Second Honeymoon

by Joanna Trollope

  She had looked at the note and wished that he hadn’t left it. Solicitousness was all very well but the imposition of will implied by paying for something was rather different. She was extremely grateful for the thought, but not at all grateful for the money. She was still earning, after all: she would pay for her own taxi. She had picked up the orange and replaced it in the fruit bowl, and then wedged the money against it like a flag.

  Sitting in the taxi, Kate felt an unmistakable rush of relief, relief at not wishing to die with such vehemence, relief at being out of the flat, relief at the prospect of the – compared to home – impersonality of work. Work was full of complications, and intractable people, but as she didn’t love them she didn’t have to take responsibility for them. Nor did she have to thank them, fervently, every time they did something properly that they were paid to do properly in the first place.

  It was lovely of Rosa to have made such an effort in the flat. They had returned from a weekend in Dorset with Barney’s parents – too much food, Kate thought, too much kindness, too many cushions and anxious questions – to find the flat smelling strongly of bleach, and every room wearing a startled aspect, as if a violent upheaval had taken place without having, exactly, come to a settled conclusion afterwards. Rosa could start things and carry them energetically part of the way forward, but finishing them, calming them, tidying up tedious, final details was something she was unable to achieve because she couldn’t see that it was necessary. Her essays at university had been like that, Kate remembered, full of initial energy and enterprise and then simply stopping, some way from the end, as if a fuel supply had been cut off. Barney had looked at the sitting room.

  ‘It’s like someone left the window open, and a hurricane blew through’.

  Kate had been very grateful – most grateful in fact -for Rosa’s not being there when they got back. She’d left a jug of pale supermarket tulips, all curved and clamped together, on the kitchen table and a note saying she’d gone away for the night. Kate, feeling treacherous, had opened Rosa’s bedroom door and looked inside. The bed was made, roughly speaking, and the floor was clear because all Rosa’s clothes had been mounded up in one corner, and covered, with its arms outstretched in a sort of bizarre embrace, by her orange tweed jacket. Kate swallowed. There was a mug and a glass on the upended wine carton Rosa was using as a bedside table. Kate resisted the urge to go and pick them up and closed the door again.

  It was easier, the next morning, and with the unquestioned freedom of a working day ahead, to feel a simpler reaction to Rosa’s efforts. Losing a job, Kate reflected, was in some ways similar to the end of a relationship, even if it was a job you hadn’t exactly valued in the first place. When you were faced with rejection, in whatever situation and however deserved or undeserved, it wasn’t just your confidence that suffered, it was your faith in the future, your ability to see that any effort you might make could be a tiny investment in what would happen to you thereafter. I have to remember that, Kate thought, I have to remember how pointless daily life seems when you can’t see where you’re going. I have to remember what it must feel like when there isn’t even any wreckage to cling to.

  The taxi drew into the kerb. Across a broad stretch of pavement rose the eccentric glass-and-steel façade of the broadcasting company where Kate had worked as a researcher for three interesting and purposeful years. It was the sort of job she had hoped for, all the time she was at university, all the time after university when she couldn’t find what she wanted, couldn’t seem to settle. It was, in fact, the sort of job Rosa should have had too.

  Kate leaned forward and pushed a note through the glass screen in the taxi. How astonishing it was, how pleasurable, to be going back to work. She got out of the cab and stood for a moment on the pavement, her face tilted towards the sky. Married, she said to herself, pregnant, working. Go, girl.

  In the coffee shop after the read-through, Lazlo said he was starving.

  ‘I was so nervous—’

  ‘It didn’t show’.

  ‘I kept thinking, this isn’t how I’m going to play it, this is wrong. I made him far more petulant than I want him to be. I don’t want to sound so sorry for myself. Would you like a bagel?’

  ‘I’ll get you a bagel,’ Edie said.

  ‘No, really, I asked you to have a coffee with me’.

  ‘And I am your mother,’ Edie said. ‘Don’t forget that’.

