Authors: Charlotte Oliver
Instead I spent two days perched like a stuck-up fool on the edge of a loveseat, nervously adjusting my brand-new tweed skirt, with Jack gallantly keeping me company, refusing the fat lines of coke Jemima kept cutting for him. Clearly he had, once upon a time, participated enthusiastically in these weekend breaks.
On Saturday afternoon, I realised at about teatime that she was wearing nothing under her cotton peasant’s blouse, which was a billowy, sheer affair that reached just to the tops of her golden thighs. When she bent over to speak to him (as if I wasn’t there), the neckline gaped open and in an instant she was showing him her perfect, nut-brown breasts and the line of her flat stomach, framed in the foreground by a jutting collarbone.
When she looked up, she gave me a smile that seemed at once grateful and sly. I’d never understood that smile. Did it mean she knew I’d seen her accidental indiscretion, and was glad I hadn’t pointed it out? Or that she’d done it on purpose, and meant me to see it?
I tried his mobile number. It rang and rang and rang. Then his voicemail message came on, and I hung up before it even got past “You’ve reached . . .”
I’d heard that message so many times while I was still in London that I’d once joked bitterly to Mary Hazel that he must have had me on permanent ignore. Now I suspected that that may have been true.
I sat dejected by the phone, thinking of what I should do next. My mind was hopelessly stuck in one place—at Jemima’s country house, in that moment of fascination and resentment—and I just couldn’t muster the energy to even make a decision. Where was he? How could he have sent
Tam
? And not come himself? Something was wrong.
It occurred to me that I should look at the little card that Tam had given me. For a minute or two, I just stared at it, trying to remember what he’d said to me in the sitting room all those centuries ago.
I dialled the number.
As it rang, I wondered what I was going to say.
~
The Hussar Grill hadn’t been done up since the late sixties, and it was all the better for it. I sidled into a blue velvet-lined booth and waited for Tam to arrive.
Yes, I’d asked him to meet me for a meal. And no, it wasn’t meant to be a date. In fact, it was a sign of just how desperate I’d become. You see, now that I’d exhausted my options, I felt I had to turn to Tam; he was the only person I could reasonably expect to have the kind of information I was looking for. (And before you ask what information, exactly—let me use the pornography defence. I knew I’d know it when I saw it.)
I’ve always hated being in an empty restaurant, or at least being on my own in one. I get a sense that everyone is watching me, resenting that I’m there, and that if I’d only go home and stop bothering them, the barman could put on some Green Day and the waitresses could snort vodka off the tables and they could all take turns spitting in the soup.
I asked for a nice, sedate Sprite Zero, and did my breathing exercises again. I can’t tell you I wasn’t wondering what the hell I was doing. But mostly I was wondering about Jack.
Did I
want
to know what was really going on? Didn’t I just want to go straight back to London and pretend all this had never happened? Or did I want to make a calculated decision this time around? After all, the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that this whole stupid running-off thing was a direct result of the whole stupid
marriage
thing that I’d gone through with in the first place.
But still. Tam was bound to have some horrible mean-spirited little falsehoods to spread to me.
He’s probably some kind of perv who’s got a crush on his own brother
, I thought smugly.
Jealous of any happiness he might have had.
Then I scolded myself for being such a twisted bitch.
When I caught the scent of his cologne and the sound of his voice as he murmured to the hostess, I felt my stomach flip-flop. He was here. I preened myself involuntarily and sat up straighter.
Please let me make a good impression
, I thought.
A waitress showed him over to the table. Freshly showered, wearing those ubiquitous well-worn light blue jeans of his and a white t-shirt against his lightly tanned skin, he looked and smelled stunningly handsome. Not that I cared.
I stood up graciously and we shook hands, I looked him in the eyes and smiled as sincerely as I could. Oh, I was Miss Etiquette herself: I asked him what kind of wine he preferred; enquired after the state of his lodgings at the Mount Nelson; thanked him profusely for taking the time to meet with me.
All for nothing. He was as icy and unpleasant as ever, although it did look like he’d made the effort to scrub up a little—freshly shaved.
Fuck it,
I thought once we’d ordered our steaks;
it’s no use trying to make things cordial. Let’s get down to business.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to meet me,” I began.
“I am,” he said, fiddling nonchalantly with his fork. He didn’t look like he was wondering about anything. Why did it hurt so much? Was it because he reminded me of Jack—of Jack in a foul mood after I’d committed yet another faux pas?
“
Well,
” I said, trying to ignore his obvious lack of interest, “I’ve thought a lot about our conversation this afternoon, and what you told me. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I really don’t know enough about what’s going on in the background to make an informed decision.” I lifted my hand to shush him. “Before you ask, I’ve already rung Jack, but unfortunately I—I couldn’t get through. So you’re my next port of call.” I smiled broadly at him.
I was trying hard to be optimistic, to believe that he was going to tell me something believable and understandable, so I could put all this snooping behind me. Part of me felt guilty for wanting more information. The other part of me told me that I’d be stupid not to ask. “So? Could you tell me why Jack wants me to come back to England? Even if it’s just your opinion of why?”
I noticed that Tam was looking annoyed. And baffled.
“Did I say something wrong?” I asked, suddenly worried. “You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”
“
You
left
him
. You did, didn’t you? I haven’t got the wrong end of the stick here?”
Oh dear.
“Y-yes, I did leave him. I didn’t intend it to be forever. I don’t think. Only things sort of became untenable,” I blurted, nervous. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I finished, weakly.
