Authors: Merryn Allingham
It was a generous offer, but the security he represented no longer looked as enticing. My silence told him that his offer was unlikely to be taken up and he covered the awkwardness by filling me in on the projects he’d been busy with since I left. An hour passed before we said goodbye.
‘If you’d care to give me your new mobile number, I could pass it on to anyone I thought a likely client,’ he said diffidently. ‘I promise I won’t call you myself unless it’s business or you call first.’
Another stroke of generosity. I gave him the number. I hoped he wouldn’t try to resurrect a dead relationship, but he seemed genuinely to want to help. We parted with light kisses and I walked towards Trafalgar Square with a happier heart. The meeting had been valuable in laying the past to rest, but now I had the future to deal with.
* * *
As soon as I reached the flat, I made for the tiny bathroom. I didn’t require much space or much time for what I needed to do, and I had my answer very shortly. Positive. But whose baby was it, Oliver’s or Nick’s? And what was I to do? I sat and thought about it without the obligatory glass of wine. No more alcohol for months.
If the baby was Oliver’s and I told him, what would be his reaction? He’d want me to return to Lyndhurst Villas; he’d already asked me to, and if he thought I was carrying his child, he would be insistent. Today’s gentle request would become a command. I couldn’t go back. Oliver didn’t like children, but that wouldn’t stop him wanting to control events. I’d escaped once, but with a child dependent on me, I was unlikely to manage it a second time.
And it might well not be his: in fact it was much more likely to be Nick’s. What would
he
say? I knew instantly—he’d say we should get married. I don’t know why I knew, but I did. He’d fallen into being conventional man just a little too easily. The Nick I’d first met had been an identity he was trying out for a while. The Nick that had emerged in recent weeks looked like the real person, and that person would want to get married. Perhaps ‘want’ was stretching it—inwardly he’d probably be appalled at the prospect—but he’d feel obliged to. And I’d had enough of obligation. The strangest thing was that I never considered ending the pregnancy. I was nearing thirty, but I wasn’t particularly maternal and had little in the way of visible support, yet it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t bear this child. Before Nick got back, I rang for a doctor’s appointment. The test result might prove to be a mistake, but I didn’t think so. In the meantime I decided to keep my own counsel.
I wandered back into the living room and picked up the post from the mat. I’d been too intent on getting the test done and ringing the surgery to worry about the mail. But right on the top of the pile was an envelope marked
Living History.
It was quite thin: either it was a rejection without the return of the manuscript or it was an acceptance. There was only one way to find out.
Nick came through the door as I spread out the one-page letter. ‘It’s been accepted!’ I waved the sheet of paper in the air.
‘What has?’
‘My article on Lucas Royde and his collaboration with Alessia Renville.’
He threw his briefcase down on the one empty chair and yawned loudly. ‘I didn’t know you were writing anything.’
‘I told you.’
‘Sorry, other things on my mind.’ His tone wasn’t exactly dismissive, but it suggested quite definitely that my success could only be small beer.
‘
Living History
is taking it.’
‘That’s a general interest mag, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I thought you were writing up the findings as an academic paper.’
‘I decided to target the lay reader instead. More amusing and it might even pay, unlike academic papers.’
‘I guess so, but—’
‘But what? The magazine loved it and wants me to do a second article once I’ve completed the research.’
He didn’t respond immediately but made for the bedroom to change his clothes, a fleeting irritation crossing his face. There was something about the Royde research that annoyed him. Every time the subject came up, he did his best to ignore it. I couldn’t fathom what was going on since initially he’d been the one so keen to investigate. I wondered if it was it because when we’d started out, I’d been in control. My professional expertise had mattered, and he’d been the hanger-on. Now our roles were reversed and I got the impression that he preferred it that way.
When he reemerged, he was wearing faded jeans and Converse trainers and that always made me feel good about him. But his smile had all the appearance of being pinned on.
‘That’s really good news,’ he said a trifle too heartily, ‘about the article, I mean. It will certainly help out until you get something more permanent.’
