Good Girls

by Amanda Brookfield

‘Love is serious.’

  There was a whistle of what sounded to Pat’s straining ears like impatient disbelief.

  ‘Love between two people changes, okay?’ came Donna’s brittle voice. ‘Frankly, it would be weird if it didn’t. In the meantime, here’s the thing. Of course I am pleased you are getting better at last. Properly better. But going forwards, there are certain big issues that we have to get our heads round.’

  ‘You mean, money.’

  ‘Yes, Nick, I mean money.’ She sounded impatient now. Dr Wharton, in contrast, was sounding increasingly calm.

  ‘In the end money doesn’t matter, Donna. Not really.’

  There was a whoop of exasperation. ‘Oh my god, that is just… so typical.’ And then a softening in the quietness that followed. At least Pat imagined it was softening. It had to be, surely. Love or no love, this was such a fragile man whom she was addressing, a man whose five minutes under water might well, by the uncharitable, be attributed to Donna’s own extraordinary tardiness in summoning help. ‘Nick, I am sorry. You have been through so much. None of this is fair on you.’

  Pat exhaled. So there was softening. She readied herself to tiptoe away, but then Donna reverted to her theme.

  ‘This place costs the earth. It is the best there is. Which you deserve, obviously, but…’ Donna hesitated, adding in a tone that still sounded like one trying for patience rather than achieving it, ‘like I said, we are already well beyond the claim limit and I still can’t get a straight answer from the doctors. Have they said anything to you about when you can leave, when you might reasonably think about going back to work?’

  A silence followed. Somewhere, a lone cicada clacked.

  ‘I’m not going back to work,’ he said at last. ‘The hospital, the clinic, I’m not going back to any of it. I am not up to it. Mentally or physically.’

  There was an uncertain laugh. ‘But you’re already so much better. Surely… you can’t mean that, you simply can’t.’

  ‘I do mean it.’

  ‘Well, in that case, how do you propose we will manage?’ Her voice was growing shrill again.

  ‘We are going to have to rethink our lives—’

  ‘Give up, you mean.’ There was a clap of hands. ‘Oh, I get it. Yes, I should have seen this coming.’ She was sing-song now, full of scorn. ‘Instead of fighting back and trying properly to get better, you are going to use everything that’s happened as an excuse to carry out that crazy plan you had. Sure. Great. You want to drag us all off to England, sell our home, put the girls into some crap old-fashioned school—’

  ‘I have no intention… Donna… Hang on, what are you doing? Where are you going?’

  ‘I need to leave.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I need to be somewhere. And, frankly, I can’t take any more of this today – your negativity, your refusal to think properly about what is best for me and the girls. Maybe it is just too early for us to be having this conversation. Maybe you are just not ready. And trust me, Nick, when I say that upsets me on so many levels.’ Her voice receded during the course of the sentence, to the accompaniment of swishing and retreating footsteps.

  ‘Donna…’

  There was more rustling and then her voice came back into focus, meeker-toned. ‘Would you like help getting back to your chair?’

  ‘No,’ he snapped, sounding properly angry for the first time. ‘I would not like your help getting back to my chair. In fact…’ An audible intake of breath fell into the hesitation. ‘In fact all I would like from you is a divorce.’

  There was a short, harsh laugh. ‘Okay. I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘You do not love me.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I do—’

  ‘You are not faithful to me.’

  ‘What? How dare you?’ The sentence began as a screech but was reined in, perhaps for fear of other patients out using the garden.

  Pat pressed harder against the wall. Its gritty surface was starting to hurt the back of her head and her skin through her clothes.

  ‘Oh, I dare, Donna. I dare.’ There seemed to be real exhaustion in his voice now.

  ‘You have no right to talk to me like this. No right.’ The shrillness sounded close to tears. ‘Wait till I tell Daddy what you have just said to me.’

  To Pat’s astonishment, Nick laughed. ‘Is that supposed to be a threat? Because threats only work if the party being threatened is afraid. And I have no fear left, Donna. Of anything. Not even death.’ He laughed again, more bitterly. ‘And certainly not your father either, who is a bully. Because if I have learnt anything from the last few months it is that life is brief and fragile. In the end not a lot matters. Trying to stay afloat in that fucking sea, all I could think about was… love… the girls. How I hope they know that I love them. Which I believe they do, in spite of your efforts.’

