The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Have you? Oh, Malcolm, good. I'm so pleased. Anyone nice?’

  ‘D'you know how much like a mother you sound? Hang on.’ He was reading a text. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘Says he'll be here in a mo. Apparently he got held up by some middle-aged tart in Miss Whiplash knickers who threw a jar of sexual lubricant at him she was so desperate. Oh, here he is now.’

  I glanced around in horror as the door opened, and pocketing his mobile in his flapping overcoat, in swept Green Eyes.

  14

  I gaped. ‘Oh God.’

  His face darkened as he registered me. ‘Jesus.’

  Malcolm raised his eyebrows. ‘Shall I invoke the Holy Ghost and complete the trilogy?’ He glanced at me, then back at him. ‘You two know each other?’

  I was already squaring up. ‘I'll have you know,’ I seethed, ‘that my underwear, up until today, has never been anything other than snowy white and my moisturizing cream has never been used for anything other than lubricating my face!’

  ‘Then you've got problems,’ he drawled, shutting the door behind him. ‘A cross-Channel swimmer would be pleased with the level of heavy-duty emollient you sport.’

  ‘Oh!’ My jaw dropped. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘I dare because I've just scraped it off the back seat of my car. Something you didn't even stop to offer to do!’

  ‘Whoa, whoa!’ Malcolm sprang between us, palms up, like a referee between a couple of prizefighters. ‘Easy there, Evie. Steady, Ludo.’

  ‘Ludo?’ I scoffed. ‘Pretentious bloody name. Poo-Face suits you much better.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Poo-Face. It's what Malc—’

  ‘Ah ha ha!’ laughed Malcolm nervously, turning huge appalled eyes on me. ‘Now clearly something untoward has gone on here and you two have got off on the wrong foot, but there's no need to—’

  ‘I'll say it's the wrong foot, and the wrong side of two hundred pounds to clean the suede upholstery too, which, incidentally, I'll charge you for.’

  ‘For a bit of cream on the seat? Oh, you stupid, pathetic man with your stupid penis extension. You can't see further than what's between your legs, which clearly, if you need a car like that, isn't big enough!’

  ‘Evie!’ Malcolm's eyes were thunderous now. ‘She's not been well,’ he explained nervously over his shoulder as he seized my arm and tried to hustle me towards the door. ‘Family troubles. A bit overwrought.’ He found my ear and hissed, ‘Evie, he's my partner, for God's sake. Button it!’

  ‘Well, I'm sorry I've ruined your “suede seats”,’ I made quotation marks in the air and rolled expressive eyes over my shoulder as Malcolm propelled me out. ‘Sorry I've made your shagging couch look like it's been used before, like it's actually seen a bit of action!’

  ‘EVIE!’ Malcolm roared, pushing me bodily through the door, and out onto the pavement.

  ‘You need help,’ was the last thing I heard Poo-Face deliver scathingly at my back, before the door clanged shut behind us.

  ‘For God's sake!’ Malcolm hissed, giving me a little shake.

  Once outside in the fresh air, I held my head again. It was that old popping-off sensation. ‘Oh God.’ I shut my eyes. When I opened them, Malcolm had lit a cigarette. He was watching me closely. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘Bit strong, I admit. It just all came out.’

  ‘I'll say it did.’ He handed the cigarette to me.

  ‘I've given up.’

  ‘It's like riding a bike. Just suck.’

  I did. Then coughed dramatically too, but after a few drags, it all came flooding back. Heaven.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered again, at length. ‘So sorry, Malc. I don't know what came over me.’ I felt a bit dazed. Light-headed too, with the smoke. I shook my head in an effort to clear it. ‘The thing is, I've got all men in the same category at the moment. Can't keep their trousers on. Only want one thing.’ I looked at him helplessly. ‘It's symptomatic, I suppose, of what's happened. I feel all the points on my moral compass have shifted.’

  I handed him back the cigarette. He took a deep drag, right down to his Italian shoes, then blew the smoke out thoughtfully in a thin blue line. ‘Go home, poppet. Go home to Ant and Anna. Realign your compass points and make it work, hm? It would be an awful shame not to.’

