with a third glass of wine. 'But how did he get there?' he said suddenly.

  Rosalind put down the ring Suzannah had been showing her. 'Who? Dad, you mean?'

  'Yes. Because I had to drive him last time. I thought—you know—his leg and everything.'

  'He caught cabs to and from the train. The physio won't be pleased. Still, it's Dad's choice.'

  'He obviously wanted to go on his own,' Luke said.

  'Oh, darling, you didn't want to take him last time. Surely you aren't wishing he'd asked you again.'

  'I didn't mind taking him,' Luke said. 'It was OK.'

  'Well, I personally think that's disloyal of you,' said Suzannah. 'I wouldn't do him any favours at all after what he's done to your mother.'

  'Oh, Suzannah, let's not,' said Rosalind. 'I'm feeling so good.'

  'Why are you feeling good?' Luke said.

  Rosalind laughed. 'Aren't I allowed to?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'Well, thank you, darling.'

  Luke thought the best thing to do was ignore her extraordinary tone. He said, 'Actually, Mum, I'm still hungry. Can I put some toast on?'

  'Of course you can. We can have toast and butter and honey for pudding.'

  'Have you ever had it with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on top, Roz?' Suzannah said.

  'No.'

  'Neither have I.' She giggled

  'Well, it sounds quite revolting. Let's try it,' said Rosalind.

  Luke watched them laughing like schoolgirls, chopping up bananas and nuts and putting ice-cream in the microwave so it went 'a bit scloopy'.

  Suzannah went into the storecupboard in search of more ingredients. She called, 'How about dried mango pieces?'

  'Too exotic,' Rosalind called back.

  'Pears in Calvados?'

  'Far too grand.'

  'OK ... OK ... Ah, now who could refuse this? Packet of white chocolate bunnies—still in date if you don't look hard?'

  'Precisely what was missing,' Rosalind said. She popped up another piece of toast and glanced back at her son. 'You all right, darling?'

  'Yes, Mum. Are you?'

  Rosalind walked over to him and gave him a kiss on his forehead. 'I just want to see you happy, darling. You know that, don't you? That's what I want most of all.'

  'Yes,' he said.

  'I'm sorry we haven't had a chat for a while.'

  'That's OK, Mum.'

  He gazed into her gentle, pretty face, and it seemed to her that he was about to say something, when Suzannah came out of the storecupboard. 'Right,' she said, striding across the kitchen. 'I shall smash up these bunnies with a rolling-pin.'

  They all laughed at this and Rosalind squeezed her son's arm in encouragement.

  While Luke threw away the empty foil boxes and fetched spoons and bowls, Suzannah and his mother spread butter and cloudy honey on the slices of hot toast; onto this they dropped scoops of rich vanilla ice-cream, chunks of white chocolate, chopped walnuts, and bananas and almonds. Rosalind held up a bowl and said, 'Oh, scrum-o.'

  'God, this takes me back,' said Suzannah.

  'Doesn't it just? Remember after Daddy's fortieth birthday bash, when we had the midnight feast after the grown-ups went to bed?'

  'I have never felt able to eat gooseberry fool since.'

  'No, neither have I,' laughed Rosalind.

  'Did they ever feed us?'

  'Can't have been enough. We were always hungry, weren't we?'

  'As horses. Mean old things, weren't they? Were they?'

  'Well, not to Luke, at any rate. They loved him,' Rosalind said, smiling.

  'That's because Luke is the son Daddy always wanted, Roz.'

  It surprised Rosalind to hear her sister say this: 'Daddy adored you, you know he did.'

  'He did sometimes, but he really wanted a son and heir. He even told me he'd been devastated when he saw I was a girl.'

  'He told you that?

  'Mmm,' Suzannah said, licking her spoon. 'Always longed for a son. Mummy too. And, of course, they were going to call me Luke.'

  'No, not really,' Rosalind said.

  'Didn't you know? I assumed that was what put it into your mind.'

  'I had no idea at all. It was Alistair's idea. What an odd coincidence. Well,' Rosalind said, 'bad luck them, because I got him.'

  Luke smiled back at his mother, and embarked on the extraordinary concoction he had been given. Their hilarity was making him uneasy and he ate as quickly as he could, wanting nothing more now than to get back to his laptop and the portable TV.

  When he had gone upstairs, Suzannah said, 'So, have you decided what to do?'

  Rosalind studied her sister's excited face and thought: OK, I forgive you for asking me, but I don't want to discuss it. She decided to change the subject, knowing the best way to do this was to ask her sister about herself. 'Wait a minute, Suze. I can't believe I forgot to ask,' she said. 'Did you write to Stefan? You said you were going to send him a sort of "can we put the past behind us" letter.'

  'Mmm. The plan was to do one ex-husband at a time. I did send it, yes.'

  Rosalind was amazed. Her sister had never said sorry to anyone in her life. The letter she had decided to write to her first husband had sounded rather moving.

  'Well, and what happened?' Rosalind asked.

  'Actually, he never replied.'

