Candelo (11 page)

Because I had been determined.

Each morning, I would wake early, and extricate myself, limb by limb, from the heaviness of Marco's body.

Don't go
, and, half asleep, he would try to pull me back down into the tight grip of his arms.

But I was gone.

Bare feet on bare boards, bathers still damp from the day before, I would close the door behind me and step out into the freshness of the day, the brilliance of the blue sky, blue sea and the first of the morning glory, opening purple and full to the sun.

The stairs that lead down to the beach are cracked and the path they make is overgrown. Thick, glossy mirror bush blocks out the light; dark, secret caves beneath their branches. I always stand at the top, still for a moment, and look out to the ocean. On the days when it is flat, I swim the bay; when it is rough, with king tides that sweep up to the rocks below the cliff path, I go to the pool.

And this was how we got to know each other.

I would find myself waiting, there at the top of the stairs,
until I heard him coming up behind me. Setting it all in place, knowing what I wanted right from the start. Manoeuvring, piece by piece, until it was there in front of me. Anton smiling as he found me each morning waiting in the same spot, flicking me with his towel as he came down the stairs to stand next to me, asking me what it was going to be:
The pool or the sea for you and me?

It was only later that I marvelled at how I failed to think of the others, at how determined I was, and when I do that, I remember Rebecca Hickson's face, and I feel ashamed. I look at myself in the mirror, and I tell myself that Anton was no Simon, dragged there against his will and refusing to participate. Despite what he would say.

But it doesn't always work.

As he stood there at my front door with his washing bundled in his arms, a peg still caught on the sleeve of a T-shirt, we could not look at each other.

I can't stay
, he said, uncertain as to why I had called him in the first place, glancing nervously up to the ceiling, up to where Louise was waiting.

I know
, and I moved to close the door.

I could see the rain rushing in torrents down the path and I knew that when it finally eased, the back steps would be sagging, rotting further; the rust that eats away at everything in this building would have crept a little higher into the pipes, and the paint on the walls would have peeled a little more. Slowly decaying around us.

I was pregnant.

And I felt like a fool as I told him.

It was Marco who once described Anton as
something of a used-car salesman. All charm and no substance
.

It was a comment that made me wonder how much he guessed. It was a comment that I did not want to remember as I stood there opposite him, knowing that he was going to fail me.

Are you sure?
he finally asked, still not looking up at me.

I told him I was.

That it was me?
The ugliness of his words crossing mine.

And as the impact of what he said hit me, I knew that if I had been another person, a third person who had walked in out of the rain and stood there at my front door, listening to this, I might have felt for him, I might have understood why he said what he said, but I didn't.

All I could do was hate him.

And wonder how I had ever fallen for him.

Don't be afraid of single-minded pursuit
, Vi used to say, and she would look at me, checking to see whether I was listening.

So long as what you want is a good thing
.

And I would roll my eyes at the impossibility of her addendum.

And so long as you can be certain of
. . . and she would pause, for one instant, perhaps for dramatic effect, perhaps to make sure that I was paying attention.

Of what?
I would ask, impatiently.

Of what you are going to find at the end
.

I turned to the sink, to the pile of dirty dishes, and as I let the tap run, he reached for my hand, but I pulled away.

Please
, he said,
don't tell her
, and he glanced up to the ceiling
again, to where the telephone rang, to where a chair scraped overhead, to where footsteps clattered across the room, to where Louise leant out the window to see where he was, to see what had happened to him.

What happens
, I asked him,
if I want to go ahead, if I want to do this?

The window slammed closed above us.

We could hear her, walking down the corridor, to the front door, and in Anton's eyes there was only fear.

But you can't
, his words a whisper, her footsteps on the landing, on the stairs, as he looked at me.

I don't know what I want
, I said, the tap still running as he tried to tell me he was sorry.

But it was too late.

We could hear her knocking on the door, and as he spoke to me, he also called out to her, telling her that he was coming, not knowing whether to open it and let her in, not knowing whether to leave her or to leave me.

It is not as though he behaved in a way I hadn't expected
, I told Lizzie later.
I knew what he was like
, and I looked away.

I knew what he was like. But I had hoped for more.

I have to go
, he said.
I am sorry
, he said.
We will talk
, he said. But his face said only one thing.

I didn't want this either
. My voice was low as he opened the door to Louise, standing there in the rain, not knowing why she had been left to wait; the rain coursing down her hair, soaking into her shirt.

Telephone
, she said, not looking at me, just looking at him.

I'd better run
, he said, but not to either of us, to no one in
particular, and as he turned to the stairs, as he disappeared from sight, she stayed where she was.

I didn't move. There against the sink, with her at the entrance to my flat.

Are you okay?
she asked, and I told her I was.

Just a bit of family trouble
, and, as if on cue, I knocked the answering machine, replaying Mari's message asking me to call her. I reached for the stop button, but it was too late. The message had played out.

Well
, she said,
I suppose I'd better go too
.

But she waited, just for a moment, neither of us speaking, and as I watched the rain falling behind her, I wondered whether she knew.

Because it was possible we had all been lying. Not just he and I. But all of us.

