by Hilary Boyd
*
Jo got slowly out of bed and pulled up the wooden blind. The back of the flat looked over a primary school, and even in the short time she’d been there, she’d begun to know what time of day it was by the sounds from the playground. But now, early, it was quiet, the spring sun slanting through the translucent leaf-shoots, lighting up the buds on the magnolia next door. For a moment, Jo wished she could see the Yoshino cherry in her old back garden – the pale pink blossom always made her think of innocence and hope.
She brewed coffee and watched a robin sitting on the fuchsia bush outside the window, feeling lazy and unwilling to start the day. She felt much more independent here than she had in her old house, having cut herself loose from all that was familiar. The house had been her protection, her sanctuary when Lawrence left. And there had been Donna and Max over the wall. And Travis. But this flat was hers and hers alone.
She and Travis hadn’t spoken since Christmas Day. Neither had made any attempt to call the other. Jo had often been on the verge of dialling his number, but finally there didn’t seem any point. It would just remind her that sometimes she still longed to have his arms around her, to watch his dark eyes light up at something she said. But four months on, their time together still seemed like a fleeting illusion, a brief burst of sunlight on a cloudy day. So she was stepping into her new life alone and this morning she was surprised to find that it didn’t seem at all scary.
*
Her messages, when she finally got to her computer, contained an email from the copyeditor, sending her the manuscript of Tess marked up in Track Changes. The publisher’s enthusiasm for the new book was a massive relief to Jo – Frances, as promised, had got them all onside at Century – but seeing the document now, she groaned. Although she completely appreciated the advantages of the software, she dreaded the sight of the endless columns of balloons at the side of every page, with deletions and comments and formatting changes – some of them tiny – all of which she had to check and make decisions about. It made her go cross-eyed, peering at the type.
So she worked. And she pottered. Her routine over the weeks that followed included a walk in the morning to Holland Park, then a café and newspaper, then home to work – an idea for her next book was already shaping up – then evenings with a glass of wine, the radio, TV or a book. Spring was well advanced and the weather was beautiful, so she would sit out late on the patio, or drop round to Donna’s, see a film, have Nicky over for supper. She was waiting to be bored, waiting to be frightened of her solitude, but in fact she just felt healthy and calm and motivated to write.
‘I’m not saying it’ll last,’ she told Donna as they meandered back from the Shepherd’s Bush Odeon one hot May night.
‘Why not? It’s how I live.’
‘No you don’t. You’re out three or four nights a week partying and flirting with lecherous ambassadors.’
‘I am so not! I haven’t been out for . . . well, this is the first night this week I’ve been anywhere.’
‘It’s Tuesday, Donna.’
They both began to laugh.
‘But seriously, I’m the exception, darling. It’s novel for you at the moment, but being alone does pall for most people. Do you really not miss having someone around?’
‘You mean a man? No, not at all. In fact, quite the reverse.’
Donna turned to peer at her. ‘Really? Not even Lawrence?’
‘Particularly not Lawrence. I haven’t spoken to him in yonks and it’s such a relief.’
‘So you don’t even know if he got back together with Arkadius?’
‘No idea. The children say he’s gone quiet, won’t speak about it, which could mean anything. Whatever he’s doing, I don’t want to know.’
Donna said nothing.
‘It’s just so peaceful, not having to think about anything or anyone but myself,’ Jo added.
‘Oh, I get the selfish part. But I worry that you’re shutting yourself off, spending too much time alone. When you were next door we had coffee almost every day . . . now I barely see you.’
‘I’m just getting on with my life, Donna. Stop worrying. Honest, I’m really fine. And don’t suggest I buy a cat. Or go to a party.’
‘Ha, ha. OK . . . well, if you change your mind, you know where I am.’
They walked along in silence for a while, the light sinking to a deep royal blue over the West London rooftops.
‘In fact Swedish Brian is coming over in a couple of weeks. Are you up for a supper together?’
Jo didn’t answer immediately.
