by Fiona Gibson
Could we do that? I might have forgiven him a few months ago. I might have accepted that he’d made a mistake, that he’d lost control of his mind, and his trousers, and that maybe I’d been at fault too; it’s never solely down to one person, after all. But I’m a different person now. Or maybe, like with the lawn mowing, the scrabbling about in the loft for a sleeping bag and now the proposed poncho mission, he just wants to help.
Perhaps he’s not quite so despicable after all.
‘I want to do it,’ he says firmly. ‘I want to go to Grange-over-Sands and fetch your poncho.’
I can’t help smiling. ‘I bet that’s a sentence you never thought you’d say.’
He laughs dryly and shrugs.
‘You’re just trying to be nice,’ I add. ‘You want to please me like … like a dog, running to fetch a stick …’
‘That’s charming,’ he exclaims.
‘You know what I mean,’ I say, reddening now. For the first time since we broke up, I almost feel bad about being mean to him.
‘Are you getting me back,’ he says with a slight smile, ‘for calling you an amphibian?’
‘What?’
He looks at me levelly. ‘You’re not, by the way. Not remotely.’ He turns and fills the kettle, as if he still lives here. Not that he needs permission to turn on a tap, or make tea – but still. I sense him trying to edge his way back to me, subtly, as if he’s hoping I won’t even notice it happening.
He clears his throat, and an awkward silence hovers between us, which seems ridiculous. Nine months ago we were living under the same roof, and wandering about naked, scratching our bums, picking at our toenails and spitting into the washbasin after flossing, all that unseemly bodily stuff.
We even did our loo business in front of each other. Okay, not poos – but wees, certainly. When you fall in love, you promise yourself that’ll never happen; you won’t become one of those couples where you pee merrily whilst remarking that the bin men seem to have changed to a Friday, and do we have much in for dinner tonight?
‘Viv?’ His voice jolts me back to the present.
‘Yes?’
‘Give me the address of that woman’s shop.’
‘No, Andy. I appreciate your offer but this is ridiculous.’
‘Remember when you badgered me for my address?’
‘Er … yes?’
‘I knew you didn’t really want to forward some mail to me,’ he retorts. ‘What could’ve been so important that it couldn’t have waited until I got back from Loch Fyne?’
I shrug. ‘Something could’ve …’
‘You sent me some junk mail from credit card companies,’ he remarks, ‘and a leaflet advertising conservatories. Like, really urgent. You just wanted to check out where I lived so you could do that omelette thing.’
‘No, I didn’t. I hadn’t even thought of—’
‘Just give me the address, Viv.’
He stands there, waiting. ‘Okay,’ I say reluctantly. ‘If you’re sure.’
He leaves, finally, and later, once I’ve said goodnight to Izzy, I text Tricia from Love Vintage to let her know the poncho will be picked up by ‘Andy’ (no further details supplied) at noon tomorrow.
Perfect, she replies. It’ll be waiting for him.
And now, in this still, quiet house, I wonder whether I’ve done the right thing, to allow myself to not be angry with him anymore. In the early days of this mess – and the not so early ones actually – I truly thought I would never get over the hurt. That I would hate him for ever and never involve myself with another man. That he’d ruined the part of me that could love someone. I was certain that he, coupled with the sweaty, hormonal mess I was in, had put paid to me ever being able to be close to anyone ever again. And it would just be me, alone in my clammy pyjamas, in my swampy bed, for ever.
I’m no longer so sure of that. I think of Nick, filming today, and how at ease I felt, how passionate about the project – our project. How I try not to think about him returning to New Zealand because, well, I am kind of liking him being around.
My phone pings, and I grab it, half expecting it to be Nick with some further suggestion or comment about the film he’s making, or the show. But in fact – mild disappointment – it’s Andy, suggesting that perhaps he should buy us a new lawnmower: It really is on its last legs, Viv.
