‘I don’t even know if love is the right word, but however you define it, the thing is I’m not gay, Jo. Not in the way Arkadius is. He’s always known, since he was eight, he says, and he’s never wavered. It’s so different from me. I can’t do that share-a-home, couple thing with him. It would be a lie. It’s just not me.’
‘You can’t blame him for thinking it is,’ she said.
He glanced at her, his eyes sharp as if he thought she might be criticizing him, then his gaze softened.
‘No, no, you can’t. But I told him right from the start that whatever I felt for him, I couldn’t see myself fitting into his world.’
Jo thought about what he was saying.
‘Explain,’ she said, trying to understand.
‘Surely you, of all people, can see?’
‘I get that he’s a man surrounded by men and you’re used to relating to a woman . . . women,’ she said. ‘But if that’s not you, how did you find him so attractive in the first place?’ He was looking uncomfortable, but she ploughed on. ‘Unless you’re telling me it really was purely about sex.’
‘It wasn’t just sex,’ he said. ‘It was more than that . . . I’ve said it before . . . a sort of madness. I can’t explain it better, Jo, really I can’t. He’s an extraordinary man, Arky. And I really care for him. But . . . but he’s gay.’
Jo raised her eyebrows at the obviousness of Lawrence’s remark.
‘And I’m not. I’m ninety-nine per cent attracted to women. Only the other one per cent to men. And only to the extent that I’ve occasionally – very occasionally – found a man attractive . . . in the way we’re all sometimes drawn to someone else . . . without doing anything about it. Or even considering it might be possible. Or wanting it to be.’ He paused in his speech, which gave the sense of thoughts trying to find a path through the jumble in his mind. Thoughts held back for lack of an audience. ‘But then with Arkadius it was just overwhelming, and I gave in to him. Personally. Not to his lifestyle. It’s not a lifestyle thing. I liked my life with you. It’s who I am.’
Jo didn’t reply.
‘And when we were . . . me and Arky . . . before you found out . . . it was great . . . intoxicating.’ He stopped, dropped his eyes. ‘Look, I know how selfish that sounds. And I’m fully aware I’m digging myself a huge hole. But I really want you to understand, Jo.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do I have to understand? Especially at this stage.’
Lawrence buried his head in his hands, his elbows on the table, his sandwich barely touched.
‘God!’ When he looked up, his eyes were full of pain. ‘It seems so stupid, selling this house. Why on earth are we doing it?’
Jo was stunned. ‘For Christ’s sake!’
He didn’t respond, just got up, his balled fists pushed to the bottom of his jean pockets, and went over to the window. As he stared out on to the garden, Jo watched his back, the flick of his thick white hair just above the collar, the set of his shoulders beneath the black sweater, the way his long legs always appeared to bend in the wrong way. Her Lawrence, supremely confident, successful in his work, at home very much the head of the family, a loved husband and father, seemed to have been shaken into a very different mode. These days he was quieter, more insecure, less bullish – a changed person. Although now he was clearly making a determined effort to get a grip as he turned to her, the expression in his blue eyes steadier, his voice calmer.
‘Listen, I haven’t been totally honest with you, Jo. I didn’t think it was fair on you, not after the way I’ve behaved. But part of what’s going on with Arky is not just about him wanting me to move in, or him belonging to a different world. Or even how I feel about him. The problem is I miss you, Jo. I really, really miss you and the life we had together. I was mad, totally insane to do what I did.’
She stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’ Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
Lawrence walked slowly back to the table and sat down. He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him.
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m so sorry. But this morning, looking over all those things in the attic, remembering what we had. You, me, the kids. It’s been our whole life. You won’t believe me, but all these weeks since I exiled myself from you . . . I never stopped loving you, not for a moment. And now the house, our home, is gone and it feels so desperately sad . . . I can’t bear it, Jo. I feel like I’ve cut off my right hand on a whim. How could I have done that . . .’
It was Jo’s turn to get up, move away from those tormented eyes. ‘Stop. Please. I can’t hear any more, Lawrence. You’re making no sense. With one breath you say you still love Arkadius, that you’re “gutted” he won’t see you. The next you’re almost sobbing at my feet saying you’ve made a terrible mistake.’
She realized she was cold, feeling almost sick. All these months past when she would have given her eye-teeth to hear his words. Yet now they seemed like so much melodrama . . . and indulgence.
