For the first time, Dianne’s voice became hesitant. “He suggested that I go over and stay with him for a bit.” She bit her lip and looked at him sideways. “He’s been lonely since Christmas… and he’s had a cold… he’s a bit under the weather. And it’s what you want me to do.”
“Don’t tell me. You’ve already booked your flight. Tomorrow. You’re going to slum it on a bargain airline. You’ve been upstairs packing.”
Her chin came up. “Quite the mystic, aren’t you? Full marks.”
Paul raised his head and looked her in the eye. “I hope you’ve booked a taxi.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t depend on my dear husband. Not after the last time.”
She turned away. He spoke to her back, making her freeze momentarily.
“Give Luther my regards. You deserve each other.”
He was dreaming about being lost, lost in snow. He was running around, small and cold, stumbling in the drifts. Suddenly, there were clocks rearing out of the snow all around him, Grandfather clocks, huge and brown and menacing. Pendulums swung fast. Faster. Too fast. He lurched from one to the other, crying to be let in, pleading with the clocks to stop their frenzied ticking and let him in. His feet mangled the snow into lumps and hollows. He looked down at his footprints. New snow was filling them up. Erasing them. Erasing him. The maker of footprints. The maker of nothing.
The crashing tide of loneliness woke him. He sat on the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands to steady himself, to banish the dizziness and nausea of the dream. Then he stood, naked, and pulled the thick duvet from the bed. Downstairs, he opened the back door. It wasn’t bolted. Neither he nor Dianne had given it a thought. The minutia of life together was disintegrating.
Stepping outside, he felt instantly clean and free. By the light of the half-moon he found his way to the shed and crouched, propping his back against the wood. He had no idea what time it was. It didn’t matter. He shrugged himself deeper into the duvet, using his hands as hooks across his body, his feet holding the edge beneath his toes. It was cold, but there was enough cloud cover to keep the frost from biting.
This was better. Brushed by moonlight falling through dark and drifting clouds, Paul was lulled by the murmur of grass and the softly swaying winter branches in the gardens around him. He savoured it all, every star, every twig, every pinch of the cold. Before he returned to bed he would banish the need, the image of sugar-brown hair, the wind-pink nose above the edge of red scarf. All of her had to go. If he had to do this alone, so be it.
From the window of the spare bedroom, Dianne looked down at him. She had heard him go and knew where he was going. Bloody fool! This time she would not go after him and pull him to her to warm him. He would be all right – very cold but that duvet was thick.
Without saying it, they both knew it was over. He had changed beyond all recognition from the stunning charismatic man she had met. Then, he had just secured his first big commission for a major glossy fashion magazine. She was to be such an asset to his society career and she would enjoy his money and his fame. She hugged her shoulders. So many friends had envied her when she married him. Then so many of them had raised their eyebrows when she had come to Belfast with him. They never expected that. Neither did she. It hadn’t worked. Luther was right. She was going back to where she belonged, the only play she knew.
She turned away from the window briskly and felt for the door to return to the warmth of her own bed. That reminded her. The proofs for the catalogue of Luther’s new exhibition would have arrived today. She stepped round the dark shape of her full suitcase, climbed into bed and opened a jar on the bedside table. As she smoothed cream onto her hands she made a mental note to ring Luther in the morning and tell him to bring the proofs when he met her at the airport. She adjusted her pillow. And if he had let them use that ghastly purple on the cover, she would send them all back again to be redesigned. She settled her head. Luther had an awful eye for colour.
Many streets away, Jenna lay sleepless. She watched the dim black mound of the teddy bear on the pillow beside her, wearing the black woollen hat, as if it might turn and speak.
She curled her legs up, trying to find comfort and sleep. She remembered when Paul had given her that hat, how it had felt as though his hands were upon her head. The head is a lonely place, but the heart is a dangerous one. She put a hand out to touch the dried sprig of ivy leaves that lay on her bedside table, beside her radio. She had done the right thing today, but she didn’t feel any better. Why don’t I feel good, Dad? Why do I want to go out to fight the dragons of the dangerous places?