I don’t need him to assess its condition, I decide. I can buy a new mower as and when I need one, and I can mow my own lawn. I can mow it just as well as he did and he’ll see, next time I do it. But, actually, I can’t help feeling touched by his thoughtfulness. And as I text, Okay, thanks, it occurs to me, shockingly, that the man who once called me amphibious, and refused to buy ice cubes for his daughter’s party, is actually capable of being kind.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sunday, November 17
I called Nick mid-morning to see if Penny was home yet but no, she had yet to reappear. It felt like checking up on a teenager, and I reminded myself that she’s a grown woman who, naturally, wants to spend time with her boyfriend without being hassled by her friends. Never mind that I am now burning to tell her about our project. Specifically, I’d hoped she would agree to come along today and meet our prospective models for the show. But, for now, being in possession of a mobile phone that she refuses to ever turn on, she is uncontactable. So I set out to the museum alone.
When I meet the four women in the small, cramped café, I am overwhelmed by their welcome, and how much they remember about our time together; we all worked together on The Glass Menagerie back in the day. There was the huge drama when two of the cast, both of whom had partners, were discovered to be having an illicit affair, which exploded in a public row, leaving us without our male lead. There was the panic over the flamboyant dress, which had fitted perfectly, but which was then deemed to be ‘excruciating’ by the prima donna star, and a replacement had to be found with four hours’ notice. Then, more happily, a dress rehearsal had ended in a spontaneous birthday celebration when I’d brought in cakes and champagne and we’d partied until 4 a.m. But then, why wouldn’t these women remember those times? I certainly do – I’d adored my job then, despite the perpetual panics – and it was only a decade ago. It just feels like a whole other life, and I feel like a different person now, although perhaps I’m not really, underneath.
‘I’d love to do the show,’ announces Charlotte, who’s in her late thirties, with a shock of curly red hair that springs around her pale cheeks.
‘Me too,’ says her friend Sammia. ‘Can I bag a trouser suit, though, and not a mini?’
‘The skirts aren’t terribly mini,’ I say, smiling. ‘Remember, this was the Seventies, not the Sixties …’
‘But what about hot pants?’ she asks, cringing.
‘Oh, yes.’ I smile. ‘There are a couple of pairs of those, but we’ll see what everyone feels comfortable wearing. We’ll have dress rehearsals. It’s crucial that everyone feels totally comfortable in their outfits.’
‘Oh, I can’t wait,’ Sammia says, grinning. ‘My mum used to shop at Girl Friday. Can she come?’
‘Of course she can,’ I exclaim. ‘You can all bring guests. It’s the least we can do to thank you.’
There are four actors here, ranging from Erin, who’s the youngest at twenty-nine, to Grace, who’s in her late forties. I still haven’t found my older model, and we really are cutting it fine now. The posters and programme have been designed, and Hannah is keen to get them finished. However, once they’re out there, Penny is sure to find out. ‘Can we hold off,’ I had asked Hannah, ‘until we’ve got our poncho? I really think we need one, worn by one of our models, for the poster. Let’s just wait a few more days.’
There is still so much to do, and some nights I’ve been waking up, not with the sweats but with a tight sensation in my chest, and my heart racing. Panic, I think it’s called. The old anxieties are still there, rumbling along beneath the surface, although mainly I am being propelled along by excitement a
nd a dogged belief that it will actually happen, just as I’ve planned it.
By the end of our meeting I have four enthusiastic models all signed up for the show. They want to be part of it, not for money (there still isn’t any) but because they love the museum and, just like Izzy, they love to dress up. Which makes me believe that perhaps everything will be okay, after all.
‘Of course it will,’ Andy says, when he shows up just after 10 p.m., presenting the poncho to me like a prize. It’s a thing of wonder: wild, playful and utterly impractical really. But all the lovelier for it.
‘Thank you so much for this,’ I say, meaning it. ‘Erm, I’m so sorry about this, but Nick wondered if he could nip round and film you, arriving with it?’
‘What, now?’ Andy looks appalled.