‘Permanent’ was a word I seemed to hear a lot from Nick these days and it jarred. Nothing about me or my life felt permanent: on the contrary both seemed to be in constant flux. It was depressing to feel so little solid ground beneath my feet, but on occasions the uncertainty could be oddly welcome. Nothing was fixed, everything was open. Different possibilities washed around me, often no more than a shadowy sense of what various futures might look like. But that little blue taper was telling me that from now on I needed focus.
Nick began pouring wine into the first of two glasses.
‘Not for me, thanks.’
He raised his eyebrows but made no other comment. Instead he dropped a small depth charge. ‘Lucy rang me at work. She’ll pick us up at six on Friday.’
I’d forgotten about the visit to Gloucestershire, I’d been too busy battling with nausea. Now it was almost upon us, and I couldn’t get out of it. If I pleaded ill health, Nick would want to know what was wrong. There was no escape; I was going to have to brave the weekend.
I stayed awake for hours that night while Nick snored gently beside me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. Home pregnancy tests could be unreliable, I knew, but I was sure that this time the result hadn’t lied. The thought of a baby terrified and elated me in a single breath. A child of my very own, a small scrap to love unconditionally, but a small scrap wholly dependent on me for health and happiness. I had to get a grip; I couldn’t continue blindly staggering from one circumstance to another and hoping that life might turn out right. When I returned from Gloucestershire, there were important decisions to make.
Chapter Fourteen
The trip to the Heyshams was mercifully brief. In the end Lucy had to see a valuable client on the Friday evening and didn’t collect us until the next morning and by teatime Sunday, we were back in Thetford Road. Nick wanted to be bright-eyed for the next day’s work.
I’d seen the house in my imagination, fountain and all, but it turned out to be even grander than I’d thought, with room after room of high ceilings and expensive antiques. Nick’s parents were equally grand but very welcoming. Victor Heysham, or Justice Heysham as perhaps I should call him, had crunched his way across the broad gravel drive towards us even before Lucy’s car pulled to a halt.
‘Grace!’ I was barely out of the vehicle and he had my hand in his and was pumping it vigorously. ‘How very good to meet you. And good of you to bring our prodigal son home.’
I was about to deny any responsibility for returning Nick to his ancestral lands when Mrs Heysham emerged from an immense door of studded oak and enveloped me in a cloud of rustling silk.
‘Grace! How wonderful that you could come.’ I was beginning to feel a minor celebrity. The welcome accorded Nick and Lucy was noticeably less effusive. I was evidently to be the star of the show.
All three of us were ushered into the sitting room. At least I imagine it was a sitting room. There were certainly seats, but there were also acres of space, floor to ceiling windows, and a stunning view towards rolling grassland. I balanced uncomfortably on the edge of one of the squashy sofas and sipped my coffee. I was finding it difficult to relax.
‘Your job sounds fascinating, Grace,’ Mrs Heysham said. ‘Do tell us how you came to research property.’
‘I studied Art History, Fine Art, too,’ I mumbled ‘and it kind of went on from there.’
‘How marvellous! And what exciting project are you working on at the moment?’
What on earth had Nick told his mother? I glanced desperately towards him, but he’d buried his face in his cup while Lucy looked studiously down at her feet.
Mrs Heysham was smiling eagerly across at me. ‘I think it’s so wonderful, women having careers—and such interesting careers—these days.’
There didn’t seem much to say to that and I noticed the judge was looking marginally less eager. ‘Even more important for the men, wouldn’t you say?’ He looked meaningfully at his youngest son. ‘Good to see you getting there, Nick.’
Nick flushed with annoyance, and I could feel Lucy about to step in. Protecting her younger brother was no doubt her role in the family, and she’d probably been intervening on his behalf since childhood. This time, though, she didn’t have to speak. The sound of a car horn distracted Mr Heysham’s attention and sent his wife drifting towards the door, leaving a trail of lavender behind her.
‘Martin,’ the judge announced in a satisfied tone. ‘On time, too.’
There was a flurry in the hall and then a slightly stockier version of Nick put his head round the door and nodded a hello.
‘Brought anyone with you?’ Victor asked.
Martin looked uncomfortable. ‘Just me, Dad.’
‘Hmm. We would have welcomed a friend, you know. The door is always open.’
‘I know, Dad. But your summons caught me on the hop. I didn’t have time to ask anyone. Not that I’m not glad to be here. It’s great to meet you, Grace.’