‘Nothing sinister, just supper. I promise, from now on I won’t set you up with anyone . . . unless you ask me to, of course. But we had fun the last time, remember?’
‘I remember the hangover, for sure,’ Jo said.
Jo lay awake later, mulling over what her friend had said. She hated the thought that anyone might see her as lonely and sad just because she didn’t have a man: the maiden-aunt syndrome.
She was just dropping off when her mobile rang.
‘Jo? It’s me.’
‘Lawrence? What is it? What’s the matter?’ His voice sounded so dull, so desperate that she was catapulted into a sitting position.
‘Umm . . . I’ve had a bit of an accident . . . I’m OK . . . well, not OK actually . . . and I didn’t know who else to ring . . .’
‘What do you mean, an accident? What sort of an accident?’
She heard him clear his throat. ‘I came off my bike yesterday. This girl stepped off the pavement right in front of me. French tourist, didn’t realize which way the traffic was going down Tottenham Court Road.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s OK . . . but I went over the handlebars. I’ve broken my right wrist, cracked three ribs and buggered my knee.’
‘Oh, God. What a nightmare. Are you in hospital?’
‘No . . . they straightened the wrist out and put a plaster on in A&E, but then I went back this morning and they said it wasn’t right, so they took the plaster off again. Now there’s what looks like a couple of meat skewers poking out from the new plaster.’
‘So how are you coping?’
There was a short silence. ‘I’m all right . . . well, I’m not really. I can’t do anything properly, and just now . . . I . . . God, this is so embarrassing . . . I peed my trousers because I couldn’t get them off with one hand . . . and now . . .’
She heard him swallow and knew he was about to cry.
‘I’m coming over. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Can you? Oh, thank you . . . thank you so much.’
‘I’ll ring when I’m close.’
*
Nicky had been right about the flats smelling of rubbish. The stench was nauseating, especially on a hot night like this. Jo held her breath as she made her way up to the sixth floor. The flat door was ajar when she arrived and she pushed it open. Lawrence was sitting on the two-seater navy sofa in his underpants, an aluminium crutch by his side. His trousers lay in a heap on the floor. He was unshaven, pale as a ghost, his right arm in plaster up to the elbow, held up by a blue nylon arm sling, his right knee covered by a black elastic support bandage. A bruise spread down his right cheek from a black eye, below a nasty graze on his forehead.
He seemed bewildered, his eyelids blinking rapidly. ‘Sorry.’
She glanced around, shocked. There was mess everywhere. Cups, glasses, plates and crumbs littered the cheap brown-wood coffee table alongside a half-open Styrofoam carton and an oily pizza box. An empty bottle of wine sat on the floor, there were papers and books piled on every surface in the boxy, featureless space. It looked like a student squat on a bad day. And her husband was always so careful, so tidy, so obsessively clean.
‘Pretty grim, eh?’ he said, noticing the way her gaze took it all in. ‘I’m so sorry, Jo. This isn’t fair.’
‘Let’s just sort it out.’ She picked up his trousers and boxers and located the washing machine under the work-top in t
he galley kitchen. Pouring some hot water into a bowl she found under the sink, she helped him wash himself down with a flannel, found some old jogging bottoms he could pull down and up himself, made him a cup of tea and gave him two paracetamol. Then she put all the crockery into the dishwasher, vacuumed the stained carpet, wiped the surfaces and put out the rubbish.
‘God, Jo, you’re a saint. I’m so sorry.’
She smiled down at him as he sat on the sofa. ‘You must have said “sorry” fifty times in the last hour. Enough already!’
‘Sorry,’ he said, and laughed. ‘But it was gross in here. It’s just with only one hand, and the left one at that, I can’t do a damn thing. I can’t butter toast, or shave without cutting myself, or carry a mug of coffee. If it wasn’t for my knee, I could probably manage, but I feel so weak and I have to use the crutch with my left hand, so I can’t take anything from A to B. And the button on my trousers got stuck so I couldn’t get them down in time.’
