Candelo (12 page)

His latest was a young lawyer called Samantha. She is only about five years older than I am. On the one occasion I have met her, she was uncomfortable. It was probably just the close proximity in our ages. But I did not warm to her.

As he told me that things had been a bit
tricky
in that
department, I knew Samantha was probably on her way out.

So who's the next one?
I asked him, and he did his utmost to look offended.

Well
, and he leant forward in his best conspiratorial manner,
I have had my eye on someone
.

Probably more than your eye
, I said.

And he laughed.

How is your exceptionally complicated love life?
he asked.

I had, in the throes of first passion and over a bottle of champagne, once told him about the entire affair. Normally I liked swapping stories with him but this time I wished I had kept silent. I told him it was over. He was staying with his girlfriend and that was that.
Not much I can do about it
.

Hence the long face?
he asked.

Hence the long face
, and I looked down at my plate, wanting to talk about something else.

It was not until the end of the meal that I mentioned Simon. I had been tossing up whether to tell him, uncertain as to whether it was, in fact, something he should know, and, if so, whether he would be of any use.

Being a barrister, Bernard is well trained in not revealing anything, especially when he is caught off guard. So I was surprised at his reaction, at the sudden gravity in his manner. He put his glass down on the table and lowered the tone of his voice.

How on earth did he find out?
he asked me, clearly concerned.

I told him I didn't know.

And he wants to go to the funeral?

I nodded.

He sat back and rubbed his chin with his hand.

Your mother was a damn fool.

I did not know what he meant.

Taking that boy on holiday with you.

I didn't remind him that he had been distinctly uninterested in the matter at the time.

He called for the bill.

Does she know about this?
he asked me.

I told him she didn't.

You can't stop him from going?

When I told him it was unlikely, he made me promise I would go with him. He made me promise I would try to keep him from doing anything foolish.
And call me
, he said,
as soon as you get back
.

Like Vi, my father does not like to talk of Evie. Her name is never mentioned. And I could only presume that his distress was due to the fact that our conversation had brought up a subject he would prefer to forget.

I reached across to take his hand. It was, I suppose, a gesture of comfort, and I was as surprised as he was by my attempt.

He squeezed my fingers in his, just for a moment, and then pulled away. The waiter had brought the bill.

Vi has caught another dose of flu and is not well, but still she refuses to succumb, to see herself as ill.

I can sense her irritation as Mari takes the call each time the telephone rings. Mari turns down invitations, requests for Vi to speak, to sit on a board, to participate in a radio interview. She tells them all that she is not well and no, she doesn't know when she will be up to it.

Vi tenses.

Her voice is hoarse and cracked as she asks Mari to tell her who the caller was and what it was they wanted.

No one important
, and Mari checks that Vi is warm enough, that she has everything she needs.

I try to tell Mari that perhaps this is not the best approach. My mother is someone who has always worked. She lives for her work. In all my memories of her, she is sitting behind her typewriter, chain-smoking, brow furrowed, surrounded by reports and papers.

Sometimes Simon and I would test her.

Standing outside the door to her room, Simon would giggle as I would ask her if it was okay to take some money. I wanted to buy some heroin. (This was the worst that we could think of. Although, in retrospect, telling her we wanted to join the National Party would have been far worse.)

The typewriter would not stop.

In the cloud of smoke that always surrounded her, Vi would nod her assent.

So you don't mind?
I would ask again.

She would swear loudly at a key that was stuck and tell me to bring back the change.

Mari tells me that she doesn't know what choice she has.
You can see how sick she is
, she says.
I have to stop her from working
.

She is irritated with me for questioning her.

But she has nothing else
, I say without thinking.

Well, I don't know what you are to her, or Simon, but I certainly hope that I am more than nothing
, and she drains the pasta she is making for lunch, the steam clouding the anger on her face.

I try to placate her but I am never very good at it.

She spoons out the sauce without looking at me.
You think of something
, she says.

I don't know what to say.

Maybe if you and Simon made a little more effort we could go on some family outings, interest her in your lives. I don't know
.

And I nod dumbly in agreement, but I am horrified at the thought of a family outing. It is not something that we have ever been good at, and I can't see how we would start now.

I promise her I will talk to Simon and she passes me Vi's plate with a look of scepticism.

Simon's room is dark and cluttered. He never opens the curtains and when I first go in, it is difficult to see.

His clothes are strewn across the floor and his bed is unmade. The portable television is propped up on a chair. Coffee cups and plates are piled up. His desk is covered with old newspapers and magazines.

I write him a note asking him to call me and then I'm not quite sure where to leave it. I fold it so it stands and rest it up next to the television aerial.

