by Susan Lewis
Slowly she removed my hand. She held it between her own two hands, and uncurled my fingers, looking down at them as she did so. ‘Oh, Alexander,’ she sighed, ‘I’m so sorry for you, though God knows why. Her paintings, Alexander, how could you have done it?’
I turned away, feeling small and loathsome in the suffocating well of my guilt. ‘How did you find out?’ I asked.
‘Robert told me.’
I felt myself beginning to tense. ‘Robert Lyttleton? That must mean Jessica’s seen him again.’
‘No. It means Henry is looking for you.’
‘Does Robert know I’m here?’
She nodded. ‘He does now. I saw him this afternoon.’
‘In his bed?’
She smiled. ‘No, Alexander, not in his bed. Incest never did hold any appeal for me.’
My head snapped up. ‘Incest?’
‘Robert’s my son. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’
I wrenched my hand away from hers. Her face was soft and smiling, but all I could see were the lines that fanned at the corners of her eyes, the broken smoothness of her neck – and for a brief moment my eyes glazed and I thought I was looking into the face of my own mother. My stomach churned. Rachel was Robert Lyttleton’s mother. And while I fucked his mother, he fucked my wife. He fucked my wife’s sister. And my wife and her sister . . .
‘Jesus Christ,’ I choked. ‘Jesus Christ.’
She turned away and went to pick up her drink. I watched her, hating her, and as she looked back at me my hatred turned to disgust, all-consuming disgust that sucked at my insides, making me want to rip out my guts, tear at my skin, anything to exorcise myself of this obscenity. For it was I who had dragged them all into this sordid gutter. Jessica, Rachel, Lizzie, and countless others I had abused along the way – they had all been nothing more than pawns in my own sick game of mysoginistic power. All I’d ever wanted to do was hurt them, humiliate them, and then walk away, leaving my contempt entrenched in their souls.
My head dropped as my shoulders began to heave. Dear God in heaven, when would it all end? How much longer could I go on living with this pain? Where was she? Dear God, where was she?
– Elizabeth –
– 14 –
Everyone was laughing. Bright lights flashed, children screamed; ‘Sugar, Sugar’ blared out of the speakers, and somewhere in the distance a siren brought the dodgems to a standstill. People wandered about with their goldfish and coloured balloons, hugging themselves into scarves and hats to keep out the bitter wind that cut across the common. I tucked the scrap of newspaper back in my pocket and waited while a little boy rummaged in my basket for a ticket. His cheeks flushed with excitement as he pulled one out and tore it open. No prize. The child’s face fell and his father, who had earlier returned my smile, now gave me a look I knew only too well.
I turned away, withdrawing into myself, needing to escape, if only for a moment, this prison of festivity.
My uncle was watching me as he handed out darts, shouting to the crowds to come and try their skill. He didn’t trust me, I knew that, but he had taken me back because they had been short-handed that summer, and I’d had nowhere else to go. That was five years ago now. I leaned against the side of my stall and closed my eyes. Oh, when would it stop hurting?
Someone called my name. It was Edwina, the old hag whose husband ran the big wheel. I could never look at the big wheel without thinking about my parents. It had been theirs, before the storms blew it over, killing them both. If things had been different, and they’d lived, then maybe I’d never have left in the first place.
‘You’re right to be getting on with things, girl,’ my uncle had said the day I told him I was going to leave the fair. Violet May, the fortune teller, had been looking after me until then, but I was a constant reminder to my uncle that he was shirking his duty by not taking me in himself. ‘You’ve got your education, your mother saw to that, so off you go.’ As he opened the door of the London train for me, I wanted to tell him I’d changed my mind, but by the time I’d turned round he was already walking away.
I’d been fourteen then but sometimes it seemed like yesterday . . . .