‘Yes. He’s only round the corner at—’
‘Yeah, I know where Penny lives,’ he says distractedly. ‘Does it have to be tonight, though? I mean, I already have arrived, haven’t I? So, he’s missed that part, the dramatic moment.’ A smile plays on his lips.
‘We can just pretend.’
He sighs. ‘Could we possibly pretend another time?’
I check his face; of course, he’s tired from the drive, and I relent, deciding he has done enough for me today. Instead, I make us mugs of tea, which we take through to the living room, where we sit side by side on the sofa.
We settle into silence. It’s not awkward exactly, although I get the feeling he wants to talk. So far, I’ve avoided it as much as possible; proper talking, that is. But now, curiosity is starting to niggle at me.
Was it the omelette thing? Did he and his new woman row over that? I glance at him, at this man I loved crazily and who now shows up, wanting to help out as if he is still part of the family. It seems almost unbelievable that we were a couple who managed to conceive twice, with fifteen years between our children. Some family planning – although I wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘So,’ I start, as Andy blows gently across his mug of tea, ‘d’you want to tell me what happened with you and Estelle?’
12.27 a.m., a new day
He’s still here. We didn’t plan for that to happen. I certainly never imagined we’d ever sit up again, talking into the night.
He wouldn’t tell me much at first, refused to divulge many details. Then a couple of hours ago, Izzy came down in her nightie, looking a bit bleary but pleased. ‘Dad’s still here,’ she said with a smile.
‘I’m going soon,’ Andy said, giving me a quick look. A hopeful look, as if willing me to say, Oh, you don’t have to. You can stay the night.
But I didn’t. I coaxed her back to bed, and now he is finally telling me what happened with him and the Celestial One.
‘I think I went a bit mad,’ he says. ‘It was never right. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
I frown at him, knowing he’s being as honest as he can be. ‘You thought you were in love with her?’
He nods. ‘I did. I am so sorry.’ His eyes fill with tears. ‘I kept trying to stop it, you know, before I left you. It was always, “I’ll just see her one more time, to be a fair and decent person and to end it properly. We’ll have coffee and that’ll be that.”’
But it was never just coffee. ‘Estelle would get so upset,’ he says now, ‘and swear that she was just about to leave her husband. But she never did. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.’
So, despite the promises, Andy hung on waiting, and finally it was him who ended it – on omelette night. ‘No, of course it was nothing to do with that,’ he says, frowning. ‘But it had just happened when she saw you. She’d just left the flat for the last time.’
If only I’d known when I’d been tottering about drunkenly with my eggy mess. But then, what would I have done – gone up there and gloated? Or coaxed him back home?
He reaches for my hand. ‘I realised I’d made a mistake,’ he says as I pull mine away. His touch feels so odd now.
‘So, you finished it because she wouldn’t leave her husband and commit to you?’
Andy hesitates. ‘I didn’t want to be with her anymore, Viv. I only wanted you.’ He squirms uncomfortably, and I’m feeling oddly dispassionate as the real story unfolds. All I can think is: Well, that wasn’t the best decision to make: leaving your wife and daughter and upsetting your son, to wait dutifully for your new girlfriend to leave her husband … Only to find she never would.
As a punchline, I’m sure he’d agree it was disappointing.
‘And … there’s something else I have to ask you,’ I add.
He nods. ‘You can ask me anything you want. Anything at all.’
‘Okay, so your flat …’
A here-we-go kind of look crosses his face. ‘Yep. That flat.’
‘Well … I’m just a bit surprised, that’s all. Why you chose it. I mean, I know you’ve been contributing here; you’ve been decent about that – about money and everything. But you’re hardly broke, Andy. Couldn’t you have found somewhere less …’
‘Less cheesy?’ He raises a brow.
‘Well, yes. You can’t stand the smell, can you? Remember the fuss you made about that fridge in Paris?’
‘I didn’t make a fuss—’
‘Come on. How come you moved in there? There are thousands of other places you could have rented—’
‘The thing is,’ he says quickly, ‘it wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing. It was literally a stopgap, just until we, um …’
‘Ah, right. Until Estelle left her husband and you could be open about things, and get a place together?’