She curled her body tighter under the quilt. If I’ve been good, why do I feel so bad?
24
THE GALLERY was doing well. Luther found it hard to say so, but Dianne’s family name and connections were helping enormously. Mingling with the guests at this invitation-only viewing, Dianne pulled in her stomach. She was wearing a black satin pencil skirt and she was putting on weight. Luther was a man of few words, but he regarded her with triumph and ownership. She understood that. It was what life was about – alliances and money. When affection came into it as well, it was a bonus.
Across the room, Luther caught her eye and winked. She lifted her chin. Luther was being successful after all. Her thoughts flitted briefly to Paul, back in Belfast. God, that seemed so far away now. What the hell had got into him? He had been part of this. A year ago, he would have been here working the room, making contacts, turning down commissions just because he didn’t like them. He could afford to.
She had made one brief phone call to tell him she was staying on to help with the gallery for a bit. All he had said was, “You didn’t need to tell me.”
At least he had answered the phone.
Luther threaded his way towards her. He was looking smooth and confident in a dark gray suit and white shirt. The tint of his hair was echoed in the gold stripe of his elegant tie. He stood beside her and his hand rested impudently low on her back.
“This should be worth a bit,” he said, low into her ear.
“And half of it’s mine,” she responded through lips that kept smiling at the guests nearby.
“We’ll see.” Luther patted her bottom. “You’re getting tubby,” he murmured. His fingers pinched. “Not a good image, my love.”
She put the steel point of her heel on his foot and leaned on it. A small man with a doughnut of gray hair wandered by. She beamed at him. “Hello, Ambrose. Giving the House a miss tonight?”
Luther looked down at his foot where her heel was making a severe dent in the toe. “I don’t mind about my toes, but have you any idea how much these shoes cost?”
“I know exactly how much they cost,” she whispered, twisting her heel and making a definite tear in the leather. “I know the cost of everything. I know how much your belt was. The belt you had to let out a notch when you were dressing tonight.”
Luther shook hands with a couple who had just arrived, then turned back. Through gritted teeth he muttered, “Do you want a replay of your fifteenth birthday?”
Dianne waved cheerily at Arabella who had just given up trying to understand a piece of metal on a spotlit plinth. She put her hand on Luther’s shoulder affectionately and mouthed, “Dumped in your pool again?” She removed her heel. “Maybe when you get rid of the green gooey stuff. Not to mention the frogspawn.” She swung away from him. “Harry, darling! How’s the vineyard? Let me show you this amazing piece over here. It would look incredibly wonderful in your villa. I thought of you as soon as I saw it.”
This time it was Bella who was sitting on the chair by the log fire in the study. Dianne was lying curled in a ball in one corner of the red leather sofa, her arms tight around her knees, the look in her eyes provoking unusual concern in Bella’s. She didn’t feel cosy; she didn’t feel warm; she didn’t feel anything except an appalling fear.
“That’s two months,” Bella said.
“I’ve been stressed.”
“My ass,”
said Bella.
Silence fell again. Bella examined her nails. Then she twirled her ankle and admired the leatherwork on her Gucci boots. Dianne was going to buy a more expensive pair tomorrow. She hadn’t told Bella she would, but then Bella didn’t need to be told. However, Dianne wasn’t thinking about that now. Bella was making her think of something else; forcing her.
Now Bella reached into her bag and held out a packet. “Go do it, darling. I’ll wait.” When Dianne didn’t uncurl, she shook the small box impatiently. “You have to. You know you do.”
Slowly, Dianne sat up. It was as if she were wading through a treacle of dread. The tingling in her breasts had been telling her for some time but that and every other sign had been explained away. Stress, not eating properly, late nights. Even leaving Paul. Bella had laughed aloud at that one. “Don’t be daft, Di! You’ve been happier than a pig in muck since you came back.” With a tilt of a slim eyebrow she had added, “Probably Paul has too.” Then she had sighed a nostalgic sigh. “Now why didn’t he pick me instead?”