  I nodded, knowing tears threatened again, and knowing that he was right. We hugged each other tight on the pavement. As I gazed numbly over his shoulder, I caught Poo-Face's eye through the window. He hurriedly turned away, busying himself with a pile of books on a table.

  As I drove home, I thought about what Malcolm had said. It would be an awful shame to throw it away. To blow it. Don't blow it, Evie, I urged, holding on tight to the wheel: you're very close to the edge right now. I swallowed. I was. Perilously proximate. Knew I was quite capable – as my little explosion at Malcolm's parlour had shown – of losing it. Knew at all costs, I must keep the flame away from the blue touchpaper.

  Back at the house, all was quiet. Ominously quiet, I thought, as I shut the front door softly behind me. No screaming and shouting; no teenage daughter throwing the contents of her bedroom down the stairs and herself after it, gathering it all in her arms and slamming out of the front door. But wait: soft music from within. From the drawing room. I slipped off my jacket, dropped it on a chair, and padded down the hall. I pushed open the door.

  Ant was sitting by the window in semi-darkness, just a small table lamp burning. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, fingers laced across his chest, as he listened to Mahler's Second Symphony. The saddest. He looked up and gave a wan smile as I came in; his eyes tired. Then he stretched out his hand.

  ‘Hi.’ Softly

  ‘Hi.’

  I stole across the room, took his hand, and slipped in beside him on the sofa. His fingers curled tightly round mine, then he put his arm around my shoulders. I felt every fibre in my being relax; begin to hum with relief. I felt so safe. I lay my head on his chest.

  ‘How was it?’ I whispered into his blue checked shirt.

  ‘Averagely ghastly.’

  I could hear his heart beating fast in my ear. I looked up. ‘She's bound to be upset, Ant.’

  He gave a twisted smile. ‘She's more than upset. Her father is the devil incarnate. Either that or Don Juan. Apparently I've ruined her life.’ His voice quavered as he said this.

  I sat up. Held on tight to his hand. Looked into his kind blue eyes; sad and pained. I knew I had to be strong. ‘That's just shock talking, darling. It's a terrible shock for her, of course it is. For all of us. She feels like she's lost her moorings; she feels rocked. But she'll steady up. And when she does, she'll realize it's not so terrible. I have.’

  He turned his head to look at me. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Ant, I know how she's feeling – as if her life has been a lie up to now; as if, all the time, something's been going on behind her back. She feels betrayed.’

  ‘It's sort of what she said. This girl growing up, furtively, secretively.’ He sighed. ‘I can understand that. It's how I feel as well.’

  ‘Exactly, and she's bound to be frightened too, because she thinks everything will change, but it won't. Initially she'll have to adjust to this person actually existing –’ I couldn't quite say ‘Stacey’ – ‘but her life, our life, will go on the same as ever. Me, you and Anna.’

  ‘Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘Malcolm.’

  He smiled. ‘Good old Malcolm.’ He sighed. ‘Let's hope he's right.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I wish I hadn't told her. Wish I'd kept quiet.’

  ‘You had to tell her.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In her room, I think. I took her out for a coffee in Starbucks, but she ran out on me. Thought she was going to throw her hot chocolate at me. She came home.’

  I caught my breath. Oh God. Poor Ant, desperately following his daughter's tracks through the stree
ts of Oxford. ‘But you're sure she's back?’

  ‘Her music's on.’

  ‘Ah.’ We were quiet a moment. Then: ‘I'll go and see her.’

  ‘Yes. She'll talk to you.’ How sad he sounded. Crushed. And usually, it was the other way round. It was Ant she'd talk to, confide in, if I was honest. The two of us could clash over clothes, the state of her room, her giving me lip, but she'd always talk to Ant.

  ‘This is a big shock,’ I promised him. ‘Give her time. She'll come round.’

  ‘Have you?’ His eyes, when they found mine, were vulnerable.

  I swallowed. ‘I'm getting there.’

  I went upstairs and put my ear to her door. Light shone from a crack underneath and the Black Eyed Peas filtered out softly. She never played music at a million decibels, just in the background. I knocked.

  ‘Anna? Darling? Can I come in?’

  No answer. I tried the handle. Locked. I called again.

  ‘Anna, sweetheart, let me in.’

