Olivia’s Luck (2000) (2 page)

Only Spiro, I observed gratefully – who was only in this country in order to earn himself enough money to return to his remote Ionian island, build himself a house, install his young family and set himself up as the local master builder – was still bristling with righteous indignation. Standing alone and ramrod straight, he flicked out a Rothmans, lit up, and puffed away furiously, too distracted to eat or drink.

Alf and Mac, of course, had no such qualms. They lowered their backsides slowly to their wooden boxes, Alf gave a great ceremonial belch in lieu of grace, and then they were off, tucking into their usual fishpaste sandwiches and PG Tips with relish. To be fair, in between mouthfuls, there was a degree of deliberation on the downfall of my marriage, and even some pondering on man’s inhumanity to woman.

“Bastard.”

“Yeah.”

“S not on.”

“S right.”

“Not wiv a kiddie.”

“Nah.”

“Pot Noodle?”

“Yeah, go on then.”

Oh no, they weren’t completely heartless.

I took one last look at the happy domestic scene unfolding under the flapping blue tarpaulin, which, crackling in the sunshine, cast a light like some subterranean swimming pool, then turned and went on through to the hall.

“Mind you,” Alf’s muffled tones stopped me again, “s not gonna be easy for her, is it? I mean – how old d’you reckon she is?”

I didn’t hear the entirety of Mac’s response, but enough to suggest that had I been a chicken, it certainly wouldn’t be springtime. Clenching my fists and swallowing hard I passed by the front door, stopped at the loo, opened the door, and pausing only to take the briefest of glances at my bloodless reflection in the mirror, turned to the lavatory pan and threw up.

I
’d been testing some Crown Matchpots in the front hall when Johnny had announced his intentions.

There I was, behind the front door, painting away merrily above the skirting boards, when I heard the garden gate go, heard his familiar footsteps up the gravel path. Knowing instinctively that hot foot from his evening commute, from the human lasagna of the City trains, he’d be tired, bad-tempered and in need of a drink, I knew better than to smile brightly and enquire, “Good day, darling?” to which he’d probably snap irritably, “Tedious, thank you,” and instead, sat back on my heels and arranged my expression into one of amused contemplation. As his head came round the door, I looked up with a wry smile.

“You know, anyone would think they aim these paints at the dirty-mac brigade,” I said, holding up my two little pots. “You have a choice here, my darling,” I waggled them at him, “Beaver or Muff!”

I grinned, enjoying my little joke and waiting for him to laugh, but as he stared back I noticed his face was very pale, his lips tight.

“I don’t care what colour you paint the sodding hall,” he muttered. “I’m leaving.”

And so saying, he pushed past me and on up the stairs, at which point I do recall that I at least managed to say – in a voice fully intended to travel – “Beaver it is then!” Knowing full well he’d prefer Muff.

Yes, that was how my husband left me. Those were the very special words with which he chose to end our marriage. I remember sitting there with my paintbrush in my hand thinking – in a shocked and stunned sort of way – that you had to hand it to Johnny. Not for him the usual garbage departing husbands give about needing to find themselves and having room to breathe, blah, blah, blah. No, his was very much in the Rhett Butler school of departure, because frankly, my dear – I paused. Except that, no, that wasn’t true either. Up until recently he
had
given a damn. Up until five months ago to be precise, and for the last five months I’d certainly seen this coming but, in the same way as one sees the articulated lorry hurtling round the corner, it’s still quite a shock when it hits you.

Functioning on automatic I dipped my brush conscientiously into the turps to stop it drying out, then rested my head back against the wall and shut my eyes tight. Squeezed the life out of them, in fact. For a while there I couldn’t move, but I knew I had to, because, after all, he was only upstairs packing a suitcase, and in a few minutes’ time he’d be pounding downstairs again before exiting through the front door, and I surely didn’t want to be the stepped-over wife, as well as the passed-over one, did I?

Somehow I eased myself up and stumbled blindly towards our tiny makeshift kitchen. Originally I think it had been the old scullery, but now it just housed an ancient Baby Belling stove, a small sink I’d found in a junk yard and a mini fridge, a temporary arrangement all cobbled together any old how because, after all, we were only using it until our splendid new kitchen was finished. In the middle was a small pine table. I sat down shakily, resting my elbows and clasping my hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer. I listened. Upstairs, drawers were shooting in and out with a vengeance, coat hangers were clanking and the wardrobe slammed shut – wham bang – all sounds of a speedy exit. As I reached for a cigarette I noticed my hand was shaking. I shut my eyes again, and his pale, tight-lipped face swam to mind. Chin jutting out, that hard, impenetrable look in his eye – now where had I seen that look recently…?

