The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  Bella shot me a grateful look and muttered, ‘My Dad, Ted.’

  The two men's eyes met and they shook hands, but it was brisk and brief. I realized, with a start, how hard that must be for Ted: to shake the hand of the man who'd got his teenage daughter pregnant, the teacher man who'd been employed to instruct his child in the language of the poets, of rhyming couplets and iambic pentameters, not the language of love. Despite Bella's protestations to the contrary, he must have hated him. And no one ever hated Ant. Always said how kind and wise he was, what a gentle man – he was often described thus. I saw the colour shoot to Ant's cheeks too, in this moment of… well, shame. Again, not something he was familiar with, because he was rarely the guilty party. I was the one who ran furtively up the stairs with yet another Nicole Farhi bag to be hustled under the bed. I was the one who drove, red-faced and sweaty-palmed, out of Tesco's car park knowing I'd reversed into yet another car, then roared back ten minutes later to leave a note on the bonnet with my number, only to find the car had gone. Oh, my life was one long perpetual guilt trip, but not Ant's. I felt very protective of him suddenly.

  ‘What lovely flowers!’ I said, breaking the moment and seizing a jug from the middle of the table. ‘Shall I put them in water for you, Bella?’

  ‘They're for you, luv,’ Ted said gruffly, handing them to me. ‘I know you're stayin', like, so I thought you could put them in your room.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you.’ I was taken aback.

  ‘No, thank you. It's a rare and fine thing you've done for us here today.’ His pale blue eyes under sandy brows swam a bit. I took the flowers, touched; aware of quite a few eyes on me. Aware that he was deliberately making a moment of it, and although I was embarrassed, I was grateful too.

  ‘Well, they're my absolute favourite. I adore lilies.’ I buried my nose in them, suddenly at a loss.

  ‘Drink, Dad?’ Bella reached up to pull a bottle of wine from a high rack above the fridge.

  ‘Please, luv. Here, I'll do that.’ He got the bottle for her as Ant, who'd also gone to help, looked awkward. ‘But I might take a beer off you first just to take the edge off it.’ He loosened his tie. ‘Phew, bit hot in here, isn't it?’ He glanced at Ant in an open-necked shirt and, in a trice, whipped off what I felt was an uncharacteristic jacket and tie. He rolled up his sleeves and I saw Anna's eyes pop at the tattoos.

  ‘It's the Rayburn,’ Bella told him, and I realized how faint her accent was compared to that of her father, who was a northcountryman right unto his syntax. ‘Throws out a lot of heat.’

  He undid his top button. ‘Aye, in return for a lot of brass. All that expensive iron just to cook a stew. Four grand, that were!’ He turned to me in astonishment. ‘Reclaimed, an' all!’

  ‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘We've got one too, I'm afraid.’

  ‘Why?’ He looked genuinely baffled. ‘You could buy a car for four grand, but a bleedin' cooker…’

  ‘Here, Dad.’ Bella handed him a drink, obviously keen to head him off the subject of money, which, alas, was a stimulating topic in this part of the world.

  Stacey was more animated now, clearly enamoured of her grandfather and showing him Anna's bracelets from Accessorize, then her own jangling assortment on her wrist. ‘The same, Granddad, d'you see? We bought them separately and chose exactly the same. How weird is that?’

  As he knocked back half his beer in one thirsty gulp, his huge stomach straining the buttons of his shirt, he exclaimed with her. ‘Aye, luv, look at that, you have! And right tacky they are too.’

  ‘Granddad!’ She swatted him with the back of her hand as he roared with laughter.

  ‘Well, lime green and pink, I ask you. What rotten taste you've both got!’ He looked from one girl to the other, teasing them with his eyes, but they were keen too, those eyes, as he took in my daughter, this half-sister of Stacey's. I wondered what he'd see. No, knew what he'd see. The astonishing similarities: the big smile, the high cheekbones and then, as Anna spoke, the educated Oxford accent, unlike his granddaughter's local one, the poise, the confidence an expensive education could buy as she explained; ‘Tat is the new style. It's very avant-garde to be kitsch.’

  ‘Is it, by 'eck!’ he marvelled, but you could tell he was impressed. His gaze roved to Ant: more brains and more blond hair, the missing link, who was pulling the cork from the bottle, and I saw Ted sip his beer more thoughtfully now, take a moment to digest the provenance, the gene pool that defined his granddaughter.

