Soon it was Christmas. Jules’s visit was a fleeting one, and she had Phil in tow, so it was hard to talk. Besides, I knew when she’d visited me in Leeds, she hadn’t particularly taken to Sally, had worried about how all-consuming the friendship was, and I feared a big sisterly “I told you so.” Christmas Day was a stressful parental merry-go-round. We started at Dad’s, listening to carols on Radio Three around his dwarfish tree, a single package of mince pies to share between the four of us. Then it was Mom’s, the table heaped to the point of collapse with food, her jollity so fearsome that it felt like a battle cry. It brooked no nostalgia, it was propaganda designed to inform us that she’d made the right decision and all of us were happier for it. There was truth in that, but it wasn’t the whole truth, and I found myself falling down the cracks. The fact that Jules had Phil in tow gave her an easy buffer between then and now, but I felt the contrast like a physical ache.
I had become a magnet for any kind of sadness—a homeless man begging in the snow, a child trailing behind his indifferent brother—any hint of pain chimed off me and shook me by the scruff of my neck.
And then it was time to go back to Leeds. I told Mom a little of it, but I felt ashamed of my part in it, not just my recent part, but all the other moments when I’d trampled on people because I couldn’t take my eyes off the prize. I’d seen James a few times by now, but that was also hard. He was a boy—as far as he was concerned, the situation was dealt with and we knew who the enemy was. He made me feel, even more than ever, like one of the lads, and for now that was too much to bear.
There was no room at the inn, a fact Sally must have known. Catherine’s house was so packed to the rafters that I’d slept on an air mattress in her room, and everyone else I could think of was already sorted. I’m not sure how she managed to unseat Lola from her situation midterm, but she had so much will, that of course she found a way.
I, meanwhile, didn’t feel that there was much will coming my way. Catherine let me stay while I sorted myself out, but it was so grudging that I agreed to move in with a bunch of second-year medics just to get out of her hair. I’d tried to talk about what had happened, but she’d just listened, volunteering very little, responses of the infuriating “I’m sorry you feel like that” variety.
I soon found out why. Sally had ambushed everyone early, right when I was still barricaded in my bedroom, tearfully ringing them to pour her heart out. The picture she drew used that brilliant fusion of lies and fact, the landmines laid in such a way that when I tried to defend myself, she’d already rigged the explosion. “It was her birthday, Livvy,” said our old first-year roommate Jasmine, her eyes full of reproach. I’d been the one who made an effort with her, listened to her dull tales about her year off backpacking around Thailand while Sally rolled her eyes from behind the
fridge door, but it counted for nothing. Birthdays became my bête noire, a perfect opportunity for Sally to force a choice that I always seemed to lose. I would see her in the common room, and my whole body would surge with adrenalin, while she seemed entirely unmoved, her eyes sliding over me like I was a piece of furniture that had been carelessly left in her path.
It was too much for me, my sensitivity a disease I couldn’t find a cure for. So much of my Leeds life—my life period—was about Sally, and now I had been condemned to the wilderness. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise that I had landed up with a houseful of medics. One, a timid girl called Hayley who I would sometimes meet late at night in the kitchen when insomnia had driven me to the fridge, stopped me one day in the hallway.
“I know it’s none of my business, but I think you might be depressed.”
The fact that I burst into tears on the spot rather confirmed her theory, and soon I was at the university doctor’s, crying into his scratchy, budget tissues, and telling a story that didn’t stand up to much retelling. To my surprise it got bigger, and wider, until I felt like Jonah and the Whale, my whole self disappearing into the black mouth. I wept about my fears for my dad, about how angry I felt with my mom for abandoning him, about how little trust I felt in the whole damn universe. How unsafe it was, how ready it was to turn on a sixpence and rob you of any kind of certainty. How it made me want to stay inside with my well-thumbed books and the albums I’d listened to thousands of times; at least with those stories I knew how they would end.
He wasn’t so great, that doctor, but even articulating it had helped. He offered me antidepressants, but I vigorously refused, and instead I went for counseling. She was a motherly woman with a rug-strewn, softly lit office who let me go around and around in circles until I was ready for her to gently steer me out of the maze. With her help, I found my academic fire again, got the First that Sally rightly divined I longed for, and made it through a difficult year with some understandings that have helped me forever more.