‘Sorry.’ He looked away. ‘I knew it was a mistake coming here today. Every time I see you now . . . like on Christmas Day or at Ruthie’s party . . . I find I just want to forget that there was ever a problem between us.’
Jo felt a surge of anger at his words. As if what he’d done could ever be
forgotten
.
‘Christ! I don’t know how you
dare
talk about forgetting, after everything you put us through.’ She could hardly breathe. ‘Coming here with your self-indulgent whining. I love him, or at least I
sort of
love him. But I love you too . . . oops, sorry . . . such a mistake. Expecting me to just fall at your feet and forgive you when basically you don’t have a clue what you’re even saying.
Or
what you want. Please . . . just go, will you. Go away and leave me alone.’
‘But . . .’
She held her hand up.
‘OK . . . OK.’ He got to his feet and she noticed how tired he looked.
While he gathered his coat, wound his tartan scarf round his neck and made his way slowly towards the door, Jo held her breath. It was only with the sharp click of the latch behind him that she finally let it out and burst into tears, the violent sobs tearing at her chest as if they were trying to break her in two.
*
‘He wants to come back. I told you he would.’ Donna and Jo were in the car, heading to a series of rental viewings. The first one was on the other side of Hammersmith Broadway, in one of the mansion blocks near the river.
‘He doesn’t know what the hell he wants,’ Jo said.
‘This thing with Arkadius . . . do you think it’s really over?’
‘No, I’m sure it’s not. Arkadius is just putting the thumbscrews on to get Lawrence to commit. If Lawrence holds out, Arkadius is bound to relent and take him back . . . if he really cares for him.’
‘Yeah, but it sounds like it’s Lawrence who’s wavering.’
‘Only because he’s on his own. Which he loathes. So he gets all sentimental and nostalgic about his family. Then we have a rummage through the past and he finally understands we’ve actually sold our lifelong home and that it isn’t just about money after all . . . and has a moment. But if push came to shove and I said, OK, Lawrence, come back, all is forgiven, he’d probably run a mile.’
‘You think? From what you say he said, he’s never really moved past you. Arkadius is just a bit of an aberration.’
Jo backed into a parking space just past the flats and turned to her friend. ‘A
bit
? Understatement of the decade. But honestly, it doesn’t matter if he’s over him or not. I’m furious. How dare he walk in and give me this cheesy spiel about love? About caring and missing me and all that rubbish, when he’s still in bed with his toy boy?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Donna looked doubtful. ‘But is he?’
‘If he’s not, it’s a technicality. He certainly has been till about two weeks ago.’ She yanked the handbrake on and opened the car door. ‘Anyway, the point is, he’s in complete emotional meltdown. I can’t take anything he says seriously.’
*
‘So here we have the kitchen . . . stunning original tiles,’ Sean, the man from Winkworth, pointed at the drab, sea-green Victorian tiles that covered every inch of wall and gave the room a dismal, subterranean feel. ‘The cupboards and work surfaces are all new.’ He droned on, clearly just going through the motions, his eyes constantly flicking back and forth to his smart phone, held discreetly by his side. As they progressed further down the labyrinthine corridor to the bedrooms it got darker and gloomier with every step.
‘Blimey,’ Donna whispered, ‘you’d need a ball of string to find your way out of here.’
Sean gave her friend a sharp look. ‘You don’t have to keep the furniture. It’s furnished or unfurnished, the owner’s flexible,’ he said.
The next one, a modern conversion near Ravenscourt Park, was the opposite: light, white plasterboard, no fireplace, no bath and the size of a crisp packet.
The third one, off Hammersmith Grove, was high-ceilinged, smelly, peeling and cluttered with the current occupant’s tatty second-hand furniture, dirty nets at the window and freezing cold.
‘Gross,’ Jo said, as they made their way back to the car. ‘Those photos online are such a con.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘I’ll never find anywhere that isn’t a million dollars.’
Donna laughed. ‘You’ve looked at three.’
‘Five, I saw two yesterday.’
‘OK, but hardly time to slit your throat. Anyway, I’ve said, you can camp at mine if necessary.’
The sixth for that day, for which Jo almost cancelled the viewing because she was so tired and jaded, had definite promise. A garden maisonette three streets away from her house, towards the green, with a small paved garden, two bedrooms, a free-standing bath with claw feet – which Donna adored – and a large sitting room.
