Authors: Charlotte Oliver
“Peter!” I shouted, my nerves still shot from the surge of raw hope I’d had earlier, “He’s a bastard! I promise you, I know that better than you do!”
“What? Just because some guy you know left a message for you, and you’re having a bad time, that means he’s
laughing
at you? That’s just irrational.”
“Will you stop doing the verbal finger-wag at me, please,” I hissed. “You don’t even know who Tam is. You just know he’s a boy.”
“Well,” Peter said reasonably, “I’m a boy, and I know that I would never laugh at a girl having a bad day. What did he ever do to you, anyway? Gosh, I’d never have thought you were so unreasonable before today.”
I rubbed my temples, hard. I was coming dangerously close to punching Peter, or worse, bursting into tears. I was going to do neither, I decided.
I took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to think of kittens playing with string. “Tam,” I began calmly, “is my brother-in-law. Ex-brother-in-law. He disapproved of me being married to his brother. And maybe if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be split up right now. That a good enough reason for you?”
“That doesn’t happen.”
“What doesn’t happen?”
“People don’t break up because of other people. They break up because of themselves.”
Why hadn’t I taken those aikido lessons that Mia got into? Then I could have twisted his little finger a bit and he’d drop dead. “How would you know that?” I said, coldly.
He looked like a schoolboy reciting his multiplication tables: “It’s just like Dr Phil says—“
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “but are you actually planning to quote Dr
Phil
? Because frankly, if you are, I’d really prefer it if you just left.”
Peter started puffing his cheeks in and out in an outraged sort of way. “Dr Phil is a qualified psychologist, Ava. I’ll have you know—“
“Peter.
Drop it
.”
He looked at me hard, then seemed to lose his will and just sighed. “My parents divorced because my mom had an affair. OK? So I know all about it.”
“Oh.” That took the wind out of my sails.
Just then, Clara stuck her head round the door and started emptying the bin. I felt a distinct sense of satisfaction knowing that Tam’s note was going to be disposed of forever.
Peter continued, “After the split, my dad even sat me down and explained that Mom had the affair because he had neglected her. He told me something very important that night. He said that marriages only break down because one or both partners stop paying attention, or they never paid attention at all. There’s no other reason.”
“You don’t know that,” I said, sulkily. “I’m sorry about your parents,” I added, as meekly as possible.
“It’s OK,” he replied cheerily, “I think they’re better off without each other. Hey,” he continued, looking earnestly at me: “What if your Tam guy is actually here with a message from your husband? What did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t,” I said icily, but then something clicked into place.
What if something has happened? What if that’s why I haven’t heard from him?
“Clara!” I screamed into Peter’s shocked face, “CLARAAAA!!” And I ran out the door and into the garden after her.
I caught up with her just as she was about to lob all the little binliners into a big municipal collection bag on the curb outside the house. “Clara! Wait!” I yodelled, and dove at her. I got hold of her just in time. She was wearing a bloody iPod, I realised. What’s become of the world when you can’t flag a person down in an emergency because they’re listening to Kings of Leon?
I think Clara swore in Afrikaans (not
at
me, but out of fright, of course), but she handed the bags to me. Gratefully, I began rifling through the bags one by one. Peter soon appeared at my side. Clara stood in the shade of the eaves and lit a cigarette, shaking her head and doubtless muttering to herself that I needed to be committed. Truth be told, I’d have thought the same thing.
“What are you doing?” asked Peter innocently.
“What does it look like?” I muttered.
“Are you going through the rubbish?”
“Yes, Einstein. And don’t sound so shocked. THIS IS MY MARRIAGE WE’RE TALKING ABOUT.”
“No need to shout,” he said mildly. “So, now you actually
do
want to hear what he wants to say?”
“YES, PETER, YOU’VE WON THE ARGUMENT,” I bellowed. The hysteria was rising. Where was that little scrap of paper? Wasn’t the phone message pad blue? Or was it white?
I’d better look at every piece, just in case.
“Were we having an argument?” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled.
“Never mind,” I muttered. I’d found it. In the last bloody bag. Typical. I looked at it and saw that Tam had written it in his own hand—it took me straight back to the days in the office, when I read out his notes to Jack on a daily basis. He’d been here. He hadn’t rung; he knew where I was. It probably
had
been him on the summit of the mountain, spying on me.
Maybe this meant something. Maybe there was some hope yet.
I sat down heavily on the ground and gave a long sigh which, to my horror, caused me to break into a half-laughing, half-crying fit. Peter looked alarmed. Just then, Sharon came out again, looking even more annoyed.
“Ava,” she said in a short, pissed-off little voice, “A visitor has come.”
She makes it sound like the Annunciation,
I thought bitterly. But chance would have been a fine thing.
It was Tam, of course.
“Ava?” He was looking at me as if I were mad. Of course, I was sitting on my arse in a pile of rubbish, wearing yesterday’s clothes, no makeup, and a hangover.
“Hi,” I blurted, standing up and wiping my face hurriedly. “Tam. I got your message,” I said, holding the scrap of paper out weakly by way of explanation.
“Good to know,” he said cautiously. He glanced around at the other characters in the scene: Clara, who was grinding her cigarette out with her be-sneakered toe; Peter, looking like a Men’s Health cover boy in his ripped blue jeans, with a
it’s-got-nothing-to-do-with-me-mate
expression on his face; and me, the lunatic.
I caught a distant echo of cinnamon in the air, and felt my heart lurch in my chest. “What are you doing here?” I said, my mind clouding with shock. “Is something wrong?”
“Depends,” he said, perfectly neutral. “We need to talk.” He looked around pointedly. “Somewhere private?”