But I never forgot Sally. I never subscribed to the idea that she was just a symptom of a bigger malaise. Somewhere in my heart I always believed that there were answers, if only I could find out where they lay.
I’m deliberately, childishly, late—a full half hour—but I don’t think William even notices. Madeline’s in bed, and he’s been working at the desk in the living room, his laptop flung open, a glass of wine perched next to it. Meanwhile every available surface seems to be covered in stacks of paper and plastic folders. He moves some from the sofa to the floor, and takes a glass of wine from the cooler on the window sill. I can’t help but notice it’s already two thirds gone.
“It’s white, I hope you don’t mind. I’ve got a nice bottle of red we can have with dinner.”
“Of course,” I say, awkwardly lowering myself into the nest of papers.
“Excuse the chaos. I’ve got to courier the last of the documentation to my lawyers in the US so they can make sure we’ve got our ducks in a row before the hearing.”
I feel my righteous anger start to seep away, the reality of what he’s going through too much to contend with. Neither of us have mentioned the fabled night away.
“It’s a couple of weeks after the christening, isn’t it?”
“Well remembered. Will you still be . . .”
“Oh no. That’s all off now. Charlotte’s going.”
Is it relief that crosses his face? I don’t know, that might just be my paranoia. He crosses to me, hands me the glass, and leans down to give me a funny sort of half kiss.
“It’s rotten luck. Do try not to take it personally, I know you did a first-rate job. The man’s a monster, clearly.”
I make a funny roaring sound, make my hands into claws, then wonder what on earth it is I’m doing. It seems so pathetic to moan about Flynn, about my bruised ego, when we’re surrounded by the cold paper trail of his marriage.
“Thanks. I’m trying to be Zen.”
The tag still remains a permanent fixture in my handbag, even though I’m not going to New York. I’m sure the truth of Sally’s last months doesn’t lie in these dry stacks of documents. My eye catches that picture, that smile of hers.
“I was going to call out for dinner,” he says.
“Why don’t I try and cook us something?” I suggest, trying not to think about the strange, sterile contents of his fridge. “I can always go to the corner shop if I need to.”
It doesn’t seem like the kind of area that would stoop to something as useful and ordinary as a corner shop, but it’s the principle of the thing. I want to make something, from scratch, with my bare hands, rather than have him throw money at the problem.
“That would be great,” he says, his face lighting up. “Could you forgive me if I did a little more work while you do that? I’m writing this speech for one of the Washington bureau chiefs, and I haven’t quite cracked it. I should have done it earlier, but Madeline was in a fearsome temper at bedtime.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, wondering if I should ask more, but he’s already turned back to the screen.
I can’t work out if it’s progress—the two of us coexisting in companionable harmony—or yet another stop sign that I’m choosing to ignore. I know what James would say.
I was too hard on the pre-grated cheddar, it turns out to be my kitchen supper lifesaver. With the addition of some penne, I’ve got a fairly decent macaroni and cheese, and I find some salad that’s just about within date at the bottom of the fridge. I put Magic on very, very quietly, singing along under my breath, and try not to finish the large glass of wine he poured—I’ve been too nervous to eat all day, and even half of it has left me tipsy. I hoped that William would come find me, but by the time the cheese is starting to turn from brown to black there’s still no sign of him. I venture next door to find him sitting at the desk, the chair swiveled toward the view of the park, staring into space.
“Hi, it’s nearly—”
“Great,” he says, giving me one of those smiles that by now I know is nothing but an attempt to throw me off the scent.
“What is it?” I ask, tentative.
He pauses, looking into the dark expanse of trees, then turns back to me.
“I can’t fucking do it!” he says, hand striking the desk. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him swear before.
“I know. It’s so cruel, but you’ve already done so much. When this has gone back to America, you’ve only got the hearing to get through. Which I know you’re dreading, but—”
“No, the speech! I’ve never had this before. Writer’s block, I suppose you’d call it. It just won’t come.”
He’s steaming with anger.
“What’s it about?”
“Diplomatic immunity.”
“Do you believe in what it is you’re saying?”