Edwina yelled at me again, indicating the little queue of children waiting to buy tickets from me. I gritted my teeth and looked away from her. Edwina had always hated my mother, and after she’d died, had turned her resentment on me. And as soon as I’d walked back into the fair, only hours after I’d watched Alexander walk out of my life, Edwina had been there screaming at me, telling me she knew what I’d done, she’d read the newspapers – I was a trollop, and they didn’t want my sort here. My uncle, along with the others, had stood by and watched. In the end I’d picked up my bag and started to walk away, but Violet May came after me. She would hear none of my going to Janice; the fair was my home, she said, it was where I belonged, never mind Edwina. And I’d stayed because I couldn’t face Janice trying to find me another man, another job, or anything that might end the way things had ended at Foxton’s . . . .
‘I’ve won! Miss! Miss! I’ve won!’
I looked down into a pale excited little face and smiled as the girl beamed up at me . . . . That was all a long time ago now. Everything was a long time ago now.
I took one of the cheap biros down from the shelf, and checking that no one was watching, I slipped it into the little girl’s pocket. Then I handed her a teddy. I put my finger over my lips to show her that the two prizes were our secret.
‘Edward’s here, Mummy!’
I looked up as Charlotte ran over to the stall. She gave the girl with the teddy a shy smile, and watched her walk away. ‘Edward’s in the caravan,’ she said, turning back to me and trying to sweep the thick black curls from her eyes.
‘Is he?’ I said, smiling as I lifted her up over the counter. ‘And don’t tell me – he bought you a candy floss.’
Her grey eyes rounded with amazement. ‘It’s all over your face,’ I laughed, and as she hugged me I felt my heart swell.
‘Ouch, you’re hurting me,’ she complained, struggling to get away, and putting her down again, I watched her skip off through the fair. ‘Come on,’ she called, peeping back round the lucky dip, ‘he’s waiting.’
My hand tightened around the scrap of newspaper in my pocket, and taking it out, I read it one last time. A year. He’d been married for a whole year and I hadn’t even known.
There was no point in fooling myself any longer. I’d waited, I’d never stopped loving him, but now, just like when my parents had died, I knew that it was time for me to move on.
It was Violet May who had introduced me to Edward Walters, the tycoon art dealer. They’d first met more than twenty years before, when Edward’s wife started to visit the fair to have her fortune told. And after Edward’s wife died, Violet May had carried on visiting him.
That was until Charlotte was born. Since then it was Edward who came to visit us, travelling the country as often as his business would allow – all because he was besotted with a baby girl. I knew he was lonely, it was what had drawn us together, even though he had a brother and sister who lived with him at their country estate in Kent. He tried to persuade me to take Charlotte down there, but I wouldn’t go. His elegant city suits and expensive tweeds, his easy composure and the distinction of his greying hair and wise blue eyes, all reminded me that I had already proved I didn’t belong to his world.
But I was always pleased when he came to the fair – though no one could be quite as pleased as Charlotte. It was odd, watching this distinguished-looking man take such time and trouble with my daughter. He radiated warmth and kindness. It was rare that I spoke about Alexander, but Edward sensed that I still loved him, and even though he knew it might mean that he would have to say good-bye to Charlotte and me, he had offered to find him for me. I suppose it was because I was afraid that I wouldn’t let him. Alexander had been little more than a boy when we’d been in love; by now he would have changed, probably forgotten all about me. No, I d
idn’t want to find him, I told Edward, I just wanted to stop loving him.
As time passed and my confidence started to come back, I grew more and more attached to Edward. I looked forward to seeing his tall figure stride through the crowds, to hearing his jocular voice when he crept up behind me and asked if he could buy a ticket. I laughed when he was sad, because he was only sad when he remembered his age. He was old, he kept telling me, too old for me. What could I possibly want with someone who was fifty, past his prime, and ready to fall apart at the seams?
‘Then I’ll just have to stitch you back together, won’t I?’ I said. That was after the first time we made love.
Though I had been determined not to make comparisons, it was impossible not to. But Edward was here, and Edward loved me. Alexander was no more than a dream now. So why did I keep on believing that if only I waited just a little bit longer, he would come?
