by Hilary Boyd
‘I was just too tired to move,’ he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his left hand.
For a moment she stood looking down on him. ‘OK . . . enough of this. I’m taking you to mine. You need fresh air and sunlight. You can sit in the garden, it’s a beautiful day.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘So you keep saying. But you’re not, Lawrence. You’re a mess.’
She leaned down and helped him into a sitting position. ‘Come on, get up. I’ve got the car downstairs and it’s on a meter.’
Jo could tell he no longer had the energy to protest, and slowly he began to do as she said. It was a long time before he was ready to go, shaved and dressed in clean clothes, a cup of coffee inside him.
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I know I don’t.’
*
By the time Jo got him home, Lawrence was exhausted. She made up the sofa bed in her study for him and he sank gratefully into the clean sheets and slept until she went in to wake him around two.
‘This is nice,’ he said, waving his fork to take in the lunch on the wooden patio table – ham, potato salad, lettuce, beetroot and brown bread – the garden, the flat behind them.
‘Better than your dump,’ she joked. ‘What possessed you?’
He grinned, the first smile she’d seen in days. ‘You know me, cheap.’
She nodded. ‘You could afford to do better now, though.’
‘I know. Just don’t have the energy.’
After lunch she gave him the paper and a cup of coffee and went upstairs to her computer. During the course of the lunch he had definitely perked up, seemed more interested in things and was making an effort in conversation. But Jo felt she hardly knew him. It was like passing the time of day with a virtual stranger.
Round about five, she went outside again. Lawrence was just sitting there, the paper open in front of him, but clearly he was not reading it.
‘I should get home,’ he said. ‘Thanks so much for today, it’s been lovely. You were right, I needed a bit of light and air.’
‘Why don’t you stay the night? I’ll drop you home in the morning. The traffic will be murder for the next few hours.’
She saw him hesitate.
‘Could I?’
Jo felt her heart contract. His pale eyes looked so tired, so sad.
‘Of course you can.’
*
Nicky, his blond curls cut unnaturally short – a legacy of the sports coach he’d been playing in a TV drama – stared at his father through the kitchen window of Jo’s flat.
‘How long’s he going to stay, Mum?’ He spoke in a whisper.
‘His knee’s much better . . .’
Her son frowned. ‘But?’
‘He’s still quite depressed.’
‘Really? He seemed perfectly normal just now.’
‘Yes, well . . . I worry when he goes home he’ll just sink again. It’s such a horrible place . . . you’ve seen it.’
Nicky nodded. ‘Vile. I wouldn’t spend a single night there.’ He shook his head. ‘But that’s not your problem, Mum, is it?’
‘No. No, it’s not.’
‘Do you like having him here then?’
Jo didn’t answer at once. Lawrence had been staying for nearly two weeks now. Every evening during the first week, he’d said he should go home. And every evening she had said he could stay if he liked. Gradually it had begun to feel normal. They had settled into a sort of routine together. Not as they had been before, but a new, quiet sort of companionship, his previously quick, slightly cutting intelligence blunted by his circumstances. He seemed kinder, less self-absorbed to Jo and they’d had some good discussions, talked about things not pertaining to their current life with their old vigour. She realized Nicky was waiting for a reply.
‘Umm . . . it’s OK. He’s not himself.’
Nicky gave her a quizzical look. ‘Is that good or bad?’
She laughed. ‘Just different.’
‘Well, as long as you don’t feel you have to have him here.’
Jo assured him she didn’t, but this wasn’t quite true. Lawrence’s stay in her flat had reminded her that the love she felt for her husband, built over a lifetime, had not been completely dismantled. Seeing him brought so low had allowed that affection to resurface, unimpeded by other considerations, such as the Russian history professor, and she did feel a certain responsibility to make sure he was all right. No more than that, she told herself. But when she asked herself if she was happy having him there, her answer seemed to be that she was not unhappy.
