by Gemma Fox
She ran her fingers across the deep sensual nap of the velvet bedcover. How many months was it since she and Gareth had slept in here together? How long since they had touched each other, or snuggled up together amongst the bow wave of white linen pillows or, come to that, talked? Since the new baby had been born Leonora had spent more and more nights across the landing in the nursery, curled up alongside Patrick. He was all soft and golden brown, littleboy sweetness pressed tight up against her like a warm puppy, and of course it meant that when the baby woke she was there and that Gareth wasn’t disturbed. But her absence wasn’t just about the baby, was it? How could he say something so vulnerable, so beautiful was a mistake? It wasn’t her fault, tiny thing.
Leonora straightened the bedspread, aware that she only serviced this room now, she didn’t live in it any more. It was an alien space, Gareth’s space.
She picked up one of his shirts from the bedroom floor and, without thinking, pressed it to her face. It smelled of him, and the scent of Gareth’s body made her let out a soft keening wail. How ridiculous, how crazy. How could she still love him when he had walked out on them? How could her heart be so stupid when her head knew so much better?
Silently Leonora picked her way through the landscape of their shared life; opening each drawer in turn—the tallboy, the bookcase, the little chiffonier they had found together in Camden Market. She had a sense that there were things missing but it was so hard to be certain of exactly what. Life since the children arrived was so much less linear, less accountable. Maybe there were things in the wash, or the airing cupboard, or tucked away somewhere…
Leonora looked around the room, trying to figure out exactly what it was she was feeling. It was so hard to find the edges. Had Gareth abandoned them or had he just gone off to do something related to work—and how the hell was it that after nearly eight years together she didn’t know?
Finally Leonora opened up his side of the huge wardrobe, running a finger and an eye along the hangers—the shirts, the trousers—and then she knew with ice-cold certainty that Gareth re ally had left them. She sucked in a breath to replace the one that had been squeezed from her chest. Gareth’s Armani suit had gone, the gap as obvious and raw as a missing front tooth. It was the first thing she noticed, but she was certain now that there would be others.
And there were: his favourite shoes, soft brown leather brogues handmade by a friend in Jermyn Street, a folio edition of Robinson Crusoe bought as a present by some doting godparent. A picture of his mother in a silver frame. Once her eye was in, Leonora began to see the things that weren’t there as clearly as the things that were.
When she had finished drawing up a mental manifest, Leonora went across into the little boxroom that Gareth used as an office. It had taken her all day to summon up the courage for this but now she was ready. Glancing back over her shoulder she was aware of every noise, every little creak as she stepped over the threshold, moving deliberately slowly, up on her tiptoes, still nervous of being discovered despite the fact that she knew that there was only her and the children in the house.
The office was his space. It smelled of old dust and paper and the warm scent of machines left on too long, all cut and mixed with a sweet undertow of cigar smoke. Gareth never smoked in the house but the scent of cigars clung to his clothes like burrs.
Leonora paused and, like a detective assessing a crime scene, she took it all in, absorbing every last little detail. There were the lamps still lit, the computers on standby purring behind closed darkened eyes, the mismatch of bookcases stacked with files and papers, and alongside those his novels and collections of poetry, favourite books read and reread again and again in the years that she had known him. She held back from touching anything.
There were mugs on the crowded desk, one on a discarded CD, the others scattered between pens and papers, a stapler, a phone, a remote control for goodness knew what, the detritus of his thoughts and his life, the ghost of Gareth lingering still between the posters and prints and badly stacked shelves.
Leonora took a deep breath, dark eyes working backwards and forwards across the piles, the highs and the lows, the backwaters and the blind alleys. There was nothing there, at least nothing obvious on the surface, that gave Gareth away, nothing revealing or betraying whatever it was that she instinctively felt was there. But he couldn’t hide from her, not for long.
There was something there, she had absolutely no doubt of that—disguised as something innocuous, something innocent that was the key to everything. Leonora also knew that she wouldn’t know what it was until she saw it and as soon as she did she would be certain.
