I stare at the floor. From the edge of my vision, I see SJ standing to come and comfort me, but I raise one hand to stop her. ‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘You’ll just start me off again.’
She nods and obediently sinks back onto the sofa. A few minutes later, her knitting needles start to click again briefly, but then pause, so I look up at her.
‘You should have told him,’ she says. ‘That’s all I’m going to say on the whole thing.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s his kid too. He has a right to know.’
‘I know,’ I say again.
I stare out the window and attempt to analyse how Victor and I got to this point. Because although I remember everything that has happened, although I know every word that was said, and, of course, every word that wasn’t said, none of it adds up to this finality. None of it makes sense.
‘Did Victor’s number show up when he called?’ I ask her, the sharp urgency of my voice surprising even me.
SJ reaches for the phone and then hands it to me.
‘Shite,’ I say, pressing buttons on the handset. ‘Hidden number.’
‘Surely you have his number though?’ SJ says.
I shake my head. ‘He dropped his phone in the toilet back in France. He said he was getting a new phone and a new number.’
‘And you don’t have it?’
‘I don’t think he has it yet,’ I explain.
‘And Jeremy? You said he was staying with Jeremy.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know his number. I don’t even know his surname.’
SJ shakes her head. ‘Then I think you’re gonna have to be patient, sweetie. Or get a flight yourself.’
My mobile rings. I frantically search for it in my handbag, but when I do manage to fish it out, the name on the display is Mark.
‘Hey, chicken,’ Mark says, his chirpy tone revealing that he is blissfully unaware of any of the drama. ‘I was wondering if you were gracing us with your royal presence ce soir.’
‘Have you got a number for Victor?’ I ask.
‘Victor?’ Mark says, his tone changing. ‘Sure. Why? Have you lost it?’
‘Not his French mobile. It doesn’t work any more. Have you another number for him? Or for his friend Jeremy?’
‘Jeremy? No,’ Mark says. ‘I can’t stand the guy. What’s happened? You sound funny.’
I give Mark the shortest version possible of the story.
‘Are you staying put?’ he asks, once I have finished my brief synopsis. ‘Because I can call over on my way home if you want.’
‘There’s no need, SJ’s here.’
‘I think there is,’ he says. ‘Three brains are better than two. I’ll bring a bottle of wine, shall I?’
‘I can’t drink, Mark,’ I say.
‘You? Since when?’
‘I’m pregnant, OK?’
‘Jesus! OK, I’ll bring chocolate instead,’ he says. ‘Unless you have some other special request for fennel or something.’
‘Fennel?’
‘I don’t know. You’re supposed to crave weird shit, aren’t you?’
‘Chocolate’s fine,’ I say.
‘Right.’
‘Actually, dark chocolate Bounty. OK?’
‘Sure.’
‘And bring lots of them.’
‘Sure thing.’
An hour later, the doorbell rings. I turn from the television to SJ and say, ‘Mark, or George?’
‘Mark,’ SJ says, glancing at the clock. ‘George has a key.’
I stand, steel myself to hopefully avoid crying again, and head out into the hallway.
When I reach the front door, I place one hand on the doorknob, take a deep gasp of oxygen and wrench the door open. But the sight before me knocks all of the air back out of my lungs. Because there, on the doorstep, I find not Mark but a haggard Victor
‘You!’ I say, rather stupidly.
‘Yes,’ Victor replies quietly.
SJ comes out, already pulling on her coat. ‘I have to, um, nip out for something,’ she says.
When she reaches the end of the path, she pauses and adds, ‘And get it sorted, eh? Tell him, OK?’
I nod at her, and she winks, and, still buttoning her coat, she strides away.
ROUND THREE
‘You had better come in,’ I say to Victor. ‘It’s freezing out here.’
He pushes past me, unintentionally barging me with his backpack and then apologising as he does so. I close the door behind me and follow him into the kitchen.
‘I thought you were leaving,’ I say. ‘I thought you had already gone.’
Victor lifts off his backpack, leans it against a wall, and turns to face me. ‘I went to the station, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get on the train. Not with things the way they are.’
‘No?’
He shakes his head. ‘I keep thinking about what George Harrison’s wife said.’
I frown as I struggle to remember what George Harrison’s wife might have said but my mind draws a blank.
‘It’s just a documentary I watched with Jeremy,’ Victor explains.
We are interrupted by the almighty buzz of a chainsaw being started up outside. We turn to look out at the garden, and as we do, a floodlight comes on illuminating the dead tree. A guy in an orange safety helmet starts to climb a ladder.
‘They’re cutting the tree down,’ I tell him, speaking loudly to be heard over the scream of the chainsaw.
‘Finally!’ Victor says.
‘We had better go through to the lounge.’
I lead the way through, and then close the lounge door against the noise. Victor crosses the room and stands with his back to the gas fire, so I take a seat on the sofa and look up at him.
‘You were saying something about George Harrison’s wife. He’s the guy from the Beatles, right?’
‘Yes, that’s him. They had this really stormy relationship. And she said people were always asking her what the secret of a long marriage was.’
‘OK . . .’
‘And she said she always replied that the secret of a long marriage is to never get divorced.’
