Love After Love Page 8

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh lighten up,’ he said. ‘Come on. Come with me. Have a line. Just a little one. Like old times.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Your husband never need know. It can be one of our secrets.’ He tapped his nose. This close his breath smelt oddly sweet.

  ‘David,’ I said and but I wanted to appease him now. See that dangerous look drop off his face. ‘Don’t let’s fight. It’s your birthday. Don’t you like the party? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’

  But he wasn’t listening any more. Adam had joined Tara under the light of a faux Victorian sconce. She acknowledged him with a brief, warm look.

  ‘Ah,’ said David. ‘Interesting. Is that the wife?’

  Later and the party eased. Most were drunk. The band played ‘Nine to Five’ and everybody danced. Jake skidded about, enjoying the crush. Aunty April and Pete moved carefully, looking down at their feet and visibly counting. They went, the two of them, every Wednesday, to a class in Dorking. They’d made a lot of new friends. Then the next song began and Stef, who been twisting at the fringes with Lou, tapped Pete’s shoulder, who stepped aside, and took April in his arms in a show of gallantry. He swung her around easily, her hair lifting and her face raised with a look like a child on fairground ride. I stepped back to avoid them. The football team were in amongst it somewhere and even Mum swayed gamely on the edges of the floor. David and Alice were catching up, at last, and I watched them for a while. They had slipped back into their old opposition, her a little too together, him smiling and avoidant. At last, Adam came to me. He was pissed, I could see that; the booze subtly altering the contours of his face.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get to you for hours,’ he said. ‘Come over here. Where it’s quieter.’

  ‘OK,’ I replied.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘We can stand next to the bar.’

  This side of the room felt like later, scuffed and askew. A barmaid texted and ignored a rash of empties. We stood side by side, facing back out into the room. I love him best in profile; though he is not at his most handsome, he seems at his most true. I like to see the workings of him, the hop in his throat that gives away too much. The little hairless square under his chin.

  ‘I’m warm,’ said Adam. He shrugged off his jacket and laid it in the crook of an elbow, folding his other arm beneath.

  ‘That’s a beautiful dress,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘A little closer, Nancy, please,’ he said. ‘Just a step.’ He was near enough, now, that the nap of his jacket caught on the sheen of my sleeve.

  I first felt the brush of his nails against my arm. A light stroke, back and forth; its effect was narcotic, out of all proportion. My perception shrank to that narrow little panel of flesh. I shifted, and he adjusted his touch. He caught the edge of my breast and there was the gentle press, through silk, of his knuckles, one by one.

  ‘Laugh, Nancy,’ he said. ‘Pretend I’ve just told you the funniest thing you ever heard,’ and I did, I threw back my head and laughed, too high, too long, as though I’d never stop.

  Then, with the heat from all the dancing, Skyler’s streamers began to drop, one by one with a slow motion beauty, and then in a sudden flurry, like blossom. People aahed and where a few hung together, the little ones took the ends and danced the maypole in high skips. Skyler reached up and took my brother’s face in her hands and the feeling of it passed through me like a shudder and I thought, if he turned to me, if Adam dipped his face to mine and kissed me, it would be worth everything that followed. Tara was coming, now, with a mellow smile, and he didn’t stop, nor did I move. I simply waited for her to reach us, stupefied by her husband’s touch.

  ‘Hi guys,’ she said. ‘Nancy, I want to tell you, your daughter is an amazing girl.’

  I nodded and she went on to tell me why. Her talent, her commitment, her good sense, didn’t I find? I told her that I did.

  ‘And I’ve just had a chat with your mother, too. What a lady.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Of course. She was telling me about her work. So inspiring. Such energy!’ and I could have asked: What work? The art she makes in her upstairs room? Or the stuff at the women’s refuge she does every now and again, although she talks about it more? But I said nothing, dazed at Adam’s hand. And then Madeline was there, with a careful look and her teacher’s tone.

