Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

  Now Joe really blushed. It crept up from his neck as if he were a pink sponge soaking up water.

  “You couldn’t expect it to stay secret for long, could you? She works at our house, after all.”

  Joe looked down, kicked at the curbside. “It’s not as if we’re stepping out properly. I mean, we’ve just been to a couple of dances. There’s nothing . . . I mean, it’s not serious or anything.”

  Celia said nothing.

  “It’s not like Lottie—I mean, if I only thought I had a chance with Lottie . . .” He trailed off, bit his lip, and looked away.

  Celia placed a friendly hand on his arm. “Well, Joe, I’ve known her longer than anyone, and all I can say is, she’s a funny one, our Lots. Sometimes she doesn’t entirely know what she wants. But I do know that when she spoke from her heart, when she was genuinely at death’s door, it was you she was calling out for. So. There. It’s up to you what you want to do now.”

  Joe was evidently thinking very hard. His breathing had quickened with the effort. “Should I come and see her, do you think?” He looked painfully hopeful.

  “Do I? I think she’d love it.”

  “When shall I come?”

  Celia glanced over at her mother, who was tapping her watch. “Look. No time like the present. Let me run over and tell Mummy that I’ll be a bit late to the hotel, and then I’ll walk you over there. I’d let you go on your own,” she explained, laughing, as she half ran, half skipped toward her mother. “But I don’t think Lottie would appreciate me letting you catch her in her nightdress.”

  LOTTIE’S ARM WAS NEARLY DEAD. SHE DIDN’T CARE; SHE would have let it fall off rather than unwrap him from around her; to move his peaceful, peach-skinned face from its repose; to alter the invisible path of his breath from her own. She gazed at his closed eyes as they rested in a brief sleep, at the faint sheen of sweat drying on his skin, and thought she had never felt as truly rested as she did now. It was as if there were no tensions left to feel; she was butter, melted, sweetened.

  He shifted slightly in his sleep, and she tilted her head so that she could place a soft kiss on his forehead. He answered with a murmur, and Lottie felt her heart clench with gratitude. Thank you, she told her deity. Thank you for giving this to me. If I died now, I would only be grateful.

  She felt clearheaded now, her fever evaporated as rapidly as her own unfulfilled longing. Or perhaps he has cured me, she wondered. Perhaps I was dying for lack of him. She half laughed, silently. Love has made me fanciful and stupid, she thought. But she was not sorry.

  She was not sorry.

  She looked up and away from him. Outside, the rain spit meanly on the window, the wind sporadically rattling the windowpanes where Mrs. Holden had forgotten to wedge in pieces of felt. They were governed by the weather here on the coast. It made all the difference to a day, to its mood, to its possibilities; for the holidaymakers it made and broke dreams. Now Lottie gazed at it with indifference. What could matter now? The earth could crack open and volcanic fire spew forth. She wouldn’t care, as long as she could feel his warm limbs around her, as long as she could feel his mouth on her own, the strange, desperate conjoining of their two bodies. Sensations never hinted at by what little Mrs. Holden had told them of married love.

  I love you, she told him silently. I will ever love only you. And as the rain fell, her own eyes filled with tears.

  He stirred and opened his eyes. For a fraction of a second, they were blank, uncomprehending, and then they wrinkled, became warm with remembrance.

  “Hullo.”

  “Hullo, you.”

  He focused, looked more closely. “Are you crying?”

  Lottie shook her head, smiling.

  “Come here.”

  He pulled her to him and blessed her neck with kisses. She closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the sensation, feeling her heart flicker inside her chest.

  “Oh, Lottie . . .”

  She shushed him with a finger. Met his eyes, as if she could soak him up with looking. She didn’t want words; she wanted to absorb him into her bones, to take him under her skin.

  Sometime later he rested his head in the curve of her neck. They lay there in silence, listening to the distant rolling timpani of the wind and departing thunder.

  “It’s raining.”

  “It’s been raining for ages.”

  “Did I fall asleep?”

  “It’s all right. It’s still early.”

  He paused. “Sorry.”