I give a small smile in spite of myself.
‘I know it’s silly,’ Victor says uncertainly.
‘No, it’s not silly at all. It’s quite profound.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. She said they had loads of difficult times, but they stayed together, and in the end she was glad they did, because they just always had more and more shared memories to look back on.’
I see Victor’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and struggles for words.
‘This isn’t what I want,’ I tell him. ‘You know that.’
A shadow crosses his features, and I realise that he has misunderstood me. ‘Splitting up, I mean. Splitting up isn’t what I want.’
Victor exhales with visible relief. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well, me neither.’
‘I don’t . . .’ we both say simultaneously.
‘You go first,’ Victor says, smiling weakly.
‘No, you . . .’
‘I was just going to say that, well, I don’t think I give a fuck where we live,’ he says. ‘Not really. And you? What were you going to say?’
I smile but also feel a tear slide down my cheek. ‘The same thing, really,’ I manage.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Another batch of tears are now clouding my vision. I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. ‘I don’t know where all these tears keep coming from,’ I say. ‘I should have run out of supplies by now.’
Victor dabs the corner of his eye and points the finger at me. ‘The same place as these, I expect,’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘So,’ Victor says. ‘If neither of us really care where we live, then wouldn’t you think that two clever people like us should be able to get this sorted?’
‘You would think so,’ I say. ‘But we don’t seem to be that clever, do we?’
‘I’ve been an arsehole. I had a lot on my plate, but it’s no excuse. I know that. I didn’t know I could get it so wrong. But I’ve learnt from this. Let me prove it to you.’
‘I needed you, Victor,’ I say. ‘I was away from home, and I was ill, and I needed you.’
‘I fucked up. But I’ll make up for it,’ Victor croaks. ‘People fuck up, and you either stay together and learn from it, or you give up and start all over again with someone new. But at some point, you have to stop doing that. At some point you have to say, “Let’s stay together and fix this”.’
Tears are streaming down my face now and I’m too choked up to reply.
‘But it was a really hard time for me too. I had so much emotional stuff going on down in Perpignan.’
‘I know that,’ I tell him. ‘I am sorry about that. I was scared. I really was. But it’s no excuse either.’
Victor sighs and shakes his head. ‘Come here,’ he says, standing and opening his arms.
I look up at him but my eyesight is so blurry that I can’t make out his features. ‘There’s something else,’ I tell him, dabbing at my eyes with a tissue. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. Something I should have told you before.’
‘Oh?’ Victor says. He looks worried.
‘It’s . . . Well, the thing is . . . I . . . I don’t want to have a kid in France.’
Victor frowns. ‘A kid?’
‘Yes. If I’m going to have a child, I want to bring it up here.’
‘Why?’ he says. ‘What’s wrong with France?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. It’s sort of an instinct thing. I want to have my friends around me. I want my mother nearby. I want to understand what the doctors are saying. I want the kid to learn English and watch The Apprentice, and like Irish stew and Marmite.’
Victor nods. ‘OK. But we can cross that bridge when we get to it, can’t we?’
‘I’m pregnant,’ I blurt out. I lower my gaze and stare at my hands for a moment, because I’m almost too scared to see his reaction. But then I hear him sigh deeply, and have to look back to check out what’s happening. He is staring at me like a madman, both hands cupped over his mouth.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I say again, this time staring him in the eye.
Victor’s brow wrinkles and then he shakes his head, revealing the beginning of a smile. ‘Really?’ he says, his features such a mix of emotions that he looks confused as much as anything else.
I nod and bite my lip as I struggle to hold back more tears.
Victor steps towards me, beaming now. ‘Come here!’
When SJ returns home an hour later, she finds Victor and me sitting at the dining room table holding hands.
‘Mission accomplished?’ she asks.
I nod and smile.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘I’m going to phone George and get him to take me to that new Thai place in Camden so you two will have the place to yourselves.’
‘You don’t have to do that, SJ,’ I say.
‘No, you don’t,’ Victor agrees.
‘Mark’s coming anyway,’ I remind her.
‘He isn’t now. I phoned him and told him it was best if he gave you two some space. Is that OK?’
‘Sure. But all the same, you don’t have to . . .’
But SJ shakes her head. ‘I’m not good around lovey-dovey couples. It makes me feel icky. I prefer it when everyone’s shouting, to be honest.’
So for an hour, out of general respect to SJ’s ickiness, we resist the magnetic attraction between our two bodies and pretend to make bland chit-chat over cups of tea.
But the second SJ leaves the house to join George, Victor grabs my hand, swings me around, and pushes me against the wall to kiss me.
For a second, my stomach somersaults – a reaction to the sensation of his prickly beard, but tonight, my desire to be close to him is more powerful than my phobia.
Images of my bearded father spring to mind, images specifically of his death, of my desperate attempts to resuscitate him. And then I think of Waiine, ill in hospital, stubbly and unshaven too, and I think, What strange images to come up in the throes of a passionate kiss, but then these images also fade, squeezed from my mind by the sudden realisation that we are three, here, together. Victor, myself, and our unborn child. I start, unexpectedly, to weep.
