The House on Fortune Street

by Margot Livesey

  “Yes, yes, of course. How do I thank this person, my benefactor?” The pompous, Victorian word seemed suddenly appropriate.

  No thanks were necessary, Alastair declared. His client, Mr. MacPherson, was glad to provide assistance to such a deserving young person. Her only duty was to write him a letter at the end of the summer detailing how the money had fostered her art.

  Abigail sat through her afternoon seminar in a daze. So this was what it was like to be lucky, to experience random, undeserved good fortune. But as the discussion rose and fell around her, one thought took firm shape. This event was not entirely random: Alastair barely knew who she was; it was Fiona who had given him the idea, who had made this happen. When the seminar ended, she went to find a phone.

  “Oh, Abigail. Alastair told me about the summer grant. I’m glad he put your name forward. Did Dara manage to change her shift at the counseling center?”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” said Abigail, putting all the emotion she could into the “you.”

  Two boys were passing, talking loudly, and she didn’t quite catch Fiona’s reply—“It was nothing”? “It was nothing to do with me”?—but she didn’t like to ask. She said that Dara had changed her shift, and asked about the printmaking course. Fiona described the series she was doing based on a medieval tapestry. Then she had to go and make supper for Fergus. Abigail could feel herself smiling as she put down the phone. How typical that Fiona would not want to be thanked.

  A HUNDRED POUNDS A MONTH WAS NOT ENOUGH TO LIVE ON, AND both the store on Princes Street and the restaurant welcomed her back. Luke had a new girlfriend, but once or twice they got together for old times’ sake; she didn’t have a moment to look for anyone else. On her rare evenings off she went round to Dara’s. She would sit at the kitchen table with Fiona and Dara, drinking wine, cooking, and talking. It didn’t matter the topic—bleaching one’s teeth, the neighbors’ greenhouse, a new film—what mattered was Fiona’s lively interest and concern, the way she remembered about the difficult customer, asked what Abigail’s boss had said. Sometimes Fergus joined them, pretending to study his maths book, smiling at their jokes. When Alastair came home the two of them would head off for a session on the computer.

  In August the Edinburgh Festival started. Abigail had been hearing about this phenomenon for months but she had had no notion of the scope and scale. The city was transformed. Wherever she looked there were actors, performers, artists, musicians. She slept only three or four hours a night and spent the rest of her time either performing or advertising their show by doing impromptu scenes on the Royal Mile. She walked around in a minuscule skirt and high-heeled boots with a martini shaker, offering thimble-sized portions to passersby. She loved the uncertainty of no one being quite sure whether she was acting or making martinis as a public service.

  Dara meanwhile was employed in a summer program for what she called nonattenders: girls and boys who one day simply refused to go to school and, despite their parents’ pleas and threats, went on refusing.

  “But what do they think will happen to them?” said Abigail. The whole idea made her furious.

  “They’re not thinking about the future. They’re trying to make the present bearable. Maybe they’ve had a hard time with bullying. Sometimes they just want attention. Most of them are middle-class kids with busy parents. Suddenly they discover that by not going to school they can get their parents to focus on them.”

  She persuaded Abigail and the rest of the Drama Society to come and do a workshop for the nonattenders. “It’ll be good publicity,” she said, “and the program will pay for them to come to one of your matinees.”

  The workshop was a huge success, and at the end of the afternoon Abigail found herself standing on the stage, making an impromptu speech. “I want to tell you,” she said, “about what happened to me.” She described how for nearly a year she hadn’t been able to go to school, and how that had made her feel that all the doors were closing. “I left home and worked at a supermarket to pay my rent so that I could attend school and I’m glad I did because now I’m here, talking to you.”

  At the back of the room Dara began to clap; other people joined in. Abigail stood there, smiling and bewildered. She was used to applause when she acted but not for her true self.