‘But he won’t, child,’ Violet May said, on the night Edward asked me to marry him. I’d told him no, as gently as I could, but the hurt I saw in his eyes almost tore me apart. He held me in his arms, and I despised myself for what I was doing to him, but he only wiped away my tears and told me he understood. In the end, not knowing what else to do, I had run to Violet May and asked her to look into the crystal ball for me.
I sat before her in the warm dimness of her caravan and searched her fleshy face, trying to get her to meet my eyes as she spoke, but she wouldn’t, and I knew she was lying.
‘You’ve got to tell me,’ I whispered. ‘Please, I want to know.’
‘I told you child, he won’t come.’
‘Look, I know you want me to marry Edward, but if there is any chance, any chance at all . . . Please, Violet May, tell me the truth.’
She peered into her crystal ball again, then with a gesture of impatience, pushed it to one side. ‘Give me your hand,’ she wheezed.
She studied it for a long time, until finally she looked up and I saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. She shook her head, slowly.
‘Violet May!’ I cried. ‘Tell me!’
Then she smiled, and the icy hand that had been pushing my heart into my throat seemed to draw back. ‘Did you see him, Violet May? In the future, was he there?’
She nodded. ‘Yes child, he was there.’
‘Does that mean . . .?’ I swallowed. ‘Does that mean I will see him again?’ I stammered.
‘Yes, you will see him again.’
‘When? Violet May, tell me when? Is it soon?’
She shook her head. ‘It is a mysterious thing, this love you share with him. It has a power beyond my understanding, but the seeds of fate have already been sown. There are still long roads to be travelled before you see him again. When you do, Elizabeth . . . Don’t do it, child. It will only bring pain. There is death and hatred, such hatred. And foreign lands . . .’ But I wasn’t listening. All that mattered was that one day, it didn’t matter when, we would be together again . . . .
Leaning against the side of my stall remembering the confidence I’d felt then, how happy I’d been as I left Violet May’s caravan, I could hardly hold back the tears. Like a fool I had waited, believing in my heart that he had meant it when he’d said he would always love me. But he was married now, and I was nothing more than a memory.
‘We got tired of waiting.’
I jumped – and Edward laughed as he held his hand out for mine. Charlotte was bouncing up and down beside him, wearing his deerstalker and pleading with him to play her new game. As I looked at them I knew in my heart it was time now to get on with my life. I put my basket down and let myself out of the stall.
Edward’s eyes were searching my face, and as the wind swept up my hair he brushed it back. ‘Why do I get the feeling you want to tell me something?’ he said.
‘Because I do,’ I whispered. ‘I’d like us to get married, Edward, if you still want me, that is.’ And seeing the way his mouth trembled, I wondered how I could have been so blind as not to have realised a long time ago how very much I loved him.
– 15 –
Slipping the ring on to my third finger I turned my hand to the chandelier and nearly gasped as tiny splinters of light shot between my diamond and the crystal above me. Edward was standing beside me, watching my face, waiting for me to speak. I put my arms around him and hugged him. ‘Darling, it’s beautiful,’ I said. I looked at the diamond again, then laughing, I threw out my hands. ‘I just don’t know what to say.’
‘Then don’t say anything,’ he said. ‘Just as long as I know you like it, that’s all that matters.’
Like it? I could hardly believe what was happening to me. After all, less than two years ago I had been just the girl from the fair. I’d always read about people who were wealthy then, though I’d seen them often enough, at the fair, and at Foxton’s too, but it was as if they belonged to another world. And now here was I living in that world, Edward’s world. He did everything he could to make me a part of it, but still at times I couldn’t help feeling like an intruder, as if I had borrowed someone else’s life and at any time it might be snatched back again. Violet May would tolerate none of that talk, though, and told me to grow up and mind when I was well off. It did me good to go and visit her from time to time, it brought me back to earth. I had no regrets at leaving the fair; once again my uncle had been glad to see the back of me. As for the others, I had always been ‘too hoity-toity’ for them anyway.