  ‘She’s fine, OK, Nancy. I don’t want you to panic, but Frieda’s in the toilets chucking up. She’s just a bit pissed. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Tara, in distress, in astonishment. ‘Are you sure? She seemed so—Oh dear.’

  Frieda was finished when I got there, limp but coherent.

  ‘I’m all right, Mum,’ she said, pale and glistening. ‘I just need to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ I said, and sent Mads for Stefan and the kids. The band was doing ‘Do You Love Me?’ but little could be heard of it over the bawl of the crowd.

  ‘Can you tell Mum and Dad we’re going?’ I asked her, when she was back.

  ‘Yeah I will,’ she said and then grabbed my shoulder and whispered boozily: ‘What about the bill though, Nance? I was just behind the bar, and the tab ran out hours ago.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Get them to put it all through on my card.’

  *

  The cab journey was quiet. Frieda sat between us, eyes closed, a victim to every kink in the road. Lou and Jake, opposite, were alert and fearful, their gazes on their sister.

  ‘Is she ill?’ one of them asked.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I replied.

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘No she’s not.’

  *

  I slept on her floor with a bucket, on the mattress in a bag she used for sleepovers. Unrolled, it bore the traces of her most recent midnight feast: shards of softened Walkers and a Haribo packet with a cola bottle glued to the side. The sheet hadn’t been washed and it smelled of girl; some other girl than mine. There were no posters on her wall but logos of bands instead, names I’d heard of but couldn’t place. From my vantage point I saw a lighter under a drawer and prayed it was just for the candles she so loved, fragranced in Paris, hand set in blasted glass, costing weeks’ worth of chores. I thought of Adam, raising his dented Zippo, illuminating his face. My mattress lay close to her window and I listened. London outside sounded like threat, brakes pressed too late, wild animals, unaccompanied girls. I fell asleep full of the dangers of the world.

  10

  Marie had a new haircut, razored short into the sides. It surprised me.

  ‘Wow. Your hair looks great,’ I said as she came in.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied with a slow full smile. She sat. I let her organise her things.

  ‘How was your week, Marie?’ I asked, when she was ready.

  ‘It was fine,’ she said.

  ‘That’s good. Is there anything you’d like to begin with this morning?’ I asked. ‘Anything that you’ve been thinking about, or noticed perhaps?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘No.’ Her knees gave a brief skitter.

  ‘Then shall we talk about the homework? Did you get the chance to take a look?’

  *

  Frieda had been fine the previous day, not even ill. Stef cuffed her gently as she ate a large breakfast.

  ‘One of those things,’ he said but she dipped her face, not ready to laugh.

  ‘Mummy, was Frieda drunk last night?’ Lou asked.

  ‘Well, she is nearly fifteen,’ Jake said.

  ‘Don’t be so silly, you two.’

  ‘What will Grandpa think?’ said Frieda.

  ‘I doubt he even noticed. Or I can tell him you had a bug,’ I said. ‘No harm done. Forget it.’

  I missed Dad’s call that morning and my brother’s too. When I saw David’s number again, Stef said: ‘We’re eating. Can’t it wait?’ and I let it ring out.

  *

  �
��I made a copy for you this time,’ Marie said, and passed me the sheet. I was feeling worse than the day before. Too much food and sleep.

  ‘How did you find the exercise?’ I said. I looked at the page. I know the shapes. It was to be resistance then.

  She touched her new hair lightly. ‘Fine. I mean, I’ve done it, but I’m not sure it’s going to be very helpful.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I said.

  ‘Well, my answers are all noes. Except for when a no is wanted. Then it’s yes.’

  I nodded and then corrected her.

  ‘I can see why it might seem that way, but there are no right or wrong answers here,’ I said. ‘Your responses are completely valid, whatever they are.’

  She glanced down at her notes and back. Marie hates to lose eye-contact.

  ‘It’s just there’s not a whole lot to talk about. My parents didn’t do these things, or make me feel like any of this,’ she said.