  She tried to protest, but he bulldozed on. ‘And whatever happens between you and me, whatever you try, I will make damned sure they continue to know it. So go ahead, run along and tell that father of yours that I want to divorce you. He is the one you have always answered to anyway. While you’re at it why not mention that you have been having sex with Mike Scammell? That might make him sit up a bit…’

  Pat had heard enough. She hurried away on trembling ankles, going straight back via a circuitous route to the car park. She crossed the tarmac swiftly, her head hung, her mind numb. It seemed that nothing in the world was as one wanted it to be.

  ‘Hi.’ It was a nurse, appearing from behind the cascades of yellow flowers. She waggled a cigarette packet by way of an explanation, smiling ruefully. ‘Good visit I hope?’

  ‘Yes… that is… I came to see Dr Wharton…’

  ‘How great is he? We are all of us so proud. It’s like… well, let’s just say it’s patients like him that make the job worthwhile.’

  Pat nodded heavily in agreement, fumbling in her bag as she suddenly remembered Eleanor Keating’s letter. ‘I forgot to give him this. Would you mind?’ She handed the envelope over and hastily got into her car. Good intentions had been her starting point. She had wanted to keep Dr Wharton – his life, his beautiful family – on a pedestal; but it turned out brains, money, looks were no defence against anything.

  A few hundred yards away, Nick floated in the space inside his head, a space that seemed to contract and expand, sometimes clear, sometimes dark. Donna had stormed off and he was glad. He could feel the sun beating against his eyelids. It brought vivid, flickering memories of being in the sea, the dryness in his mouth, the pulsing in his temples.

  Nick brought the garden back into focus. He shivered with pleasure at the kiss of the light breeze and afternoon warmth on his bare skin, tingling the hairs on his arms and legs. It could be an English summer’s day, Nick mused, floating again, with no thoughts this time other than a sense of being. He had said what had to be said, done what had to be done. There would be consequences, waves and waves of them, but for now he was safe back on dry land. For he had been drowning anyway, long before he nearly died.

  28

  April 2014

  ‘If you feel giddy, then don’t look down. Fix your eyes on those trees over there instead. See those two squirrels on that branch?’ Eleanor pointed through the foliage spread around them like the panoply of a rainforest. ‘They’re playing tag, I think.’

  Evie giggled. She was holding one of her aunt’s hands in both of hers, squeezing so hard the blood was pumping in Eleanor’s knuckles. Through the gaps in the planks under their feet were broken glimpses of Hannah and the puppy, christened Bart and at four months old still filling out like a toddler growing into a romper suit.

  ‘Barty-Bart. Silly Bart. I’m here,’ shrieked Evie, forgetting her fear in delight at the puppy’s cock-eared puzzlement.

  Hannah waved up at them, laughing, her thick brown ponytail swinging, glossy as toffee in the April sun. The sight of the nanny, as well as the rest of her sister’s family, tumbling out of the car that m
orning had been a shock, until Howard’s quick reassurance that his employee and the dog would be staying with an old school-friend of Hannah’s who lived in Tooting. She was keen to see the friend, but it also meant that she could babysit, Howard had explained cheerfully, while he took Eleanor out for dinner. After a whole day with his lot she would be only too glad of the break, he warned her amiably, directing operations to get the luggage out of the car and into her flat, where the children had hurled themselves onto her blow-up mattresses with the glee of penguins plunging into a pool.

  They had gone out for a pizza lunch and were now – at Howard’s request – in Kew Gardens, which Kat, apparently, had always held dear. Having visited the orchid house, they were exploring the tree-line walk, an elevated wooden corridor set among the highest reaches of some of the park’s great trees. After the steamy heat of the greenhouse, the creamy spring air was a joy. Even so, having looked downwards for the exchanges with Hannah and the dog, Eleanor found herself gripping the balustrade with her free hand.

