“No.” He struggled against the impulse to pull free of her grasp. “And please don’t keep saying I gave up. This wasn’t a search for the elixir of life; this was another book about a poet who’s already been the subject of far too many books. I got tired of being overextended. I got tired of juggling the theater and Keats and the project with Valentine. It was too many words to read and write. And even when I finished the dissertation, nothing would have changed. You can’t get an academic job without publications and you can’t publish without an academic affiliation. You wouldn’t keep putting on plays if no one came to see them.”
“I suppose”—Abigail squeezed his hands—“but that’s different. This just seems such a big decision. And you didn’t mention it to me.”
“I did drop a couple of hints. You’ve been so busy.” He wasn’t sure himself if this was true but, for the first time that day, a woman responded to him in the way he hoped. Abigail began to apologize for being so preoccupied. “I know sometimes things get away from me,” she said.
Halfway through his second whiskey, he confided Georgina’s parting remark. “It made me furious.”
“But isn’t it nice to know you were doing well?”
“It’s so fucking Ox-bridge. I work like a dog for six years, nearly seven, without a glimmer of encouragement, and now out of the blue, when she’s driven me to quit, she praises me.”
“You don’t have to be interested in everything you’re good at. Besides”—Abigail smiled—“you’ve already been working on Keats’s poems for longer than he took to write them.”
Last week on the phone Valentine had made the same irritating comment. Now, while Abigail continued to mouth reassurances, he followed Georgina’s example, staring through the window at the street outside. His heart had stopped racing; if anything it seemed to be going about its business even more slowly than usual. How could he say to Abigail that his failure as an academic had been one more item tipping the scales in her direction? If he had thought his dissertation was going well, he wouldn’t have been lured into working with Valentine, spending time apart from Judy; he might never have met Abigail and surrendered to the barrage of her affection.
FOR SEVERAL DAYS HE DIDN’T TELL ANYONE ELSE ABOUT WHAT HE regarded as his second divorce. He talked to friends on the phone, he went to the theater office, he e-mailed with Valentine, and did not mention that his life had changed. Abigail, either sensing the fury that lay behind his decision or, more likely, busy and already consigning his failure to the unalterable past, asked no further questions. Almost a week after his trip to Oxford, on his way to buy groceries, he ran into Dara. She was kneeling beside the flower bed in the front garden. “Oh, Sean,” she said, getting to her feet, “I was just trying to make more room. I overplanted, as usual.”
Her reddish brown hair was falling around her face and her cheeks were flushed. She looked much more attractive, Sean thought, than Virginia Woolf, whose famous portrait adorned her T-shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, and he glimpsed the pale pock of a vaccination mark on one biceps. When he announced he was going to the supermarket—could he get her anything?—she set aside her trowel and said she’d come too. As they headed down the street, he asked if she had the day off; she often worked odd hours at the counseling center.
“I’m afraid not. I have to go in this afternoon to run support groups. Attendance is erratic in the summer, but the people who are around need the groups more than ever, so we decided to keep them going. You’re off to Tuscany next week, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m sure it’ll be great once we get there, but right now we’re both in a panic about how much we have to do before we go. What about you and Edward? When do you leave for Brittany?”
Dara’s espadrilles scuffed the pavement. “Not this year, I’m afraid. His mother’s got shingles again and he’s going home to help out. I’ve decided to take a fortnight in Edinburgh. I can stay with my mother, see some shows at the Festival.”
“That sounds fun. At least you won’t be stuck in a traffic jam at Calais for days.”
“I suppose.”
Glancing over, he saw that her eyes were downcast and her lips tight. Belatedly it occurred to him that she was upset. He had met Edward, a professional violinist, a few times and enjoyed their conversations—they were both Arsenal fans—but he had little sense of how matters stood between him and Dara. Periodically Abigail reported broken plans and her anxiety that Edward might prove unreliable; he was still sharing a flat with his former partner. Now, before Sean could express his sympathy, Dara paused to smell the crimson roses in a neighbor’s garden; her grandfather used to grow them, she said.