Methodically, she opened each of the desk drawers in turn, from top to bottom, right to left, pausing for a few moments to stare down unfocused at the contents, as if she might be able to divine the solution from the mess of envelopes and elastic bands and old biros inside, hoping that something, one thing, would tell her what it was she wanted to know—even though she still wasn’t sure exactly what that was.
After Gareth’s desk Leonora worked her way through the filing cabinets, drawer by drawer, running her finger along the rows of hanging files, much as she had his shirts and jackets, reading each file label in turn. She thumbed through the bookshelves, stroking each spine like a touchstone, and then worked through a stack of unopened post piled high on an old kitchen chair. It was here somewhere, Leonora could feel it, feel it getting closer, knew she was getting warmer, though it was still elusive, like something deliberately hiding in the undergrowth.
And then all of a sudden she had it, pinned to one of the cork message boards just inside the door. On a sheet of page ripped from a spiral-bound notepad was a number, not a mobile number but a proper phone number, and alongside it, written in Gareth’s distinctive handwriting, the words: ‘Diana get-together/weekend?’ and a date.
Leonora stared at it and knew, without understanding exactly why, that this was what she had been looking for. She unpinned the sheet of paper, folded it up and slid it into the pocket of her cardigan. Backing out, she closed the door tight, walked slowly downstairs and, picking up the phone, dialled the number that felt as if it had been seared onto her retina.
‘Hello, may I speak to Diana, please?’ Leonora said as evenly as she could manage when someone lifted the receiver at the other end of the line.
‘I’m most terribly sorry, but she is away for the weekend,’ said a cultured male voice. ‘Would you like me to take a message? Or perhaps I might be able to help you?’ he added brightly.
Leonora hesitated; the adrenalin that had carried her downstairs was rapidly ebbing away. What was it she wanted to say exactly? Should she hang up and if she did where would that leave her? Had this man’s wife run away with Gareth? And how could Leonora possibly ask him or contemplate telling him? What if he had no idea what was going on? It didn’t sound as if he had any idea.
Leonora bit her lip, letting her thoughts regroup. Just then Patrick, in his pyjamas, padded out onto the top of the stairs to find her. He had a teddy bear in one hand and a storybook in the other, and for a moment he looked totally lost—and then as their eyes met he smiled with relief at having found her. He had his father’s eyes.
Leonora’s heart ached for him, for them all.
‘I’m not sure. I’m trying to find my husband and I thought Diana might be able to help,’ she said, moving cautiously around the edge of the conversation in case she plunged into the abyss, dragging this unknown man with her.
‘Oh, OK,’ said the man pleasantly. It struck her as an odd thing to say.
Very slowly Patrick bumped down the steps on his bottom towards her and as he got to the final step he held out his arms for her to pick him up.
‘I was wondering if Diana might know where he is?’ Leonora continued as Patrick climbed her like a tree.
‘Righty-oh. What’s his name?’ asked the man conversationally, as if his concentration was elsewhere.
‘Gareth,’ she said. ‘Gareth Ho
ward.’
‘OK. Wait a minute. I think I have a list here somewhere,’ he said, now sounding even more preoccupied over the noise of papers rustling. ‘Perhaps you would like Diana’s mobile number. That’s here somewhere too,’ he laughed. ‘Bit chaotic at the moment, I’m afraid. Oh, hang on, here we are.’
‘A list?’ Leonora was struggling to keep up.
‘Yes, of course, didn’t you know? Sorry, I assumed you knew all about it. They’ve all gone to a school reunion this weekend. I’ve got all the details somewhere—oh, yes, this is it. Have you got a pen handy?’
At Burbeck House Carol tried very hard to ignore the nasty rash of kissy, sucky faces and various lovey-dovey noises coming from further along the top table, not to mention Adie pressing his hand to his chest and fluttering his eyelids like a pantomime dame.
Being the kind of establishment that it was—all Christian charity and fuelled by the milk of human kindness—the kitchen staff had saved the latecomers their supper and now produced meals on trays. Despite various suggestions that everyone else headed off to the pub, no one appeared to be in much of a hurry to move either, so the hall was still full of people totally wrapped up in conversation. It felt almost like Christmas, Carol thought as she looked around the tables.