‘Hey,’ Victor says, looking into my eyes with concern.
‘No,’ I say, putting a hand behind his head, and pulling his mouth back against mine. ‘No, don’t stop.’
Between kissing and crying, breathing becomes a little difficult, but there’s nothing I can do to resist either, so kiss and cry and gasp for air is what I do. And then slowly the tears fade and the kiss becomes more passionate, more urgent.
I feel Victor’s bulge beneath his jeans, pressing against me, and then feel his hands beneath my clothes, touching my breasts. And then suddenly we’re both lost in a frantic mix of sadness and joy, regret and relief, and the animalistic desire to mate.
‘Here?’ Victor asks in surprise, making me realise that I am in the process of unbuttoning his jeans.
In reply, I yank them down to his thighs, and there, against the wall of the hallway, we urgently, frantically, make love.
Victor comes quickly, and apologises for his lack of willpower, which just makes me laugh.
‘What?’ he asks, nuzzling my neck. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘I don’t know. Just us. Human beings. We’re so ridiculous. We’re such an absurd mix of animal desire and pride and jealousy and general fucked-up-ness, aren’t we?’
Victor starts to laugh as well, and tries to pull away, but I clutch him close. ‘No, stay,’ I whisper. I love the feeling of him slowly shrinking inside me.
‘I just mean . . . well, it should all be so simple, shouldn’t it? It’s just . . . this.’
Victor kisses my neck. ‘I love the smell of you. That’s what I miss the most when you’re not there. Your neck.’
‘Vampire,’ I say.
‘Maybe.’
‘Ah, that tickles,’ I say.
‘Sorry, I forgot to shave.’
I lean away just far enough to look properly at his beard, and then raise one hand and caress it gently.
‘It’s fine,’ I say.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, something happened just now. I think I got over it. I think I got over my beard thing.’
‘Really? Because I can shave. I can shave it now.’
‘No. It’s you. It’s part of you. And I love you. All of you.’
‘Me too,’ Victor says. ‘I love you so much.’
‘God, I’m pregnant,’ I suddenly say, surprising myself at the utterance.
‘I know,’ Victor says, squeezing me tight. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’
WHAT YOU DID TO ME
The next morning, aware that it’s our turn to give SJ some space, Victor and I head out for breakfast. It’s a grey drizzly day, so we end up going no farther than the first coffee shop.
Comfortably installed with our drinks, Victor says, ‘So, at risk of spoiling the love-in . . .’
‘We need to talk about what happens next?’ I offer, completing his phrase.
‘Exactly.’
‘I was thinking about it this morning while you were asleep. I think I’ll need to stay here a while. I want to get a check-up. And I need to see my mother.’
‘Right. Well, you know that I need to get back to France, right?’
I nod. ‘I know,’ I say glumly.
‘I have to finish the place, whether it’s to sell or to live in.’
‘And I can come back there and try again for a bit if it’s what you really want,’ I say, in a voice that I hope will lead to refusal of my generous offer.
‘But it isn’t what you really want?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I can’t pretend that it is. And I want to have my baby here in England, whatever happens. Somewhere where my mum, SJ and Mark are within striking distance. Being pregnant
has suddenly made all of that seem incredibly important.’
Victor nods. ‘I understand that. So where will you stay? Surely you can’t carry on camping on SJ’s sofa?’
‘No. But I can’t just kick them out. And I can’t stay with Mark and Iain either.’
‘Why?’ Victor asks. And so I fill him in on what happened.
‘You don’t hold back, do you?’ he comments, once I have finished.
‘Do you think I was wrong, then? Did I overstep the mark?’
Victor shrugs. ‘Not in principle. But I’m not sure I would get that involved in someone else’s personal stuff. But then, what do I know?’
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘the point is that I can’t stay with SJ forever, and I don’t want to go back to Mark’s. And I do need to spend some time with my mother, mainly to see if I can talk her out of this wedding nonsense.’
A shadow crosses Victor’s face.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I just think that you should maybe let other people live their lives more,’ Victor says. ‘Don’t get so involved.’
‘She is my mother.’
‘I know. But if she’s happy with Saddam, surely that’s all that matters.’
‘He’s twenty-three, Victor. Well, twenty-four now.’
Victor raises his hands in submission. ‘OK, it’s none of my business.’
I reach out and take his hand. ‘No, it is. And maybe you’re right. I think she’s wrong, but I may not have much say in the matter.’
‘No. She sounds pretty determined, from what you’ve said.’
‘I think it runs in the family,’ I laugh.
‘OK. So how about you go try to cancel your mother’s wedding while I go back and finish the place off. It should only take a couple more weeks to get everything ship-shape. And then when everything’s OK, and the water’s safe, and the cherry tree is in blossom, maybe you can come back and just see the finished thing. Just in case you change your mind.’
‘That sounds like a plan. But if I agree to come back and have another look, how will you feel if I don’t change my mind? If, after all that work, I say that I still don’t want to live there? Because that’s what I honestly think is likely to happen.’
Victor squeezes my fingers tightly. ‘Then we’ll just have to come up with another plan. I won’t mind. I promise I won’t mind anything ever again.’
The French House Page 30