  He regarded her. He said soberly, ‘I thought you were wonderful’.

  Edie’s chin went up a little.

  ‘Not really. Don’t forget I’ve been doing this since you were in your pram’. ‘I don’t think so’.

  She took her wallet out of her bag.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four’.

  She looked satisfied.

  ‘I’ve been doing this since you were in your pram.

  What kind of bagel?’

  ‘Toasted, please. Would two bagels be out of the question?’

  ‘Certainly not. And cream cheese?’ ‘How did you know?’ ‘Mother stuff,’ Edie said.

  She threaded her way between the small metal tables to the counter. Behind it, a huge mirror reflected the room and she could see that Lazlo was watching her and that he looked as her children had looked after school examinations in subjects they were good at, exhilarated and exhausted. He was going, she thought, to be a good Osvald, just the right blend of intensity and youthful spirit, frightened enough to arouse sympathy, self-absorbed enough to be maddening. As for her – well, there was a lot to think about in Mrs Alving and most of it about lies. Watching Lazlo in the glass made her consider how rich it was going to be making those lies form the central core of violent maternal protectiveness in the way she played Mrs Alving. She could see, from where she was, how hungry Lazlo was. She could see he was watching her in admiration, certainly, but also he was watching because she would be returning to him with a tray of coffee and bagels, and something in the simplicity of that, the neediness of that, made her heart rejoice.

  She went back to their table and put the tray down. ‘Can I ask you something?’ Lazlo said.

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘I want you to be honest—’

  ‘Oh, I am excellent at that,’ Edie said, unloading the tray, putting the bagels down in front of him. ‘I have a diploma in honest. Ask my family’.

  He picked up a knife.

  ‘Your family—’

  ‘One husband. Three children, two of them older than you are’. ‘I don’t believe it—’

  ‘True’. She turned and put the empty tray down on a nearby table. ‘What do you want to ask?’

  ‘Will I—’ He stopped. ‘Will you what?’

  ‘Will I be any good?’

  * * *

  It was rather nice, Vivien thought, lying in the bath with a mug of valerian tea balanced on the edge, to think of Rosa settling down in her spare room. The room had been made up, of course, as it always was, in obedience to the dictates of Vivien and Edie’s childhoods, where whole areas of the house had been consecrated to this mythical creature called the visitor, who would expect exaggerated standards of perfection and formality were he or she ever to put in an appearance. There had not only been a front room smelling of furniture polish, but a spare bedroom upstairs that looked as if it belonged in a provincial hotel, with two beds shrouded in green candlewick covers and a wardrobe empty of everything except extra blankets and a clatter of hangers. Edie’s reaction to this arrangement had been to make sure her family lived abundantly in every corner of her house; Vivien’s, to emulate her mother. Rosa, in Vivien’s spare room, would find books and tissues and lamps with functioning bulbs. And if she chose, climbing into a bed where the sheets matched the pillowcases, to make comparisons, that was no affair of Vivien’s.

  When Rosa had telephoned and asked to come and see her, Vivien had said of course, come to supper. Then she had suggested coming on Sunday and added, ‘Why don’t you stay the night?’


  Rosa had hesitated.

  ‘Would that be all right?’

  ‘Of course. Wouldn’t you rather stay than trail back into Central London afterwards?’

  ‘Staying,’ Rosa said, ‘would actually be very wonderful’.

  Vivien didn’t think Rosa looked very well. She had made an effort – clean hair, ironed shirt – but there was a kind of lustre missing, the kind that was turned up full wattage when you were in love but could equally be dimmed down according to varying degrees of distress, until it was almost extinguished.

  It became plain, as supper progressed, and Vivien began to think that a single bottle of wine was looking both meagre and unhelpful, that Rosa’s current state of distress had been advancing upon her for several years. First there was the affair with Josh, and then the ending of the affair and subsequent derailment of prudence and capability, and now unemployment and debt.