  She dropped a finger to her page.

  ‘And the other stuff I can’t remember. What they said if I got angry. When I cried. It was all too long ago.’

  ‘So there were no difficulties, at all, growing up, that you recall?’

  ‘We were normal,’ she said.

  ‘And what’s that?’ I replied, with a tiny smile.

  ‘Just normal.’

  ‘You’re lucky, then. And in the minority.’

  I took a pause, but I had found what I needed.

  ‘One observation,’ I said. ‘There seems to be very little emotion here.’

  I held up the sheet. She moved her hand across to her bag.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘No anger or conflict. That’s quite unusual. Especially during the teenage years.’

  ‘That’s how I remember it.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. You can find that in some families certain feelings are disallowed.’

  ‘I don’t recognise that.’

  ‘You might well not. Where emotion is discouraged, we can bury it very deep.’

  She recrossed her legs and her shoe dropped away from the sole of her foot, though she snapped it back quickly.

  ‘But these things have a tendency to resurface, Marie. Sometimes many years later and in very different forms.’

  ‘Don’t try and fit me in that box,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I replied. ‘I’m not. Can I put something to you?’

  ‘If you like,’ she said.

  ‘You strike me as a classic good girl. Hard worker, loyal friend and so on. Does that sound about right?’

  ‘Are you telling me that’s bad?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s just that such a role can be confining. It’s much harder to throw off approval than ambivalence, or criticism,’ I said.

  ‘Why would I want to throw it off?’ she replied.

  To live, I thought. To find out who you are.

  ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t,’ I said lightly; ‘it’s simply about understanding the roles we find ourselves in. And knowing there are ways to break free of them, if we so choose.’

  She shut her book with a crack.

  ‘I don’t recognise any of that,’ she said again.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I replied. ‘Let’s move on.’

  *

  A family is nothing but a collective idea, sustained by belief. If conviction fails, the family becomes fragile. It can unravel fast.

  When the new baby comes we will be complete. So spoke my mother – a common enough phrase – but with that sentence, the planet listed and I realised that we were makeshift, partial. I grabbed for David. I told him how it was and he listened seriously and suggested we make a chart to count our sister down. Now a parent myself, I take care with the words I choose.

  A day or two shy of spring, Mads was born and we breathed out, but it didn’t make us whole; we loosened instead. She cried, with croup, it must have been, for several hours each day, and David and I would tear through the rooms, roaring till her sound seemed distant and tiny, delirious with the abandon of it. When we were done, we lay star-shaped on the floor, listening to our children’s hearts bang; me, at least, too old for it at nearly thirteen. One time, Mum came after us, the baby bucking in her arms and yelled:

  ‘Stop this now or I swear to God I will completely lose my mind.’

  We spent half an hour straightening things and pulled her away from the radio, where she sat, very close, to show her what we’d done, but her face was jammed and she said: ‘Yes, but who do you think does this every other time you make that mess?’

  David ran and cried in the bottom of the airing cupboard; a favourite spot. ‘Leave that door ajar, David. You’ll kill yourself in there, one of these days,’ she called.

  Space opened up in the family which felt, for a while, like freedom. We took money from her purse and she didn’t notice. We tried to learn to smoke. And all the time Mum was changing, though David claimed he couldn’t see it. She began to take less care. Her accent narrowed and refined. Dad crept into the house each afternoon, looking room to room as though he was frightened of what he might find, something totally changed, like the scientist who turned into a fly. There were no rows, just a thickening silence and a terrible change in habits. Routine moors us; the first Sunday lunch without Dad was irregular, the next, catastrophic. David and I gave ourselves secret names and tried to build something separate. Dad lasted until Christmas.

  Marie’s idea of her past was holding, but there will be a chink; she wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t. I ran my hand over her life to feel for it; it is my job and the therapeutic hour that she pays for leaves ten minutes at the end for just this. I will find the trail that keeps taking her back and send out my birds to eat those breadcrumbs up. Adam slipped a note under my door: Four days XXX, it read, but I couldn’t wait and I went to him.

