by Hilary Boyd
‘So we’re starting with the attic, then?’ he said.
Dusty, dark, up a rickety pull-down aluminium ladder, the bare floorboards hurt her knees as she bent over one box after another under the eaves.
Lawrence, hunkered down in the far corner, sat back on his heels.
‘Can’t imagine why we kept most of this,’ he said, holding up a battered wooden tricycle with a wheel missing.
Jo smiled. ‘You remember Nicky on that, out on the terrace? He was like a demon.’
‘He used to do it for hours on end, back and forth.’ He put it aside and picked out something else. ‘Hey, come and see.’
Jo crawled over to his side. In the dim light from the bulb swinging from the ceiling, Lawrence was peeling open a small plastic photograph album, with a collection of wonky, discoloured Polaroid snaps of the family on a beach.
‘That was Cassie’s. I remember her doing it.’
‘Look at you,’ Lawrence said, pointing to a shot of Jo lying full length in a bikini. ‘What a figure.’
‘You don’t look so hot,’ she laughed, pointing to a blurred one of Lawrence’s broad back view, hunched over a sandwich, hair – still a golden-blond then – damp from the sea. It was a Scottish beach, the West Coast, during an improbably warm summer. They had even swum in the sea, which was just about bearable if you kept to the top two feet of surface water, but numbingly cold if you dropped any lower. Jo remembered hugging Nicky’s little body – icy, blue, teeth chattering, tight-wrapped in a towel – in her arms. She could almost feel him still. And taste the chicken-and-ham paste baps and hot tea they’d brought for the picnic.
‘God, we were so young,’ Lawrence was saying, his voice wistful. ‘You forget, looking at Nicky and Cass, that when we were their ages we had two children, jobs, a mortgage . . . this generation is so immature.’
‘That’s a bit harsh. Anyway, if they are, it’s probably our fault.’
He nodded, giving her a wry smile. ‘Bin it?’ he waved the album over the black bin bag.
‘We ought to keep it, till Cassie’s had a look.’ Jo turned her attention back to an ancient purple-velvet Biba jacket.
*
The day wore on and all they seemed to achieve was looking at things and putting them back in the same place. But Jo and Lawrence had settled into a rhythm with each other. The initial unease Jo had felt at having to confront the past with him had gradually faded as they both became completely absorbed by items they’d forgotten they had, unearthing memories only they shared, memories which, at least for that moment, erased the present, the delicate situation they found themselves in now.
‘God . . . my knees are killing me. Time to break for lunch?’ Lawrence asked after a while.
Jo made them both a tuna-and-lettuce sandwich and a cup of tea. They didn’t speak as they ate, Jo, certainly, still caught in the web of family memories.
‘What will you do with the money?’ she asked eventually.
He shrugged, let out a sigh. ‘Umm . . . I suppose I’ll buy somewhere.’
‘But not with Arkadius, I hear.’
Lawrence didn’t answer. He seemed miles away. She watched his face go tense, his eyelids flutter.
‘Jo,’ he stopped, swallowed. ‘Jo, I need to tell you something.’
She waited, remembering the last time he’d said those very words and the devastating consequences. Nothing, she thought, could ever be that bad again.
‘Arkadius and I have split up.’ He looked pained as he said the words.
‘Split up? Oh.’
Lawrence was staring at her, and she wondered what he expected from her.
‘And how do you feel?’
‘Honestly? I’m gutted.’
‘You still love him, then.’
Lawrence took a moment before he responded, then he gave a light shrug. ‘Things change . . . you can’t sustain that crazy, In-Love thing for long . . . you wouldn’t want to.’
She didn’t reply. What could she tell him he didn’t already know about love?
‘I don’t even know if love is the right word, but however you define it, the thing is I’m not gay, Jo. Not in the way Arkadius is. He’s always known, since he was eight, he says, and he’s never wavered. It’s so different from me. I can’t do that share-a-home, couple thing with him. It would be a lie. It’s just not me.’
‘You can’t blame him for thinking it is,’ she said.
