Left and Leaving

by Jo Verity

  ‘In the kitchen,’ she said.

  She was wearing a dark green dressing gown and, beneath it, striped pyjamas. Her feet were bare. This vision of her, with her odd hairstyle and boyish nightwear, tugged at his memory. Christopher Robin. Those Shepard illustrations.

  A machine was grumbling away, an empty washing basket ready on the floor in front of it.

  ‘Do your clothes smell weird?’ she said.

  She must have seen bewilderment on his face because she laughed and explained how both her father’s clothes and her own were tainted with the same stale smell of hospital.

  ‘The wards can be niffy,’ he said. ‘Bodies in beds. Bodily functions. I’m used to it, I suppose. Better than working in a chip shop.’

  ‘Hospitals ought to smell healthy,’ she said. ‘Antiseptic and…’

  ‘Minty?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes.’

  She opened the tumble dryer, pulled out a towel and held it against her cheek. ‘Another ten minutes.’

  He watched while she fiddled with the laundry, waiting for her to tell him why she’d asked him to come, but she seemed to have forgotten he was there. He began to fear that, unless he moved things on, they were in danger of spending the evening in the kitchen, discussing smells and washing.

  ‘Did you want to go out for a drink? Or something to eat?’ he said.

  ‘No.’ She pointed to his coat. ‘Here. Let me take that.’

  She hung his coat and bag on the rack in the hall. He noted that her outdoor clothes were all on hangers. A cycling helmet and an assortment of bags and rucksacks were arranged on the shelf above, her footwear lined up on the ledge beneath. Ordered. Neat.

  She nodded towards the sitting room. ‘Sit down. I’ll get us a drink.’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  ‘Whisky? Wine?’

  ‘Whisky, please.’

  Gil had been in this room once before. On that occasion he’d concentrated on making her comfortable and cooking a meal, paying little attention to his surroundings. Looking around now, the room seemed almost sterile. No discarded newspapers. No used mugs on the table. No bags or books dumped on the sofa. Knowing that he was on his way, she might have blitzed the place but he’d seen enough hastily tidied rooms to guess that this one was never anything but tidy. Another thing. No decorations. Not even a swag of holly or a fancy candle. The only sign of Christmas was a stack of cards on the coffee table, largest at the bottom, smallest on top and, next to them, three small, gift-wrapped parcels.

  Vivian returned with a tray on which were two glasses, a jug of water and a bottle of whisky – ‘Auchentoshan Classic Lowland Malt’ according to the label. She chose the armchair facing him, her slender feet planted, side by side, on the rug. Her toenails were unpainted. A faint grey rectangle curled around the outside of her foot near the base of her little toe – evidence of a sticking plaster. He found the sight of her naked feet intimate and touching.

  She broke the seal on the bottle and poured two generous measures into the straight-sided glasses.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  He waited for her to expand on this but all she said was ‘Water?’

  ‘I’m told it’s a no-no with malts but I’ll risk a splash.’

  He added a small quantity of water to his drink and raised his glass towards her. ‘Here’s to your dad’s speedy recovery. And to us, of course.’

  He took a sip but she made no move to join him in the toast. ‘Something wrong?’ he said.

  ‘This “us”. What is it?’ She was sitting very still, clutching her glass, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘If you and I were simply friends, I would have heard about your girlfriend from you not from Irene. I’d know her name and where she lives. I’d know what you were giving her for Christmas. We might even have met.’

  Thanks, Irene.

  ‘What’s this about, Vivian?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s my point.’

  He took a gulp of whisky, gaining a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Okay. I have a girlfriend. Her name is Feray. She’s Turkish, forty-something, divorced with two kids. She lives in the basement, I live on the top floor, and I don’t have a clue what I’ll give her for Christmas.’

  ‘Does she know about me?’

  ‘No.’