Dianne stood suddenly and snatched the box. “You’ll wait?”
Bella sat back and lifted a copy of Vogue from a mahogany rack. “Wild horses, darling,…” she flipped the pages “… wild horses.”
Twenty-four hours later, Dianne was toying with her fork in an intimate booth for two. Luther was getting better tables now. He had been going over Dianne’s plans for the renovation of the foyer of the gallery. Her ideas were good, her instinct and style immaculate. After a few minutes, he stopped talking and covered her hand, stilled her fingers.
“What’s up? Is it about your divorce? We’ll get it started soon. When we’re less busy.”
Dianne looked at him, at his round cheeks, his pale lashes, his look of well-being, the possessiveness of his hand on hers. She had to tell him; he had to help; he mustn’t be angry. She took a deep breath.
“I’m pregnant.”
Luther’s hand tightened as hers began to shake on the white cloth of the table. It was the first time she had said the words and the very saying of it punched a stake of fear through her stomach. There was an alien in there, a parasite, something growing inside her that she didn’t want, which she hated with all of her being. Luther lifted his hand from hers.
A waiter hovered. Luther waved him away and fell back in his chair. “You stupid girl,” he said. There was no request for a repeat of the information, no request for proof, no question about whether she was sure.
“You knew, didn’t you?” she said.
“I know women and I know you exceptionally well. I know when you’re lying. A few things haven’t been adding up these last few weeks.”
She put her elbows on the table and covered her face. “Oh Luther, what am I going to do? I’m so scared.”
His voice came low, confident, stating facts. “It isn’t mine. We’re too careful.”
She lowered her hands but her voice would not come.
“It can’t be mine,” he repeated.
Still she didn’t answer, because he was right. Luther would never, ever, lose control. Even in the middle of passion his mind would be working, calculating, never ever making a mistake like that. His voice hardened.
“So it’s his.” She bit her lip and his hand shot across to take her chin. “Say it!”
The dam broke and she hit the table, rattled knives and forks, sent a spoon to the floor. “It must be!”
Her chin jerked from his grasp and he clenched his fist beside his wine glass. A waiter looked and left quickly.
“Christmas,” Luther muttered. “Christmas. Parties and carelessness. And you with him after, before you came back to me…”
He stopped talking, his cheeks flooded with colour. He folded his arms on the table and bent his head. She looked at the swirl of blond where it parted slightly at his brow. Now she was beginning to feel annoyed. That was good. It elbowed at the fear.
“He was – is – my husband, for God’s sake!” She paused, then added, “But he didn’t touch me after Christmas. Not once. We were busy.” She stopped there. Paul had not wanted her at all, but she wasn’t going to tell Luther that.
Luther raised his head. “Are you going to tell him?”
“Good God, no!”
He sat back again, his hands dropping to his knees. “This isn’t good. Not good at all.”
“Well, full marks for deduction,” she hissed. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I said I was scared. I’m petrified. I don’t want to be pregnant. Not now, not ever. Gallery or no gallery. You know that.”
“I know that.” He took her hand and fiddled with her fingers. “But I’ll talk you round some time.” The flush faded a little and she saw his mind working, calculating. Then he looked her in the eye. “Then there’s only one thing to do.” He paused and she told him with her eyes that she knew what he meant. “Have you told Bella?” She nodded. “She’ll go with you. Your father need never know.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I love you, you idiot. Enough to take you back again.” His face stilled above her fingers and his words were clipped and clear. “But not anything from him. Kill it.”
She recoiled a little at his blunt instruction, but she had her father’s money. Relief fell like a fever. It would be all right. It would be as if it had never happened. She would get rid of the parasite and she would never, ever, let this happen again. A thought struck her. She had to be sure of one thing. “Paul must never know about this, Luther. Never.”