“I don’t care, Livvy, that’s the problem. I simply don’t care. All the facts are there, I just can’t seem to make them mean anything.”
I’m still in the doorway. I cross the room, sit on the edge of the coffee table so I’m within touching distance, but I don’t touch him. It’s one of the many baffling things about death, how differently you can wear it. It can make anything mean more than it’s ever meant before—every drop of life something precious, to be savored—or it can render it meaningless, a game we don’t know the rules to, that can be savagely halted by a whistle that’s blown in another dimension. For all his faith in God, I don’t think he’s got any answers.
His anger, normally so tightly held, is palpable right now. I think Madeline’s got the right idea with her shouting and stamping—at least she’s letting it pour out of her and drain away.
“You expect so much of yourself,” I say, stroking the back of his hot hand with the pads of my middle fingers. “I think you’re trying to do too much. It’s okay to not be able to cope; Madeline and the hearing are enough to deal with. Can’t you just tell them you need some time out?”
For a second he softens, his body unraveling a little, but then I see his jaw clamp shut, as if he’s shutting himself off from any encroaching self-pity.
“I’m perfectly able to cope, it’s just a question of staying focused.” He looks at me properly, gives me one of those
smiles that goes to the heart of me. “But thank you. I appreciate your care.”
“I do care.” I’m trying not to let my face say too much. I pause. “I know this sounds mad, but do you want me to have a go?”
“Have a go?”
“If all the facts are there, I could try and give it a polish.”
He stands up, his hand automatically reaching for his glass.
“Can’t do any harm.”
“Don’t count on it.”
I feel quite proud of myself. I didn’t really know what diplomatic immunity meant until an hour ago, but I managed to weave together a couple of paragraphs that gave him the bridge he needed to build to a rousing conclusion—it’s funny, my sort-of win in the competition seems to have infused me with a new kind of confidence. I tried inhabiting it as I typed, like trying out a grown-up molar once you’ve lost your baby tooth. We look at the completed speech, chink glasses, and for a second I don’t give a toss about Flynn or Mary or any of it. William takes me in his arms.
“You’re a marvel,” he says, kissing me properly. I wish in a way that it didn’t feel so lovely: the moments when it feels like this are like the last day of the holiday of a lifetime.
“Congealed macaroni cheese is no one’s best friend,” I say, eventually, pulling away.
There’s some moments of real jollity at dinner, a sense of us having come together and achieved something. He apologizes for our fantasy night away, and I promise him that I
understand. He asks me properly about what happened at work, and listens to my answers with attention.
“You can’t stand for it indefinitely,” he says. “You need to have a sense of whether there’s a real future for you there. You need to be valued.”
I look at him, then look away.
“I know.”
Then I ask him, as gently as I can, about the paperwork that litters the apartment, whether it’s revealed any more. He sighs, searches for his strength, and I wonder, yet again, what impels me to keep digging.
“There’s perhaps more of a pattern to the cash withdrawals than I first realized. There’s more of them too.”
“What kind of pattern?”
“They seem to take place in the first five days of the month, as a rule. Perhaps when Bergdorf’s have got their best pieces!” he adds, attempting an unconvincing smile.
I think again about the tag: could it have been when she had to pay her monthly fees? But the kind of amounts he’s talking about are way beyond what you’d pay on a storage unit.
“I just wonder—what Madeline said about the secret place, you don’t think she could’ve had somewhere?”
His face shuts up like a clam, anger buried there, and I draw back. I keep thinking about telling him about the clothes, about the tag, but I know he won’t want to hear it. He can’t face deviating from the script, the shadowy drones from the insurance company a convenient enemy. I can’t help wondering what will happen when they’ve slunk back into the shadows, whatever the verdict is. I worry he’ll be left permanently stranded in this no-man’s land, his brilliant mind recast as the worst enemy of all, torturing him
with unanswerable questions about his elusive, impossible wife. Surely no one wants to be married to a ghost? Or perhaps that’s exactly what he wants.
“Trust me, Livvy. I know my daughter, and I . . . It would have just been one of their silly games. Yet another little trick to get one over on Daddy. And anyway, it’s hardly Manhattan real-estate money.”
