Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon (14 page)

Sandy saw Elaine gazing towards him, and laughed.

‘Bad luck. You’ve got a rival.’

‘Who is she?’ Elaine leaned forward. ‘I’ll scratch her eyes out, the cow.’

‘Whoever he writes all those songs about.’

‘Yeah? Who?’

‘Dunno. He’s not going out with anyone that I know about.’

‘Perhaps there isn’t anyone. Perhaps she’s an imaginary muse,’ said Elaine. ‘Hey, p’raps it’s
me
! He wants to seduce me with songs. Immortalize me.’ She turned her head for a last look as the bus pulled away; a bowler was preparing to run up. ‘Ooh, don’t you love it when they rub the ball against themselves like that? Do they have any idea how sexy it is?’

‘Oh, you!’ Sandy nudged her. ‘You wouldn’t take much seducing, if you ask me. I thought it was Roland you fancied, not just anything in trousers.’

‘Anything in cricket trousers.
Mainly
Roland. And preferably out of them.’

Giggles and gasps passed between them, irrepressible as bubbles.

‘You haven’t
told
him?’ Elaine leaned against Sandy. ‘You wouldn’t?’

‘Don’t need to, do I? You’re as subtle as an elephant,’ Sandy said, though in fact she did, often, make teasing remarks to Roland, to embarrass him. When that happened he went gruff and mumbly, his eyes shifting away. He didn’t believe her. He was modest like that.

After the funeral, whenever Sandy climbed the second flight of stairs her steps were heavy with dread. The door to Roland’s room was closed, and that was unbearable. But if it had been open, that would have been as bad. Worse, if anything could be worse.

He wasn’t here. Wouldn’t be here ever again. That thought hammered at her brain, failing to penetrate.

He was gone. Wasn’t coming back. Ever.

The house was full of a silence that pressed against her ears, filling her mind to shrieking point. Silence tugged her into its depths; silence was a cloak she huddled into. It filled her mouth when she tried to speak; it buzzed in her ears. It turned her words into meaningless gabble. It slowed her movements, weighted her limbs. It turned everything – eating, dressing, brushing her hair – into pointless attempts to fill the hours that stretched ahead. The relief of sleep led only to the renewed shock of waking, knowing that it wasn’t a dream, that the room next to hers was empty of Roland.

She could never undo what she had done.

Chapter Nine

On Saturday evening Ruth was going to a party in Chingford. ‘You could come too?’ she offered, but Anna heard the doubt in her voice and said, ‘Thanks, but I’m happy to stay here with Liam.’

This made it easier all round, because otherwise Liam would have had to go to the party, which, he’d made clear, he didn’t want. Anna made omelette and salad for him and herself while Ruth got ready. It was someone’s birthday party, one of her Holtby Hall acquaintances; her present was already by the front door, a bottle of Laphroaig in a gift bag with a tag saying
To Aidan, with love from Ruth
. When Anna saw this and raised her eyebrows, Ruth laughed and said, ‘Aidan’s a friend. It’s not what you’re thinking.’

The phone rang while Ruth was showering. ‘I’ll get that,’ Anna called, and answered.

It was Martin.

‘Did you want to speak to Ruth?’ Anna said coolly.

‘No, to you, about tomorrow.’ Martin sounded as if nothing had changed; maybe not much had, but Anna felt as if a gulf of time had opened up between them. ‘I’ll be there for Liam by nine-thirty, and I’ll fetch him back about six. Then I can bring you home, OK?’

Anna was wrong-footed; this hadn’t been discussed, unless he and Ruth had made some arrangement. ‘But I’m not coming back,’ she told him, ‘yet.’

‘Not coming back?’ He sounded startled. ‘Why not? You’ve been there nearly a week now. You’re not planning to move in, I take it?’

‘No.’ It came out on a questioning upward note.

‘So what’s the problem? You don’t want to outstay your welcome.’

‘Nice of you to put it like that,’ Anna said, all too conscious that nothing had been discussed with Ruth.

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? Look, Anna, I haven’t got time for this. Come home tomorrow and we’ll sort things out. What’s bothering you? It’s nothing we can’t solve. You know that.’