‘I’ve thought about you a lot over the years,’ Gareth said to Carol as he attacked his supper. The sound of his voice moved her attention back to him. She felt herself blush and then smiled, wishing that there was some way she could control the fluttery sensation in her stomach and suppress a disturbing inclination to giggle furiously.
‘You’re wearing a wedding ring,’ she said conversationally. It was one of the first things Carol had noticed when he sat down beside her, and absolutely the last thing she wanted to say, but helpfully her brain had reversed the order.
He nodded, turning the narrow twisted band of gold thoughtfully around long elegant fingers. ‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry, it’s force of habit. I suppose I re ally ought to take it off, but it seems as if I’m casting her adrift.’
Carol looked at him expectantly. He sighed. ‘It’s no great mystery. I left her,’ he said. ‘It’s a little while ago now but it was all very sad.’
His eyes darkened down to a stormy grey. Carol wondered what it would feel like to be married to him. Worse, what would it feel like to be left by him? She shivered, struggling to compose herself, and mumbled, ‘I’m re ally sorry.’
Gareth shook his head. ‘There’s no need to be sorry; it was just one of those things. I’d just come out of a long-term relationship when I met her. Oddly enough, I was working for a touring theatre company.’ He smiled reflectively. ‘I was lonely. We got on quite well, went out a few times. You know how these things go, and then—I suppose I was a bit of a fool, re ally. We’d been seeing each other a couple of months, maybe three, when she told me she was pregnant. It was a bit of a shock but what could I do?’
Carol stared at him. ‘What do you mean? Are you saying the baby wasn’t yours?’ The words were out before she had considered just how big the question was.
He shrugged. ‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that I re ally had no way of knowing and, looking back, I ought to have been more careful.’ He grinned and pushed the fringe back off his face. ‘And I shouldn’t be telling you any of this; it’s not exactly the kind of thing I make a habit of talking about—and, don’t get me wrong, she is the most beautiful person but a very complicated woman—artistic, creative, highly strung. A little unstable at times.’ He laughed wryly and took a sip of juice. ‘Quite a lot unstable at times, actually. When I met her she was in one of her good phases, sharing a house in North London with God knows how many others, mostly artists and musicians and she seemed—well, exciting, Bohemian and she was—she is—truly lovely. I stayed for as long as I could, but it was impossible. I felt my being there was doing more harm than good.’
‘And what about the child?’ said Carol, words out before she could stop them.
‘Children now—a boy and a girl. I see them as often as I can—don’t get me wrong, she is a great mother—but sometimes my seeing them causes more problems than it solves.’ He shrugged. ‘So there we are.’ His voice dropped a little and softened.
Leonora sat on the bottom step of the stairs and very carefully tapped the mobile number that Diana’s husband had given her into the phone. She waited, unconsciously holding her breath, hoping that she had made a mistake first time round and that this time she would get through. But sure enough, after a few seconds a bright cheery voice said, ‘Hello, I’m terribly sorry but I can’t take your call at the moment. If you would like to leave a message after the tone then I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you for ringing.’ It sounded so affable, so banal, so matter of fact, that locked door that barred her way to Diana and Gareth.
Leonora looked up at the clock; it was too late to go to anywhere, even if she could have got through. The children were tucked up in bed and besides that, Gareth had taken the car. But it would have been good to have made plans, to have known more, to have worked out a way forward. The sense of impotence and frustration made her angry. Leonora’s eyes filled with tears—not so much from despair as from pure anger. Bloody man, how dare he leave her without some sort of explanation? What was she supposed to do now, just wait and mope around while he decided their fate? Leonora dropped the phone back into its cradle, incandescent with rage.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ she growled furiously. How was it that Gareth got to make the decision? How was it that he had ended up with all the power? Leonora pulled a road atlas down from the bookshelves and, wrapping her big baggy purple cardigan around her shoulders, curled up in an armchair and searched for Burbeck. Ba—B—B…She ran a finger down the columns, mouthing the alphabet to herself. Be, B…It had to be in there somewhere.