  THE LAST NIGHT OF THE SHOW ABIGAIL NOTICED A MAN IN THE second row of the audience. He was middle-aged and not particularly good-looking but he watched the stage with unusual intensity and, she soon realized, watched her. Might he be a reviewer for a major newspaper, or a talent scout? Superstitiously she didn’t mention his presence to anyone else. When the play ended, he rose to his feet, applauding loudly. Abigail could feel his eyes on her as she bowed. A few minutes later she emerged from the dressing room to find him still sitting among the empty seats. He stood up, smiling, and moved toward her with outstretched hand. For a moment she was radiant with possibility.

  “I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Dara’s father, Cameron MacLeod. You were terrific.”

  “Oh,” said Abigail stupidly. Here was the subject of so many late-night conversations, so much speculation: an ordinary, rather slender man in a navy blue sweater and black trousers. She pulled herself together and gave him one of her best smiles. “Thank you. And thanks for coming tonight. It’s nice to meet you.” To see what would happen, she held his hand a little too long.

  Cameron’s expression didn’t change. He explained that he’d come up from London just for the weekend; he and Dara had gone to a photography show that afternoon.

  She introduced him to the rest of the cast, including the gorgeous Antonio, who also flirted to no effect. Cameron praised everyone. Then with a wave of the hand, he was gone. The next day she phoned Dara and thanked her for sending him to the play. “He seemed nice.”

  “Nice?” said Dara.

  Abigail could hear the disappointment in her voice but what else could she offer. That she’d thought he was somebody important? That he hadn’t responded to either her or Antonio? “He was very complimentary about the play,” she said.

  “That’s the main thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Dara. We only spoke for a minute and everyone was milling around.”

  “I know. It’s stupid to think you’d have an amazing insight in sixty seconds. I keep hoping that someday I’ll understand what made him leave us.”

  “You will. Now you’ve left home you’ll get to know each other in a different way, as equals.”

  “I don’t want to be his equal. I want to be his daughter.”

  “At least he stays in touch, at least he sends money.”

  Then it was Dara’s turn to apologize. “You’re right. Lots of parents behave worse than him,” she said. “Far, far worse.”

  THAT AUTUMN DARA STARTED SEEING KEVIN, A THIRD-YEAR POLITICS student whom she had met at a meeting about proposed renovations to the halls of residence. “He’s a union steward,” she reported. “He thinks students should have a say in whatever plans the university adopts. After all, we’re the ones who use the buildings.” For several days after the meeting she mentioned Kevin frequently; that Thursday she didn’t show up to study for their tutorial. The following morning Abigail found a note under her door.

  Sorry about last night. Ran into Kevin. xox Dara.

  When Abigail finally met him she was startled to discover that the fount of all happiness and wisdom was a rather stolid young man with muscular forearms and untidy hair. The three of them went out for a drink. Conversation was already faltering when Abigail confused the deputy prime minister with the treasurer and Kevin said something savage about ill-informed citizens, and where did she think the grants for her precious theater came from.

  “I know more about the working classes than you ever will,” Abigail said. She downed her beer and left.

  Later Dara made excuses for him but Abigail didn’t care about Kevin, or what he thought of her. What she cared about was the way Dara had disappeared into the relationship. She was seldom in her
room; she forgot arrangements or changed them at the last moment. And when they did spend time together she talked endlessly about Kevin. Abigail was at first puzzled, then hurt. In the course of their friendship she had slept with many more people than Dara, but she had never once changed their plans to meet a lover.

  DURING THEIR LAST SUMMER AS STUDENTS, KEVIN GRADUATED and moved to London. Dara went with him and got a job in a holiday program for under-twelves. Abigail returned to Edinburgh and stayed in the flat. She had still not met Mr. MacPherson, her mysterious benefactor, but at the end of each visit, she wrote him a heartfelt letter and, at Fiona’s suggestion, left a bottle of wine. In Dara’s absence, she continued to go round to the house most weeks. Fiona was teaching her to cook. Her own mother, although capable of producing elaborate feasts, had barely taught her to use a toaster. Now Abigail enjoyed the measuring and slicing, the stirring and blending, and the way in which, amid such mundane activities, conversation occurred. She and Fiona talked at length about Dara—neither of them cared for Kevin—and about Abigail’s parents. I had such a boring, stable childhood, said Fiona. In spite of Abigail’s veiled questions she never mentioned her first husband.