  “For what?” She ran her hand down the side of his face, and he clenched his jaw so that she could feel it move.

  “You were meant to be ill. And I assaulted you.”

  She felt herself giggle. “Some assault.”

  “You’re all right, though? I mean, I didn’t hurt you or anything.”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, no.”

  “Are you still ill? You feel cool.”

  “I feel fine.” She turned to face him. “Actually, I feel better.”

  He grinned. “So that’s what you needed. Nothing to do with viruses at all.”

  “Wonderful cure.”

  “My blood is singing. Do you think we should tell Dr. Holden?”

  Lottie laughed out loud. It came out like a great hiccup, as if it had been waiting, too close to the surface. “Oh, I think Dr. Holden has his own particular version of that cure.”

  Guy raised an eyebrow. “Really? Dr. Perfect Husband Holden?”

  Lottie nodded.

  “Really truly?” Guy looked over at the window. “Gosh. Poor Mrs. H.”

  The mention of her name silenced them both. Lottie finally moved her arm, feeling the fractious invasion of pins and needles creep upward. Guy moved his head accommodatingly, and they stared at the ceiling.

  “What will we do, Lottie?”

  It was the question that had swallowed her up whole. And only he held the answer.

  “We can’t go back, can we?” He sought her reassurance.

  “I can’t. How could I?”

  He raised himself up on an elbow, rubbed at his eyes. His hair stuck up on one side. “No . . . It’s a mess, though.”

  Lottie nodded.

  “I’ll have to tell her sooner rather than later.”

  Lottie felt herself exhale. She had needed to hear it, had needed him to say it unprompted. Then she thought of the implications of what he had said and felt her stomach constrict.

  “It’s going to be awful,” she said, shivering suddenly. “Really awful.” She sat up. “I’ll have to leave, too.”

  “What?”

  “Well, there’s no way I can stay, is there? I don’t think Celia’s exactly going to want me around.”

  “No. I suppose not. Where would you go?”

  She looked at him. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Well, you’ll have to come with me. We’ll go back to my parents’.”

  “But they’ll hate me.”

  “No they won’t. It’ll take a bit of getting used to, and then they’ll love you.”

  “I don’t even know where they live. I don’t even know where you live. I know so little.”

  “We know enough.” He placed his hands around her face and pulled it gently toward him. “Dearest, dearest Lottie. There is absolutely nothing more I need to know about you. Other than you were meant for me. We fit, don’t we? Like gloves.”

  She felt the tears come again. Nodded, almost afraid to look at him with the magnitude of what she was feeling.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded again.

  “Do you want a handkerchief?”

  “Actually, I want a drink. Mrs. Holden made a jug of lemon downstairs. I’ll go and get it.” She slid her feet over onto the floor, reached for her nightdress.

  “You stay there. I’ll get it.” He padded around the room, reaching for his clothes. Lottie watched him as he moved, unself-consciously, marveling at the beauty of him, of the way his muscles shif
ted under his skin.

  “Don’t move,” he instructed, smiling. And then, pulling his shirt over his head, he was gone.

  Lottie lay there, smelling the sea-salt scent of him on her damp nightdress, listening to the distant sound of the fridge opening downstairs and the clinking of glasses and ice cubes. How many times could you listen to the sound of the one you loved moving around before you became inured to it by familiarity? Before it stopped catching in your throat, lodging briefly in your heart?

  She heard the sound of his footfall on the stairs and then a pause as he adjusted himself so that he could push the door open with his hip.

  “I’m back,” he said, smiling. “I was just imagining doing this for you in the Caribbean. We squeezed our juice fresh out there. Straight off the—”

  And then he froze, as they heard the sound of a key in the door.

  They glanced at each other in horror, and then, suddenly galvanized, Guy leaped for his shoes, pulling them onto his feet and stuffing his socks in his pockets. Lottie, stricken, could only pull the covers around her.

  “Hello? Lots?”

  The sound of the front door closing, of feet coming up the stairs, more than one set.

  Guy, flushing, reached for the tray.

  “Are you decent?” Celia’s voice, a singsong, was light, mocking.