I hoped very much that Martin wouldn’t feel a similar need to quiz me on my mythical job, but I needn’t have worried. From now on, it was legal gossip all the way and it was only Nick yawning rather too loudly that brought the conversation to an end.
Mrs Heysham looked brightly across at me. ‘We’ve invited a number of friends to dinner this evening, Grace. We thought it would be more entertaining for you.’ Then to her children, ‘You’ll know all of them very well. Martin, I know you’ll be pleased—Judge Dauncey’s daughter is visiting. You remember Marianne?’
‘And you’ve invited her?’ Martin didn’t appear that pleased.
‘Naturally,’ his father boomed out. ‘Couldn’t leave her languishing at home, could we?’
I intercepted a conspiratorial smile between the senior Heyshams while Lucy and Nick exchanged a knowing look but said nothing.
‘Fine.’ Martin’s tone suggested a shrugging of shoulders, but he said no more, walking back into the stone-flagged hall and picking up the overnight bag he’d abandoned there.
‘What was all that Marianne stuff?’ I asked Nick when we finally escaped to the bedroom.
‘It’s evident—she’s been nominated Martin’s partner for the evening.’
I plumped down on the bed and promptly sunk into two feet of goose down. ‘He didn’t appear too happy with the arrangement, but your parents seem very keen on his having a girlfriend.’
‘Lost causes tend to be their speciality.’
‘Why so lost?’
‘Martin is gay, but the olds don’t know.’
I gaped at him. ‘Why ever not?’
‘They’d freak, that’s why not.’
‘They have to know some time.’
Nick threw several tee shirts and a pile of socks into the top drawer of the chest. ‘Not necessarily. He lives in London and rarely comes home. They live in Gloucestershire and rarely go to London.’
‘But doesn’t he want them to know?’
‘I doubt it. He didn’t want us to know but Lucy discovered it by accident and told me. Martin got us together in a solemn powwow and made us swear we’d never tell. It was like something out of Enid Blyton.’
This evening’s party would prove interesting, I thought, but in the event I had little time to watch Martin negotiate the tricky business of keeping Marianne Dauncey at arm’s length while also keeping his parents happy. I was far too busy answering questions. Like their hosts, the Heyshams’ guests were kind and welcoming, but a little overbearing. I had the strong sense they were there to inspect me as much as to make the party convivial.
‘Is your family local, Grace?’
‘What university did you attend?’
‘Would we know your parents?’
‘How long have you lived in London?’
‘Where did you meet Nick?’
And the killer of them all, ‘Do you hunt?’
I forced myself to keep smiling, but at times I felt I was taking part in a mystery audition. It seemed as though a whole corner of Gloucestershire had come out to assess me for a role that was never spelt out, though I had my suspicions what it might be. When they weren’t asking questions, they were discussing the relative merits of four-by-fours or the best saddlery to patronise or the disgraceful conduct of the parish council. On and on it went, and I smiled and nodded until my face ached. The last guests lingered and by the time they left, I could barely stand straight to wave them goodbye.
‘They like you,’ Nick said happily as we fell into bed around midnight. During the evening, apparently, I’d passed a test I hadn’t even wanted to sit.
I don’t remember much of the following day. Sunday passed in a blur although I do recall some less than subtle comments from Mrs Heysham on how she and her husband were getting tired of waiting for their children to marry and how they didn’t want to be too old before they became grandparents. I felt a momentary guilt at the thought of the secret I harboured. But the baby might not be Nick’s and if it were, I’d want it raised a million miles away. This was such a narrow world, kind but narrow, and ultimately stultifying. I could see why Nick had had to escape, but I could also see why he’d begun to revert to type. The nest was agreeably feathered, undemanding and secure.
‘You must visit again, Grace,’ Mrs Heysham made a point of saying, when after a monumental Sunday roast, the bags were being stacked into the boot of Lucy’s car.
‘It’s been wonderful to meet you, my dear. You’re obviously very good for Nick.’ I couldn’t see how she’d decided that, but it was clear his parents were delighted their youngest offspring had finally confounded expectations. ‘It would be nice to see him settled, wouldn’t it, Victor?’