‘Well, yes, I thought that was the plan,’ he murmurs, reddening.
I study his face. It still doesn’t make sense. ‘You still could’ve found somewhere a bit nicer, couldn’t you?’
A resigned look settles onto his face. ‘I’m really touched that you’re so concerned about my accommodation, Viv.’
‘Not concerned. More … curious, I suppose. Like I said, I remember how you were with that imaginary smell in Paris—’
‘It wasn’t imaginary!’
‘Andy, there was nothing there.’
He shakes his head. ‘If you say so.’ Then: ‘Okay, so I moved into the flat because it was vacant and I honestly thought I’d be there a month or so, no more than that.’ He looks at me. ‘It’s Estelle’s flat but it had lain empty for years.’
I blink at him. ‘Is the shop hers too?’
‘Yes, it is.’ He nods and rubs at his face. ‘She’s not actively involved – but it was her dad’s business. She inherited it and put a manager in.’
‘She’s not interested in it at all?’
‘It’s not really her thing,’ he says. And neither were you, I reflect, glancing at him as I sip my tea. At least, not enough for her to upend her comfortable life. I don’t feel sorry for him exactly. It just seems so foolish, so deranged, and so unlike the man I thought I knew. He always gave the impression that his decisions were the right ones: where to spend Christmas, or go on holiday; where we’d eat out, which wine we’d have. Cool, confident, successful Dr Flint, a man at the top of his game, always. The one who commandeered the barbecue and was the star of the monthly litter pick-ups, with the other women all fluttering around him. What a catch! was the general impression around here. But he’d got this one all wrong. She simply didn’t love him enough; at least, not as much as he’d thought she did.
We take our mugs through to the kitchen, and I thank him again for the poncho. ‘Why have you never let Izzy visit you?’ I ask as he’s leaving. ‘At the flat, I mean?’
He exhales forcefully. ‘Oh, I know it’s stupid. But obviously, she’d have made a big thing about it and told you. And, quite rightly, you’d have found it hilarious.’
‘I’m not sure I would have,’ I say, deciding to never mention my trip there with Penny and the others. How we’d gone into the shop and quizzed the woman who worked there.
‘Why did you care what I thought?’ I ask.
‘I
’ve always cared what you thought. I always will.’
I am stumped for how to respond to that. ‘It’s been good to talk tonight,’ he adds.
‘It has,’ I say truthfully as, in a peculiar way, I know Andy better now than I ever did when we were together. I feel equal to him, at least equal; not that I am interested in power games. Right now, I’m dog-tired and interested only in sleep. ‘So, you’ll be moving out of the flat, I guess?’
Andy nods as he steps outside. ‘I’m not sure where I’m going to go.’ I’m sure I catch it then; his quick glance towards our home. A hopeful look. Or maybe I imagined it?
‘So,’ I say, ‘the cheese thing doesn’t interest her at all? Even though it was the family business?’
Andy shakes his head, and a tiny smile forms. ‘She’s dairy intolerant,’ he says.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Monday, November 18
Penny has gone AWOL. At least, she and Hamish seem to have gone off on a jaunt on his boat, and there’s no way of reaching her. It seems crazy, that a person is uncontactable in this day and age. ‘Last thing I heard, they were having an impromptu holiday,’ Nick says, with a trace of exasperation when I call him at lunchtime from work. ‘I think it’s because I’m here, and Bobby hates the boat, apparently. He gets anxious and sick and he won’t wear his little life jacket.’
‘Can’t they just … put it on him?’
Nick chuckles. I push aside my haloumi salad and make an apologetic face at Belinda, who’s sitting opposite. ‘I think Mum finds it aesthetically unpleasing.’
I splutter with laughter, despite the anxiety that’s rising in me now; we really must tell her soon. I inhale deeply and sip my glass of water. ‘What can we do, then?’ I ask.