  “Celia?” It came out as a croak.

  “I’ve got a visit—” Celia’s smile slid as she opened the door. She paused. Stared, bemused, at the two of them.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Oh, God, it was Joe behind her. Lottie could just make out his head as it dipped in embarrassment.

  Guy thrust the tray at Celia. “I was just bringing Lottie a drink. You can take over, now you’re here. Never was much good at being nursemaid.”

  Celia looked down at the tray. At the two glasses. “I brought Joe,” she said, still unbalanced. “To see Lottie.”

  Behind her, Joe coughed into his hand.

  “How . . . how lovely,” said Lottie. “But I’m not . . . I really need to freshen up.”

  “I’ll go—” said Joe.

  “You don’t have to go, Joe,” Lottie called. “I . . . I just need to freshen up a bit.”

  “No. Really. I don’t want to be any trouble. I’ll come back when you’re up.”

  “Er . . . I’d like that, Joe.”

  Celia placed the tray carefully on Lottie’s bedside table. Then she looked sideways at Guy. She smoothed her hair, an unconscious gesture.

  “You look very flushed.”

  Guy raised a hand to his cheek, as if surprised. He went to speak, then changed his mind and mutely shook his head.

  There was a long, awkward silence, during which Lottie found herself pulling the covers farther and farther toward her chin.

  “I suppose we’d better leave you in peace,” said Celia, opening the door for Guy to exit. Her voice was low, halting. She didn’t look at Lottie when she said it.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay, Joe?”

  She heard his muffled affirmation. He would be talking into his chest.

  Guy walked out past her. His shirt, Lottie noted anxiously, was untucked at the back.

  “Bye, Lottie. Hope you feel better soon.” It jarred, that false cheerfulness.

  “Thank you. Thank you for the drinks.”

  Celia, holding the door for him, stopped and turned.

  “Where’s the fruit?”

  “What?”

  “The fruit? You were picking up some more fruit from the station. There’s none in the hall. Where is it?”

  Guy looked briefly blank, then raised his head in acknowledgment. “The fruit. Didn’t arrive. I waited for over half an hour, and then it wasn’t on the train. It’ll probably come on the two-thirty.”

  “I hear you’ve had a fresh coconut,” said Joe, stepping on his own feet at the top of the stairs. “Strange-looking things, those coconuts. Like people’s heads. But without the eyes . . . and things.”

  Celia stood very still for a moment. Then, looking down, she walked past Guy and tripped down the stairs.

  ALMOST FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, LOTTIE STOOD shivering in Number 87 Beach Hut, once, according to a fallen nameplate, known as Saranda. She pulled her coat around her, hauling Mr. Beans’s straining figure back on his leash. It was nearly dark, and without lighting, the hut was growing darker and even less welcoming.

  She’d been waiting there almost fifteen minutes. Several more and she would have to head back. Mrs. Holden didn’t like her going out at the moment as it was. She had felt Lottie’s forehead twice before she grudgingly let her go. If she hadn’t wanted fifteen minutes alone with Dr. Holden, Lottie didn’t think she would have allowed her to go at all.

  She heard the hissing of bicycle tires along the pathway. The door opened, tentatively, and he was there, hurling himself off his bicycle, sending it colliding into the door. They paused, then embraced hurriedly, their mouths clashing awkwardly.

  “I don’t have long. Celia is stuck to me like glue. I only got out here because she’s in the bath.”

  “Does she suspect?”

  “I don’t think so. She never said anything about—you know.”

  He bent low and patted Mr. Beans, who was sniffing at his feet. “God, this is awful. I hate telling lies.”

  He pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around him, inhaling the scent of him, trying to imprint the feel of his hands on her waist.

  “We don’t even have to tell them. We could just go. Leave a letter.” He spoke into her hair, as if he wanted to breathe her in, too.

  “No. I can’t do it like that. They’ve been good to me. The least I can do is explain.”

  “I’m not sure you can explain.”

  Lottie pulled back, looked up at him. “They will understand, won’t they, Guy? They’ll have to. That we didn’t mean them any harm? That it wasn’t our fault? Because we couldn’t help it, could we?” She began to cry.