‘But how can you be sure? You just said you hadn’t got time.’

A pause; she heard a slow exhalation of breath, then: ‘What have you arranged with Ruth?’

‘Nothing! I just need—’

‘
I
need you
here
, Anna! Don’t you think you owe me an explanation, at least? Walking out like this?’

‘I haven’t said I’ve walked out. I’m not ready to decide anything yet.’ Anna bit her lip; she heard how infuriating she must be.

‘Decide?’ Martin sounded curt now. ‘Decide what? I really don’t know what you mean.’

‘No … I don’t know, either.’

Another pause. ‘I’m doing my best, but you’re not making it easy. I can’t for the life of me see what’s upset you, and you don’t seem able to explain. Or maybe you can’t be bothered. You’re not being fair.’

‘Sorry. I know. I can’t—’

How to explain that she liked it this way, this limbo-state, this period of suspended animation? Or was it a jumping-off point to something new?

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there tomorrow. Come back with me, and we’ll sort this out. We can, I promise.’

His kindlier tone almost made her waver.

‘Please, Martin – just let me have this break. I like helping Ruth, and it’d be good to get the house-sorting finished. See you tomorrow, OK?’ she said, and rang off. Her eyes were filling with tears; she blinked them away.

‘Who was that on the phone?’ Ruth said when she came down, her coat open over a wrap dress in a dark indigo print. Used to seeing her in jeans and sweatshirt, Anna was struck by her delicate attractiveness; her fine skin, her simple, flattering hairstyle, sleek and straight in a chin-length bob that swung as she moved. She wore a light perfume that had something of the sea about it.

‘Martin,’ Anna told her. ‘He’ll be here for Liam at nine-thirty.’ Ruth looked at her as if expecting more; Anna added, ‘You look lovely.’

‘Thanks! OK. I don’t suppose I’ll be late back, but don’t wait up.’ She bent to kiss Liam, who gave a wriggle and grunted goodbye.

‘Have fun, drive carefully, and don’t talk to strange men,’ Anna said, at the front door.

She poured herself a glass of wine, and juice for Liam. He was lying face-down on a bean-bag, channel-hopping in a way that annoyed Anna intensely when Martin did it. Abruptly, she found herself missing Ruth, although they’d spent all day together. She wished they could sit down in the kitchen and share the wine, and talk: address the matter of how long she could stay, and what to do about Martin.

It wasn’t fair, of course – how could it be? Ruth was the last person to ask for sympathy and advice. The idea was forming in Anna’s mind that she might nudge Martin and Ruth back together. Wasn’t that what Ruth wanted? Martin had made an awful mistake, she’d said. And was continuing to do so? He’d admitted to regrets – wasn’t there an obvious solution, one that would suit everyone? Maybe that was behind Ruth’s invitation, Anna thought: it wasn’t for company and support, but because she wanted Martin left on his own.

‘Is there someone else?’ Ruth had asked on the phone, and Anna had denied it, but now she recalled Ruth’s ‘No, I meant …’ and heard what she’d missed at the time; Ruth had been asking if there was someone else for
Martin
. She had him down as a serial adulterer.

Well, let Ruth think that; but in that case, why would she want him back? And – Martin wouldn’t, would he? He was too busy with work, for one thing. Anna didn’t want to believe that he could be deceptive, that he could lie, and go on lying. But he’d done that before, when he was married to Ruth – why not now?

And Ruth’s motive in telling her about Hilary? Unless Ruth was totally guileless, and Anna thought she was too clever for that, it could only be to put Anna in her place, to diminish her importance in Martin’s life. How could they be friends? Yet here she was, curled up on Ruth’s sofa, in charge of Ruth and Martin’s son. The only decent thing to do was remove herself from the scene, leaving Ruth and Martin to sort themselves out.

Stop it, stop it. This is doing my head in.

She tried to follow what Liam was watching on TV, but found it incomprehensible; she sipped her wine, picked up the book Ruth had left on the low table,
The Selfish Gene
, and read two pages before putting it down and going upstairs for her mobile. In Patrick’s bedroom she called Bethan’s number, not sure whether this was a good idea or not.

