The Continuity Girl

by Leah McLaren

  Meredith closed her eyes again and pulled the pilly flannel sheet under her nose. It occurred to her that she felt better than she had in many days. Must be the change of scenery. Something about her mother’s flat was making her crazy and depressed. She would look into that. That and what she was going to do now that she had no job and no real reason to be here. Her money was running low, and she could not bear the thought of asking her mother for a penny. Soon she would have to return to Toronto and her hamster-cage condo. She thought of the stainless steel appliances, the way they picked up every fingerprint and smudge of cooking oil no matter how often she wiped them down, and shuddered. She realized she didn’t want to go back. Not because of her empty condo, but because of her empty life.

  The years after she’d graduated from school and begun working seemed to slide together in her mind, each one indistinguishable from the next. For a long period she and Mish had roomed together in a big ground-floor apartment on Shaw Street. Then Mish had moved out to be with her boyfriend (a manic-depressive tabla drummer named Ned). Meredith had tried other women roommates but they drove her up the wall in various minor, yet unignorable ways—one was a hummer, another talked at her through the bathroom door, and the last one came with a pissing cat—until she decided to forget it and just buy a place on her own. She didn’t care where, really, as long as it was clean and affordable, and she could be alone and in peace. But mostly just alone.

  There had been guys. Guys who took her out to movies and dinner and showed up with half-wilted tulips from the grocery store. Guys who stayed overnight and made her scrambled eggs in the morning (which she loathed). There was one guy who even took her home to Sudbury to meet his retired schoolteacher parents. But never anyone she would have considered sharing a home with, let alone a future. The roommate thing had put her off the idea of living with other people. Other people who didn’t share her DNA anyway. Maybe it was the result of growing up an only child at a boarding school, but Meredith had never been particularly inclined toward the idea of sharing her life. She wanted a baby, yes, but that was more of a continuation of existence rather than a concession. She wanted a whole new reality, rather than a merged one. A part of her, rather than a partner. It was, she realized with a chill, probably the same way her mother had once felt.

  She wondered what time it was. There was no clock on the wall and she had left her watch at Coleville Terrace. Meredith began to sit up, and as she did there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Just a minute,” she said in a higher-than-normal voice, and she looked around for her clothes before remembering she had slept in them.

  She kicked at the covers and tried to hop out of bed but her feet got caught in the sheets, and in her struggle to rise she fell off the bed and onto the floor with a humiliating thump on her right bum cheek. She grunted and the door opened at the sound. Barnaby was standing behind it holding a tray with plates and a small vase with a bit of holly. His hair was sticking up and his eyes were showing a lot of white.

  “Are you all right, then?” He placed the tray on the threshold and stepped over it to where Meredith lay, stiff beneath her sheets. “Oh, poor you,” he said.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. This time I mean it.”

  Barnaby helped her up and she shook his hand off her arm once she was standing, the sheets in a white cotton puddle around her stocking-clad feet. He didn’t seem to notice this rebuke and went straight for the tray, picking it up and holding it out in front of him with stiff toy-soldier arms. His eyes were glazed but expectant.

  “I brought you some breakfast,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

  Why was he being so nice? There was a small black comb on the dresser and she wanted to pull it through her hair, but not in front of him. Meredith smoothed her dress flat and picked some bits of lint that had attached themselves to the material during the night. The room seemed far too small for the two of them. She suddenly had the feeling of being on a steamer ship, heading across the ocean for the first time. Imagine, she thought, living like this for weeks on end.

  Barnaby showed no sign of leaving. He sat down on a small chair across from the bed and placed the tray on the bedside table. The reading lamp had to be moved to the floor to make room. Meredith stole a glance in the mirror above the dresser and noticed a ruddy lipstick smudge on her chin. She licked her thumb and tried to rub it off.

  “Please sit,” Barnaby said, indicating the unmade bed.

  Meredith did and felt immediately more comfortable.