‘I think I could live here,’ Jo told her friend. ‘It’s more than I want to pay, but if it’s only for a year.’
‘You’ve seen the cheaper ones, darling.’
‘The owners are working in Australia for a while,’ Agnieszka, the quiet Polish girl from Douglas and Gordon said. ‘It’s their family home.’
‘It’s close to me, that’s all I care about,’ Donna said.
Jo took the flat.
2 April 2014
Jo awoke in her new home, mildly disorientated even after five nights there. But as she lay snug beneath the duvet, gazing up at the strange ceiling – freshly painted in a pale duck-egg blue instead of the faded white of her old bedroom – noting the sun coming through the slatted blind, checking the dial of the familiar alarm clock, she was aware of a quiet freedom. I’ve done it, she thought.
The previous weeks had passed in a blur. Nicky had been brilliant, a constant presence by her side, methodically making lists to counter her lists, packing boxes where she merely rummaged, chucking things she couldn’t chuck, creating zones for the different destinations of the boxes, replacing panic with diligence. She couldn’t have done it without him.
‘So cheers to the end of one amazing era, and the beginning of the next one.’ Donna had raised her glass to Jo and Nicky on the evening before the removals men were due. Nicky had ordered in pizza and red wine and they were sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by towers of brown cardboard. The boxes were all taped, sealed, labelled, the furniture tagged, all except Jo’s bedsheets, a towel and some crockery.
Everyone clinked glasses. Max, sitting hopefully by Jo’s chair and clearly identifying her as the most likely person to pass him a tit-bit, wagged his tail, his bright eyes looking up at her as if he approved of what she was doing too. Jo reached down to stroke him.
‘How are you feeling about it, Mum?’
Jo considered her son’s question.
‘You know what? I’m excited. Once tomorrow’s over, I can relax, get on with my life.’ She paused. ‘It’ll probably take months for it to sink in that I don’t live here any more, and obviously I shall miss it . . . but honestly, I’m looking forward to it.’
Donna laughed. ‘So glad you feel that way, darling.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Nicky agreed. ‘You’ve been great.’ He reached across and gave his mum’s hand a squeeze.
‘You must be sad about the house too?’ she asked him.
‘Sort of . . . nah, not really, not any more. It was a shock at first, but you get used to it. Packing helps . . . makes the place more anonymous. And we’re taking everything that matters with us.’
When Cassie had arrived, she and Nicky had kept up a constant banter about the things they were unearthing from their childhood, teasing each other about items of sentimental value to one or the other, such as Nicky’s box of battered Transformers and Cassie’s collection of snow globes from foreign cities.
Nicky pulled another triangle of pizza out of the box, folded it and took a huge bite. ‘Wish Dad was as happy as you are,’ he added through his mouthful.
‘How do you mean?’ Donna asked.
‘He’s really down at the moment.’
‘I’m sure all that money will cheer him up.’ Donna had raised her eyebrows, given Jo a look. But Jo had just shrugged. She’d had no desire to dwell on Lawrence’s state of mind. He had rung the day after his outburst and said he thought it best he stay out of the way and she hadn’t argued. He sounded almost angry when he told her to chuck anything that was his. She hadn’t, of course. She’d boxed up the things she thought he would miss and directed them to the storage place near Brent Cross.
‘You’d think.’ Nicky said. ‘That flat he’s in is horrible. It’s one of those modern student blocks behind Tottenham Court Road and it’s noisy and stinks of rubbish all the time. I’d shoot myself if I lived there.’
‘Sounds like an odd choice,’ Donna said.
‘He wanted to be near Arkadius,’ Jo finally put in.
Her son raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, well that may not be such a big deal any more. When I asked how it was going, Dad just looked me in the eye and said, “It’s over, Nicky.” Like, no argument, seriously end of.’
*
Jo got slowly out of bed and pulled up the wooden blind. The back of the flat looked over a primary school, and even in the short time she’d been there, she’d begun to know what time of day it was by the sounds from the playground. But now, early, it was quiet, the spring sun slanting through the translucent leaf-shoots, lighting up the buds on the magnolia next door. For a moment, Jo wished she could see the Yoshino cherry in her old back garden – the pale pink blossom always made her think of innocence and hope.