‘I’ve got news,’ she said, when Bethan answered. ‘Guess.’

‘You’re pregnant!’

‘No.’

‘You’re getting married?’

‘
No
.’

‘You took the job!’

‘Yes, I did. But it’s not that.’

‘Go on then, you’ll have to tell me.’ Bethan sounded buoyed up, full of laughter.

‘Where are you?’

‘Home, in the kitchen. We’re about to start cooking. Come on, spill!’

‘I’ve split up with Martin,’ Anna said, relishing the way it sounded: cool, decisive. Against the cosy picture of Bethan and Cliff making a meal together she saw herself as free and independent, about to rearrange her life.

‘
What?
’ Bethan shrieked. ‘Are you mad?’

‘No. It wasn’t working out.’

‘Did you have a big row or something?’

‘No. It just seemed a good time to finish it.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Anna! What is it with you? You solve one problem and find another. Have you met someone else, is that it?’

‘No I haven’t!’ Anna said hotly. ‘Is that the only reason for ending a relationship?’

‘So you’re
hoping
to meet someone else.’

‘I’m not! Honestly. I used to fantasize about meeting some man who’d transform my life and me with it, but that’s naïve. I’ve grown out of that now.’

‘I thought you
had
found him. Anna, you’re off your head.’

‘I’m not! Just now I want to be on my own.’

‘We need to meet up. Have you moved out of the flat, or what?’

Anna explained about staying with Ruth; Bethan gave a humph of disbelief.

‘I’d better go – Cliff’s parents are coming, and I’ve got all these onions to chop. Look, how about Friday – oh no, I can’t, it’s our sales conference. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid, OK?’

‘OK,’ Anna said, meaninglessly, and rang off.

She went downstairs with her laptop and settled in the sitting room with Liam. Intending to catch up with emails, she was soon sidetracked into one of her regular distractions: entering Rose’s name into Google, Facebook and Friends Reunited, convinced against common sense that Rose would suddenly bob up, cheerful and offhand, as if she’d never been away. When she did this in the flat, she minimized the screen if Martin came into the room, not wanting him to see. Rose’s name was never mentioned between them. When they’d first met, he’d listened and been sympathetic, but the subject was now closed. Her fault, or his? He’d never met Rose, so she may as well never have existed.

And he’d told Ruth that Rose was dead. That confirmed Anna’s suspicion that he’d think she was wasting her time, clinging to false hope.

If Rose came back, everything would be different. For Anna, for their mother. Life would pick up; not where it had left off, she couldn’t expect that, but on a steadier and more purposeful course. Anna told herself this, yet the Rose of her imagination was fixed for ever at eighteen. Anna had drawn level, then overtaken, and Rose was stranded at the age of young girls she saw in the street and on the Underground. Not many more years would go by before Anna was old enough to be the mother of the Rose she remembered. She recognized this, but couldn’t adjust her vision, couldn’t see Rose as a mature woman in her late thirties, almost forty in fact; a woman who’d had lovers, maybe children – a life of which Anna knew nothing.

If she had a life at all. Maybe Martin was right. Maybe eighteen was as far as she’d got.

On Facebook there were images, links, groups and campaigns to join, threads of conversations; Anna found herself flitting from one thing to another, settling only briefly here and there. She accepted a friendship request from someone she’d only vaguely heard of; she signed a petition about the NHS; she read postings that ranged from pointlessly mundane to self-aggrandizing. On an impulse she posted a statement on her own page:
Anna Taverner is still looking for her sister
. She could always scrap it later if she decided against making so public a declaration; meanwhile it felt like putting a message in a bottle, and about as much use.

Friends Reunited was more promising. At least here, when she entered Oaklands School and 1990, she saw names that had a connection with Rose, among them Christina Marchant. On the message board she found another name she recognized: Khalida Malik, clever, bound for Cambridge, who’d had an equally brainy sister in Anna’s year. Khalida had posted a query:
Did anyone ever find out what happened to Rose Taverner?