  ‘Vertigo is actually a fear of throwing oneself off a high place rather than fear of the height itself,’ remarked Howard, eyeing her with interest as he arrived at her side.

  Behind him, the two elder children, clearly unperturbed by the height of the walkway or the glories of the view, were playing a vigorous game of tag, dodging other visitors in a manner that Eleanor couldn’t help thinking was a little over exuberant. Since January the changes in them all were striking; thanks to time, counselling, puppies, the entire family was like an algorithm reconfigured. Evie especially, so much taller and fuller faced, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, was hard to link to the pale, tight-faced elfin creature whose fierce, uncomprehending misery had cracked the hearts of a packed congregation five months before.

  Most touching of all to Eleanor was how her sister had clearly been absorbed into this new equation; mentioned frequently, easily, Kat seemed already to have become a point of affectionate reference for them all rather than a source of pain. So noticeable was this change that Eleanor had for the first time found herself properly contemplating the strain of living with a wife and mother who was sick, the toll it must have taken.

  ‘If you are strapped in, say, or held tightly, the feeling goes away,’ Howard continued, shifting close enough for Eleanor to feel faintly disconcerted. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’ Howard asked suddenly, crouching down to Evie, who whispered something breathily in his ear. ‘A pee, of course. I am sure that can be arranged.’ Howard stood up, hoicking the child onto his hip and giving Eleanor a what-can-you-do face over the top of her frizzy blonde mop – so like Kat’s hair at a similar age that Eleanor had spent all day drinking it in in wonder.

  Eleanor immediately volunteered to help, but then stood, digging for patience, while yet another reshuffle of child and dog-care arrangements was undertaken between Howard and Hannah. It made her think Howard’s remark about needing a break during the course of the visit was not so wide of the mark.

  ‘God, it’s like keeping plates spinning,’ she murmured, once they were back on the ground and the new arrangements were in place at last with Hannah to be left in charge of the elder two while she and Howard tracked back to the toilets at the main entrance. Evie skipped ahead of them with Bart, who lolloped and tripped like a cheerful drunk. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you are doing brilliantly.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Howard shot her a grin. He walked purposefully, with a loose easy gait that matched her own naturally long stride, one hand thrust into a trouser pocket, jangling change. ‘And so are you, come to that,’ he said warmly. ‘You look good, Eleanor. Tremendous in fact.’

  ‘Do I? Goodness.’ Eleanor dropped her gaze to let the blush work its course. She had bought a new pair of white flip-flops that made her feet look faintly tanned. She watched them crush a path through the lush spring grass, thinking of how carefully she had trodden on the ground by the swing during her Christmas visit to Sussex. Kat was everywhere anyway, she mused, marvelling at how her grief seemed to be turning into something more akin to pure love. She thought too of the quiet thud of her letter to Nick landing in the postbox three weeks before, the sense of a weight lifted. She had told him everything, asking him not to reply, and he hadn’t. It had left her feeling free in a new way. The dress she had bought on the same day as the flip-flops swirled round her ankles with each stride. She had spotted it through a charity-shop window, sporting the princely price tag of ten pounds. It was made of black cheesecloth, trimmed with pink stitching – sleeveless, tight across the chest and then flaring out from her ribcage. It was a fantastic dress, flattering, comfortable. The clement spring weather had warranted the purchase, but she would have bought it anyway for how good it made her feel.

  ‘So, the book’s going well, I take it?’

  ‘The book?’ Eleanor squinted at her brother-in-law. They had emerged from the canopy of trees and the sun was high and blinding. Since finishing Trevor’s memoir, she had a new writing project on the go which she had not mentioned to anyone. It was about two little girls, sisters, raised in a home full of adult secrets. Her ambitions for it were growing so fast that all her instincts told her to keep a lid on them. Falling asleep after a recent late-night work session, she had, rather to her surprise, found Jane Eyre tiptoeing into her mind, wanting to play a part.