  The evening slipped on. For slip, read well oiled, for Bella forgot to put the vegetables on, which prolonged the cocktail hour, and also people were nervous, so by the time supper was finally on the table, I for one was flying. The table was a long thin slab of oak, and to prevent us being miles apart, Bella had seated three down each side, with Ted and I opposite one another, then the girls, then Ant and Bella. It was the obvious placement: I could hardly sit with Ant, nor Bella with her father, but as the girls chattered to each other across the table, eventually three conversations developed. And I got on famously with Towering Ted, who looked like Gulliver in his tiny chair, most of him spilling over the side. His voice boomed out as he talked, mostly about his daughter, and how all his colleagues at work bought her books, and how he was constantly getting them thrust under his nose to get her to sign.

  ‘“Hey, Ted. Get your lass to sign this for our Sandra, would you? She loves 'em, can't put 'em down. And me mam!”’

  I smiled. ‘You must be very proud.’

  His eyes filled as he seized his wine glass. ‘You'll never know, lass.’ His lower lip gave way to an involuntary quiver. ‘Never know.’

  And then he knocked back another glass of wine, his face quite purple, and my eyes filled too – why? – as I also knocked back another one, for moral support, for sympathy, for courage.

  The girls, who'd managed craftily to recharge their glasses whilst we weren't watching, shrieked and laughed at each other across the table, clearly quite tight, whilst Ant and Bella fell into a quieter conversation at the end. I strained to hear as I pretended to listen to Ted, who was telling me now how a book group near him, down his road in fact, had picked one of Bella's books and then ‘– would you believe it – a couple of months later, on account of enjoyin' it so much, picked another!’ As I nodded and smiled, marvelling and exclaiming, I felt a hand reach in and squeeze my heart. What were they talking about? I heard Stacey's name. Yes, of course. Their daughter. Their daughter. The bizarreness of it hit me. I lunged for my glass. God, this was surreal. What was I doing here? No wonder Ted had given me flowers, no wonder Caro had – for once – been lost in admiration for me. Was I mad? Completely insane? Or a fool? I felt myself wobble, thought, at any moment, I might just get up and announce, ‘Sorry, I can't do this,’ and run out. I steadied myself as Ted rattled on. No. This was right. The right way forward. The only way forward. And I was up to it.

  But I needed some help. I seized the wine bottle and topped Ted up – rude not to join him – so that by the time Ant and I climbed the stairs to bed in the pretty pink spare room, me carrying the vase of lilies precariously, I was plastered.

  ‘Aren't they lovely, Ant? My flowers?’ I demanded in a overly loud voice. I crossed the room, sloshing water on the carpet and setting them unsteadily on the chest of drawers, right beside a vase of roses already put there by Bella. I blinked in surprise. ‘Blimey. Looks like a bloody florist's in here. Either that or a funeral parlour!’

  For some reason that struck me as terribly funny. I fumbled around the room sniggering, ‘Funeral parlour…’ foolishly to myself, knocking into furniture and leaving a trail of clothes in my wake. Ant was calmly brushing his teeth in the ensuite bathroom in his boxer shorts. I stopped in the doorway to watch him, swayed as I frowned at his back view. Not pissed, I decided. No. Really quite sober. Still. You never know. I sashayed up behind him, clasped him round his waist from behind. Then I rocked him gently and sang a little Rod Stewart in his ear. ‘Tonight's the night… s'gonna be
all right…’

  He laughed, disentangled himself and turned round to hold my arms.

  ‘D'you think?’

  ‘What?’ I tried to focus on his face. ‘Tonight's the night? Or, s'gonna be all right?’

  He grinned. ‘I certainly agree with the latter. Not sure about the former.’

  It took me a moment to remember which was which. I pouted. Pulled out the elastic on his shorts and pinged them back. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘Not sure these walls are up to it.’

  ‘We could be quiet!’ I hissed drunkenly in his face. ‘And anyway,’ I swayed, ‘those Victorians knew a thing or two about building. Knew how to soundproof the unlacing of their… whatsit. Strait laces. Look at bloody Brunel! Look at all those bloody viaducts!’ I waved my hand at the window as if there were a few outside, then went in for a snog, shutting my eyes. A mistake.

  ‘Shit,’ I gasped, rocking back abruptly on my heels. ‘Head spin.’ I clutched the offending article. ‘Nurofen, Ant. Fast.’

