Every now and again, I stopped short and silently warned myself that this could not last.
‘We could have done this twenty years ago,’ he remarked, one Sunday morning over oven-warmed croissants and the Observer.
‘You wouldn’t have had the girls,’ I replied instantly. The girls I was yet to meet. We had talked about it but I had taken fright at the prospect of a pair of adolescents, twins, who doted on their father, being confronted by an almost forty-year-old actress who knew zilch about parenting and had until this point been pretty poor at relationships altogether. ‘Let’s give it time, see how it goes,’ I’d vacillated.
Peter accepted my shilly-shallying until the approach of Christmas, when he put his foot down. ‘Family time,’ he insisted. ‘And Angela and I are not intending to play charades or masquerade as a happy twosome or reunite for the holidays for the sake of our daughters. We did it last year as it was only weeks after our separation and it was a disaster. Besides, I want you to meet them. I want them to love you and to know that you are now the woman in my life.’
I listened without argument.
‘You always were, Grace.’
I couldn’t decide whether this was going too fast for me or I wanted to charge in, like a starved insane brute.
‘The spare room,’ he said adamantly. ‘They won’t mind sharing a bed for a few nights. They might pretend to be grown-ups in front of their school pals but they’re still kids at heart and sharing a bed is fun. They can discuss you with their heads under the blankets. Share their thoughts and opinions. Twins complicit. They’ll love it. I’ll organize a Christmas tree and you can get their room ready.’
‘What about Angela? Won’t she want her daughters with her during this season?’
‘She’ll thrill at the possibility of time out. Skiing with her pals.’
‘At Christmas? Don’t they have families of their own?’
‘Well, her …’
‘Lover?’
Peter had not touched upon what had caused the dissolution of his marriage and I had not asked him. I had no desire to delve and pry. Naively, I had just taken it for granted that they had drifted apart. The presence of another, a lover, had not crossed my mind. So Peter would still be there, in his perfectly well-set-up married life, if Angela had not asked him to go, I was now learning. Where did that leave me, us? Might I be the fill-in, the understudy, while Angela had her fling, saw it through to its conclusion, then turned back, remorseful, to her long-standing, patient husband who adored his daughters and had been comfy in the family home? I kept this to myself, warned myself to rein in my foolishly overflowing insecurities, and drove to John Lewis to buy new bedding. And presents. Gifts for thirteen-year-olds. Thirteen-year-olds I had never met. I didn’t have a clue. I spent far too much in a bid to be liked, willing their words to be kind during those hours when they put their heads together, complicit, breathing in the fresh scent of new pillowcases. I chose neat leather shoulder bags, same style, different colours: yellow and pale pink. Heart-shaped silver lockets. Were they twin twins, identical in dress codes as well as features? I was trying to recall the photos Peter had shown me. Peter was in Brussels. I needed to do this alone. He was intending to collect them on his way back from the ferry.
I was still in the play, Noël Coward until January, and there was talk of an extension of the run. My agent had called me. ‘If they want three more months, Grace, what are your thoughts?’
I had been looking forward to time out, possibly to spending a few indolent days with Peter in Brussels, a few short city trips with him, long weekends in Europe, a rare interlude from my full-on working life. Now I was hesitating. When all else failed, when life had caved in, it had always, always been my work that had seen me through. It had been my rudder in choppy waters, guiding me in the best direction. I should accept the extension, lock myself into the show, and secure another offer for afterwards in the spring. Book myself up, cement myself in. Secure my safety belt because, sooner or later, this affair would be over, and I would be alone, back to my secure solitary existence.
The Present
Eventually, a little after ten thirty, unable to stay put in the empty house for any longer, I reversed out the car and turned up onto the high road. My heart was thudding. I began to count the fallen pine branches along the verge from the recent storm. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to keep at bay the invasion of negative thoughts. The bell of the phone on the seat at my side caused me to jump. I almost skidded off the cliff. I pulled over into one of the many parking bays offered for contemplation and picture-snapping of the numerous beauty spots along this stretch of the coast. The sea was glinting aquamarine way beneath me.
It was a local number, commencing with 04. A Provençal landline. Please, God, don’t let it be the clinic. Don’t let there be a hitch, an unforeseen problem.
‘Hello?’
I had one hand clutching the steering wheel while the other held the phone with such force I might have squeezed it out of shape.
‘Madame Soames?’
A man’s voice. French. A nurse? The consultant? Please not.
‘Yes?’ I was barely able to form the one-syllable word.
‘It’s Capitaine Moulinet.’
A sigh of relief followed instantly by a jab of concern. ‘Bonjour, Capitaine.’
‘Is this a good moment?’
‘No, not really, I’m driving. I mean, I’ve pulled over. No, I’m on my way to Marseille to …’
‘Excellent, I am in Marseille. I wonder if you would spare me half an hour of your time?’
‘Today?’
‘As soon as is convenient, if that’s fine with you.’
‘My husband is …’ I glanced at my watch. I didn’t want to be late. I was keen to be at Peter’s side when he opened his eyes.