At the row of shops they separated to make their purchases and met up again to walk home. They were almost back at the roses when he told her—the words seemed to escape of their own volition—that he had given up on his dissertation. “Well, not given up,” he corrected hastily, “but I decided to stop work on it, for now.”
“I’m sorry.” Dara turned to look at him, her brown eyes wide with sympathy. “That must have been a difficult decision, after all the work you’ve done.”
He did not dare to speak for fear that he would voice the feelings he was trying so hard to ignore. Fortunately she kept talking, saying that maybe it would be nice to be able to enjoy his favorite poems without having to analyze every word. Sean studied the pavement, cracked stone by cracked stone; analyzing every word was one of his great pleasures.
“Oh, how sweet,” Dara suddenly exclaimed.
Looking up, he saw a woman walking toward them, talking on the phone. On her back a baby, its head just visible over her shoulder, watched them with round blue eyes. As they passed, Dara waved and gave an exaggerated smile; the baby smiled back.
“So,” she said, clearly having lost her train of thought.
Sean seized his chance. “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve taken on this new project.” He described the euthanasia book.
“That sounds interesting. And very timely. Would you like to come in? We could drink lemonade in the garden.”
He pictured the two of them, sitting in the shade of her plum tree, and Dara asking thoughtful questions about the topics he wanted to ignore. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m due at the theater.” Before he could soften his refusal—add that they must get together soon—Dara had produced a neat little smile, quite different from the one she’d given the baby, and said, of course; she had to leave for the center in an hour anyway. She retrieved her trowel, and was gone.
FROM THE MOMENT THEY STEPPED OUT OF THE AIRPORT IN FLORENCE, Sean felt himself transported by the warm air, the mellifluous language, the vivid streets and blue skies, not only to this other country but to a younger, more joyful version of himself. And Abigail seemed to feel the same; for the first time in months she wasn’t thinking about her theater, dashing to make phone calls. He was happily reminded of what life was like when she was fully present. From the flat they’d rented in Siena, they made outings to San Gimignano, Lake Como, Orvieto, and Lucca; they ate long lunches, stealing food from each other’s plates, and meandered home for long afternoons of lovemaking. In the Etruscan necropolis below the town of Orvieto, she read to him from the guidebook. “‘The Etruscans flourished between the ninth and sixth centuries B.C., shortly before the Romans rose to power, and most of what is known about them comes from their graves. Statues and paintings show the Etruscans greeting death with their arrowlike smiles. They seem to have regarded the afterlife as a halcyon place of feasting and dancing, fishing in well-stocked lakes and hunting plump, lazy boars.’
“Maybe you could put that in your book,” she said. “Didn’t you say there was a section on attitudes to death?” They were standing beside a marble sarcophagus; on the lid a lithe young couple, with long hair and graceful robes, reclined as if at a banqueting table.
“Good idea,” he said, and told her about the vision he had had in the secretary’s office of a Tuscan afterlife complete with Chianti. Abigail
smiled appreciatively, looking, he thought, not unlike an Etruscan herself, and came to kiss him.
THEY FLEW BACK TO LONDON ON THE LAST DAY OF AUGUST AND, even as they traveled in from the airport, he could feel Abigail receding. The company was leaving for Hull in a few weeks and every hour had its task. When she wasn’t rehearsing the two plays they were taking on tour, she was working on publicity and arranging accommodation. Over dinner their last night in Siena, she had remarked that the autumn would be hectic. “You’ll have to cut me some slack, Sean. I know it won’t be easy, but maybe you can get your book done and I can get the theater on a better footing and we can both emerge at Christmas into calmer times.” He had said he understood; of course he’d be supportive. All night long, in her sleep, Abigail had held him fast.