Chapter 20
Mid-May
‘I think I’ll go back tomorrow,’ Lawrence said that evening, after their son had left.
‘Did Nicky say something?’
He frowned. ‘Say something? About what?’
‘No . . . nothing.’
‘I can’t stay here for ever and I need to work . . . the book . . .’
They were outside, another warm evening, and Jo was cutting chives growing in a terracotta pot on the terrace, alongside some mint and thyme. Lawrence was sitting in his now-favourite wooden garden chair in his faded blue cargo shorts, his bad leg stretched out in front of him – the support bandage still around his knee – resting on the step that led up to the main paved area of the small garden.
‘How’s it going?’
He hadn’t mentioned work once since he’d been there, and Jo hadn’t liked to ask.
‘Yeah, OK . . .’
‘Have you settled on an outline yet?’
She noticed a pained look flit across his face. He shook his head.
‘To be honest, I’ve barely started. I . . . just can’t seem to concentrate. I’ve done a lot of reading, but that’s as far as I’ve got. Not having the discipline of turning up to college every day has thrown me for six. It’s hard to find the motivation on my own.’
‘What’s the deadline?’
Lawrence had been talking about writing an accessible history of the Ming Dynasty – with aspirations for a TV series in mind – for years now. The era of Chinese rule was his passion. He had two academic publications on the subject under his belt, but one of the reasons he’d given Jo for retiring early was to nail a more popular history and establish himself as one of the go-to brains for explaining things Chinese. Of course now Jo knew the real reason had been Arkadius.
‘Don’t have one. A couple of publishers have said they’d like to look at a pitch and some material . . .’
Jo knew what that meant. Not a lot.
She stood up, clutching a handful of herbs in one hand, the kitchen scissors in the other. Lawrence had fallen silent.
‘I’ll get on with supper,’ she said.
*
It was getting dark but they still sat on at the garden table. There was no candle, just the light from the kitchen.
‘Jo . . .’
Neither of them had spoken for a few minutes, and Jo immediately heard the changed tone of her husband’s voice.
‘Jo . . . I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of your incredible kindness to me – which I fully appreciate I don’t deserve – but . . . well, I thought I’d say it anyway, before I go.’
He stopped, bit his lip. ‘I . . . we seem to have got along pretty well together these last two weeks. And . . . I just wondered if you’d consider the possibility . . . of us making another go of it.’
Jo felt her breath go very still in her body, her heart small and constricted. It was as if it had gone solid, immobilized by his request, which, although out of the blue in the actual sense, had been hovering unspoken between them for days. Jo had tried to prepare herself, but now, faced with the reality, she didn’t know what to say. She watched Lawrence take a deep breath.
‘I know I’ve hurt you, Jo. What I did was unforgivable. And I’m not stupid enough to think we can go back to how it was. But it seems to me that we still have such a strong bond. This time together has shown me tha
t. Couldn’t we make something new . . . sort of phoenix from the ashes?’
Jo’s mind was in turmoil. She saw his expectant face, his expression infinitely nervous.
‘I don’t know,’ was all she could manage.
‘Don’t know if it’s a possibility? Or don’t know if you want to try?’ His voice was soft, controlled, as if he didn’t want to frighten the horses.
‘Both I suppose,’ she said after a long moment of silence.
‘If you’re worried about Arky,’ He held her gaze in a determined way. ‘Jo, it really is over between us. Totally, completely over. For ever.’
She nodded, believing him.
‘About us. I don’t mean that we move in together or anything. Nothing like that. Just . . . well, see each other. Go out.’
‘Like a date, you mean?’
His grin was sheepish. ‘I suppose. Yeah, why not like a date?’
She raised her eyebrows, let out a long breath.
He reached his un-plastered hand across the table, then apparently changed his mind and put it firmly in his lap again.
‘I still love you.’
Jo heard the words as if from far away. She knew they were entirely genuine, but they didn’t seem to mean a thing. She looked off into the London darkness, heard a shout from the street behind her. This was her place, her life. She felt a surge of irritation that he had interrupted that.