  “I guess I ought to say thank you,” she said. Then, feeling bad, she rephrased it. “What I meant to say is, thank you.”

  “Nonsense.” Barnaby closed his eyes and shook his head, snorting a little through his nose. “I just gave you a place to stay. You seemed so...unwell.”

  “I guess I have been lately. It’s staying with my mother, I think. And the movie and everything...” She trailed off, realizing she couldn’t possibly explain the story of how she had been fired. Not that Barnaby would have asked her to. He never intentionally did anything to make her uncomfortable.

  “Mish told me you decided to leave your job.”

  She shrugged and smiled a little, and his expression brightened in a way that made her feel apprehensive. “Thanks for letting me stay here,” she said, letting her face drop into seriousness. “I’ll pay you back for the room.”

  “God, no,” he almost shouted, and then caught himself and leaned back slightly. “I insist.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes. Really.”

  “Okay. I mean, if you insist.” Meredith was secretly relieved. She had no cash with her and her credit card was nudging its limit. “Where did you sleep, then?”

  “Oh, well.” He shook his head dismissively as though the matter of where he slept was trivial. “The club manager was very accommodating.”

  “They gave you another room?”

  “No, actually they were entirely booked. I slept on the sofa in the lounge.”

  “Oh God, Barnaby, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Really. For once I had a good excuse to close the place down. And it certainly isn’t as though it’s the first time I’ve ever spent the night on a pub sofa.”

  Meredith laughed, and Barnaby’s eyes seemed to dart out of his head. They smiled at each other for a long moment and blood began to thump in her ears. She coughed and searched for an excuse to change the subject, or, more specifically, she sought to ward off whatever subject she sensed he was about to bring up.

  “Did you find your birds?”

  “The owl and the vulture came back, yes. They’re actually quite tame and old, so I knew they would. But I fear two of the young falcons are gone for good.”

  “Will they be able to survive?”

  “I should think so. Better than you or I. It’s just the loss of the time. All the training gone to waste. Anyway, I shall be leaving Pear Cottage shortly, so they wouldn’t have me to return to even if they did.”

  “Why?”

  “Things with my brother have degenerated, and I think it’s time I found somewhere else to live, at least for a little while. I’ll still have the cottage for holidays, of course, but living there all the time was becoming...untenable.”

  Meredith touched the back of his hand.

  “I’m actually thinking of getting a job.”

  “Really?” She squeezed his fingers and hoped he did not find the gesture gushy.

  “There’s a falconry centre down the road in Gloucestershire. They’ve got hundreds of birds and they’re always short on trainers and people to do flying demonstrations, so I thought I might...help out.”

  “Barnaby, that’s great. I mean, it really is. You’re changing your life. That’s amazing.”

  Her hand was still on top of his and he surprised her by placing his other hand over hers and pressing down.

  “Meredith, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About our talk that weekend. Specific
ally it made me think that I want different things from the things I thought I wanted before. Not that I thought I really wanted anything in particular. The point was I didn’t really know. I had no idea. Until now, that is.”

  Meredith waited.

  “I was wondering if you would ever consider coming to Gloucestershire with me. To live. I mean to—to live as my wife.”

  Meredith pulled her hand out from between his so fast she accidentally slapped herself. Words began to pour. “Wow. That is huge. I mean, that is such a big thing you just asked me. I really don’t know what to say. Hmm.”

  He put a finger to her lips to make the words stop.

  “It’s just that I know you want to have a baby—which I think is wonderful, by the way—and I thought that, well, given that my brother seems to be having such a difficult time producing a son, maybe if we were to...”

  “But what about Chubby?” Meredith said, touching her stomach.

  “She gave birth last Thursday to a girl,” Barnaby said. “Penelope. But everyone’s taken to calling her Pud.”

  “Barnaby, look,” Meredith said after a pause. “I just want to have a baby. I wouldn’t make a good wife.”

  “To me you would.”