She brewed coffee and watched a robin sitting on the fuchsia bush outside the window, feeling lazy and unwilling to start the day. She felt much more independent here than she had in her old house, having cut herself loose from all that was familiar. The house had been her protection, her sanctuary when Lawrence left. And there had been Donna and Max over the wall. And Travis. But this flat was hers and hers alone.
She and Travis hadn’t spoken since Christmas Day. Neither had made any attempt to call the other. Jo had often been on the verge of dialling his number, but finally there didn’t seem any point. It would just remind her that sometimes she still longed to have his arms around her, to watch his dark eyes light up at something she said. But four months on, their time together still seemed like a fleeting illusion, a brief burst of sunlight on a cloudy day. So she was stepping into her new life alone and this morning she was surprised to find that it didn’t seem at all scary.
*
Her messages, when she finally got to her computer, contained an email from the copyeditor, sending her the manuscript of
Tess
marked up in Track Changes. The publisher’s enthusiasm for the new book was a massive relief to Jo – Frances, as promised, had got them all onside at Century – but seeing the document now, she groaned. Although she completely appreciated the advantages of the software, she dreaded the sight of the endless columns of balloons at the side of every page, with deletions and comments and formatting changes – some of them tiny – all of which she had to check and make decisions about. It made her go cross-eyed, peering at the type.
So she worked. And she pottered. Her routine over the weeks that followed included a walk in the morning to Holland Park, then a café and newspaper, then home to work – an idea for her next book was already shaping up – then evenings with a glass of wine, the radio, TV or a book. Spring was well advanced and the weather was beautiful, so she would sit out late on the patio, or drop round to Donna’s, see a film, have Nicky over for supper. She was waiting to be bored, waiting to be frightened of her solitude, but in fact she just felt healthy and calm and motivated to write.
‘I’m not saying it’ll last,’ she told Donna as they meandered back from the Shepherd’s Bush Odeon one hot May night.
‘Why not? It’s how I live.’
‘No you don’t. You’re out three or four nights a week partying and flirting with lecherous ambassadors.’
‘I am so not! I haven’t been out for . . . well, this is the first night this week I’ve been anywhere.’
‘It’s Tuesday, Donna.’
They both began to laugh.
‘But seriously, I’m the exception, darling. It’s novel for you at the moment, but being alone does pall for most people. Do you really not miss having someone around?’
‘You mean a man? No, not at all. In fact, quite the reverse.’
Donna turned to peer at her. ‘Really? Not even Lawrence?’
‘Particularly not Lawrence. I haven’t spoken to him in yonks and it’s such a relief.’
‘So you don’t even know if he got back together with Arkadius?’
‘No idea. The children say he’s gone quiet, won’t speak about it, which could mean anything. Whatever he’s doing, I don’t want to know.’
Donna said nothing.
‘It’s just so peaceful, not having to think about anything or anyone but myself,’ Jo added.
‘Oh, I get the selfish part. But I worry that you’re shutting yourself off, spending too much time alone. When you were next door we had coffee almost every day . . . now I barely see you.’
‘I’m just getting on with my life, Donna. Stop worrying. Honest, I’m really fine. And don’t suggest I buy a cat. Or go to a party.’
‘Ha, ha. OK . . . well, if you change your mind, you know where I am.’
They walked along in silence for a while, the light sinking to a deep royal blue over the West London rooftops.
‘In fact Swedish Brian is coming over in a couple of weeks. Are you up for a supper together?’
Jo didn’t answer immediately.
‘Nothing sinister, just supper. I promise, from now on I won’t set you up with anyone . . . unless you ask me to, of course. But we had fun the last time, remember?’
‘I remember the hangover, for sure,’ Jo said.
Jo lay awake later, mulling over what her friend had said. She hated the thought that anyone might see her as lonely and sad just because she didn’t have a man: the maiden-aunt syndrome.
She was just dropping off when her mobile rang.
‘Jo? It’s me.’
‘Lawrence? What is it? What’s the matter?’ His voice sounded so dull, so desperate that she was catapulted into a sitting position.
‘Umm . . . I’ve had a bit of an accident . . . I’m OK . . . well, not OK actually . . . and I didn’t know who else to ring . . .’
‘What do you mean, an accident? What sort of an accident?’
She heard him clear his throat. ‘I came off my bike yesterday. This girl stepped off the pavement right in front of me. French tourist, didn’t realize which way the traffic was going down Tottenham Court Road.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘
She’s
OK . . . but I went over the handlebars. I’ve broken my right wrist, cracked three ribs and buggered my knee.’