  11

  I had cried, first time, with Adam, and he let me, his nose deep in my hair. I’d expected it, or similar. It was not the shock of a clichéd act in an ugly room, our empty clothes a rebuke to us; nothing like that, though some of the details suggested that scene. My things, yes, they were scattered; we were not so old and polite as to have folded them. From where I lay, I could see my bra hanging oddly from the arm of a French grey valet stand, still curved at the bust as though it held somebody else’s breasts. My trousers, on the floor, were hinged at the knee, like the chalk outline of a corpse after a long fast drop. The side of my face was soaked and my cheek slipped off my arm onto the hotel linen, thinned to reveal the pillowy diamonds of the mattress protector beneath.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  *

  ‘We have no concierge,’ the receptionist had told us proudly, as we bumped our cases up the warped stairs behind her. I wondered what she saw; our two separate bags for one night, mismatched, clearly hailing from different homes. She unlocked the door with a key on a huge silk-tasselled fob. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, with confidence. She didn’t come in; there was nothing inside that needed demonstrating.

  We circled the room separately to ease those first moments alone. The original window stuck briefly as I shoved it and left a splinter deep in my thumb but it didn’t seem the moment to make a fuss. Behind me, he shut and opened cupboards, then exclaimed.

  ‘Nancy, come and look at these.’

  The top drawer had been lined with thick tracing paper and on it were pencil sketches. I saw woodland creatures, pictured from above, perfectly anatomically correct. A fox, a rabbit, a hedgehog and a vole. I pulled the sheet out carefully – the drawings were faint – and held it up to the light.

  ‘And here,’ Adam said.

  The next page showed wigs, or faceless hairdos, in every conceivable style. I found the one closest to mine, and his, and we laughed at them. I saw each of my children’s too, and Stefan’s, but none of that made any difference. On the last sheet was a range of kitchen cupboard staples, packs of spaghetti, tins and trays of eggs, stylised and retro.

  ‘These
are my favourites,’ he said, and I felt his proximity.

  I smoothed the sheets back inside the drawers. They had each been trimmed to size and fitted the wonky lines of each space perfectly. I pushed my finger into the corners to work them flush, taking my time.

  When I straightened, Adam was beside me, leaning back against the dressing table, his weight in the heel of his hands and his feet crossed in those shoes I love, his scuffed brogues with the tubed leather laces. He looked at me sideways, across his beautiful worn profile.

  ‘Do you suppose we should unpack?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We can talk, Nancy, you know. There are things that I can tell you. About this. Or how I feel,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve prepared a speech?’ I asked.

  ‘Well no,’ he said and his smile cut a deep gully down from the side of his mouth, pulling his skin tighter across the bones of his cheeks. I thought how that ridge might feel, under my thumb, that moment so close now.

  ‘Then let’s have a drink,’ I said.

  ‘Good idea,’ he replied and came over and kissed me.

  *

  ‘Do you need a tissue?’ he asked, later. There were flowers on the bedside table; five or six stems arranged in a shrunken milk-bottle and a little heap of dropped stamens next to it. The air felt thick with pollen and I gave a deep phlegmy sneeze. His body as he crossed the room showed its age. His chest had a scoop out of its centre. His arse puckered at the point that it met his legs. He was hairy everywhere, to varying degrees and in many shades.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked again, when he came back, and slotted his fingers between mine.

  ‘I am,’ I told him. The pattern of his eyes, this close, was complex and perfect, like the twist of a child’s kaleidoscope.

  ‘Don’t cry any more,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t.’

  It wasn’t regret, or sadness, or shame. The feeling bore some relation to those hours after I had given birth. I had the idea that I’d crossed a great space, everything changed on this, the far side. There would only be before and after, now. I felt humble and tiny and thankful. He made us tea.