David clapped his hands. ‘Champagne!’ he called, and on cue the double doors that opened out into the West Hall were thrown wide and Christine, outrageously overdressed in her new Zandra Rhodes and a tiara, wheeled in a trolley laden with two bottles of Dom Perignon and four glasses.
Edward rolled his eyes, and Christine stuck out her tongue. ‘Mmm, very ladylike,’ he grunted, then laughed as she blew him a kiss.
‘Well, come along, David.’ She thrust a bottle of champagne at him. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Edward slipped his arm around my shoulders and waited until everyone was holding a glass. ‘It’s not often a man gets engaged two years after his wedding,’ he said, ‘but it was a good idea for an anniversary present, even if I say so myself.’ He gave me a gentle squeeze and as I looked up into his face I could see that his sister and his brother were for the moment, part of another world. ‘To you,’ he whispered.
‘To Elizabeth,’ Christine and David echoed, and the moment was broken.
After we had drunk the toast, and another to Edward, we sat down. Wanting to remain close to him, I curled up on the floor at his feet. He always sat in the same chair, the one on the left-hand side of the hearth. David’s was the chair on the right, and many was the night I had sat just like this, at Edward’s feet, studying the intricacies of the eighteenth-century fireplace, while the two of them discussed Edward’s next trip to Paris or Rome, a forthcoming auction or the needs of one of their many collector clients. I felt comfortable and safe, and smiled as I hugged my knees to my chest. I was almost happy.
The last thought slipped into my mind before I could stop it, and I tossed my head back, as if trying to shake off the introspection. It had come, not as a spontaneous, pleasurable thought, but as if it were struggling to establish its presence while at the same time denying me its sentiment. Feeling guilty, I rested my head against Edward’s knee and reached up for his hand.
Christine and David were arguing gently. ‘Oh do be quiet,’ Christine said, as she flicked David on the shoulder.
‘Your problem, young lady,’ he retorted, ‘is that you go looking for trouble.’ He was referring to the fracas Christine had become involved in at the village store that morning, and since Edward had been in London, it was David, the younger of the two brothers, who had had to go and smooth Mr Russell’s feathers. They were always dragging Christine out of one scrape or another. She had been only a child when their parents died, so the brothers had brought her up. She was devoted to them both, but we all knew Edward had a special place in her heart.
‘More champagne anyone?’ she said, holding up the bottle.
I held out my glass. ‘What time is Rupert arriving?’ I asked. Rupert was yet another in the long line of Christine’s escorts.
‘I didn’t invite him in the end, thought it might be nicer if it was just family.’ At the slight emphasis on the word family, I looked round, but no one else seemed to have noticed.
‘Quite right too,’ Edward said. ‘Not, of course, that I have anything against Rupert,’ he added quickly.
Christine laughed and dropped a kiss on his head. ‘You don’t have anything against anyone,’ she said.
‘What time are you setting off tomorrow?’ David asked, turning to me.
I looked at Christine. ‘We thought about nine-thirty, didn’t we?’
‘About that.’ She went to sit down again, and as she crossed one leg over the other I saw her looking at mine. ‘We all know you’ve got wonderful legs, Elizabeth, but please stop showing them off. Envy-green clashes with my dress.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your legs, Christine,’ David remarked, ‘which is more than I can say for your navigation, incidentally. Are you sure you’re leaving yourselves enough time tomorrow?’
‘My legs are fat, I’m fat,’ said Christine – and David rolled his eyes in a here-we-go-again pantomime as Christine launched into another bout of destructive self-criticism. According to her she looked like a roundhead, with her mousey club-cut hair and circular face, but in fact she was rather beautiful, and her short fringe and round blue eyes made her look much younger than thirty. That was a compliment she had no time for, however. What really obsessed her were her freckles, and she spent hours soaking her face in lemon juice in the hope of getting rid of them. And if anyone dared to tell her that what she lacked in height she made up for in personality, they were sorry for it, especially David, since he was the one she resembled. Why couldn’t I have been tall and slim like Edward? she would ask pathetically.