  She shook her head. ‘So how does it work? On Saturday night, for instance. Didn’t she want to know where you were?’ She sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘We have an open relationship. We don’t keep tabs on each other.’ It sounded feeble and he could see she didn’t believe him. ‘While we’re on the subject, does Nick know about me?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘So how does that work?’ It was petty, playground stuff but he couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘That’s what I mean. You and I have both kept this…this…’ She leaned back in the chair setting the whisky sloshing in the glass. ‘See? I don’t know what to call it.’

  ‘Does it need a label?’

  ‘Yes, if we’re to avoid misunderstandings.’

  ‘What’s wrong with things as they are?’

  She shrugged. ‘What? The two of us floating around in some kind of furtive bubble?’

  ‘I thought it suited you that way.’

  ‘I think it suits you that way,’ she said.

  He stood up and drained the remaining whisky, the liquor numbing his tongue and burning the back of his throat. ‘Perhaps it’s best if I go.’

  ‘You’re running away?’ she said.

  ‘No point in staying if we’re going to fight.’

  She replaced her glass, untouched, on the tray and went into the hall, returning with his bag.

  ‘What did you bring?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  She dangled the bag by its strap, jiggling it so that it danced like a fish on a line. ‘What’s in it?’

  How long was it since he’d been standing in the porch, brimming with adolescent anticipation? Fifteen minutes tops? He tried to decode the expression on her face. Not anger, more exasperation.

  ‘You didn’t explain why you wanted me to come,’ he said. ‘I thought there might be bad news from—’

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted you to come. I asked you if you’d like to come. You came. And now I want to know what you brought with you.’

  If he responded with anything less than the truth it would be the end of it. He took the bag from her, opened it and began placing its contents on the table. Tattered A-Z. Toilet bag. Electric razor. Underpants. Torch. Socks. Camera.

  She studied the items in silence and he knew she was waiting for him to explain.

  ‘I hoped you’d want me to stay,’ he said. ‘I won’t pretend I didn’t.’

  She picked up the socks, freeing them from their loose ball, holding them close to the lamp. ‘One’s black, one’s navy.’

  He took them from her and dropped them in his bag. When he reached for the rest of his things she laid a hand on his arm. ‘I want you to stay.’

  She looked calm and solemn yet her proposal was so improbable that he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d clapped her hands and yelled fooled you.

  ‘I’m confused,’ he said.

  ‘Labels prevent misunderstandings. Remember?’

  They took a step towards each other, meeting in a clumsy hug. He felt her ribs and shoulder blades beneath the bulky dressing gown. It was like holding a cat.

  She rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘You don’t smell at all weird.’

  He lifted her hair away from her ear and kissed her temple. ‘That’s a relief.’

  In Caffè Nero, when she’d halved those pastries, he’d known that this unlabelled thing would be on her terms. Each time they met, he braced himself against the disappointment of it being the last time. Being with her had never been difficult. There had been no question of his having to try extra hard, or to modify his behaviour to any extent – surprising considering that she wasn
’t a straightforward person. In fact she was straightforward, which was what wrong-footed him now and again. For the most part he found her unorthodoxy refreshing but tonight he wished that she would be a tad more conventional. Take things more slowly because this felt reckless, as if the whole thing were racing away too fast.

  ‘There are half-a-dozen reasons why this is a lousy idea,’ he said.

  ‘Be specific.’

  She was demanding that he list his own shortcomings and, God only knew why, he was going to do as she asked.

  ‘You’ll hate me for snoring. And for being too short. My music will drive you nuts and my nose hairs will disgust you.’ He held her away from him so that he could see her face. ‘I’m too old for you, Vivian. Remember how you despised your parents.’

  ‘This is different.’

  How different? Temporary? Casual?

  ‘What about your boyfriend?’ he said.

  ‘That’s over.’ She fixed his eyes with her frank gaze. ‘I think you and I have to sleep together.’

  ‘What?’ He laughed, breaking off only when he realised that she meant it. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  She nodded and gave a bleak smile. ‘I think you should find out what having sex with me is like.’