  “It’s nobody’s fault. Some things are simply meant to be. You can’t fight them.”

  “I just hate the fact that our happiness is going to be built on such misery. Poor Celia. Poor, poor Celia.” (She could afford to be generous now that he was hers. The strength of her sudden sympathy for Celia had shocked even her.) She wiped at her nose with her sleeve.

  “Celia will survive. She’ll find someone else.” Lottie felt a faint pang at the matter-of-factness in his voice. “Sometimes I even thought it wasn’t really me she was in love with, just the idea of being in love.”

  Lottie stared at him.

  “I just felt, sometimes, that it didn’t particularly have to be me, you know?”

  Lottie thought of George Bern. Then felt peculiarly disloyal. “I’m sure she loves you,” she said, her voice small, reluctant.

  “Let’s not talk about it. Look, Lots, we have to make a plan. We have to work out when we’re going to tell them. I can’t keep lying to everyone—it’s making me really uncomfortable.”

  “Give me until the weekend. I’ll see if Adeline will have me. Perhaps with Frances gone they’ll need help with the housework. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Really? I don’t suppose it would be for long. I just need to sort things out with my parents.”

  Lottie pressed her face into his chest. “I wish it was done. I wish we were three months on already.” She closed her eyes. “It feels like waiting for a death or something.”

  Guy was glancing out of the doorway. “We’d better head back. I’ll go first.”

  He bent his head and kissed her full on the lips. She kept her eyes open, not wanting to miss a moment. Behind him the lights of a ship winked their way across the harbor.

  “Be brave, Lottie darling. It won’t be like this forever.”

  And then, with a brief hand to her hair, he was out and pelting back up the dark path toward home.

  CELIA HAD MOVED BACK INTO HER ROOM. LOTTIE HAD groaned inwardly when sh
e saw Celia’s nightdress laying across her bedspread. She’d once been an extremely good fibber; now, with all her emotions as raw as if she’d been turned inside out, she found she’d become useless at it, a blushing, prevaricating incompetent.

  So she’d stayed away from Celia as much as possible; this had been made easier by Celia’s own propensity toward an almost frantic level of activity. If she wasn’t out spending her father’s money with an almost religious fervor (“Look! These shoes! I had to get these shoes!”), then she was sorting out her belongings, casting aside anything deemed too “young” or “not London enough.” At dinner, safe in company, Lottie was able to retreat into herself, trying again to focus exclusively on her food, drawn only halfheartedly into conversation by Dr. Holden, who seemed oddly distracted himself. Mrs. Holden was determined to engage Guy, bombarding him with questions about his parents and what their life abroad was like, smiling and fluttering at him as coquettishly as if she’d been Celia herself. Lottie and Celia, to Lottie’s relief, had collided only once, the previous evening, when Lottie had admired Celia’s new feathered haircut and then pleaded that she, too, needed to retire for a long, hot bath.

  So it was with some shock that Lottie returned from her breathless, preoccupied walk with Mr. Beans to find Celia lying on her bed, wrapped in a towel and apparently engrossed in a bridal magazine.

  The bedroom seemed to have shrunk in size.

  “Hullo,” Lottie said, peeling off her shoes. “I . . . I was just about to have a bath.”

  “Mummy’s in there,” said Celia, flicking a page. “You’ll have to wait a while. There won’t be any more hot water.” Her legs were long and pale. She had rose-colored varnish on her toenails.

  “Oh.”

  Lottie sat with her shoes, her back to Celia, thinking furiously of places to go. Once they had spent hours lying on their beds, stretching the most trivial of subjects into hours of conversation. Now Lottie could not face the thought of being alone with Celia for minutes. Freddie and Sylvia had been put to bed. Mr. Holden was unlikely to want to talk. I could go and ring Joe, she thought. I’ll ask Dr. Holden if I can use the telephone.

  She heard the slick sound of the magazine flipping shut behind her and Celia turning to face her.

  “Actually, Lots, I need to talk to you.”