  There was a rustle within. After a moment, a piece of paper came under the door: ‘I don't want to talk about it.’

  I went to the drawer in my room and found a pen.

  ‘Not even to me?’ I wrote back.

  ‘Especially not to you,’ came back the missive.

  Oh. Right. I could feel myself bridling involuntarily. Why especially not to me? What the hell did I have to do with it? Feeling anger and resentment, which I'd so painstakingly quelled for the last half-hour or so, resurfacing again, I went off to my bedroom to breathe.

  The evening sun was pouring through the French window and the pretty wrought-iron balcony cast an intricate shadow on the cream carpet. I looked out. Below, in the street, a couple of students cycled past, laughing, one nearly careering into the other. ‘Oh, Barnaby, you idiot!’ Life was going on. Just an ordinary day. Everything will be fine, I told myself, staring out, holding myself tight. It will all be fine.

  After a moment, I gave myself a little shake, went through to the bathroom. I turned the bath taps on full and reached for a bottle, shaking in a good dollop of Chanel bath oil, which I'd had for about six months and was waiting for ‘an occasion’ to be used. Occasions presented themselves less and less these days, I found, but this was as good a time as any, if not quite what I'd had in mind. Oh – and what about these? I took a box from the cupboard under the basin. Candles, a present from Caro last Christmas: one of many boxes of candles in that cupboard, actually. I was bemused that so many of my girl friends gave me them as gifts, but they obviously used them. When? I'd asked once. Oh, in the bath, with all the lights out. Oh. Right. Why? Well, to relax. Ah. It seemed a bit cheesy to me: something Mum might do. But presumably Caro did it too, since she'd given them to me, although I couldn't imagine her having time for anything more than a quick rub-down in the shower with Lifebuoy and a Brillo pad. While the bath ran, I dithered: should I have another crack at Anna? No. Just leave her, Evie. Give her some space. I lit the candles. Golly. Just lighting them was soothing. Perhaps there was something in this.

  I padded back into the bedroom for the radio and fiddled around for some soft music. I would be soothed. The bath was well back from the French window and the evening sun so lovely I left the curtains open. Lit some more candles, and hummed along with James Blunt telling me I was beautiful, then turned him up a bit, so that what with his crooning and the roar of the taps, I didn't hear Anna come in.

  ‘Oh! Darling.’ I swung round from lighting candle number twenty. She looked around the flickering room, surprised. Her face was pale; tear-stained.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just trying to relax. Get some karma. Like you always tell me.’ I came across, cranking up an anxious smile.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ She put the loo lid down and sat on it heavily. ‘I'm not going to meet her,’ she said in a cracked, defiant voice to the carpet.

  ‘You don't have to, darling.’ I swooped to hug her, but she quickly turned a rigid shoulder to me. I perched on the edge of the bath.

  ‘There's no reason why I have to. No one can make me.’

  ‘No one's going to make you,’ I soothed.

  ‘Then why did he bloody well tell me?’ she cried, looking up. Her eyes were bright, anguished. My heart lurched for her.

  ‘Because you had to know, my sweet. We all had to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because – well, it's a fundamental truth, that's why. He couldn't keep it from you.’

  She stared at me, her chin wobbling ever so slightly.

  ‘It's gross. The whole thing is just gross. And I mean – what will my friends say? If I suddenly produce this – this sister, called Stacey, from nowhere? Who talks differently to me, looks different to me, all crop tops and piercings.’ She was conveniently forgetting she'd wanted her ears done. ‘What do I say?’ she wailed, which was what I wanted to do: wail. But she was fourteen, and could. ‘What will everyone think? It's so embarrassing – oh, this is my father's lovechild. I can't bear it!’

  ‘That won't happen,’ I said quickly. ‘You don't have to meet her, introduce her to your friends.’

  ‘But if she's coming here to see Dad, it's as if she's saying –’ her blue eyes were wide, expressive – ‘come on, d'you dare? D'you dare meet me?’

  I caught my breath, wishing she wasn't so succinctly putting into words my fears.

  ‘Are you going to meet her?’ she demanded.

  ‘No!’ I yelped.

  ‘Daddy said you might.’

  ‘Did he?’ I quaked. ‘No. No, definitely not.’ I blew with the wind these days. Changed my mind hourly. ‘God, what is she to me? Nothing!’ I blurted.