Sitting on his bed, I am for a moment at a loss as to what to do. I want to make it better for him. I want to help, but I do not know what he needs. On the few occasions when we have been alone since Mitchell's funeral, we have not been able to speak. Even attempts at the mundane seem impossible, and we find ourselves unable to look at each other, unable to complete sentences, turning towards the door, the window, any possible exit from the place in which we have found ourselves.

I go back down to the lounge where Vi sits on the couch, her lunch half eaten. Mari has put on a video and I am surprised to see that my mother is absorbed. But then it is not so surprising. She is disparaging about all
Hollywood rubbish
but if you actually sit her down in front of anything, she will soon be leaning forward, dark eyes intent on the screen, oblivious to any interruption.

I tell her I have to get home and she doesn't look up.

She just gives me a wave with her hand.

It is Mari who takes me to the door.

I am sorry
, she says as she lets me out.
I know you've been coming around a lot. I know you've been trying
.

I tell her it is okay.

She says I look tired. Not so well myself.

And for a moment, I find myself about to speak, about to tell her everything, but as the words are forming, she says she wants me to talk to Simon. Vi has been worried about him.

I have never thought of Vi as a worrier. I have always assumed she just accepts the way we are, never really noticing or questioning our behaviour.

Obviously I have been wrong.

He has been more withdrawn than ever
. She pauses and looks across the street.
Possibly she just notices it more because she's not so busy
.

Again, I find myself about to speak, but stop. I know that anything I tell her will be passed on to Vi. Instead I just let her know that I have left a message for him to call me.

And I will try him
, I promise,
if he doesn't get in touch
.

She looks slightly reassured, although I know she will believe it when she sees it.

And because I can see the bus coming up the hill, I leave her quickly, telling her not to worry. But I have not managed to stop myself from feeling anxious.

As I head home, I find that I am thinking about all of us, the way we were and the way we are, and when I start thinking about us, when I start remembering, I always end up thinking of Mitchell again.

And I am, once again, appalled at what happened.

I am ashamed.

I look out at the late afternoon sky and I think that there must be something I can do. Something to right all that went wrong.

I just do not know what it is.

I have a lot of friends. Friends I go out to dinner with, friends I meet for a drink, friends I see at parties and friends I rarely see. But there are few to whom I am close.

Lizzie is different. She does not know the people I know and I do not know the people she knows. Our lives are separate so our time together is usually just the two of us.

When I first told her about Anton, some months earlier, she didn't know what to say but I could tell she thought I was being foolish.

I asked her why she thought I always made a mess of things.

She was about to utter platitudes, she was about to tell me not to be so ridiculous, but then she caught my eye. She does not like to lie.

I guess it's all relative
, she said.

Her answer irritated me. I had wanted her to tell me what was wrong with me, how I could fix myself, how I could stop lurching from disaster to disaster, and how I could fall in love and stay in love.

I asked her if she thought what I was doing was wrong.

She was uncomfortable.

Not wrong
, she said, and she paused.

What?
I asked.

She didn't look at me.
Maybe cowardly. That's all
.

Her words hurt.

Sitting in reception at work, feeling ill from the lunch with Bernard, I wanted to talk to her. I wanted her advice, but I was scared of her disapproval. I was scared of what I knew she would think.

Instead, I called my friend Sabine. I do not know her well, but I know her well enough to know she is not like Lizzie. Not at all.

She told me she was bored. Sick of her life. That her father had bought her a ticket to Africa and that I should go with her. There was no point in telling her I had no money.

God, me too
, she would have said.
It's a drag
.

I told her I had to go. I was at work. I would talk to her later.

I left a message for my friend Matthew. We had talked about doing voice classes together. I asked him to call me, I said I wanted to book, and as I was about to hang up, I told him that I also wanted to talk. I needed his advice. But as I spoke those words, I knew I wouldn't ask him if he did call. I would not tell him.

I picked up my address book and I flicked through the names. Pages and pages of them, addresses scribbled out, new numbers replacing old, new friends replacing those with whom I had lost touch or with whom I had fallen out.

I started drawing up a list. Those who would tell me that I should go ahead, that I could have a baby, and those who would tell me no. And I was, for a moment, carried away with the idea that this was not so stupid. That this was as good a way as any of coming to a decision.

But then I saw myself. Reflected in the glass reception doors. And I looked ridiculous. With my book open in front of me, my pencil in one hand, and my hair a mess about my face.

This was no way to tell right from wrong. This was no way to know.

I screwed up the piece of paper, and as I threw it in the bin, I called Simon and left a message for him. I told him we needed to meet. After work. We needed to talk. It was important.

We were bored. The three of us, Mitchell, Simon and I.

We watched the flies cluster on the few scraps of wrinkled tomato left from lunch, the wilted lettuce, the smear of butter across the plates, but we did not move to put anything away.