  “I know myself pretty well and I’m telling you now. I wouldn’t.”

  He smiled, then reached out and caught her hand again. “You don’t understand. If we are to have a son, we must get married.”

  “Why do you assume it would be a boy?”

  “Of course I don’t know that it would be a boy, but I should obviously hope—”

  “Why? Don’t you like girls?”

  Barnaby laughed. “Of course I like girls. And I should like to have a dozen daughters after we marry and have a son.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because I told you—a legal heir can only be produced within the bonds of wedlock. I could leave you alone entirely. You could even have your own house if you wanted. Your own life. And I could have mine. I know it might seem unusual to you, but such arrangements are not as uncommon as you might think.”

  The room got much quieter after that. Meredith said something to the effect that she would think about it, and then tried to eat some of the breakfast Barnaby had brought up to her. The coddled eggs were slimy and the toast was hard. She took a few sips of lukewarm coffee mixed with some kind of milk formula and then reached for her bag. “Do you mind if I check my messages?” she said.

  “Not at all.” Barnaby picked up the paper.

  There were four messages on her cell phone. One from Mish and the other three from her mother. Though it was the first time she had turned on the phone in over a week, the voice mail informed her that several unheard messages had been deleted from her mailbox, which annoyed her. A bit like the post office writing to tell you it lost a package.

  Barnaby read the Sunday Telegraph as she cupped her phone to her ear and listened.

  “Heya.” It was Mish. “Hope you’re feeling better. God, I am so sorry I made you go out last night. Please don’t hold it against me, okay? Okay? Anyway, I thought I’d leave one more message just in case you were returning calls. Wacky news. Remember that guy Benedict? The German banker dude we had naked sushi with? Well, he invited me to his place in Munich. Or Frankfurt. One of those places where they drink beer from giant mugs and dance around in suede overalls. Anyway, do you think I should go? I mean, I barely know him. But I guess you went to Barnaby’s for the weekend. And look how that turned out. Although I must say he was looking pretty cute last night. The way he caught you as you fell and then carried you out of the room like Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind. Okay I’m gonna go now. Call me. Bye.”

  A beeping sound, and then her mother’s voice in a mechanical tone.

  “Meredith, it’s your mother. Call me back.”

  Beep. Irma again.

  “Moo, it’s Mum. I’m calling about...” A loud mechanical thrumming noise drowned her out for a moment. “Sorry, darling. That was just my friend Philip practising his didgeridoo. Now, what am I calling about? I know there was a reason—” The noise grew into a roar. “OH, WOULD YOU KNOCK IT OFF FOR TWO SECONDS. YOU’RE GIVING ME A HEADACHE.” A pause and then Irma’s voice resumed its normal chirp. “Oh, yes. I wanted to ask you how your head felt. I meant to say last night that you shouldn’t go to sleep if you’ve hit your head. You might have a concussion and go into a coma. Though I suppose it’s a little late for that now. Anyway, if you haven’t yet gone to sleep, don’t. And if you are in a coma, that’s terrible. Comas can be awful. Philip knows because he spent four years in one. Of course that was drug-related. Oh, darling, you must meet him. He’s terribly talented. I met him at the book launch last night. I do think you would approve. Call me. It’s your mother. Did I already say that?”

  Beep. Irma again.

  “Isn’t that funny? I completely forgot the reason why I called you in the first place. It was about this letter that came addressed to you, of all people. It looks intriguing. Philip and I both think you ought to open it as soon as possible. I wanted to open it but Philip said no. Wasn’t that proper of him? Anyway, if you don’t come home for it soon, curiosity may overcome my resolve. Bye, duck.” Click.

  Meredith looked at Barnaby, who had folded the paper into eighths, just like one of the old men in three-piece suits she saw traveling to work every day on the tube. It must be a skill particular to English men. The women never seemed to do it. He was completely absorbed in a column written by a well-known Tory pundit known for his ruminations on such topics as why-the-London-transport-poses-a-threat-to-the-city’s-septic-management. How fascinated he seemed, when just a few moments ago he had been proposing his “arrangement” to her. She wasn’t sure whether he thought she had turned him down or left it at maybe. None of it seemed clear.