‘Oh, God. What a nightmare. Are you in hospital?’
‘No . . . they straightened the wrist out and put a plaster on in A&E, but then I went back this morning and they said it wasn’t right, so they took the plaster off again. Now there’s what looks like a couple of meat skewers poking out from the new plaster.’
‘So how are you coping?’
There was a short silence. ‘I’m all right . . . well, I’m not really. I can’t do anything properly, and just now . . . I . . . God, this is so embarrassing . . . I peed my trousers because I couldn’t get them off with one hand . . . and now . . .’
She heard him swallow and knew he was about to cry.
‘I’m coming over. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Can you? Oh, thank you . . . thank you so much.’
‘I’ll ring when I’m close.’
*
Nicky had been right about the flats smelling of rubbish. The stench was nauseating, especially on a hot night like this. Jo held her breath as she made her way up to the sixth floor. The flat door was ajar when she arrived and she pushed it open. Lawrence was sitting on the two-seater navy sofa in his underpants, an aluminium crutch by his side. His trousers lay in a heap on the floor. He was unshaven, pale as a ghost, his right arm in plaster up to the elbow, held up by a blue nylon arm sling, his right knee covered by a black elastic support bandage. A bruise spread down his right cheek from a black eye, below a nasty graze on his forehead.
He seemed bewildered, his eyelids blinking rapidly. ‘Sorry.’
She glanced around, shocked. There was mess everywhere. Cups, glasses, plates and crumbs littered the cheap brown-wood coffee table alongside a half-open Styrofoam carton and an oily pizza box. An empty bottle of wine sat on the floor, there were papers and books piled on every surface in the boxy, featureless space. It looked like a student squat on a bad day. And her husband was always so careful, so tidy, so obsessively clean.
‘Pretty grim, eh?’ he said, noticing the way her gaze took it all in. ‘I’m so sorry, Jo. This isn’t fair.’
‘Let’s just sort it out.’ She picked up his trousers and boxers and located the washing machine under the work-top in the galley kitchen. Pouring some hot water into a bowl she found under the sink, she helped him wash himself down with a flannel, found some old jogging bottoms he could pull down and up himself, made him a cup of tea and gave him two paracetamol. Then she put all the crockery into the dishwasher, vacuumed the stained carpet, wiped the surfaces and put out the rubbish.
‘God, Jo, you’re a saint. I’m so sorry.’
She smiled down at him as he sat on the sofa. ‘You must have said “sorry” fifty times in the last hour. Enough already!’
‘Sorry,’ he said, and laughed. ‘But it was gross in here. It’s just with only one hand, and the left one at that, I can’t do a damn thing. I can’t butter toast, or shave without cutting myself, or carry a mug of coffee. If it wasn’t for my knee, I could probably manage, but I feel so weak and I have to use the crutch with my left hand, so I can’t take anything from A to B. And the button on my trousers got stuck so I couldn’t get them down in time.’
She rotated the leather chair that faced his desk in the corner and sat down.
‘How did you get the bottle of wine open then?’
He looked sheepish. ‘That was from the day before the accident . . . in fact a lot of the mess was. I’ve sort of let things slide recently I’m afraid.’
‘Why didn’t you call Nicky? He’d have helped you.’
‘He’s up in Manchester doing this TV thing. I didn’t want to worry him. And anyway . . . I hate the thought of the children seeing me like this.’
‘OK . . . well, will you be all right for tonight?’
Lawrence nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m so sorry, dragging you out in the middle of the night, Jo. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back in the morning and see how you are. Bring you some food.’
‘No, no, please, you don’t have to do that.’
‘You can get to the shops, can you? Carry a bag of stuff home? Don’t be silly, Lawrence.’
He looked miserable. ‘I can order in . . .’
Jo raised her eyebrows and gave him a reproving smile. ‘Right. Pizza’s such a nice healthy option to get your strength back.’
She got up. ‘I’ll call you before I come, but give me a key so you don’t have to let me in.’
His nod was reluctant.
‘Sleep well,’ she said softly, as she closed the flat door behind her.
On the way home in the car she realized it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. The streets, even in the West End, were relatively clear, and it had rained, freshening the air and washing the grimy pavements.