  ‘Vivian, Vivian. Couldn’t we drift into this like other people do? Work it out as we go along?’

  ‘That’s not my style,’ she said. ‘Can we please stop talking?’

  He held her face in his hands and kissed her, this time parting her lips gently with his tongue. Again he thought of a cat, tense and ready to bolt.

  Vivian locked the door and sat on the edge of the bath. Poor Gil. Her proposition had shocked him, but if they were to continue seeing each other, they would have to face the issue of sex sooner or later. It was inevitable. When he’d come through the door, bag on his shoulder, she’d known that it should be tonight.

  She thought it through once more – to be sure herself, and to give Gil a little time to get used to the idea.

  She’d barely seen Nick in weeks, what with those unavoidable work dos and his ‘new client’. He’d certainly failed to take on board the ramifications of her father’s accident. She should be angry with Nick – disappointed by his lack of support, distressed by his probable infidelity. But she wasn’t. If she felt anything it was sadness that their relationship had petered out almost without their noticing. Tomorrow she would tell him it was over and he could go off on his skiing holiday, fancy free.

  But this didn’t explain why she was drawn to Gil Thomas. She’d met all her boyfriends – five counting Nick – through work or mutual friends. She’d never been picked up by, or picked up, a stranger – because in effect that’s what had happened. And such an insignificant stranger, too. Had she been sitting opposite him on the Tube, he wouldn’t have warranted a second glance. She’d read somewhere that it was common for strangers who had shared the same trauma – a hijacking or a serious accident – to forge a bond, sometimes to the point of fixation. Could that be what was going on here? It certainly explained Irene’s bizarre behaviour.

  She brushed then flossed her teeth.

  She sensed that he’d wanted her when they were making the snowman, and she’d rather enjoyed the feeling it had given her. But she wasn’t prepared to – how did he put it? – ‘drift into it, like other people.’

  She took off her dressing gown and pyjamas, folding them and putting them on the shelf before turning to scrutinise herself in the long mirror. Pale. Skinny. Gawky. He must take her as she was.

  Gil was sitting in her bed, the duvet drawn up to his waist.

  ‘Hello, you,’ he said.

  ‘D’you need anything?’

  ‘Do I?’

  She took a small tin from the bedside drawer and handed it to him. ‘Condoms,’ she said.

  She’d debated this when she was cleaning her teeth. She had to assume he was sexually active with this girlfriend of his and that was entirely his business. She wasn’t going to discuss it with him – not now, anyway.

  ‘Light off?’ he said, his finger poised over the switch on the Anglepoise lamp.

  ‘Please.’

  She slipped into bed. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, enabling her to make out his shape against the white bed linen. Even with her eyes closed she would have known that this wasn’t Nick lying beside her. Gil smelled different – less citrus, more spice. He took up less room in the bed although she guessed he was holding back, waiting for a cue from her.

  She turned towards him. He echoed her movement and they faced each other, barely touching. He ran a hand across her back, doubling back again and again as if to make sure he hadn’t missed anything important. Surely he must hear her heart, hammering away.

  ‘You’re tense,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  He pulled her against him. He was slighter than Nick. Less hair on his head and more on his body. He kissed her. His lips weren’t as soft as Nick’s yet his kiss was gentler.

  ‘You only have to say and I’ll stop,’ he said.

  He went on stroking her back, her thigh, her breasts. He was slow and tender. Considerate. He was trying to calm her, to get her to let go. And it was working. Thoughts were dissolving before they could consolidate. By the time he entered her, gentle yet insistent – ‘You’re sure you want this?’ ‘Yes.’ – she could think of nothing at all.

  22

  Gil stretched out his right arm. Vivian was no longer next to him. Somewhere close by water was coursing through pipes. She must be in the shower or doing something in the kitchen. What time was it? He switched on the lamp, angling his watch to catch the light. Seven o’clock. He’d give it five minutes.