Now he bought groceries, cleaned the house, did load after load of laundry, and dealt with the mail. Despite her warning he felt unprepared for how busy she was. During their hasty meals she kept getting up to make notes; at night she slept with fierce determination and woke with her alarm at six. Sometimes, when he couldn’t bear being invisible, he went downstairs to Dara’s. She was still in Edinburgh, and he had agreed to water her garden. While Abigail e-mailed and faxed and phoned—often all three simultaneously—he sat at the picnic table rereading the pages he had written that day. His apprehensions about the book had, so far, proved unfounded.
Before they went away he had been working on the chapter about preparations. The society’s notes included, Who finds you? Elaborate with interviews. He had written several paragraphs urging those planning euthanasia to consider the trauma they might inflict on innocent bystanders. Given Western society’s attitudes to death, finding you may end up being the worst experience of someone else’s life, resulting in nightmares, depression, and even psychosis. Try to ensure that the person who finds you is a professional: a doctor, a clergyman, a policeman. If two methods are equally appealing and available, then take the aftereffects into account.
Soon, he knew, he must embark on the interviews, but for now, using a book from the library and various pamphlets from the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, he drafted a section on wills. He was marking facts to check—were witnesses essential?—when Valentine telephoned. The secretary wanted to know whether they would be willing to do a short section on mental suffering.
“Quite a literate chap, that secretary,” said Valentine. “He quoted Faust, ‘The mind is its own place, can make a heaven of hell, etc.’ which might make a good epigraph. Anyway I told him we’d write an appendix, which doesn’t commit us to very much. Maybe you could talk to Abigail’s friend Dara? She’s a counselor, isn’t she?”
“Why should I write it? The section on wills was a lot of work.”
“Oh, come on, Sean. Mental suffering?” Valentine made a sound that could only be described as chortling. “Definitely your bailiwick.”
Did Valentine really see him as an expert on angst, Sean wondered. But already he was acquiescing. It was easier to take on more work than to confess how far behind he had fallen. As he put down the phone, he found himself thinking, once again, about Keats. During his final illness in Rome, the poet had asked his friend Severn, over and over, to give him the laudanum. He could not bear to open Fanny’s last letter, for fear the emotion would destroy him, but throughout those feverish days and nights he kept tight hold of a carnelian she had given him, passing the smooth white stone from hand to hand. And then there was his bitter epigraph: Here lies one…
Oh, for Christ’s sake, thought Sean. Resolutely he brought his attention back to his own affairs. He could not afford to return the advance, therefore he must write this book, and to write the book, he must behave as he had done when writing the last two books with Valentine: make a schedule and stick to it. On a new page of his notebook he wrote a list of dates and chapters. He adjusted it slightly to take account of Abigail’s birthday and, buoyed up by his plan, picked up the phone.
“Mr. Wyman,” said the secretary warmly. “How can I help?”
Sean explained that he was ready to start doing interviews and would like to talk to surviving relatives.
“Of course,” said the secretary. “Broadly speaking there are two categories: those who find a body unexpectedly and those who are forewarned. The latter often absent themselves, most reluctantly, to avoid being implicated. If you want to know what it’s like to spend a strange hour or two, you must talk to them. How do you pass the time when someone you love is dying? And, to make matters worse, you need to be in a public place so that you have an alibi. One man I know took a balloon ride while his wife was dying. He hoped to glimpse her soul flying upwards.”
“And did he?” said Sean. He began to sketch a balloon in his notebook.
“I’m afraid not, but he did receive a consoling reminder of how small our lives are in the scheme of things. Then there was a woman who took her granddaughter to the zoo in Regent’s Park while her son was dying.” He described how the woman had broken down in the reptile house, pounding on the glass, and terrifying her granddaughter.
“I’d love to talk to the balloonist,” said Sean, adding a basket to his sketch. He felt easily capable of imagining pain and panic; stoic calm was the mystery.
“That can be arranged,” said the secretary. He promised to send a list of interview subjects by the end of the week.