Well, it was just a few Sundays ago, actually, at a tense, silent, lunch in this very room, the majority of which Johnny had spent behind a propped-up newspaper, the only evidence of his continued existence on the planet being the disappearance of French bread and Stilton behind the broadsheet. Claudia and I had sat in silence too, gazing bleakly at the back of
The Times
, until Claudia could bear it no longer and, pausing only to shoot me a swift what-the-hell’s-up-with-Daddy look, had slipped from the room and gone upstairs to play on her computer. I’d done quite a bit of ostentatious sighing, and then in my usual, martyred fashion, got up to clear the plates. There I’d been, elbow-deep in suds at the sink, when I’d turned for a moment to scrape some rubbish in the bin, and as I’d done so, I’d seen his face. He’d left the table and was standing at the window, staring out at the rain-soaked lawn, in the middle of which sat a huge pile of rubble from our gutted house. As I’d watched, he’d raised his eyes to heaven and mouthed ‘Jesus Christ’.

I’d turned back quickly so he didn’t know I’d seen, but I went very cold. You see, I’d known what he was thinking: Jesus Christ, in this all there is? After a few moments I dropped the greasy plate back in the water and turned, smiling, wet hands on hips.

“Oh, by the way,” I said brightly, “I saw something in the back of
The Times
last week, in the classified ads section. There was this thing about a hot-air ballooning weekend in Normandy and I thought – well, why not? You’ve always wanted to do it and it sounds quite fun, so why don’t we go for your birthday? What d’you think?”

Johnny had turned slowly from the splattered windowpane, raised one partially interested eyebrow and said, “Where?”

“Here.”

Quickly wiping my hands on a tea towel I’d scurried to get the paper from a drawer, spreading it out hastily, knowing exactly which page it was on and which column to find, because I’d saved it for just such an occasion. I’d pointed, then stood back to let him read the ad, hardly daring to breathe as I’d watched his face get gradually brighter. It was a slow transformation, but by the time he’d got to the end, he’d been almost excited.

“D’you know, this isn’t such a bad idea, Liwy. We could get the ferry across and maybe ask Marcus and Jane if they want to join us.”

“Exactly. That’s what I thought.” I’d stepped forward tentatively.

“And we could all go in one car – pointless taking two – and take the Michelin too, do a sort of gastronomic tour of the local hostelries. It’s all cream and Calvados country round there – we’d be spoilt for choice!”

“Precisely. All those cheeky cheeses – ”

“Plenty of
vin rouge
 – ”

“Hoovering up the
escargot
 – ”

“And we could leave Claudia behind with your mother.”

I paused. “Yup.” We could. We always left Claudia behind with my mother.

“In fact the weekend after next is a bank holiday so, hang on…” he’d gone to the calendar on the door, “if I took the Friday off…”

I’d joined him as he’d flipped the pages over. “And we came back on the Monday night…”

“We’d still be back in time for the Palmers’ drinks party on the Tuesday! Good idea, Liwy.” He always called me Liwy rather than Olivia. “I’ll go and ring Marcus, see if he’s up for it. Bound to be, mad bastard!”

Oh, bound to be. And off he’d scurried to the phone, full of beans, full of plans, equilibrium restored. And I’d shut the paper slowly, put it back in the drawer, pushed it in softly. Right. So. Suddenly, we were off to France for four days. We couldn’t afford it; I’d miss Claudia; Mac and the builders needed constant supervision in this wreck of a house; and I wouldn’t get the runner beans in either, but no matter – the crisis had been averted. I remember turning to watch him through the kitchen door as he’d spoken on the phone to Marcus, his face a picture now, all animation and smiles, like a small boy cajoled out of a sulk by a trip to the zoo.

In case you think I’m the kind of girl who’d rather get the runner beans in than embark on a gastronomic tour of Normandy, I’d like to make it clear that I’m not. It was simply that Normandy was the latest in a long line of exotic treats designed to take Johnny’s mind off life. Oh, I conjured them up almost weekly. I’d only have to turn from the television to make a remark and find that he was watching me, staring at me intently – and not in a way that suggested he was mesmerised by my beauty – and I was nervously reaching for the phone. Somehow, in a matter of minutes, I’d have the last few Eric Clapton tickets to be had at the Albert Hall, some front row seats at Brands Hatch, a few impossible-to-come-by Twickenham tickets – heavens, at this rate we’d be holidaying at Sandringham soon. I felt like a door-to-door salesman unpacking my sample bag – here, how about this, or this? – but whilst Johnny smiled and nodded and accepted my wares, I knew that one day I’d empty it all out on the doorstep and he wouldn’t want anything. No, I don’t want that, or that, or that – not today, thank you.