Something inside me sprang out of inertia and into action. “Of course. No problem. Let’s go. Was it a long flight? You did fly, didn’t you? Something to drink, maybe? Oh, and welcome to Cape Town,” I gibbered, ushering him indoors.
He said nothing while I installed him in the sitting room. In fact, he was eyeing me out very carefully. Clearly, he had expected to find me in a different state—bitter, combative, full of recriminations. I burned with hope and anxiety: I just had to make him feel a little more welcome, and he would have good news for me.
What good news are you expecting?
a voice in my head interrupted, genuinely perplexed.
You left your husband—surely he should be the one begging good news from you?
Shhhh!
I replied.
You’re going to jinx it!
Jinx what?
said the bolshy voice, who was starting to sound annoyed.
I stopped listening. I had to concentrate.
Finally he relented and said, “I could do with a glass of water, thanks.”
Pathetically grateful to have been given a purpose, I scurried off to the kitchen. Peter accosted me.
“WHAT DID HE SAY WHAT DID HE SAY??” he hissed in a bad stage whisper.
“SHHHHHH!” I whispered back, urgently. “HE’S PROBABLY LISTENING!”
“Is he going to say something about your husband?” asked Peter, with an air of foreboding. “Do you think he wants to patch it up?”
“Please, please just shhh! He’s going to hear you and that’ll ruin everything!” I whispered.
“OK, OK, sorry, sorry,” he said breathlessly. Mercifully, there were new paper cups in the kitchen after we’d used about a million the night before. With shaking hands, I filled one with water from the tap. Then I froze.
“Do you think he’ll want ice?” I said, overcome with fear.
“Oh no!” said Peter. “Ice!” And he rummaged urgently through the freezer. Moments later, he surfaced with three large blocks. “There weren’t many left,” he said, shaken.
We were both visibly relieved. I composed myself, but as I started to walk sedately back to the common room, he grabbed me roughly by the arm. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, “you look like you just escaped from a labour camp.”
“Thanks,” I said, blushing gratefully.
“Not because you’re thin,” he said, “you’re filthy!”
“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. I glanced in the hall mirror and nearly screamed. Baby wipes were produced from the first-aid kit, and I swabbed my face hurriedly. They took the last of my make-up off, but at least I didn’t look homeless anymore.
“OK,” I said, taking a deep, calming breath and doing my anti-anxiety visualisations. “I’m ready.” And off I went.
The walk down the passage was excruciating. A deluge of thoughts gushed through me: was he here to issue me with divorce papers? Wasn’t it too early for that—surely we should talk about it first? Anyway, why not just courier them or something? But maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was an apology—maybe he just felt bad, and wanted to say he was sorry to me for destroying our marriage. Because he had, the bastard.
That
would be too little, too late, I thought, a burst of fury surging through me.
Or did he have a message for me from Jack? Now my heart began to beat painfully hard. Perhaps he was here to extend the proverbial olive branch. But if he was, why hadn’t Jack come himself?
I padded up to the door of the common room and stopped. Tam was standing by the window, his back to me, looking out onto the street.
I had never seen any real resemblance between Jack and Tam; but I suppose half-brothers aren’t expected to look alike. Where Jack was dark and elegant, Tam was all golds and whites, and rougher somehow. It was weird, because they both wore very smart suits and lovely Thomas Pink shirts and cufflinks and Gucci shoes. They were both
groomed
.
Regardless, Tam seemed like a hard man—maybe the scar had something to do with it—and I’d never found anything attractive in a bit of rough. But now that he seemed to hold the power of life and death in his hands, I wanted desperately for him to be nice to me; maybe with me in the past, on the receiving end of a divorce decree, he would take pity on me. I wouldn’t be able to take it if he didn’t.
He turned around abruptly and met my eye, catching me staring at him. I started and lurched guiltily into the room.
I must seem like even more of a loon now.
I handed the cup of water to him, trying to stop my hand from trembling.
“Um, shall we sit down?” I said awkwardly. He sipped the water, still looking me in the eye, then finally broke his gaze and took a seat. I perched hesitantly on the edge of the settee opposite.
He was wearing very expensive-looking jeans and a pale green shirt that was darkened with perspiration. His eyes burned luminously, brought out by the colour of his shirt. But now that I was closer to him, his cologne was making me feel dreamy: a golden, sun-drenched scent, full of warmth. It didn’t suit him at all.
I must remember to ask him what it is—maybe I could send Jack a bottle
, I thought, absently.
A peace offering.
I shook my head in an effort to come back to reality. I smiled brightly. “So,” I began, “what brings you here? All the way to the other side of the world?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Jack has been trying to get hold of you,” he said.
Blood rushed to my cheeks and I thought I might burst with joy. “Really?” It was all I could do not to clasp my hands like a Disney heroine and burst into song. Although, if he’d been trying to get hold of me, why hadn’t he just rung?
“Yes. You’ve been a hard girl to find.”
“And?” I sang, pushing the questions from my mind. Maybe there were problems with international reception. It could have been any one of a million things.
His eyes flashed with annoyance. “He asks that you come back to England.”
My heart leapt again: it was all coming together. But I was going to at least
try
to sound coy. “Why would he want me to do that?”
He stared at me, hard. I felt his hatred boring into me. But I didn’t care. If he was acting like this, it could only mean one thing. My husband must want me after all. Tam was here to tell me so.
“He understands things must have been very bad if you felt you had to leave,” Tam said dully. “He wants to try again. To make it up to you.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I clapped my hands over my eyes and squealed with relief. The nightmare was over!
This was all I wanted, all along
, I thought to myself; the impossible had happened. Jack was running after me—Jack was apologising to me.