THREE DAYS AFTER THIS CONVERSATION SEAN SPOTTED AN ENVELOPE lying on the doormat. The secretary’s list, he thought, and opened it as he walked toward the fridge.
Dear Mr. Writer,
How is it that you don’t see what’s right in front of your face?
Abigail was hanging out with Mr. Cupid in the pub last week and again yesterday, for all the world to see. Ask her who was with her in Manchester last March.
You deserve better, Sunshine. Open your bright blue eyes and wake up.
A well-wisher
Every part of the letter was typed, including the salutation and the address, and every part was spelled correctly, including the postal code; only the color of his eyes was wrong. Sean’s first thought, staring at the neat lines, was not of their content but of their style. The partiality for nicknames reminded him of one of those American authors. And why Mr. Cupid? he wondered. Was that simply a witty reference to the clichés of love?
Then the content hit him.
He thought back to Manchester. Abigail had been gone for a week, teaching a drama workshop and, during the entire seven days, they’d talked twice. They were well past that lovely, absurd phase when it was imperative to talk every few hours; still he remembered being surprised at how hard she was to reach. Now these facts supported the letter writer’s claims.
And who was the writer? It must, he thought, be someone who worked at the theater. All these weeks and months, when he had been going about his business there, someone had been watching him, him and Abigail, with a view to making trouble between them. That he should be the target of such scrutiny was another startling, and unwelcome, revelation.
He went upstairs, found a sheet of paper, wrote Attention Abigail: 2 pages, inc. this one, and faxed the letter to the theater. Then he sat waiting. In one of the case histories a man had described his first failed attempt: I felt like a suicide bomber, wandering the market, buying a chicken, squeezing an orange, while I waited to explode. Second by second, Sean’s satisfaction in his gesture dwindled. All he had done was give Abigail a chance to prepare her response. Ten minutes after the pages slid through the machine the phone rang.
“Who the fuck wrote this?” she said. “Was there a return address?”
“You don’t sign yourself a well-wisher and give a return address,” he said in his most professorial tone. “Presumably someone who knows both of us and knows our address. My guess is someone connected with the theater. There must be a dozen candidates.”
“We should report them to the police. This is a crime.”
“I’m not sure about that. The letter doesn’t threaten anything. Just gives
advice.”
“Advice,” said Abigail contemptuously. She continued to fulminate until finally he interrupted. Was there any substance to the accusations?
“I did have a drink with Valentine last Monday.”
A stinking yellow light broke through the darkness. Mr. Cupid. Suddenly he remembered that Valentine had been away around the time Abigail was in Manchester, visiting his parents in Bath, he claimed. Had it been the very same week? “What about Manchester?” he said. “You were hard to reach.”
“I was teaching round the clock. Are you suggesting this crap might be true?”
“Not suggesting, asking. We did promise to make no promises.” Trust Abigail, even in this situation, to seize the upper hand.
“Of course not. Someone just wants to make trouble between us or,” she added thoughtfully, “between you and Valentine.”
“Right.” He believed her, and he didn’t believe her. Each new piece of evidence seemed to weigh equally on both sides.
“I’ll be home in an hour,” she said, and hung up.
Wanting to keep busy, not knowing what else to do, Sean embarked on a long-overdue letter to his parents. Three years ago, when his father retired from train driving, they had moved from Dorset to the Isle of Wight, where they ran a busy bed-and-breakfast. This new enterprise seemed to have rendered them largely oblivious to their children’s lives. Even the news of Sean’s divorce had elicited only an understanding remark about modern life. His brother reported the same bewildering acceptance. Now, on the principle that the day could get no worse, he set out to tell them he had quit his Ph.D. Instead he found himself writing about Tuscany and the euthanasia book.
He was describing the latter when he heard the front door open and close, followed by footsteps mounting the stairs. Abigail embraced him where he sat. “Are you ready to take a break?”
“Five minutes,” he said, and dashed off a last paragraph.
The House on Fortune Street Page 4