Well, I thought wryly, dragging my cigarette down to my Docksides as I sat at the tiny kitchen table, that day had come.

I stubbed the butt out in an old saucer and cocked an ear above. It was quieter upstairs now, but I could tell he’d moved to the bathroom and was rummaging around in the cabinet, getting his shaving things together, his toothbrush. I fumbled for my cigarette packet and immediately lit another, blowing the smoke out in a long straight line to the fridge. I stared. On it was an ancient photograph of me and Johnny. It was one Claudia had found at the bottom of a drawer, pounced on in delight, and screaming with laughter at our impossible eighties clothes and hairstyles, had stuck up with a magnet. I narrowed my eyes at it now. I was about, ooh, seventeen, I suppose, and in someone’s garden, Johnny’s perhaps. There I was, small, skinny, awkward-looking, with wide-apart grey eyes and a slightly too large nose – gamine, my mother would say, or even Audrey Hepburn, at which I’d guffaw. And there was Johnny beside me, who to my mind hadn’t changed. Tall, broad-shouldered, laughing merrily, those bright blue eyes staring frankly and challengingly at the camera, and a flop of blond hair falling permanently in his eyes, as it still did. In the background I could see Imogen and Molly, and maybe even Peter too so – yes…it must have been about seventeen years ago. Half my life, when I’d first met Johnny.

∗

I’d been with the witches at the time, of course. Everything I did in those days was with the witches and, to a large extent, still is. ‘The witches’ was Johnny’s name for the three of us, Molly, Imogen and me. “Full of bubble, but an
awful
lot of toil and trouble!” he’d hiss, stirring an imaginary cauldron, and we’d giggle like mad over that, secretly delighted that three such hardworking, sheltered, inseparable convent girls, who’d never been in a scrape in their lives, could be regarded as ‘trouble’. Mad, bad and dangerous we certainly weren’t, but it was a nice idea.

It was Molly who saw him first, at the fair on the village green that Saturday night, believe it or not, the first Saturday night I was ever allowed out on my own.

“You get nasty rough types at a fair,” my mother had sniffed, scrubbing away at our tiny Formica kitchen. “Gippoes and all sorts, but then again, that’s probably why you want to go.”

“No,” I said patiently, “I just want to have some fun with the girls.”

“Well, you wouldn’t catch Lady Diana going to a fair at your age,” she snapped. “She’d still be locked up at school!”

“Yes, and look where that’s got her; nineteen years old and about to become a virgin bride. Talk about a recipe for disaster. And for the last time, Mum, I am not Lady Diana!”

“No, you’re not, and you’re a long way from coming anywhere close to her, my girl.” She whipped a dishcloth around an immaculate stainless-steel sink. “Go on then, off you go. Go and flaunt yourself.”

I stared at her in amazement for a moment, but then I was out of that back door like a shot. When you got a green light from Mum, you didn’t hang around for it to turn.

And so there I was that night at the fair, trying to keep the huge excitement of being out at night to myself, trying to pretend it was nothing new. Of course, for Imogen and Molly it wasn’t. Going to discos and cinemas had been part and parcel of their lives for a couple of years now, but not mine, and I hugged the experience excitedly, loving it all: the flashing lights against the dark sky, the bustle and noise, the smell of candyfloss and toffee apples, the thumping disco music, the lithe boys jumping on and off speeding carts, that heady sense of danger and excitement which stirred my teenage soul. Shrieking with laughter we made our way round every single ride, and were all piling out of a Dodgem car, ready to go round again – when Molly spotted him. She stopped dead; seized my arm.

“Holy
Moley!
” (As I said, we were quite sheltered.)

He was standing with a couple of friends in the queue for the big wheel; tall, tousled, blond, with wicked blue eyes, his hands in his pockets, head thrown back and roaring with laughter at something one of them had said. He oozed glamour but also, at a glance, that automatic social ease that comes from an expensive education, a mother who’d never had to do her own ironing and a father who was quite possibly in the Shadow Cabinet. Our plan had been to head back to the ghost train, but without a word of discussion, the three of us turned as one, and made our way to the big wheel. Molly, vivacious, curly-haired, with dark, dancing eyes, pranced up, and deliberately queue-barged her way in front of him, with Imogen and me giggling in her wake.