  He wasn’t accustomed to down-filled duvets. Too hot, he’d woken several times in the night, in no hurry to get back to sleep, content to lie in the dark, his thigh touching hers. Once she’d murmured something but he hadn’t caught what she’d said. Perhaps she dreamed in German. He must ask her sometime.

  Vivian had been tense during their love-making and he’d been anxious not to get it wrong. He hoped it had been okay for her. Afterwards they’d barely spoken but for a whispered ‘goodnight’. She’d fallen asleep straight away. Or found it easier to pretend. She couldn’t be more different from Feray who was transformed from anxious mother to audacious lover once the bedroom door was shut.

  He’d vowed to keep his London life simple. And he’d pretty much succeeded until now. He and Feray had grown fond of each other but theirs wasn’t the Great Romance. What kept them together was good sex and convenience. Infidelity was toxic. If he went anywhere near Feray again he might as well say goodbye to Vivian and he couldn’t bear that.

  He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans and shirt. Vivian was in the kitchen, already dressed, her hair wet.

  She glanced up from her bowl of muesli. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Fantastic. Vivian, please don’t feel you have to—’

  ‘I don’t feel I have to do anything.’ She handed him a mug of black coffee. ‘Thank you for making it so easy.’

  Although he wasn’t sure what ‘easy’ meant, he guessed that she intended it as a compliment and he felt insanely proud that he’d earned this. ‘Do I have time for a shower?’

  ‘I leave in ten minutes but you’re welcome to hang on here.’

  He wanted to go with her. To stand next to her whilst she locked her front door. To walk alongside her to the Tube.

  ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ he said.

  Belsize Park station – a two-storey building, faced with brown glazed bricks – was set back from the main road. A stream of commuters headed for the entrance and the foyer was already backed up. As they jostled towards the barrier, Gil began feeling anxious, wishing he’d owned up to his claustrophobia. Before he knew it, he was slapping his Oyster card on the reader, pushing through the gate, following her towards the lift that would take them down into the ground. He began to sweat. Too many people in too small a
space. Unpleasantly, suffocatingly warm. Not enough oxygen. He took a few deep breaths. The air smelled of metal and perfume. The doors of the lift opened and the crowd began shuffling forward. His heart was racing.

  He tapped her shoulder. ‘I don’t feel great. You go on. I’ll get some air.’

  She nodded and he stepped aside, watching her join the crush in the windowless box. The doors closed and she was gone.

  He doubled back, pushing against the flow of bodies, mumbling something to the attendant at the barrier who let him through. As soon as he was outside, he felt better but now he was cross with himself. He should have been honest with her about his problem. It needed sorting or it was going to spoil things.

  He hurried down the hill to the bus stop, visualising Vivian somewhere beneath his feet, her train careering through the warren of tunnels, racing towards Kings Cross. The bus came and, grabbing a Metro from a pile on the raised baggage area, he climbed the stairs to the upper deck. He found a seat and glanced at the date on the paper. Thursday 16th December, 2010. He flicked through the pages. Assange out on bail. Retail sales down. The weather. The cricket. Tittle-tattle and bad pictures of celebrities misbehaving. This was a day like any other although it didn’t feel that way to him.

  He’d switched off his phone in the cab last night and now he jabbed the button, waiting for it to jangle into life. There was much to be said for those not-so-distant days when he could legitimately be off radar. Now his mother, his ex-wife, his kids, his boss all lost their rag if he failed to ‘get back to them’ within minutes of their call. He checked. One text – from Irene – her usual nonsense about getting together. No missed calls. Nothing from Feray.

  He must talk to her tonight. It would be difficult. He liked her, and her children. He liked his flat, too, but if his being there caused her distress, he’d find another place.

  The bus headed down Haverstock Hill towards Camden Town. To the east, dawn was streaking the sky with greenish gold and, beneath its mantle of snow, London looked spectacular.