  ‘Well, she's your husband's child. But for me it's even worse – she's a half-sister!’ Her eyes were tragic; badly in need of reassurance. ‘A blood relative!’

  ‘Who you've never known about up until now, so there's no reason why, just because she chooses this moment to enter our lives, we have to respond.’

  ‘No.’ She nodded, liking this. But not entirely convinced. She hunched forward on the loo seat; clasped her hands tight. ‘I just feel so jealous,’ she whispered, ‘even though I've never met her,’ she gazed down at the carpet, ‘that he's got someone else.’

  I swallowed. Couldn't speak.

  She looked up. ‘It must be awful for you, Mum,’ she quavered. ‘You were engaged.’

  Ah. Right. Warts and all. And I could see she thought this a terrible betrayal. And yet, frankly, if it hadn't been for the circumstances, for Ant feeling pressurized by Neville, that bit wouldn't bother me. Oh, initially, yes, but I rather agreed with Caro; once I'd got over the shock I'd think – well heavens, it was a long time ago and OK, we were engaged but we weren't married and an awful lot of water has flowed in seventeen years, and I'd be in the Brora sale in moments, riffling amongst the cashmere. But in a scrupulous, fourteen-year-old mind, being engaged, or even going out with someone and cheating on them was a terrible treachery. I'd once had to explain to Anna why some family friends were getting divorced, and not wanting to go into the husband's unforgivable serial adultery had said, ‘He, um, had a quick fling.’ ‘Oh right,’ she'd said immediately. Case explained. It didn't enter her head that the wife should overlook a quick fling. Her little life was still ruthlessly honest; it revolved around friendship bracelets, promises, trust. She wasn't to know that the vagaries of life and the fallible human condition changed all that later, and that occasionally one had to… not necessarily forgive and forget, but fudge and forget. Her eyes filled for me, for what she saw as my pain, and I took advantage of it: in that moment, I knew I could reach her. I swooped to hold her and she clung to me as I folded her in my arms, kneeling there by the loo.

  ‘It's fine,’ I whispered into her sweet-smelling blonde hair. ‘We'll all be fine. It's like being frightened of the bogeyman, Anna. Someone we can't see, looming over us. But she won't be like that at all. She'll be scared, frightened. Imagine this from her point of view. Here we are,
this well-off, educated Oxford family, and there she is, an outsider, looking in.’

  ‘Which is where I want her to stay,’ she said harshly. ‘Looking in. She has no right to come and make demands of us – to intrude!’

  It occurred to me that she had every right. I got to my feet and turned to switch off the taps, wearily untying my dress.

  ‘And it's all because he's written a book, I bet! Just because he's well known, she wants to meet him!’

  This wasn't my Anna talking. She was upset. And yet I'd felt the same.

  ‘And I don't feel I know Daddy at all now,’ she blurted, getting up and turning round to face the street, arms tightly folded. ‘Don't feel I know this man who gets students pregnant. I mean, God, it could be one of my friends in a couple of years' time. It's just so debauched of him!’

  ‘He was young,’ I soothed, hating that she thought of him so. I slipped off my dress.

  ‘Well, youngish. Thirty, and he was engaged and—’ She turned. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘What?’

  She was staring at me. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Oh!’ I grabbed a towel. I'd forgotten about the underwear. ‘Just something I… threw on.’

  ‘Threw on?’ Her eyes popped in wonder. Then they came up to mine. A light bulb seemed to go on in her head.

  ‘My God, you guys…’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’ I muttered uncomfortably. She looked around. Took in the candles. The soft music. Her eyes came back to me, appalled.

  ‘Are you swingers?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Dad. Are you secret swingers? Is that what this is all about? Do you go to parties and go home with other people's husbands?’

  ‘Anna, don't be ridiculous!’

  ‘WELL THEN, WHAT'S WITH THE UNDERWEAR?’ she roared.

  I licked my lips. ‘If you must know, I was feeling a little insecure in the light of your father's revelation. Felt like – looking attractive. Young again.’ I raised my chin defiantly.

  She reached out and yanked my towel away. ‘Don't,’ she said, recoiling in horror.