He leaned towards me with an air of menace. “Look,” he said quietly, “I am not your marriage therapist or your lawyer. If Jack hasn’t held up his end of the bargain, I really can’t comment on that. All I know is that my brother asked me to track you down and get you back to London. As far as I know, you’re not supposed to have a problem with that. If you do, I don’t care. Stay. I’m not going to force you onto a plane. You know what you signed up for, and if you want to back out, so be it.”
Urgh,
I thought as the familiar fight-or-flight surge overtook me,
he’s so bitter and loveless.
I remembered Jack trying to explain away his behaviour, and how I’d found it difficult to believe at the time. Now, I was witnessing him at close quarters, and it was sad. “You don’t understand,” I sighed in exasperation.
He looked perplexed again. “Ava, you’re right. I don’t understand you. You knew what was going on from the beginning, and I assure you, I’m in on it too. You don’t have to pretend otherwise. So why
are
you pretending?”
It was then that I decided to stop.
I took a deep breath.
“Tam,” I said slowly, “I understand that you think I married Jack because of his money. But you must know by now that I’ve taken nothing from him. Why are you still going on about this?”
He laughed, frustrated, and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. He was withdrawing what little of himself he’d given. Just then, the waitress brought our plates, and I think even she felt the atmosphere between us.
“Look,” I said, trying to salvage the situation. “I don’t know what you’re playing at. But I’m not playing at anything. You could tell me what you know, or not. I don’t care anymore.” Tears trembled just under my eyelids. Silently, I cut up my steak, imagining that it would calm me, but my hands were shaking and I felt sick. The idea of putting a piece of steak in my mouth was appalling.
Then I glanced up at him, half-afraid to see his expression.
His face, blank and stony, made the last drops of hope bleed out of me at an alarming pace, but by then I was so dulled with exhaustion and hangover that I didn’t care anymore. If he never spoke again the whole evening, I didn’t give a shit. Let him be a bastard. I’d go back to the UK, see Jack, say I was sorry, and hopefully put the whole thing behind me.
What else did I have to do, anyway? At that moment, I cowered at the thought of going on without Jack. What else did I have in my life? What else was even interesting enough to sustain me? Eventually, if I carried on like this, I’d end up back behind some reception desk, with nothing better to do but file my nails. I couldn’t do it. I’d die of boredom and loneliness.
I became angry. I pushed the food around my plate violently, hoping to disturb the diners around us; hoping to make Tam uncomfortable. Destroying this expensive, bloody steak was an incredibly satisfying activity.
Fuck this life
, I thought, poisoned with rage,
where I have nothing to live for but one night out after the other, where nothing makes sense and nothing is even exciting anymore.
“I can’t believe it,” said Tam suddenly, “you
don’t
know
.”
I looked up again. He appeared to be thunderstruck.
“
Liar
!” he roared out of nowhere, slamming his glass down onto the tabletop and throwing his napkin to one side. Instantly, the entire restaurant turned around and settled in for a proper, good old-fashioned scene.
Vultures
, I thought, regretting my earlier hope for just this kind of attention. “That sick fucking
liar
!” He spat the words out with terrifying venom.
“What are you talking about?” I muttered, bewildered, hoping he’d follow my example and quiet down.
But he was shaking his head in disbelief, eyes bulging, seemingly unable to process his epiphany. Eventually he said, “Ava, gulp down that glass of wine. You’re going to need it in a minute.”
“What?” I said.
“I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear,” he said, now looking at the ceiling with a pained expression.
My insides turned to water instantly.
Feeling a fool, but with nothing else to do, I decided to obey him; I necked the glass of red, swallowed painfully, and then lifted my face to his once more. I’d come here to ask questions. Was I going to turn away when I got what I asked for?
“I don’t know how to say this to you,” he said deliberately, not meeting my eye, “but it has to be said.”
I felt a stab of irritation. “Enough with the fanfare, just bloody tell me.”
He regarded me sourly. “I’m just trying to soften the blow. Anyway,” he sighed, “I’m not sure at all where I’m supposed to begin.”
I raised my eyebrows in an
are-you-going-to-get-on-with-it?
expression.
“Fine,” he said briskly, “here is it: you were married for money.”
I laughed nervously, but the relief I longed for would not take hold. Dread hung on in my heart, refusing to let go. “Tam? You’ve got the wrong end of the stick somewhere, my dear. I’ve got no money to be married for.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, dully. “Jack married you to force money out of our grandfather’s estate. You were a technicality to fill.”
“A technicality?” I asked, not following him.
A flash of what looked like tenderness lit his face.
Then it disappeared. “Jack is in debt, Ava. He needs money. There was a lump sum to be paid on his marrying.”
I didn’t understand. But my body did. A little wave of queasiness nudged me. Then another. Then another.
“What do you mean?”
Again, that tender look; just a flash, a tiny moment. Then, once more, a face of stone. “A big lump sum. A fortune.”
At that moment, the words made sense. I felt the colour drain out of my face. I was in a plane, in that plane over Africa, and someone had broken a window at 75,000 feet, and now I was being sucked out of it into an airless purgatory.
Then there was a rebound and I went bright red.
How hideously embarrassing to be told this by Tam. By someone who had never even hidden his contempt from me. How piercingly awful to remember that tenderness on his face—only it wasn’t anything more tender than pity.
“Look,” he was saying quietly, while I reeled: “let me just say this: I do think that he’s fond of you. Honestly I do. And if you went back to him, at least you’d know you’ll be taken care of. That’s the thing, you see. He thought he could marry, get the money, and divorce quietly. But he’s found he can’t. He needs to stay married to you—for good. That puts you in a position of power. Just think about it.”