I wonder why they only had one child? It sounds mad, but I can’t help thinking that the lure of a triangle, a triangle that she would undoubtedly reign over, would have tickled Sally’s fancy. We sit there in silence for a minute or so, sipping our undeniably delicious wine. I say sipping—I can’t help but notice, yet again, how much William seems to get through. The thing is, however hard you hold down the lid, pain has to find a way to rise to the surface.
“Delicious wine,” I say, my voice a stranger’s.
“Thank you.” He pauses. “There’s something I wanted to ask.”
“What’s that?”
He looks at me, struggle in his eyes.
“What she said about me,” he says, his voice low. “I know what she said to me about you, but . . . when was the last time you saw her?”
I feel sick, tears prickling, the memory of it almost too sharp.
“Um, I think it must have been a few months before you got married.” My voice a liar’s voice. As if I didn’t know—as if it wasn’t what it was about. I’m wrong, it wasn’t just about that: it was the final round, but this time the umpire’s whistle didn’t come from another dimension. He’s looking at me, appeal in his eyes. “She said that you were very kind, that you would look after her.” That’s not enough. I hate her for a
second, hate her for making me do this, then remember no one forced me at gunpoint into this insane version of a relationship. “She was excited, you know—she was a bride-to-be.”
We end up back in his big bed, the room as uniform and characterless as I remember it. There’s a hardback book about the financial crisis on the nightstand, and what looks like a vacation picture of the three of them on the chest of drawers—I almost ask him if I can turn it face down, but it feels like the kind of thing a wicked stepmother in a fairy tale might do. Instead a part of me stays in the corner of the room the whole time, vigilant and watchful, making sure we’re alone. I’m not entirely sure we are.
I hold onto him afterward, trying to feel close. I didn’t even feel close to him when we were as close as it’s possible for two bodies to be—we were closer when we were writing his speech. Why does everything feel so upside down?
“You’ll stay, yes?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my head on his chest. His breath feels constricted inside there, and I gently roll myself sideways. “Goodnight, Livvy,” he murmurs as he falls asleep. I lie there next to him, his face softening and relaxing as he loses consciousness. It feels like I’m keeping guard.
If there are owls and larks, I am the tawniest of tawny owls. The alarm on my phone goes off at six, but I somehow manage to turn it off in my sleep. The next alarm that greets me is seven years old, and carrying a copy of
Fifth Formers at St. Clare’s
. I try my very best not to yelp.
“Good morning, Olivia,” she says breezily. “Carlotta is a very naughty girl. Would you like me to read to you about her?”
William shoots bolt upright, his face a picture of horror. I mummify myself with the sheet, trying desperately to regain some composure. The clock reads six thirty-seven a.m.
“Good morning, Daddy. I have packed my lunch box. Secretly there are two Penguins but also an apple for my teeth.”
“J-jolly good. Now why don’t you go and brush those teeth and I’ll organize some breakfast? It’s still very early.”
“But I’m reading to Olivia!”
“Tell you what, why don’t you read to me when we’ve all brushed our teeth?” I say, blood rushing in my ears like Niagara Falls.
While Madeline trots off happily, William seems much less happy. I smile at him, but he can’t drag his mouth even slightly upward.
“She doesn’t seem too traumatized,” I say, reaching my hand across the bed toward him.
“Hopefully not,” he replies, yanking a robe around himself and heading for the en suite.
I try and breathe, willing the paranoia to fly past me and wrap its black wings around someone else. When he comes out I take his place, his eyes barely meeting mine. I look at his electric toothbrush, gleaming and pristine, wondering if I dare use it, hating that it’s even a question after all the places his mouth has met me. I rub some toothpaste over my gums with my finger, jump in the shower, and climb into the clothes I rolled up small in my big handbag so he wouldn’t think I was being presumptuous.
Madeline’s having a bowl of porridge, the book weighted open by the toast rack.
“Chapter Five,” she announces self-importantly the moment I appear.
“We don’t read and eat,” says William. “Finish up your porridge, please.”
Madeline and I catch each other’s eye, and I struggle to keep my face completely neutral, William’s mood as stifling as a fire blanket. All I want to do is leave, but I feel like I’ve made her a promise.
“Coffee?” he says, that wooden smile wheeled back on to the stage of his face. I slightly want to slap it.
“Lovely,” I say.