She rotated the leather chair that faced his desk in the corner and sat down.
‘How did you get the bottle of wine open then?’
He looked sheepish. ‘That was from the day before the accident . . . in fact a lot of the mess was. I’ve sort of let things slide recently I’m afraid.’
‘Why didn’t you call Nicky? He’d have helped you.’
‘He’s up in Manchester doing this TV thing. I didn’t want to worry him. And anyway . . . I hate the thought of the children seeing me like this.’
‘OK . . . well, will you be all right for tonight?’
Lawrence nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m so sorry, dragging you out in the middle of the night, Jo. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back in the morning and see how you are. Bring you some food.’
‘No, no, please, you don’t have to do that.’
‘You can get to the shops, can you? Carry a bag of stuff home? Don’t be silly, Lawrence.’
He looked miserable. ‘I can order in . . .’
Jo raised her eyebrows and gave him a reproving smile. ‘Right. Pizza’s such a nice healthy option to get your strength back.’
She got up. ‘I’ll call you before I come, but give me a key so you don’t have to let me in.’
His nod was reluctant.
‘Sleep well,’ she said softly, as she closed the flat door behind her.
On the way home in the car she realized it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. The streets, even in the West End, were relatively clear, and it had rained, freshening the air and washing the grimy pavements.
How hard was that, she thought as she drove. Not only seeing him so broken and . . . well, old. But not knowing how to relate to him, except as a bossy carer.
*
‘He shouldn’t be alone,’ Cassie said, when Jo rang her the next morning and told her about her father. ‘He sounds in a terrible state.’
‘It was pretty depressing. I’ve never seen him like this.’
‘Why doesn’t he come and stay here? I know the country’s not Dad’s thing, but he needs looking after till he can walk properly.’
‘That could be weeks, darling.’
‘Whatever. Only you might have to bring him down, Mum, us not having a car and all.’
‘No problem. Why don’t you call him and see what he says. He seemed pretty resistant to being helped, especially as far as you and Nicky are concerned, which I can understand. But it’s worth a try. I’m going over there in a minute anyway, so I’ll let you know how he is this morning.’
*
Lawrence had clearly made an effort. He looked as if he had managed to wash and shave, and his cup and plate were in the sink. Jo had brought him a number of ready meals he could microwave, cartons of soup, some softer butter spread, bags of salad to just tip on to the plate, fruit.
‘You’re brilliant,’ he said, when she’d handed him a fresh cup of coffee and a croissant.
‘Did Cassie ring you?’
Lawrence nodded as he munched. ‘She was adorable, said I should come and stay with her till I was better.’
‘And?’
He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Look, I really appreciate her offer, but I don’t want to go anywhere, least of all there. Much as I’d love to hang out with Cass, that house is a bloody nightmare. I’d tip off that wobbly loo, for a start. And I’d never be able to get up off the futon.’
Jo laughed. ‘True.’
‘Anyway, I’d be a pain. I was miserable before the accident . . . why should I inflict myself on my poor daughter?’
‘Yes, but that’s when you need people around, Lawrence. You’ll just sink further if you stay in this place on your own.’
‘Yeah, I know. It is a bit of a dump,’ he said, seeing the slightly disdainful expression on Jo’s face.
‘OK, listen,’ she took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me, then. Just for a week or so, till your knee’s better and you don’t have to use the crutch?’
Lawrence looked taken aback. ‘No. No, definitely not.’ He swallowed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s an incredibly kind offer, Jo. But I couldn’t.’
‘Well, I’m not going to leave you here on your own. I’m only being selfish, I don’t want to spend every day trekking back and forth to Totty Court Road to check on you.’
He was still shaking his head. ‘No way, Jo. You don’t have to do this . . . come every day. I’ve told you, I can manage. And Nicky’s back at the weekend, I’m sure he’ll do the shopping for me until I can carry a bag.’
‘It’s not just the shopping. You look like shit,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘You know what I mean. How long have you been like this?’