  'Oh.' This seemed terribly brutal to Rosalind. 'Oh, I'm sorry, Suze.'

  'No, it's all right. It's what I deserve, really—the way I treated him.'

  'Oh, come on. Were you so bad?'

  'God, yes. I'm afraid I was a terrible slut. I was only twenty-two and far too young to be married and so on, but I really did make a fool of the poor man. No,' she went on, 'I'm glad I sent the letter but, on reflection, I'm not at all surprised he didn't reply.'

  Rosalind was still indignant on her sister's behalf. 'But it was basically a huge long apology,' she said. 'Are you absolutely sure he got it?'

  'Yes, I am. I'm ashamed to admit it, Roz, but I watched him pick it up as he went in through the door after work.'

  'What? How? From the street, you mean?'

  'God, you make it sound so scandalous. From my car, darling. Oh, I don't know—in a funny sort of way I've never really got over him, you see. First love and all that.'

  'Goodness. Do you believe in that stuff?'

  'Yes. I think I do.'

  'I don't: Rosalind said. 'I think you just choose someone and you make it run as smoothly as possible but it could just as easily have been somebody else.'

  'Really?' Suzannah laughed. 'Isn't it odd? The cynic has been married for nearly forty years, while the romantic can't stop getting divorced.'

  'Oh, it's not so odd, is it? People always come unstuck if they ask for perfection from life.'

  When Suzannah had gone, Rosalind loaded the dishwasher, wiped the surfaces and poured herself a small glass of Cognac. She only allowed h
erself Cognac in private as it made her hiccup. She had another pile of letters to get through and, not feeling at all tired, she picked them up and took them through to the drawing room.

  As she sifted through them, she noticed with horror that one envelope—not the usual airmail envelope that she watched out for—was addressed in Sophie's handwriting. She had looked forward to her daughter's next letter for over a week. The last one had described some of the pupils in her class and the things she was teaching them. Apparently her youngest pupils had all dutifully learnt 'S' is for 'snowman' before Sophie realized they had no idea what she was talking about. It sounded like such an interesting experience for Sophie, such a fascinating place to be. And how lovely to be with all those sweet children.

  Thankfully, this latest letter had only been delivered that morning. Rosalind took a sip of brandy and opened the envelope.

  It was an amazing sight: Sophie had written in every colour of the rainbow.

  Dear Mum,

  Can you read this? I'm using all the children's crayons. Also, I'm writing on real paper this time because the other stuff just wasn't grand enough for writing something amazing. Want to know something amazing, Mum? I'm going to have a baby.

  Rosalind read the line again—it was so hard to see clearly in pink and yellow and orange and green but—

  I'm going to have a baby [she saw again. She read on.]

  The father is a lovely man called Kwame Okantas. He's British, but his family are from Ghana originally. I met him in London and he was the person who gave me the idea of coming out here. We only slept together once before he left, the night we met—and though I know you'll disapprove of that, you have to admit it's pretty incredible that it happened first time!

  Mum, I love him and he says he loves me too and the best thing of all is that I believe him.

  When I look at all my friends I wonder if it does anyone any good taking things slowly and living together and so on. They all just break up anyway and after you've said 'I love you' and for ever' too many times, the words don't mean anything any more. It seems to me that the only thing to do is stop thinking and if you find someone you can respect, then just invest everything you've got—invest your DNA—and do the very best you can. Whatever happens, I'll be a mother. I'm crying with happiness as I write this.

  Kwame's fantastic, Mum. He read history at Oxford and he's been a barrister but he wants to work out here for a year where his parents grew up. I admire him in so many ways. He sees the whole picture where I get lost in the detail. And he sees through all my tricks.

  I got your card with the cats on it. It made me miss you so much, Mum! Your roses sound even better than ever and I can't wait to see your new catalogue—I know how hard you'll have worked on it. You do choose such beautiful things. You know you've always made everything beautiful, Mum—even when we rented a villa, you put different flowers by each of our beds, you made the fruit look like a painting in the fruit bowl. It always mattered, you know? It really did.

  I'm so relieved you're able to be strong through all this. And I suppose it is good to hear Dad's coping, really. Poor Dad.

  Do write again, but I've put my phone number at the bottom in case you feel like calling after what I've told you. I'm away until late tomorrow, but I'd love to speak to you the day after.

  Mum, I'm so happy I've got nothing else to say. I'm going to go and look at the sunset and put my hand on my tummy and shut up for a while.

  All my love,

  Sophie

  PS Kwame's just reminded me the school's been given a new fax machine, so you can send me a fax if you'd like me to see it as soon as I get back home tomorrow night. OK, you've probably guessed I'm longing to hear what you think!

  'Home', Rosalind thought. Sophie would see a fax when she got home—to a village in Africa. Her daughter had so much more imagination than she did. Could it now be used to make happiness? She smiled with deep joy at the thought and picked up a piece of A4 paper. She wrote,

  Darling Sophie,

  I have just got your news. I've never had such a wonderful letter before—a rainbow letter.