‘Your husband is in the operating theatre. Yes, I know.’
‘I’ll call you later.’
‘By all means. A short interview this afternoon. I would be most grateful.’
‘Is it … urgent?’
‘A couple of points to clear up.’
‘I’ll contact you later.’
‘Much obliged.’
Had Gissing kept hold of my two notes suggesting meetings with him? Both signed ‘Grace’. Thoughtless of me. Had the police discovered them? If they had, I was implicated. I had lied. Would I be forced to disclose the whole story?
I didn’t know the whole story.
Traffic down at the port delayed my arrival. The usual city parking nightmares. I locked the car, ran to the clinic and took the lift to the second floor, hurrying breathlessly along the corridor to the rest-and-recovery area. Another woman was there, seated patiently. I had spotted her the morning before. She was in the waiting room, going through the same ordeal perhaps. Her head was bowed. She looked puffy-eyed as though she lacked sleep or had been crying. I muttered, ‘Bonjour,’ but she did not register my presence.
I sat on the opposite side of the room for a few minutes. This corner of the clinic was empty, lacking activity. Silent, eerily still, save for a distant hum of machinery. No nurse passed by. I glanced at my watch. Ten past one. I stood up, paced to the window, returned to my chair and then, without taking my seat again, exited the salle.
A staff member wheeling a trolley was ambling in my direction.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes?’
‘My husband should be up from the operating theatre by now. I was in the –’
‘You need to press that buzzer and give your name.’
I did as instructed.
‘Yes?’
‘Peter Soames,’ I announced, into the speaker alongside the bell. ‘I’m his wife.’
‘Just a minute, please.’
I heard a click. I waited. Nothing. No one.
I pressed the buzzer again.
The same woman. ‘Please be patient. I am trying to find out what has happened.’
‘Is he there?’
‘Apologies, but he has not been brought up for recuperation.’
My knees went weak. I almost collapsed against the wall. ‘Do you know why?’ I pleaded.
‘I was trying to find out. Hold on, please. Just wait. Don’t buzz again, please.’
I remained half leaning against the green-painted wall.
‘Madame Soames?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your husband is still in the operating theatre.’
‘Why?’
There might have been a delay at the start of the operation. I was trying to calm myself. A million details, preparations, anything might have held them up. Consultant couldn’t park. Overslept. I didn’t believe any of these excuses.
‘I am not at liberty to give out the information. Apologies. I suggest you make your way to his room and try to find his nurse or a member of staff on ward duty. They should be able to help you.’
I tore along the corridor. My mouth was parched as sandpaper. I peered through the glass cut into the door of Peter’s room. Empty. No nurse. Only his bed, made ready for his return, banks of machines. It was a private occupancy.
I heard laughter from the far end of the corridor. Peals of laughter, like small silvery bells chiming. A nurse exited from where the sounds had arisen. I bolted towards her.
‘Mr Soames,’ I was calling. ‘My husband.’
She shook her head.
‘Someone must know what’s happened to him,’ I had to force myself not to yell, all too aware of others sleeping, convalescing, dying perhaps. Not Peter, please, not Peter.
‘My husband has not been returned to the recovery suite. Has something gone wrong?’
She looked at me and must have registered the terror in my expression. Gently she took my arm and led me back to the nurses’ den. ‘Does anyone know what’s happened to Monsieur Soames?’ she asked. They all looked so young, so unencumbered. Life and death were not intruding upon their afternoon. One young blonde was sitting on a desk, her feet perched on the seat of a chair, scrawling on the screen of her mobile.
Another picked up a telephone receiver – an internal phone, I assumed. ‘Just a minute,’ she said. A short dialogue was exchanged and she replaced the phone.
‘The operation is taking longer than expected. He is still in the theatre.’
‘Why?’ I cried. ‘Did he go down late?’
‘Sometimes it works out that way. Would you like a glass of water?’
I shook my head, fighting back tears.
‘Why don’t you sit in his room? One of us will come and get you when he’s up from theatre.’
I nodded and retreated.
In Peter’s room, on a chair at the foot of the bed, I was silently praying. Desperate measures. It was now almost two o’clock. If his operation had begun at eight, as had been programmed, it meant he had been under anaesthesia for six hours. The worst of everything was flashing through my mind. Escalating hysteria was interrupted by the ringing of my phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Madame Soames?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am waiting for your call.’
‘Capitaine, unless this is extremely urgent, I’m very sorry, but I – I can’t talk now, apologies.’ I closed the phone.
Moments later the door opened and a young nurse popped her head in. ‘Madame Soames?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your husband is being brought up to the recovery room now.’
‘Thank God.’ I leaped to my feet. ‘Is everything all right? May I see him, please?’
‘Everything’s fine, but he will be under intensive surveillance for the next two hours and then, when all is well, he’ll be brought back here. You must wait. Why not pop down to the cafeteria and grab a coffee or a sandwich? There’s nothing you can do for the next couple of hours.’
I needed air.