  One evening Abigail’s knock at the door was answered by Alastair. She guessed, seeing his suit, that he was newly back from the office, but he greeted her warmly. “Come in. What a pretty dress.”

  Inside he explained that Fiona wasn’t back yet and Fergus was at the cinema. He hung up his jacket and, without consulting Abigail, opened a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. In the living room she sat in the chair by the window while he settled himself on the sofa. As they exchanged news of Dara, he meticulously rolled up his shirtsleeves, first one, then the other, each fold exact. Abigail watched, amused by his fastidiousness. Suddenly aware of her scrutiny, he looked up with a smile. “What happened to your young man?” he said.

  “Which one?”

  “The one at the restaurant.”

  “Luke. That was ages ago. He’s going out with the pastry chef. She makes the most delicious éclairs.”

  “Don’t you ever fall in love?” Satisfied with his sleeves, he leaned back, his youthful eyes fixed on her.

  “Not yet.” She had used the word once or twice but only out of politeness, when somebody said it to her and the pause grew embarrassingly long. Now, to avoid Alastair’s gaze, she drank her wine and looked out of the window. The houses across the street were ablaze in the evening sun.

  “When I was your age,” he said, “I was in love with a friend of my mother’s. Rosalind played the flute and had a little black dog she carried around in her bicycle basket. I was tongue-tied every time I saw her. Later I settled for more earthly delights, but I still sometimes think that was the purest feeling I’ve ever known. I would have done anything for her.”

  “I felt like that about my grandparents,” said Abigail. Coaxed on by his questions, she told him about the summers in Chatham, the walks by the River Medway, and the visits to the town of Rochester with its ancient cathedral, and its many reminders of Dickens. “My grandfather thought he could learn everything he needed to know about England by studying Dickens. He said everyone had a book, or a writer, that was the key to their life.”

  “That’s an appealing idea,” said Alastair, getting up to refill their glasses. “Does the person have to have read the book? Or is the connection there anyway, and some people figure it out and others don’t?”

  “I don’t know.” She was abruptly dismayed. “He died before I could ask him. I do know that he thought of my father as being like Mr. Micawber, overly optimistic about practical matters.”

  “To put it kindly. There aren’t a lot of great choices in Dickens for girls. I don’t see you as Little Nell. Maybe Estella, though she’s a cold bitch. Better to give up on gender and be poor, blundering Pip. That scene when he meets Magwitch again makes my hair stand on end every time.”

  She was still registering the word “bitch,” as he continued. “There are three great novels about romantic love and they all have great in the title.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Great Expectations, Le Grand Meaulnes, and The Great Gatsby.”

  “I haven’t heard of Le Grand Meaulnes,” she said, hoping to keep the conversation on literary topics.

  “It’s by a French writer, Alain-Fournier, who died in the First World War. The same story as the other two: boy loves inaccessible, mysterious girl. Boy loses out. You’re probably already too old to read it.”

  “I’m only twenty-one.”

  “Oh, Abigail, you’ve never been twenty-one.”

  To disguise her discomfort she reached for her glass and, finding it empty, got up to go to the bathroom. When she came out into the hall, it took her a few seconds to realize that she was not alone. Alastair was leaning against the wall, holding another bottle of wine.

  “You’re a hot little thing, aren’t you?” he said in a low, thick voice.

  For a few seconds Abigail was torn between running out of the house and kicking him, hard, on the shins. Then she did the only thing that seemed feasible: pretended he hadn’t spoken. “I’m going to start supper,” she said.

  In the kitchen her hands trembled as she opened cupboards and began blindly taking out pasta, onions, olives, tomatoes, basil, pine nuts. Why was she wearing this flimsy dress? She put on the biggest, dirtiest apron she could find, pulled her hair back into a rubber band, and set to chopping onions as if their odor could keep him at bay.

  Ten minutes later she heard the sound of the front door. Fiona came into the kitchen. “What a treat,” she said. “You’re making supper.”