  He turned to rummage in the bathroom cupboard which, being spare, was also bare.

  ‘In my bag,’ I groaned, still holding my head and staggering back to the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed.

  He found some. As I glugged gratefully on the glass of water he put to my lips, gulping down the pills, I allowed myself to be laid back on the pillows. Tucked in.

  ‘Sleep,’ he said firmly as he straightened up. He swam before my line of vision.

  ‘You think?’ I murmured doubtfully. ‘Rather than sex?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  I shut my eyes, gave it some thought. ‘OK.’ And then just before I blacked out, I whispered hoarsely, ‘I've done well though, Ant… haven't I? Been good?’

  He kissed my lips. ‘You've been very good.’

  The next morning I awoke in terrible, terrible pain. My head was in a much worse state than it had been the night before, and my mouth hung open on its hinges, refusing to close, severe drought having set in. I felt really extraordinarily ill. After a few minutes I managed gingerly to open my eyes. I peered at the light streaming through the thin curtains, then shut them again. Oh God. I groaned, turned over and opened them again to peer at the clock. Ten o'clock. Ten o'clock! Oh Lord, quite late. After a bit, I sat up slowly. Ant's side of the bed was empty, the covers thrown back. Were they all downstairs having breakfast? Waiting for me to appear?

  I staggered to the loo, found some more Nurofen in my bag, guzzled them down. Then I got dressed, tidying up last night's clothes as I went. I had to crouch straight backed to retrieve everything, rather than bending over, to avoid head rush.

  I sat down and peered in the mirror at the dressing table. Shocked myself. My face looked as if it had been punched, and my usually wavy hair was plastered to my head in a centre parting, like an ageing hippy. All I needed was a guitar. I brushed it and tried to fluff it up, but in vain. I gave up, got to my feet, and toddled out to the landing clutching the furniture. The thought of breakfast made me feel ill, but happily I couldn't smell anything. Perhaps not a fry-up? Perhaps more a cereal household, like mine? And perhaps I could force a Weetabix down, for form's sake. I gulped. Clutched my mouth. Perhaps not.

  As I went to go downstairs, I glanced back and realized I hadn't drawn my bedroom curtains, which looked a bit slutty. I waddled back in and swept them aside, and that's when I saw them. At the bottom of the garden, sitting on the circular seat around the cherry tree. Bella and Ant. And why not, I thought as my hand nevertheless went straight to my mouth. I instinctively ducked back behind the curtain. Why not sit and chat – I peered round cautiously – catch up on all those years, discuss Stacey… Oxbridge interviews… whatever… So why was my heart beating so fast? So furiously?

  I watched, fascinated, from behind the curtain. Their heads were close together and both were leaning forwards intently, hands clasped on knees, almost as if in prayer. Certainly deep in conversation. But I couldn't really see who was doing all the… I glanced behind me to our open suitcase: Ant's bird book and binoculars were stuffed in the side pocket. I lunged, seized the binos. Then I kneeled down under the windowsill and tried to focus. I'd never used these things before… oh, I see… twiddle the knobs… and… golly, amazing. It was as if the pair of them were right in front of me, huge, and beautifully focused. Ant's head was cocked as he listened intently to what Bella was saying. She seemed to be struggling to explain something, definitely a monologue, her lips moving rapidly, tongue swishing over them occasionally. Ant gazed at her intently, nodded occasionally and then he spoke… and then she said something back – how I wished these things had a microphone – and then they both looked at each other without speaking for a moment. As they gazed at each other, a lock of hair fell forward into her eyes. Gently, and in an unbearably sweet gesture, Ant reached out and tucked it back behind her ear.

  ‘Eh up, twitcher!’

  I swung around in horror. Bella's father's bulk was filling the open doorway.

  ‘Oh!’ A curtain twitcher. I scrambled to my feet. Dropped the binos. ‘Oh, no, I was – I was watching the birds!’

  ‘Aye, like I say, a twitcher. A girl after my own heart. I come here sometimes to do just that. Got my own binos in here.’ He patted the black overnight bag he was carrying and crossed the room in one giant stride. ‘What 'ave you seen then, luv?’ He peered keenly out of the window. ‘A red kite? You get a few of them in these parts, whirling round those tree tops yonder.’

  ‘Yes,’ I croaked at length. ‘Yes, there was one… yonder… but it flew away.’