In the back of her mind Leonora could hear Gareth’s voice. Words fuelled and let loose by a bottle and a half of red wine. It was earlier in the year, in the grey wet days between winter and spring. ‘It would be nice if you wore something a bit less shapeless once in a while. It’s depressing to see you dressed like a bag lady all the time. You just don’t bother any more—don’t make any sort of effort. Have you thought that you should maybe go and see somebody?’
Leonora stared at him. ‘Gareth, since Maisie was born, nothing fits properly. It would be a waste of money to buy anything at the moment and besides, it’s always cold in here and it’s either wear something warm or turn the heating up, and we’ve already had the row about the size of the heating bills.’
He sniffed. ‘For fuck’s sake, Leonora, that thing makes you look like you’re sleeping rough.’ Noisy cruel-tongued drunken ghosts filled her head. Well, one particular ghost, anyway.
She could see him by the kitchen door, fingers pushing the fringe back off his face. ‘I don’t think I can do it any more, Leonora, in fact I’m not sure I can do it at all,’ growled the ghost of Gareth past. He didn’t shout or rant —it wasn’t his style. Instead he dropped the bills onto the kitchen table.
‘But I’m not asking you to do it all. I’ve never asked you to do it all. I am trying. I’m doing the best I can,’ Leonora had said, realising as she did that that was not what Gareth meant at all.
‘re ally?’ His voice was so very even, so controlled, so cold. ‘Whatever happened to, “As soon as I’ve finished breast-feeding Patrick I’ll find a part-time job”?’
‘Oh, Gareth, Maisie—’
‘Maisie,’ he hissed. ‘Maisie? What sort of name is that, anyway? You knew, didn’t you? You knew that breast-feeding didn’t mean you couldn’t get pregnant again. Just tell me that you knew.’
‘I thought it was safe,’ Leonora protested; how many times had they had this conversation? ‘I truly thought—’
‘Oh, yes, you truly thought—princess Leonora, earth mother, patron saint of childbirth. Half a dozen self-help books and a natural parentcraft class and you’re suddenly the world’s expert. We
ll, you were wrong, weren’t you?’ The venom she could hear just beneath the surface in his voice made her reel.
How could he talk to her like that? Leonora’s vision blurred with tears as she ran a finger down the atlas’s index. ‘Ba, Be, B—’ she said aloud, trying to steady her thoughts.
When Gareth was angry and drunk he spoke very slowly, icily enunciating every word in a voice barely above a whisper. The measured tone was so much more disturbing than if he had shouted. Words spoken in anger could be excused or apologised for, but these lingered, glacial and unyielding.
‘We’ve already talked about this, I’ve already said, I can still work in the evenings—or at the weekend,’ she’d said.
‘Oh yes, that’s very good, great idea—I get to do a whole day’s work and then come home and have to look after those two all night.’ He spat the word ‘two’ out as if the taste was as bitter as gall.
‘Gareth, they are our children, your children. Other people do it. We’ll find a way to sort things out. We will. They didn’t ask to be born.’
‘No, exactly, and you know what, Leonora? No one asked me either. One mistake was bad enough—but two? It’s driving me crazy.’ He looked round the kitchen. ‘The whole place is a mess, you’re a mess.’
The words hit her like a body blow. Gasping for breath, Leonora said, ‘I’ve been trying to economise, I’ve cut down—’
‘Cut down…’ He had shaken his head in disgust. ‘We need more money, pure and simple. And with them—’
‘It takes two. You wanted to make love. You wanted me,’ she sobbed. He hadn’t moved to comfort her, to touch her; instead he refilled his glass. The hurt hung in her heart like a scar.
She remembered the first time they had made love after Patrick was born. At first it was tentative, like strangers, and then—when he realised she wouldn’t break—he had pulled her tight against him and fucked her hard and fast, almost cruelly—and Leonora had gasped, and melted into him, loving it, loving him.