He shrugged, wouldn’t look at her.
‘It’s Arkadius, I presume.’
‘That . . . and . . . well, everything. I’ve made such a mess of my life, Jo.’ He looked as if he were about to cry. ‘I had it all. And now . . . now I feel I’ve got nothing.’
Unwilling to witness him collapsing in tears, Jo’s voice took on a brisk note. ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re going through a tricky time, that’s all.’
‘You think? Seems a bit more than “tricky” to me.’
‘Well, it will, if you’re depressed. Please, Lawrence, let me take you home now. Just for a few days till you’re back on your feet.’ She spoke from the heart, at the same time hearing the small voice in her head that violently resisted her offer. But it would only be for a week, and she didn’t feel she had a choice.
‘No.’ The word was almost a bark. ‘I won’t do that to you, Jo. Thank you, but no.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, up to you. But the offer still stands if you change your mind.’ The day was hot again and the flat stuffy. Jo got up and opened the window, letting in the noise of traffic from below.
‘Do you want me to come out with you, get some fresh air before I go?’
She could see he hesitated. ‘It’s OK . . . I think I’ll just rest up today.’
*
On the way home from the Tube she dropped in on Donna in her studio.
‘You what? Darling, you’re insane.’
‘Why?’
‘Letting your crippled, depressed, whingeing ex come and live with you so you can nurse him back to health? What are you thinking?’
Jo couldn’t help laughing. ‘Just for a few days.’
‘How do you know? It could be weeks before his knee’s better. Knees are a nightmare.’
The door was open to the garden, a soft breeze making the wooden hut pleasantly cool. Max kept trotting in and out as if he were checking how the conversation was going.
‘You should have seen him, Donna. He looked about a hundred.’
‘At least he had the sense not to take you up on your offer.’
‘But I’m worried about him. He really wasn’t coping.’
Donna wiped her hands on her apron and stood up from her stool. She came over to Jo
and placed her hands on her friend’s arms, clasping her firmly as she looked up into her face.
‘Look, you’re either with him or you’re not. You don’t seem to have quite made up your mind. This shilly-shallying isn’t good. I mean, why did he ring you? Why didn’t he ring the children? Or Arkadius. They split up much more recently than you two did.’
Jo thought about this.
‘True. I suppose . . . I suppose he thought I’d help.’
‘Exactly. He thought he’d take advantage of your kindly nature. And I don’t blame him. But honestly, he doesn’t have that privilege any more.’
‘No . . . OK, I hear what you’re saying. But surely nearly forty years of marriage means we can stay friends. And I was only being friendly.’
Donna raised her eyebrows. ‘Maybe. But I’m just saying. He doesn’t deserve your help.’
‘He’s not a monster, Donna.’
‘I never said he was.’
‘You’d have done the same thing if you’d seen him.’
‘I seriously doubt it. I’m not the caring type.’
Jo laughed. ‘You’re a hard, hard woman, Donna Freeman. He’s not trying to worm his way back into my life, if that’s what you’re implying. He’s just in a bad way, that’s all.’
‘Fine, well, I hope he gets better really super-soon,’ Donna said, her mouth pursed.
*
Jo went back the following day, and the one after. Lawrence appeared not to have moved, except for the accumulation of dishes in the sink. The only difference was that each time she saw him he looked paler. The fourth day she had the car because she’d gone early to the storage unit to pick up some books and a lamp.
‘It’s me,’ she announced as she breezed in around ten-thirty, only to find him still asleep, his long body, fully dressed, curled up like a child on the sofa, his plastered arm crossed over his chest. He was covered with a thin blanket, the crutch on the floor by his side. He opened his eyes but just stared at her and shut them again.
‘Lawrence, come on. Wake up.’ It looked from his slept-in clothes as if he hadn’t been up yet today.
He finally dragged his head higher against the arm of the sofa.
‘It’s not good for you to sleep all scrunched up like that,’ she said.