  ‘Where?’ He picked up the binoculars from the floor and raised them eagerly to his eyes. I pointed up high in the sky, in the top right-hand corner, well away from the cherry tree. Into the heavens. But he was lowering them even now, to where the action was. He gazed for a long moment. Lowered them and looked grave.

  ‘Tit,’ he muttered.

  Tit? I cringed. What, me? Or her?

  ‘Some kind of tit. Probably greater crested. You get a lot of them in these parts, but I dare say not so much down South. You can see its yellow underparts, look.’

  He handed the binoculars back to me. ‘In the cherry tree, just behind your Ant. See?’ I was grateful for the possessive article before my husband's name, and of his guiding hand, but mine were a bit sweaty, and all I got out of the binoculars was wobbling blur and fuzz.

  ‘Yes, I see it now,’ I breathed. ‘Very pretty. Lovely.’

  ‘Aye, and tha's what we need to keep focused on, eh?’ he said gently. ‘The lovely birds.’ His eyes were kind as they held mine a moment; then they drifted away out of the window. ‘But you keep your eyes peeled for the red kite, luv. That's a rare treat, that is.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ I whispered.

  ‘They've only just been reintroduced you know, back into the wild.’

  ‘Have they really?’

  ‘Aye, but you'll know that!’

  ‘Of course! How silly, I forgot.’

  ‘Aye, in fact if I remember rightly, they released more down your way than they did up here. You're in the Chilterns, aren't you? Down there in Oxfordshire?’

  ‘I believe we are.’

  He looked at me in astonishment. ‘Well, that's where they all are, you great ninny!’ He gave me an affectionate nudge, which knocked me halfway across the room, nearly dislocating my elbow. ‘Call yerself a twitcher!’

  I gave a high, hyena-like laugh. ‘Heee! Yes, hopeless!’ I steadied myself on the chest of drawers.

  ‘Well, anyway, luv,’ he straightened up, almost to attention, head grazing the ceiling, ‘I'm away. Just popped up to say goodbye to you. Thought you might be up by now.’

  ‘Yes, I… overslept a bit. But I'm very glad you did. Goodbye, Ted.’ I went to peck his cheek but he'd already enveloped me in a huge bear hug and I found myself pressed hard against his chest, arms clamped to my sides.

  ‘Goodbye, luv,’ he said gruffly. ‘I'm that made up to have met you all. Really I am. All of
you.’ I couldn't breath. My eyes bulged into his shirt.

  ‘You too!’ I managed when he'd finally released me.

  And then he was gone – out of the room and down the stairs, no doubt to say goodbye to the others. I watched as he reappeared below, through the French windows into the garden; saw Ant and Bella stand up to say goodbye as he approached, bag in hand. And he saw nothing peculiar, Terrific Ted, as he'd become in my mind, in the two of them sitting under the tree together, and she didn't get up with a start. I watched as Ant shook his hand, and then Bella hugged him as he took his leave. How I envied him. I clutched the windowsill. I wanted to go too, wanted, with all my heart, to be a hundred miles from here. The look Ant had given Bella as he'd tucked her hair back had pierced my heart. It spoke volumes. Because I knew Ant. Knew he wasn't given to little gestures like that. This man, Terrific, Tactile Ted, who squeezed me at a moment's notice, who'd gently chided me back there for reading too much into the situation, was wrong. He was clearly a demonstrative huggy man but not my Ant.

  On an impulse I darted to the bathroom, threw my toothbrush and face creams into my handbag and went downstairs. Ant and Bella were strolling up the garden with Ted, towards the side of the house, making for his car at the front. They saw me and stopped. Waved.

  ‘Hiya!’ called Bella.

  ‘Hi!’ I called back.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  I tripped across the lawn to join them. ‘Really well, thank you.’

  She shaded her eyes with her hand against the sun. ‘Only the girls wanted to wake you, bring you a cup of tea, but I told them you'd rather have a lie-in. I know I would!’

  ‘Yes! Quite right.’

  She was looking particularly lovely, I noticed, in a white pin-tucked peasanty top, a tiered denim skirt and floppy suede boots. What teeny tiny legs she had poking out of them.

  ‘Um, where are the girls?’

  ‘Oh, they went into town after breakfast, caught the bus. Stacey wanted to show Anna around, have a hot chocolate, mooch round Topshop. I hope you don't mind?’ She looked anxious, suddenly.