  ‘Probably,’ Rosa said, eating grapes with the absent-mindedness of being already full, ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this’.

  ‘Why not? I’m your aunt—’

  ‘I mean, I shouldn’t be telling anyone. In a grown-up world, I should be sorting it. I should be waking up one morning full of resolve and vow to clear my life of clutter and make a list of priorities. I shouldn’t be wandering about like some hopeless animal that’s escaped from its field and can’t find the way back in’.

  Vivien got up to make coffee.

  ‘Nice image’.

  ‘But not nice situation’.

  ‘No’. She reached up for the cafetière from a high shelf. She said, ‘Did you think of going back home?’

  There was a pause and then Rosa said reluctantly,

  ‘I tried’.

  Vivien turned round.

  ‘I can’t believe your mother turned you down—’

  ‘No—’ ‘Well, then’.

  ‘Dad did,’ Rosa said. ‘But nobody knows that but Ben. You’re not to say’. Vivien smiled at her.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it’. She spooned coffee into the cafetière. She said carefully, ‘Your mother couldn’t think why you chose to go and live with friends. Couldn’t understand it. Why you didn’t go home’.

  ‘Well,’ Rosa said, ‘I can’t, now’.

  ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘I can’t go whining to Mum after Dad said what he did’.

  ‘Which,’ Vivien said, switching on the kettle, ‘I can imagine. Men always want their wives to see them first. Except,’ she added lightly, ‘mine’.

  Rosa looked up.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why you still like him’. Vivien came back to the table and sat down. ‘More wine?’

  ‘Yes, but no,’ Rosa said. ‘I’m selling bargain breaks to Lanzarote tomorrow’.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. I sell a lot of books I wouldn’t read myself’. She picked up a fork and drew a line with it across her place mat. She said, ‘You’ll get another job’.

  ‘I hope so’.

  ‘It’s much easier to find a job if you’ve already got one’.

  Rosa rolled a bruised grape around the rim of her plate.

  ‘It’s not really the job that worries me so much, in a way. It’s how I’m going to live. How I’m going to live so that I can start on this debt, how I—’ She broke off and then she said, in a slightly choked voice, ‘Sorry’.

  Vivien drew another line to intersect with the first one.

  Then she said, ‘Come here’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come here. Come and live here for a while’. Rosa stared at her.

  ‘I couldn’t—’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, you’re my aunt—’

  ‘Exactly’.

  ‘And Mum—’

  ‘Might be very pleased’.

  ‘Might she?’

  They looked at each other. ‘I don’t think so,’ Rosa said. ‘Does it matter?’ ‘Oh God—’

  ‘Does it really matter? Just while you get yourself sorted and start paying off these cards and find another job?’

  ‘Maybe—’

  ‘She’ll calm down,’ Vivien said. ‘You know Edie. Big bang, smaller mutterings, acceptance. She’ll be fine’. Rosa said slowly, ‘It would be wonderful—’

  ‘Yes. I’d love it’.

  ‘I’d make an effort—’

  Vivien got up to get the coffee.

  ‘We both would’. She looked at Rosa over her shoulder. She smiled. ‘It might be quite fun’.

  It might, she thought now, indeed be fun. It might also, dwelling upon the prospect, be both a relief and comfort to become in some way necessary again, a provider of all those things only women who had lived lives and run houses could properly provide. Vivien picked up her tea. Rosa had kissed her warmly before she had disappeared into the spare room, with a kind of brief sudden fervour people feel when they have unexpectedly been thrown a lifeline.

  ‘I only really came to talk,’ Rosa said. ‘I never thought—’

  ‘Nor did I,’ Vivien said. ‘One seldom does’.

  She smiled into her tea. There was no hurry, really, about telling Edie.