  When I think about it, I suppose you always had all those colours in you, but they used to come out angrily, when you dyed your hair green or pink or when you did your bedroom dark red, or when you started wearing that blue lipstick Daddy got so cross about. I think it used to make me a bit dizzy—all those colours in one girl. You always did laugh at me for wearing nothing but dark blue and cream.

  Darling, your news has made me as happy as I was on the day you were born. Please send my love to Kwame and tell him I can't wait to meet him. I hope all this comes through clearly on your new fax machine. Of course I'll call you tomorrow. I'm so glad you feel you want to speak. XxxMummy

  Rosalind took another sip of brandy, then she clapped her hand over her mouth and laughed with excitement and shock: a little black grandchild! She knew you weren't supposed to think in that way, but all that carefulness was so boring. It tried to make everyone shut up and pretend to be the same. It was stupid. What was wrong with being excited about someone being different? A little black grandchild—or half black, anyway. It would have different colour skin from Sophie or Luke or her and it would have different hair. Perhaps, if it was a little girl, Rosalind thought happily, she could have the plaits with all the little beads at the end. She imagined learning how to do them.

  All her life, Rosalind had stifled her sensuality. It had always disturbed and secretly amused her that, had it been socially acceptable, she would probably have liked to squish her fingers into the lovely rolls that spilt over her friend Jocelyn's belt; she would probably have liked to rub her cheek on Julian's little scratchy beard, or to have sunk her face deep into Elise's thick, straw blonde hair, which gave off a scent of blossom when she tossed it and laughed. Most of all, though, she would have liked to go back up to bed with her husband sometimes on a Sunday morning and make love slowly and simply and gently, the way they once had, looking right into his eyes, sharing the breath from his beautiful mouth.

  Regularly, over the papers and the orange juice, she would catch his eye and wonder if he was thinking the same thing—until he gave her one of his devastating pecks on the cheek, and she knew he was not. There was nothing more isolating than one of those kisses of Alistair's—they were bland and utterly passionless, they were literally boring her to death. And so, instead of a giggling return to the warm sheets, she would watch him go off alone to his study and in turn she would get on with the garden and the roast. She had become quite famous among their friends for her exquisite Sunday lunches: wine, meat, rich sauces, creamy puddings and honeyed liqueurs—every flavour in mouthwatering communion.

  She finished the Cognac and stood in the doorway of the drawing room with her finger on the light switch. A great deal had happened in that room in the last twenty years. The important conversations had all taken place there—when Sophie got expelled from Scunthorne, or when, bizarrely, Luke got caught stealing another boy's tennis shorts when he had perfectly good ones of his own. She had been glad to have Alistair at every time of family crisis. Very often she couldn't help crying, but he always spoke so reasonably and thought so clearly. Most impressively, he had always understood and remembered everything the doctors said about Sophie and the anorexia and depression. It was in this room that they had quietly discussed their daughter, Alistair imploring her to be rational, laying out the brochures for the different clinics on the coffee-table.

  Suddenly, Rosalind felt frightened they had done some things wrong, been very unimaginative. And why had she not insisted that Alistair come to a few more of Luke's rugby matches? She would never forgive herself for that.

  With increasing fatigue, she thought of all the other events the room had witnessed. All those dinner parties, all those barristers and judges and their polite enquiries about the children, whose names they had plainly forgotten, each of them just sticking it out until they could talk to the other men, really. And, inva
riably, as the women talked alone over coffee, the room had heard how they had all been to the same places on holiday or for curtain material or party canapés at one time or another. It was interesting how, during these conversations, they had continued to smile at their coffee cups, a little tensely perhaps, as if their lives were arranged with some kind of insider knowledge, as if only they knew the best florists or the best piano teacher. Of course, in reality, all their lives were the same.

  Had this made the other women uncomfortable? She thought about the triumphant faces and decided it had not. It had not particularly bothered her until the children went away to school and at once she had felt terribly lonely. Alistair had worked so hard and they never spent any time together as other couples undoubtedly did. It was not that she had ever wanted to be 'adored' and covered with sparkly baubles or to go on crazy trips to Antigua or Jamaica, as her sister and her various husbands had—that was not her dream at all. But she would have liked to put a few things in a bag and gone off to stay in a bed-and-breakfast in the countryside, visited a few pretty churches with Alistair telling her about the history. They could have gone for a country walk hand in hand, smelt the smoke and rain and grass and had a pub lunch, a lovely glass of wine under an apple tree.

  But Alistair had always been working because their life was so unbelievably expensive. Once, disgusted by the bill for the silk wall hangings—on top of the school fees and the rented villa in Tuscany—she had asked him how dustmen or taxi drivers managed to support a family. He had laughed at her and had stroked her hair and not even bothered to reply. The trouble was, he loved things to be done in such an old-fashioned English way—just as her parents had done them, really, and she had always wanted to please him. He was so happy, so excited when she produced a huge Sunday roast for twelve people, just like those she had eaten every single weekend as a child.