  ‘The life of that actor-chap – I thought you said it needed editing?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s all done…’

  They were interrupted by a shout from behind. They turned to see Hannah sprinting towards them, her long slim legs in their dark blue skinny jeans at full stretch as she emerged from the cluster of trees. She was waving both arms, clearly panic-stricken. Eleanor saw Howard’s face go taut, the jawbone clamp, the marshalling of inner strength.

  ‘Keep an eye on Evie, could you?’ he ordered quietly, setting off at a jog to meet her halfway.

  Eleanor swivelled back to check the main tarmac path some twenty yards away, where Bart was receiving attention from an elderly woman in a purple coat. Evie was chattering and patting the puppy, the urgency of her call of nature clearly forgotten.

  Within a couple of minutes, Howard was back at her side. He was out of breath, grim-faced. Hannah had taken off again, back through the trees.

  ‘What is it? Has something happened?’ Eleanor was aware of a strange metallic taste spreading inside her mouth, a taste she dimly recognised as fear.

  ‘Yes. Not good, but not a disaster. Luke’s done something to his ankle. Fallen on the steps chasing his sister. Bloody boy. It’s blown up like a balloon, Hannah said. We’re going to have to get him to a hospital.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Eleanor, but her heart hammered with relief. They could all deal with that. A broken ankle was easy.

  Eight hours later she and Howard were nonetheless seated opposite each other across a sea of crisp white damask and gleaming tableware, awaiting the arrival of their starters.

  ‘This should be quite nice,’ Howard murmured, twirling the stem of his wine glass with the confidence of one secure in his own tastes. He stuck his small nose deep into the balloon and then took a sip, taking his time before nodding approval to the sommelier, who had been hovering throughout the ritual, sporting an expression of professional concern.

  Eleanor watched in something of a trance as her own glass was filled.

  ‘Aren’t you going to try it?

  ‘I will soon.’ She took a swig of water. The gin and tonic aperitif Howard had insisted on was still pumping in her head – much needed after the dramas of the day, but she wanted to pace herself. Luke’s ankle had been sprained rather than broken, but the diagnosis had taken several long hours in Richmond Hospital, during which time there had been the needs of the other children to attend to, as well as much bolstering of Hannah, who, for once, had shown some flakiness, repeatedly blaming the mishap on her own lack of vigilance.

  Eleanor had assumed their dinner would be called off, but Howard had insist
ed on going ahead with it, taking care to cheer Hannah with lots of warm reassurances and giving her a wad of money to cover a Chinese takeaway. They had left the entire crew encamped among the mattresses and sleeping bags in front of Eleanor’s small telly, awaiting the delivery of their meal; Luke and his bandaged ankle and crutches occupying prime position on the sofa and Bart stretched across the laps of the two girls.

  Out in the street, a taxi had been waiting, ordered by Howard while Eleanor had showered, swiping a brush through her ragged hair and dabbing some concealer across her nose and cheeks in an attempt to quieten the pink left by the morning sunshine. They had swept across Chelsea Bridge to a restaurant tucked away in a cobbled mews, where Howard was greeted like a lost friend, and the dining area had the air of a private sitting room, so hushed and salubrious that for the first few minutes Eleanor had found herself speaking in a whisper. To be brought to such a place reminded her with something of a jolt that Howard was a wealthy city banker. Not a bad-looking wealthy city banker either, she told herself. If it was security they were all after in this Kat-less world, then maybe a closeness with her widowed brother-in-law would be one sort of right answer. For one fleeting, despicable moment, Eleanor even allowed herself some hint of poetic justice: two decades on, the Big Sister who was robbed of her first love, levels the score.

  Howard seemed troubled by her untouched wine. ‘But you might hate it.’

  Eleanor smiled wryly. ‘Somehow I think that unlikely.’ She had glimpsed the wine list, marvelling both at its exorbitant prices and at Howard’s willingness to pore over such a relatively short document for quite so long.

  ‘You were fantastic today, Eleanor,’ he said quietly, ‘bloody brilliant in fact. In the gardens, at the hospital, helping organise and entertain everybody, and then this evening.’

  ‘This evening? Really? What did I do?’ Eleanor’s mind drifted to the brief ecstasy when it had come to her turn in the bathroom, the respite of being properly alone after the long day.