He glanced at her, his eyes sharp as if he thought she might be criticizing him, then his gaze softened.
‘No, no, you can’t. But I told him right from the start that whatever I felt for him, I couldn’t see myself fitting into his world.’
Jo thought about what he was saying.
‘Explain,’ she said, trying to understand.
‘Surely you, of all people, can see?’
‘I get that he’s a man surrounded by men and you’re used to relating to a woman . . . women,’ she said. ‘But if that’s not you, how did you find him so attractive in the first place?’ He was looking uncomfortable, but she ploughed on. ‘Unless you’re telling me it really was purely about sex.’
‘It wasn’t just sex,’ he said. ‘It was more than that . . . I’ve said it before . . . a sort of madness. I can’t explain it better, Jo, really I can’t. He’s an extraordinary man, Arky. And I really care for him. But . . . but he’s gay.’
Jo raised her eyebrows at the obviousness of Lawrence’s remark.
‘And I’m not. I’m ninety-nine per cent attracted to women. Only the other one per cent to men. And only to the extent that I’ve occasionally – very occasionally – found a man attractive . . . in the way we’re all sometimes drawn to someone else . . . without doing anything about it. Or even considering it might be possible. Or wanting it to be.’ He paused in his speech, which gave the sense of thoughts trying to find a path through the jumble in his mind. Thoughts held back for lack of an audience. ‘But then with Arkadius it was just overwhelming, and I gave in to him. Personally. Not to his lifestyle. It’s not a lifestyle thing. I liked my life with you. It’s who I am.’
Jo didn’t reply.
‘And when we were . . . me and Arky . . . before you found out . . . it was great . . . intoxicating.’ He stopped, dropped his eyes. ‘Look, I know how selfish that sounds. And I’m fully aware I’m digging myself a huge hole. But I really want you to understand, Jo.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do I have to understand? Especially at this stage.’
Lawrence buried his head in his hands, his elbows on the table, his sandwich barely touched.
‘God!’ When he looked up, his eyes were full of pain. ‘It seems so stupid, selling this house. Why on earth are we doing it?’
Jo was stunned. ‘For Christ’s sake!’
He didn’t respond, just got up, his balled fists pushed to the bottom of his jean pockets, and went over to the window. As he stared out on to the garden, Jo watched his back, the flick of his thick white hair just above the collar, the set of his shoulders beneath the black sweater, the way his long legs always appeared to bend in the wrong way. Her Lawrence, supremely confident, successful in his work, at home very much the head of the family, a loved husband and father, seemed to have been shaken into a very different mode. These days he was quieter, more insecure, less bullish – a changed person. Although now he was clearly making a determined effort to get a grip as he turned to her, the expression in his blue eyes steadier, his voice calmer.
‘Listen, I haven’t been totally honest with you, Jo. I didn’t think it was fair on you, not after the way I’ve behaved. But part of what’s going on with Arky is not just about him wanting me to move in, or him belonging to a different world. Or even how I feel about him. The problem is I miss you, Jo. I really, really miss you and the life we had together. I was mad, totally insane to do what I did.’
She stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’ Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
&nbs
p; Lawrence walked slowly back to the table and sat down. He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him.
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m so sorry. But this morning, looking over all those things in the attic, remembering what we had. You, me, the kids. It’s been our whole life. You won’t believe me, but all these weeks since I exiled myself from you . . . I never stopped loving you, not for a moment. And now the house, our home, is gone and it feels so desperately sad . . . I can’t bear it, Jo. I feel like I’ve cut off my right hand on a whim. How could I have done that . . .’
It was Jo’s turn to get up, move away from those tormented eyes. ‘Stop. Please. I can’t hear any more, Lawrence. You’re making no sense. With one breath you say you still love Arkadius, that you’re “gutted” he won’t see you. The next you’re almost sobbing at my feet saying you’ve made a terrible mistake.’
She realized she was cold, feeling almost sick. All these months past when she would have given her eye-teeth to hear his words. Yet now they seemed like so much melodrama . . . and indulgence.