To each other and to ourselves.

When Simon was fourteen, he took up art. Life drawing, to be exact.

I remember.

He found out about it through an advertisement in the local paper and told Vi he wanted to join. Once a week she would drive him over to where the group met and pick him up again three hours later.

All housewives
, I overheard Vi telling a friend, knowing she had used a term she hated because it was the only way to describe the incongruity of Simon's presence,
and him
.

I was fascinated. But not with the housewives.

You have a nude model?
I asked him, looking at the charcoal drawings he brought home. Drawings of an exceptionally voluptuous woman lying back on a mound of velvet pillows.
Completely starkers?

He was disparaging in his response.
What do you reckon?

She had the most enormous pair of breasts I had ever seen.

So where does she undress?

He found it difficult to comprehend the inanity of my question.

Where do you think?

I had no idea.

She doesn't get cold?

He rolled his eyes in response.

He had his drawing on the very expensive easel Bernard had bought for him in one of his sporadic attempts at being an interested father. I watched as he worked, concentrating on perfecting the curve of the hip, smudging the charcoal with his hand, stepping back, smudging again.

She doesn't get embarrassed?
I asked.

He had no idea what I meant.

In front of you?

Being only twelve, I was at an age when nudity and sex were still, by and large, a mystery. Vi had, of course, explained everything to us in long and boring detail, but I could not help but feel there was something more. Something she had left out.

I had never even kissed a boy.

I didn't know about Simon; I had always presumed he was as inexperienced as I was. He was too enveloped in his own world to even contemplate the possibility of some physical connection with another.

Do you ever get embarrassed?
I asked.

He looked at me.
Of course not
.

Do you ever get, you know
, and I searched for the word I wanted, enjoying needling him, enjoying frustrating his endless patience,
a stiffie?

I stared straight at him, not blinking, not giggling, despite
desperately wanting to, and waited for his answer.

He blushed. Crimson.

I started laughing.

He turned his back to me, but I could see, from the shake of his shoulders, that he was laughing too. Not wanting me to know, but unable to hide it effectively.

Well, do you?
I asked, knowing I was pushing it now.

He didn't turn around.

You can tell me.

There was still no response.

Just answer me.

It took a lot to make my brother crack.

And then I'll go.

He turned the radio up.

Just yes or no.

I wouldn't give up. Not until he lost it.

Tell me.

Because he drove me crazy.

And, no doubt, I did the same to him.

My father has one of Simon's drawings in his chambers. A nude that he did when he was fifteen. It hangs in a corner of the room, not readily visible to any visitor, but it is there and that, in itself, is surprising.

I like it. As an adult, I can see that it is fairly crude, but there is something jovial and energetic about this woman with her big hips, big breasts and big lips. She makes me smile. Possibly because I remember my conversations with Simon whenever I see her.

Simon still draws. But it is no longer large, overblown nudes on his easel. His pictures are small, tight portraits. Portraits of himself. He has never shown them to me, but I have seen them. Once when he came to visit, he left his book behind. I found it and I flicked through it guiltily, wishing I hadn't as soon as I had.

There was not a nude in sight.

Just Simon. Eyes averted. Looking anywhere but at himself.

She cheers me up
, my father said when he came in from court and found me standing by the picture.

He kissed me on the cheek, and asked me if I was ready. I told him I was.

My father has always liked taking me out. About once a month he books an expensive restaurant, one where he is bound to bump into colleagues and clients. I think he secretly hopes I will do something slightly outrageous or bohemian, something that will enhance the eccentric image he tries to cultivate.

We had arranged this particular lunch some weeks ago. With all that was on my mind, I would have forgotten, but his secretary, Melinda, had called me at work to remind me. She was new at the job and, as Bernard said,
frighteningly efficient
.

On that day I was dressed for the office, and I'm sure my conservative skirt and shirt were a mild disappointment, although he never would have admitted as much. He told me I looked wonderful. A little tired, but wonderful.

He was in a good mood. An expansive mood. He had just won a long and difficult case that had been covered, extensively, by all the papers, and he ordered a bottle of Moët.

When I told him I only had an hour, he dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand.

What are they going to do? Sack you?

He was right. I am, after all, his daughter.

So
, he asked me,
how is the junkie business going?
This is how he likes to refer to my acting, loudly and clearly. More for the effect that he hopes it will have on those within earshot than for the value of the joke.

As I told him about the audition, how I thought I had missed out on the part, he read the menu.

I don't understand this fashion for nursery food
, and he sipped his champagne.
Corn beef and mash. Hideous
.

I didn't bother continuing.

Realising he had been guilty of not listening, he patted my hand as he looked around the room.
What we need for you, my dear, is an introduction to a rich and powerful film producer. One who is embroiled in some very tricky legal business
.

I wouldn't have put it past him. And because I wanted to change the topic, I asked him about his latest girlfriend.

My father has an endless stream of affairs. He starts up with the next one while he is still with the first, so there is never a transition, a period in which he is alone. Now that I am older I can see how he does it. He is not a handsome man. But he is charming. He has limitless energy and enthusiasm.