  Chapter Seven

  The loft on Bankside was in a vast converted Victorian warehouse. Its brick walls, newly cleaned and pierced with modern windows in matte black frames, reared up from the charmingly – and also newly – cobbled alley that separated the building from a similar one ten feet away. If you looked skywards, you could see, on the two sides that looked towards the river, that little black balconies had been hung outside some of the higher windows, and on one of those, Matthew supposed, Ruth would emerge on summer evenings, holding a glass of vodka and cranberry juice, or whatever was the drink of the moment in her circle, and admire both the view and her sense of ownership.

  Thinking this was not, Matthew found, at all comfortable. In fact nothing in his mind was, at the moment, in the least comfortable, being instead a sour soup of disappointment and self-reproach and a very real and insistent sadness. It wasn’t a simple matter of resenting Ruth, or even berating himself for not facing facts, because the whole situation had crept up on him – on them both – so insidiously, fuelled by things that were not acknowledged or uttered even more than by things that were openly expressed. He might curse himself for getting into this tangle, but the curses were only the more vehement because he could, looking back, see exactly how he had got there.

  When Matthew had announced that there was no way he could share in the purchase of the flat, Ruth had become very still. She had looked at him for a long time, thoughtfully, and then she had said, ‘Will you do one thing?’

  ‘What thing—’

  ‘Come and see the flat. Just see it’. He shook his head.

  ‘No’.

  ‘Matthew, please’.

  ‘I can’t afford it. I don’t want to have my nose rubbed in what I can’t afford’.

  ‘It isn’t for you, I’m afraid. It’s for me. I want you to see the flat’.

  He said nothing.

  She said, almost shyly, ‘I want you to see what I’m buying’.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want you to be part of it—’

  ‘I can’t be’.

  ‘But you’ll come there, you’ll come and see me, surely?’ He hesitated. His heart smote him. He said, not looking at her, ‘Of course’. ‘Then come’.

  ‘Ruth—’

  She moved towards him and put her hands on his shoulders. She looked into his face as intently as if she were counting his eyelashes.

  ‘Matt. Matt. This isn’t the end of us’.

  Now, standing uneasily on those carefully patterned cobblestones, Matthew told himself that being kind – or cowardly – once was one thing: persisting in it was quite another and could lead to desperate situations. Whatever Ruth said, however beseeching she was, he must not allow her to believe that he felt other than he did, that he could somehow cope with a situation in which he only had power in the obvious department of bed, which was not, in the end, he knew, en
ough.

  He pushed open the heavy glass door of the warehouse and entered an immensely tall foyer, floored in granite with long windows running right up to the roof. There was an industrial steel staircase curving up behind a bank of lifts and besides that nothing, not a picture nor an ashtray nor a piece of furniture, nothing but high, quiet acres of expensively finished dark gleaming space. He stepped forward into a lift and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

  When the lift doors slid open, there was a sudden flood of light.

  ‘I saw you!’ Ruth said. She was standing in an open doorway with apparently nothing behind her. ‘I was watching from the balcony and I saw you!’

  He bent to kiss her cheek. She moved to meet his mouth and missed it. He looked past her.

  ‘Wow’.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  He nodded. The room beyond the open door was pale and high and shining, and at the end there was nothing through the huge windows but sky.

  Ruth took his hand.

  ‘You see? You see why I had to buy it?’

  She towed him through the door. Then she let go and spun down the length of the room.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘All this space! All this air! And Central London! I can walk to work!’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘Come and see the bathroom,’ Ruth said. ‘The shower is so cool. And in the kitchen, the microwave is built into the cooker unit. It looks like a spaceship’.

  Matthew followed her across the wooden floor, through a doorway in a translucent wall of glass bricks. She was standing in a shower made of a cylinder of satin-finished metal, punctuated with little glass portholes in blue and green.

  ‘Did you ever see anything like it?’

  ‘No,’ Matthew said, ‘I never did’.

  Ruth stepped out of the shower.

  She said, more soberly, ‘I wish it wasn’t like this’.

  He nodded.

  She said, ‘I wish it wasn’t you coming to stay in my flat. I wish it was ours’.

  He leaned against the wall. The glass felt solid and cold through the sleeve of his jacket.