  She looked at Barnaby with his sandbox hair and his moth-eaten sweater (undoubtedly his father’s) and she thought that maybe life with him would not be all that bad. And then for the squillionth time since she’d arrived in London, Meredith wished there was a book of rules on what to do depending on how you felt and where you were. She wished she could look up “Correct response to proposal from sweet but bumbling alcoholic falconers” on an index and follow the directions there.

  As it was, she was on her own.

  15

  There were no seats on the train at Pisa, so Meredith sat on her suitcase in the aisle. Shortly after the train began jerking toward Florence, a man in a fitted blue uniform approached and said something disapproving in Italian. He pointed to the vestibule between the cars. She over-pronounced an apology and began to move, pulling her suitcase through the aisle behind her. It ricocheted off the seats on either side in a series of humiliating thuds. The other passengers yanked away their arms and legs as she passed, making their resentment apparent. There was no air-conditioning on the train, and people seemed to be allowed to smoke wherever they liked. Meredith could feel pinpricks of sweat beneath her sweater. She wondered if she smelled bad.

  The folding jump seats were taken, so she pulled her suitcase to the center of the space and sat down on top of it. Several men were standing around, all of them smoking or talking into cell phones or both. They looked at her through mirrored lenses. She could feel their eyes examining each breast and buttock with the critical judgment of a greengrocer. Meredith scrunched her knees to her chest and prayed silently that her moisturizer wouldn’t explode inside her bag and stain all her clothes. She hardly had anything to wear as it was.

  In a way, the invitation couldn’t have come at a better time. There had been no question of her not going. Passing up the chance to attend a dinner at Osmond Crouch’s villa was unthinkable. “Like a nun bailing on an audience with the Pope,” her mother had said when she expressed her ambivalence about the prospect of traveling to Italy for a dinner party. The mysterious thing was why he had asked her in the first place. The invitation, Irma said, had been delivered by a uniformed man in a chauffeur-driven car.
It came in an oversize envelope made of thick creamy paper that smelled as crisp and metallic as money and was sealed with a blob of red wax and stamped with the image of two stags, their antlers interlocked. Miss Meredith Moore, it read on the outside in bold, blue fountain pen. Inside was printed a date, time and address and nothing more. THE 21ST OF JUNE AT 19:00 HRS. VOGRIE, FIESOLE. And then in the same fountain pen at the bottom, the words, Meredith, Do come. Followed by an illegible squiggle—the signature of a person who spent a lot of time signing things. If it hadn’t been for her mother’s interpreting powers, Meredith wouldn’t have had a clue what the invitation was for.

  She had to fold the invitation twice to fit it in her handbag.

  Meredith was nervous, but Mish said she had a professional obligation to attend. Not that Meredith was actually a professional anything anymore. As a freelancer she’d long ago grown used to never knowing where her next paycheck might come from. “Who knows?” she used to laugh. “I may never work again!” But the thought of unemployment was no longer a dark joke. After walking off one set and being fired from another, she might well never work again. She cursed herself for ever having tempted fate out loud. Meredith had once read a statistic that after two months of unemployment a person’s chances of reentering the workforce within the next two years dropped dramatically, something like 60 percent. It stuck in her head in the same way all those terrifying fertility statistics about your ovaries drying up after the age of thirty-five did. She imagined herself in half a decade—living alone in a basement rental unit in a dilapidated government-subsidized high-rise on the outskirts of some anonymous midsize city. She would have broken down from the loneliness and adopted a cat. Probably two or three. They would have grown very fat and sad sitting around her apartment all day watching her watch the DVD box set of Audrey Hepburn films. She would have grown fat by then too. Fat, alone, infertile and unemployed. God.