‘Sorry.’ He looked away. ‘I knew it was a mistake coming here today. Every time I see you now . . . like on Christmas Day or at Ruthie’s party . . . I find I just want to forget that there was ever a problem between us.’
Jo felt a surge of anger at his words. As if what he’d done could ever be forgotten.
‘Christ! I don’t know how you dare talk about forgetting, after everything you put us through.’ She could hardly breathe. ‘Coming here with your self-indulgent whining. I love him, or at least I sort of love him. But I love you too . . . oops, sorry . . . such a mistake. Expecting me to just fall at your feet and forgive you when basically you don’t have a clue what you’re even saying. Or what you want. Please . . . just go, will you. Go away and leave me alone.’
‘But . . .’
She held her hand up.
‘OK . . . OK.’ He got to his feet and she noticed how tired he looked.
While he gathered his coat, wound his tartan scarf round his neck and made his way slowly towards the door, Jo held her breath. It was only with the sharp click of the latch behind him that she finally let it out and burst into tears, the violent sobs tearing at her chest as if they were trying to break her in two.
*
‘He wants to come back. I told you he would.’ Donna and Jo were in the car, heading to a series of rental viewings. The first one was on the other side of Hammersmith Broadway, in one of the mansion blocks near the river.
‘He doesn’t know what the hell he wants,’ Jo said.
‘This thing with Arkadius . . . do you think it’s really over?’
‘No, I’m sure it’s not. Arkadius is just putting the thumbscrews on to get Lawrence to commit. If Lawrence holds out, Arkadius is bound to relent and take him back . . . if he really cares for him.’
‘Yeah, but it sounds like it’s Lawrence who’s wavering.’
‘Only because he’s on his own. Which he loathes. So he gets all sentimental and nostalgic about his family. Then we have a rummage through the past and he finally understands we’ve actually sold our lifelong home and that it isn’t just about money after all . . . and has a moment. But if push came to shove and I said, OK, Lawrence, come back, all is forgiven, he’d probably run a mile.’
‘You think? From what you say he said, he’s never really moved past you. Arkadius is just a bit of an aberration.’
Jo backed into a parking space just past the flats and turned to her friend. ‘A bit? Understatement of the decade. But honestly, it doesn’t matter if he’s over him or not. I’m furious. How dare he walk in and give me this cheesy spiel about love? About caring and missing me and all that rubbish, when he’s still in bed with his toy boy?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Donna looked doubtful. ‘But is he?’
‘If he’s not, it’s a technicality. He certainly has been till about two weeks ago.’ She yanked the handbrake on and opened the car door. ‘Anyway, the point is, he’s in complete emotional meltdown. I can’t take anything he says seriously.’
*
‘So here we have the kitchen . . . stunning original tiles,’ Sean, the man from Winkworth, pointed at the drab, sea-green Victorian tiles that covered every inch of wall and gave the room a dismal, subterranean feel. ‘The cupboards and work surfaces are all new.’ He droned on, clearly just going through the motions, his eyes constantly flicking back and forth to his smart phone, held discreetly by his side. As they progressed further down the labyrinthine corridor to the bedrooms it got darker and gloomier with every step.
‘Blimey,’ Donna whispered, ‘you’d need a ball of string to find your way out of here.’
Sean gave her friend a sharp look. ‘You don’t have to keep the furniture. It’s furnished or unfurnished, the owner’s flexible,’ he said.
The next one, a modern conversion near Ravenscourt Park, was the opposite: light, white plasterboard, no fireplace, no bath and the size of a crisp packet.
The third one, off Hammersmith Grove, was high-ceilinged, smelly, peeling and cluttered with the current occupant’s tatty second-hand furniture, dirty nets at the window and freezing cold.
‘Gross,’ Jo said, as they made their way back to the car. ‘Those photos online are such a con.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘I’ll never find anywhere that isn’t a million dollars.’
Donna laughed. ‘You’ve looked at three.’
‘Five, I saw two yesterday.’
‘OK, but hardly time to slit your throat. Anyway, I’ve said, you can camp at mine if necessary.’