‘Will you at least think about it?’ he asked, when she didn’t respond.
And she agreed that she would.
*
The following day, after Lawrence had left and she’d folded the sofa bed away, put the sheets in the washing machine, the duvet in the cupboard, cleared away the book he’d borrowed and the glass he hadn’t taken to the kitchen, returned the room to her own space, she found herself trying to analyse her feelings for Lawrence in the light of his request.
Did she trust Lawrence not to do it again with someone else? Perhaps if they’d been twenty she couldn’t have been sure. But after thirty-seven years of fidelity and one lapse – however big – was it something she’d worry about? She thought not. Lawrence had been entirely trustworthy in every other aspect. She knew he had always been there for her – until, of course, he wasn’t.
Forgiveness. Tricky one, this. Jo had never been quite sure what it meant. Was it just a decision? Sort of, I’ve decided to forgive you. Or was there some process that had to be gone through? If she hadn’t met Travis, maybe she would have been unable to understand Lawrence’s defection. But she knew first-hand how powerful desire was. Anyway, there wouldn’t be any point in making a go of it with Lawrence if she were perpetually blaming him for what he’d done.
And love. She remembered Lawrence telling her that he loved her still. And how empty the words had sounded, despite her believing what he said. She felt she loved him. But maybe it was now just a powerful echo.
The most difficult question was Do I like him? This caused Jo to hesitate. Because ‘liking’ seemed more important than anything else at this juncture. And whereas you could be In Love with someone and not particularly like them, she was sure you couldn’t truly love a person without also liking and respecting what they represented. He had broken that respect when he left her.
*
Lawrence pushed open the double doors to the cinema ahead of her.
‘Are we sure about this?’ Jo asked, gazing up at a poster for the film they’d finally decided on, showing a spaceman floating loose at the edge of the world. ‘Space movies aren’t exactly our thing.’
‘It’s had brilliant reviews,’ Lawrence insisted. ‘Martin says there’s an incredible first shot that lasts fourteen minutes or something.’
Jo laughed as they approached the counter to buy their tickets. ‘Not sure if that’s encouraging or not.’
‘We can see something else if you like,’ Lawrence said, his gaze suddenly anxious as if he were worried he might have overstepped the mark.
In fact she was looking forward to it. Pure fantasy escapism was exactly what she needed. This was the third time she had gone out with Lawrence in as many weeks – first, supper at a Thai place in Charlotte Street. Second, the Tate and tea. And it had been very odd, a bit awkward so far. They’d nominally set the parameters of a ‘date’, yet there was no hand-holding, no kissing, no prospect of anything sexual. Their encounters were formal, unnaturally polite as they carefully avoided the past and the future and anything at all emotional. Instead sticking to safe subjects such as the children, the news, books they’d read, films they’d seen, their work.
Jo was surprised when she found the film breathtaking, literally.
‘Oh . . . my . . . God.’ Jo clasped her hand to her chest as they staggered out of the cinema into the spring evening. ‘That was terrifying. I feel as if I’m suffocating!’
Lawrence laughed. ‘Wasn’t it brilliantly shot? How on earth did they do it, all that weightlessness . . . the sequence where she swims through the capsule was incredible, no? Must have been a ton of CGI.’
‘Bit of a thin story though. Girl lost in space, has a few personal revelations, gets back to earth, end of.’
‘Yes, but tense and classily done, don’t you think?’
‘They shouldn’t have cut George loose so early.’
In the past they might have linked arms as they made their way down the road beside the green. But tonight they just walked primly side by side.
‘Do you fancy a drink?’ she heard Lawrence’s tentative enquiry.
Jo had eaten before the film and, as she was close to home and they were passing the Tube where Lawrence would catch the Central Line into town, the evening could end right here. Neither of them really knew how to play it.