He threw a cold glance at her and clicked his fingers for the waiter, wordless.
Paul did not appear at Jenna’s door again and she didn’t expect him to. He had betrayed himself to her and she had rejected him. That was the last of it. She had lost him, every part of him. But then, she reminded herself, she had never had him.
But, in truth, she had. Resisting him had become a habit and she had walked away from the most alive, the most intoxicating, the most dynamic man ever to have streamed across her sky. His last words to her were a banishment. He wouldn’t try to persuade her; he wouldn’t give her the opportunity to change her mind. The door was slammed and the key was thrown away, just as surely as his wedding ring.
Even so, she would turn off her laptop in the lengthening evenings and linger over closing the curtains onto the street – just in case he should be standing in a pool of light, waiting to stride into her house and throw himself down in her chair.
Four times, Luke stayed over on a Friday night and spent Saturday on location with Paul. Always, he met him in town and always he loved it.
“Paul’s brill, you know, Jay. He’s got the patience of Job when he wants to get a shot.”
“Paul says you have to take hundreds of shots just to get one gem.”
“Paul says the only reflectors he wants to work with are the moon and the earth.”
“We stayed in Belfast today. Paul got me to look for shapes and patterns in buildings. Paul says I have a good eye for composition.”
“Paul says photography’s not about taking pictures. It’s about seeing.”
Paul says. Paul says. Sometimes Jenna wanted to put her hands over her ears. Never once, apparently, did Paul say, “Say hi to your sister.” Every time she saw her brother, she thought of him having been with Paul, spoken to Paul, been in Paul’s car, and jealousy shot an arrow through her.
That last day had been delightful – until it ended. Paul was light and funny; he made her laugh until she ached; he made her feel so good that she could have been a model all her life. Indeed, there was more in her than she knew and that day Paul had drawn from her unknown parts of herself by the magic he made simply by being with her.
He came into her mind at any time. He never truly left it. Walking into the university she would remember how he had started to sing ‘Hound Dog’ in the middle of the library. He had stormed into the university, walked through hundreds of students just to find her. Only Paul would do it and only Paul would succeed.
Where was Dianne? Jenna had
got used to the odd petulant phone call from her when she was bored, or when she wanted company on a shopping trip. Jenna had become quite an authority on handbags. But there had been no contact for some weeks. Was Paul’s prophesy right? And if so, had she left him yet? And if she had… Jenna chewed her thumb… if she had, Paul didn’t think it worth telling her.
And then there was Max. Max who had been so amused when Paul came for her in the library; Max who told her that he had watched her walk away with Paul and thought what a great figure she had. He was a post-graduate student also and Jenna could talk to him about dissertations and word length, bibliographies and library books. His hair was brown and long and curly, his body chunky, his jumpers baggy, his jeans faded and ripped at the knees. She blew her bank balance on some trendy clothes and hung out with him in the coffee bars. When he had come into her house for the first time, he sauntered round her sitting room.
“Hey, nice print. Like birds, do you, Jen?”
“It’s not a print. It’s an original.” She set down two coffee mugs and tossed some books from the sofa. “It was taken by a friend of mine.”
“Cool.” He moved on. The razor shell was on the window ledge. Max stood looking out at the street, absently tapping the shell against his palm.
“Careful with that. It’s fragile.”
Max looked down at it, surprised, then dropped it back on the window ledge. “OK. Plenty more where that came from.”
Jenna opened her mouth but shut it again. It was enough that Max had stopped touching it. Still, when he sat in the chair – her chair? Paul’s chair? – she raised her chin and smiled at him.
Life goes on.
On a damp day at the beginning of March she brought Max with her on one of her increasingly rare visits home. He shook her father’s hand.
“Hi, sir. I’ve never been in a rectory before.”
Donald smiled. “You still haven’t. This is a manse.”
“Oh. Right. I thought they were all the same.”
Cora bustled in. “You’ll have a drink, Max. What will it be?”
Maker of Footprints Page 24