The sixth for that day, for which Jo almost cancelled the viewing because she was so tired and jaded, had definite promise. A garden maisonette three streets away from her house, towards the green, with a small paved garden, two bedrooms, a free-standing bath with claw feet – which Donna adored – and a large sitting room.
‘I think I could live here,’ Jo told her friend. ‘It’s more than I want to pay, but if it’s only for a year.’
‘You’ve seen the cheaper ones, darling.’
‘The owners are working in Australia for a while,’ Agnieszka, the quiet Polish girl from Douglas and Gordon said. ‘It’s their family home.’
‘It’s close to me, that’s all I care about,’ Donna said.
Jo took the flat.
Chapter 19
2 April 2014
Jo awoke in her new home, mildly disorientated even after five nights there. But as she lay snug beneath the duvet, gazing up at the strange ceiling – freshly painted in a pale duck-egg blue instead of the faded white of her old bedroom – noting the sun coming through the slatted blind, checking the dial of the familiar alarm clock, she was aware of a quiet freedom. I’ve done it, she thought.
The previous weeks had passed in a blur. Nicky had been brilliant, a constant presence by her side, methodically making lists to counter her lists, packing boxes where she merely rummaged, chucking things she couldn’t chuck, creating zones for the different destinations of the boxes, replacing panic with diligence. She couldn’t have done it without him.
‘So cheers to the end of one amazing era, and the beginning of the next one.’ Donna had raised her glass to Jo and Nicky on the evening before the removals men were due. Nicky had ordered in pizza and red wine and they were sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by towers of brown cardboard. The boxes were all taped, sealed, labelled, the furniture tagged, all except Jo’s bedsheets, a towel and some crockery.
Everyone clinked glasses. Max, sitting hopefully by Jo’s chair and clearly identifying her as the most likely person to pass him a tit-bit, wagged his tail, his bright eyes looking up at her as if he approved of what she was doing too. Jo reached down to stroke him.
‘How are you feeling about it, Mum?’
Jo considered her son’s question.
‘You know what? I’m excited. Once tomorrow’s over, I can relax, get on with my life.’ She paused. ‘It’ll probably take months f
or it to sink in that I don’t live here any more, and obviously I shall miss it . . . but honestly, I’m looking forward to it.’
Donna laughed. ‘So glad you feel that way, darling.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Nicky agreed. ‘You’ve been great.’ He reached across and gave his mum’s hand a squeeze.
‘You must be sad about the house too?’ she asked him.
‘Sort of . . . nah, not really, not any more. It was a shock at first, but you get used to it. Packing helps . . . makes the place more anonymous. And we’re taking everything that matters with us.’
When Cassie had arrived, she and Nicky had kept up a constant banter about the things they were unearthing from their childhood, teasing each other about items of sentimental value to one or the other, such as Nicky’s box of battered Transformers and Cassie’s collection of snow globes from foreign cities.
Nicky pulled another triangle of pizza out of the box, folded it and took a huge bite. ‘Wish Dad was as happy as you are,’ he added through his mouthful.
‘How do you mean?’ Donna asked.
‘He’s really down at the moment.’
‘I’m sure all that money will cheer him up.’ Donna had raised her eyebrows, given Jo a look. But Jo had just shrugged. She’d had no desire to dwell on Lawrence’s state of mind. He had rung the day after his outburst and said he thought it best he stay out of the way and she hadn’t argued. He sounded almost angry when he told her to chuck anything that was his. She hadn’t, of course. She’d boxed up the things she thought he would miss and directed them to the storage place near Brent Cross.
‘You’d think.’ Nicky said. ‘That flat he’s in is horrible. It’s one of those modern student blocks behind Tottenham Court Road and it’s noisy and stinks of rubbish all the time. I’d shoot myself if I lived there.’
‘Sounds like an odd choice,’ Donna said.
‘He wanted to be near Arkadius,’ Jo finally put in.
Her son raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, well that may not be such a big deal any more. When I asked how it was going, Dad just looked me in the eye and said, “It’s over, Nicky.” Like, no argument, seriously end of.’