‘Umm . . . OK. Maybe I need just one, to debrief,’ she said.
They went to a Mexican place along the Westfield stretch and sat at a table outside with a beer each.
‘I really enjoyed that,’ Lawrence said.
‘Me too.’
For a while they talked about the film, then about other films. Safe stuff.
‘Have you seen Nicky recently?’
‘He came round for a cup of tea on Sunday.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Jo paused. ‘Slightly concerned that Amber is making a comeback.’
‘Really?’
‘Maybe I’m wrong . . . it’s just he said he’d seen her a couple of times. He stressed just as friends, but it’s clear he’s still got feelings for her.’
‘Bit like us?’ Lawrence smiled at her.
Jo just looked at him. ‘Have you got feelings for me, Lawrence?’
He looked almost indignant. ‘Of course I have. You know I have.’
‘But what sort of feelings?’
‘I . . .’ He let out a long breath. ‘Oh, Jo. I don’t know how to define what I feel for you. It’s so confusing. I love being with you, but it’s weird, unnatural, us going out like this. Being together and yet not together. I find it almost painful.’
She nodded. ‘Know what you mean.’
‘What should we do about it?’
‘Not sure there is anything.’
Into the silence, Lawrence said, ‘I don’t think it’s going to get any easier unless we bite the bullet and try living with each other again.’
‘No!’
‘That bad, is it?’ He gave her a wry smile.
‘No . . . no, it isn’t. Sorry, I didn’t mean that . . . like it sounded. It just seems way too soon.’
‘So we go on having these stupid dates and not touching or kissing and being ridiculously polite like we’re barely even friends?’
‘Do you want to touch and kiss me?’ She felt her heart flutter at the thought. Not from desire so much as nervousness.
‘Of course I do,’ he said, but there was a fatal second of hesitation before he spoke.
They lapsed into an awkward silence.
In that moment, all she could think of was Travis: his passionate caresses
, the eager hardness of his body against her own. Was Lawrence, similarly, thinking of Arkadius?
‘Perhaps I’d better get going,’ he was saying, his face set, as if he could intuit her thoughts.
‘Yeah, it’s late.’
*
‘Not well,’ Jo said, in answer to Donna’s query.
They were lying in a darkened room on padded loungers, wrapped in fluffy white towelling robes. Whale music was warbling gently, and candles wafted soothing scents of lavender and ylang-ylang – according to Donna, who knew, having been to the spa before with her friend, the Mexican ambassador’s wife, Camila. Donna had co-opted Jo when Camila cancelled at the last minute. So far they’d been brushed and oiled and massaged and cleansed and wrapped with what was trailed as ‘Lime and Ginger Salt Glow Treatment’. They were now lying in a state of soporific bliss.
‘I mean, we enjoy certain things about being with each other – at least I assume Lawrence enjoys them. But it’s so . . . awkward . . . formal.’
‘And what happens when you kiss?’
‘We don’t.’
‘Darling! Why ever not?’
‘We haven’t got that far.’ Jo turned her head on the lounger to look at Donna. ‘To be honest I’m not sure there’s the will. He says he wants to, but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic . . . probably because he’s still got Arkadius in his head. And I can’t help remembering Travis.’
‘Yeah, well that’ll happen until you replace Travis with Lawrence. And he replaces Arkadius with you.’
‘But how?’
Donna rolled her eyes. ‘Do I have to spell it out?’
‘We can’t just have sex on demand, without really wanting to.’
‘So you don’t want to?’
Jo sighed. ‘I suppose I’m nervous. It’ll be so weird after what’s happened.’
‘Hmm . . . OK. But you do still fancy him.’
‘Yes. Well, I suppose I would. I certainly used to. But I don’t feel any sort of excitement when I’m with him. He says we should just move in together and thrash it out. But that sounds even worse.’
They both contemplated the problem, whale song filling the silence.
Donna finally said, ‘Just get drunk and leap on him. Can’t think of any other way.’