Christmas 1990
Peter was delayed by inclement weather in Belgium, which also caused snow in Kent. It meant he was late collecting the girls from Angela and I couldn’t wait in. I had to get to the theatre. A rigorous ruling of my own: I was always in my dressing room a minimum of an hour and a half before curtain-up. It gave me time to collect my thoughts, settle my mind to the world of my character, shed my own habits, concerns, and prepare myself for immersion in another universe. This discipline had been informed by my training and I had adhered to it since the beginning. Even the prospect of holding Peter in my arms again did not dent my routine.
I scribbled a note and left it on the dining-room table. Welcome back. Feed everyone. Fridge groaning. Home directly after show xx
The girls were in bed when I returned after eleven.
‘Shall I call them down?’
‘Let them sleep.’ I yawned, stretched my legs, pulling off my overcoat and slinging it over a chair, tired.
‘Hungry?’
I shook my head. Peter poured me a glass of red wine. We sat holding hands across the table, not having seen one another for more than a week.
Behind me, the door creaked as it opened slowly and I heard bare feet squeaking across the wooden floor.
‘I couldn’t wait till tomorrow,’ the girly voice said. ‘May I come in, Daddy, please?’
Peter rose. Protective in his manner, eyes beaming with love. ‘Come and meet Grace. Grace, this is Samantha, though she prefers to be known as Sam.’
I swivelled on my chair and the loveliest of girls, a teenager with a head of lustrous dark-brown hair, stepped towards me and bent low. She wrapped her arms about me in an unheralded bear-hug. ‘Fab Christmas tree, Grace. Thanks for inviting us.’ Muffled words in my ear.
I smiled. She smelt of Chanel Number 5, my perfume. She must have been in my bathroom. They had their own alongside the spare room but evidently mine was more inviting. ‘It’s a pleasure. I’ve been looking forward to …’
Samantha, or Sam, pulled herself back from me and stood gazing into my face, appraising me. Her almond eyes – must have been inherited from Angela’s side – and confident expression quite startled me. She seemed older, far more self-assured, than her thirteen years.
‘Come and sit down, sweetheart, and let Grace relax and enjoy her wine.’
Sam swung herself into the chair between her father and me. I was looking for the resemblance.
‘Are we coming to see the play?’ she asked. ‘I told Dad it’s what I want for Christmas.’ She smiled the smile of a beauty, wide and trusting. A future heart-breaker.
‘No need to waste an opportunity for presents on tickets to the show. I’m sure I can organize them without any difficulties. Middle of next week suit you both?’
‘I think it’s amazing you’re an actress. I’ve seen you on TV. Mum doesn’t work and I think it’s partly what makes her so bad-tempered.’
‘Sam, hush now.’
Fortunately, at that moment, Twin Two crept through the door. She appeared to be a shyer child, more hesitant. Her hair was lighter, less dramatic in colour. She was slighter of build and moved directly to Peter, wrapping herself about his shoulders from behind. From there she looked across at me and then to her sister.
‘I’m Jennifer,’ she announced hesitantly.
‘Hello, Jennifer, or do you prefer Jen or Jenny?’
And with that, she began to cry, head nuzzled in the nape of her father’s neck, her body heaving. ‘I want to go home,’ she sobbed.
‘Now, now, that’s not very kind to Grace, is it?’ Peter drew his weeping daughter to him and coaxed her onto his lap. Her face buried in his chest, her body settled itself between his strong arms. A small person secure in the fork of two branches of a solid, much idolized tree.
‘Stop it,’ ordered her sister. ‘Stop whinging, Jen.’ The force of Sam’s command rather took me aback. It was hard to believe they were twins. Sam behaved with a bossier, more self-possessed maturity. This, I was to learn, was an erroneous observation on my part. They switched emotions constantly, one opening up as the other closed down, both expressing warmth tow
ards me for one instant and then, within the blink of an eye, anger or, on one or two occasions, hostility. Never were their emotions in synch. When one rejected me, the other embraced me with open arms, and for a while during that rather fraught festive season, I began to suspect that their shifts were a game, a ploy they had cooked up to unnerve me, a scam to tease or rattle me. A punishment for stealing their precious father.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
They were adolescents, adoring daughters coming to terms with the break-up of their parents’ marriage, with the fragility of all they had held precious and indestructible. I had to learn to let their mood fluctuations bounce off me. Their overt criticisms and occasional judgements were because they perceived me as the agent of change within their young lives.
It was not an easy holiday period. I felt tense much of the time, yet there were moments when it was utterly joyous. Children, youngsters, in my life for the first time. It was a new world. They crept into our room, perched on the two sides of the bed, peeped through the crack in the door and ran off giggling. They quizzed me with impossible questions, personal details, delved into my wardrobe, strutted about in my high heels, offered to make us tea in bed, and delivered bundles of gifts to us on Christmas morning – beautifully wrapped, in Jenny’s case, or thrown untidily together in Sam’s. Jenny was the more artistic of the pair, Sam curious, questioning, penetrating in every detail. Both were volatile.
The House on the Edge of the Cliff Page 32