  “Yes.” Abigail could feel herself smiling breathlessly. “I was wondering whether to put in anchovies as well as olives.”

  “Why not? They’ll give everything a little more zip.”

  At the table the three of them talked and laughed as they had done on half a dozen occasions that summer, but later Abigail walked home with a heavy heart. The safe, well-run house was no longer quite so safe. Why did this have to happen, she thought fiercely. She had never flirted with Alastair, not for a second. He was Dara’s stepfather, Fiona’s husband, and besides, with his gray hair, his abstruse conversation, it had never occurred to her that he was like the men who eyed her in the street, or cornered her at the restaurant behind the kitchen door.

  THAT YEAR SHE WAS STARRING IN ONE OF THE DRAMA SOCIETY plays, but instead of giving out martinis she went, at Axel’s urging, to see as many other plays as possible. Day after day she leaned forward in her seat, studying the actors, trying to figure out what worked and what didn’t. Later she would scribble notes and discuss her observations with Axel in person, and with Dara on the phone. Why was Masha’s grief in The Three Sisters so powerful? How was it possible for a brief shrug to resonate across a theater? What made a one-person show absorbing? Was physical theater still possible?

  In return Dara told her about life with Kevin; they had visited Marx’s grave, they were giving out leaflets for a local Labour candidate. After they said good-bye, Abigail would wander around the flat, restless and out of sorts. However long they talked, she didn’t have the feeling of being understood that she almost always did in Dara’s presence. “I miss you,” she would say, and Dara would say the same, but Abigail knew that her missing didn’t have the same weight.

  Dara had planned to spend the last week of the vacation at home, but she kept postponing her return; she couldn’t bear to leave Kevin. Finally she came north the day before classes began, stopping in Edinburgh only to repack her suitcases. Abigail had returned to St. Andrews the previous day and had put up a sign on the door of Dara’s room—Welcome back, Dara —with a red balloon bobbing above. “You idiot,” Dara said and threw her arms around Abigail. They went to the local fish and chip shop and sat there for three hours. Abigail acted out highlights of the plays she’d seen and Dara listened and asked exactly the right questions and then answered all of Abigail’s. Most of her answers involved Kevin—he
would be coming up for a weekend in November; they would see each other at Christmas—but Abigail smiled and nodded. She and Dara were here, together, and he was more than four hundred miles away. As they parted outside their rooms, Dara said, “I forgot to tell you Alastair sent his love. He said how nice it was having you around this summer.”

  “Wait until I make you the chicken puttanesca your mother taught me.”

  Maybe when they were older, twenty-five or, unimaginably, thirty, she could tell Dara what had happened with Alastair. For now she must wrap it up tightly, tightly, and hide it away.

  DURING THE NEXT FEW WEEKS ABIGAIL DISCOVERED, OVER AND over, that she was wrong about Kevin. He might be physically in London but in every other respect it was as if he were still here. Dara talked about him incessantly. She canceled plans in order to phone him or write letters; she insisted on seeing the films he’d seen, reading the books he’d read. She was too busy to help Abigail rehearse her lines, too busy to discuss arrangements for December. Abigail had spent the last three Christmases in Edinburgh, staying at Dara’s house, working at the store and the restaurant, but now Dara was planning to visit Kevin and seemed to forget that Abigail had nowhere else to go. Not knowing how to raise the topic without mentioning Alastair, Abigail reluctantly contacted the last hotel she’d worked. At first the manager said he didn’t need anyone but when she agreed to waitress both Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve he hired her.

  Two days later Abigail was just getting into bed—it was almost midnight—when she heard an odd scraping sound at her door. She opened it to find Dara huddled on the floor, her face red and swollen, her hair tangled, sobbing. Abigail pulled her inside and guided her over to the bed. Her first thought was that something terrible had happened: Fiona had been in a car crash, or was deadly ill. Or Dara herself had discovered a lump, or a virus. When she pieced together that Kevin was the cause of this distress—he’d met someone else—she was so relieved, she almost laughed. “I hope someone else treats him like dirt.”