Authors: Lucinda Riley
And then I’d arrive and there she would be, having made something yummy for supper with all the almost-out-of-date food bargains she’d brought home from the supermarket.
And looking so lovely and so fragile that I just . . .
couldn’t
.
Eventually an autumn chill entered the air, and Viola moved into the rabbit hutch she’d be living in for her next year at uni, and I began packing to return to Oxford to do my
MA.
Both of us were as miserable as hell at the thought of our love-nest being disrupted and torn apart by a mere thing called life. By that time, we’d named all our babies and
arranged our wedding, which wasn’t really so stupid anymore, given the fact that we were now both in our twenties: it was perfectly possible that it
would
happen. We were attached by
some kind of invisible glue, and yet neither of us had really said much to anyone about the new and wonderful world we had discovered with each other. Just in case they spoilt it.
Even though it was under an hour from London to Oxford, and we’d already arranged a schedule which involved one of us travelling to the other on alternating weekends, I
remember the last night together being as painful as if I was sailing for the Indies and wouldn’t be back for three years – if ever. We had forgotten what it was like to exist without
each other.
The Michaelmas term passed in a blur of missing her, and my normally invincible concentration flew out of the window as I sat in a dreamy daze during lectures and tutorials.
Comfortingly, Viola was just as bad, and when Christmas arrived, I asked Mum and Dad if she could come home with me. She was adamant she didn’t want to spend the holiday with Jules and
Rupes.
‘I always went to Daddy’s flat to keep him company, you see,’ Viola explained. ‘I was all he had.’
My mum, who thankfully seemed to be recovering well from her final treatment, pounced on me when we arrived and told me again I
must
say something. And again, I promised I
would, but then . . . it was Christmas, after all. And Viola, ensconced in the bosom of our loving and welcoming family, looked as happy and relaxed as I’d seen her since Sacha died.
So I didn’t.
In the New Year, we went back to our term-time routine, me having already decided that I would do my best to get a job in London when I finished my MA. I didn’t
particularly care if I had to sweep the streets, as long as I could hold Viola to me every night when I arrived home, dusty and smelly.
Easter came, and Viola had to go off to some French literature exchange thing for a month. We spent the night before she left in the Bloomsbury flat. She asked to borrow my holdall,
and while she packed I went out to buy a bottle of wine and an Indian takeaway as a treat.
When I arrived back, I called out to her as I walked along the corridor and went into the sitting room. And there she was, sitting on the floor cross-legged, holding the letter
Sacha had written to me just before he died.
My heart sank right down through my body and lay in a pulsating, terrified mass at my feet.
‘I . . . how did you find it?’ I asked.
‘It was in the front pocket of your holdall.’ Her face was tear-stained and grey. ‘It’s all been a lie, hasn’t it?’
‘No, Viola, of course it hasn’t been a lie!’
‘Well, it has as far as I’m concerned,’ she whispered, almost to herself. ‘There I was thinking you cared enough about my father to come to the hospital that
day . . . Jesus! The number of people I’ve told how marvellous you were . . . when you were there for
you
! Not me!’
‘You’re right,’ I agreed. ‘That first day I came because I felt I should. But the minute I saw you walking towards me across the ward, everything
changed.’
‘Please, Alex, can you just stop lying!’
‘Viola, I understand this is a shock, but these last few months, all we’ve shared . . . how can that be a lie? How can it?’
‘Because you’re not who I thought you were. “Caring, sharing Alex”, who all the time was pretending to be there for me . . . And you know the worst thing of
all?’
I could think of many ‘worst’ things, but I refrained from saying any of them.
‘No.’
‘I’m actually envious of you. Because
you
were his real flesh and blood, and I wasn’t.’
‘Viola, seriously, he meant nothing to me—’
‘Oh, thanks!’
‘I didn’t mean it like that! But really, I was totally horrified when I originally found out I was his son. I mean,’ I checked myself, ‘in shock.’
‘Like I am now.’
‘Yes.’ I held onto that lifeline, and walked towards her. ‘Of course you are. It’s a dreadful thing to have discovered and Viola, I’m so, so sorry. You
have no idea how many times I’ve tried to tell you, but you were so distraught, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. And then you . . .
we
were happy. So happy that I
didn’t want to spoil it. Can you understand?’
She rubbed her nose in the painfully cute way she always did, and shook her head viciously. ‘At the moment, I can’t understand anything. Except for the fact that
I’m in some sort of weird relationship with a . . . relative!’
‘Viola, there’s not a shred of common blood between us. As you well know.’
‘And my father . . . how could he have done this?! Christ, I worshipped him, Alex. You know I did. No wonder my poor mother hates him.’ She looked up at me then.
‘Does she know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Since when?’
‘It all came out in those last few days at Pandora. Apparently, she’d always known.’
‘Jesus Christ! It’s like my whole life is a lie!’
‘Really, Viola, I understand it might feel like that, but—’
‘And what about your mother?’ She rounded on me. ‘What the hell was the sainted Helena, as my mother always called her, doing shagging my dad?’
‘Look, it’s a long story. Why don’t I open the wine, and —’
‘No!’ She looked at me with what I can only describe as complete derision. ‘Even
you
can’t make this one better, Alex. And the worst thing is, I
trusted you above everyone, but you’ve lied to me along with the rest of them. And, like, about the most important thing in my life! I thought you
loved
me, Alex. How could you have
been with me for all these months and
known
?’
‘I . . . oh God, Viola, I’m so, so sorry. Please,’ I begged her, ‘try to understand why.’
‘I have to go. I can’t cope with any more of this. I need to get my head together, try to think.’
I watched her as she stood up and reached for the holdall, which I noticed with horror was already packed.
‘Please, Viola – I beg you! At least let’s talk about it.’
She walked straight past me, out of the sitting room and towards the front door.
‘I . . .
can’t
.’ I watched as her lovely eyes filled with further tears. ‘It’s not just you that’s been living a lie, it’s me. I
just don’t know who I am anymore.’
‘Will you be coming back?’ I asked her. ‘I love you, Viola, so much! You have to believe me.’
‘I don’t know, Alex. Bye.’
And with that, she opened the door and walked out, crashing it shut behind her.
In retrospect, the only thing that night that stopped me from drinking myself into oblivion, with perhaps a few bottles of pills thrown in for good measure, was the fact my
mum called me out of the blue to say hello. Perhaps she had simply sensed something.
As usual, she had instinctively been the first person I’d thought of calling in the terrible silence after Viola had left. But as any child with a sick parent will know, one
doesn’t feel one should burden them with minuscule problems like one’s entire world collapsing. After all, my mother was living each day with the possibility of hers ending
completely.
As it was, I sobbed – and then sobbed some more – down the line to her. And then two hours later, there she was, like an angel of mercy on the doorstep. We talked a lot
that night, as she cradled her big son in her arms, about the parallels between her situation with William and mine with Viola. Of course, she took full responsibility for causing it in the first
place, which in truth, she did. But at least if there were any remaining shreds of doubt as to why she had never confessed to William after she’d seen Sacha at the wedding, they were banished
completely. Because I now understood completely why she hadn’t:
It was called
fear
.
‘Would you like me to speak to her?’ she suggested.
‘No, Mum, I have to fight my own battles.’
‘Even if your current battle originated from what I did?’
‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘All I know is that I love her, and I can’t bear to even begin to contemplate a life without her.’
‘Give her time, Alex. She’s got some serious stuff to work out, and remember that she’s still grieving for her father. It’s a good thing she’s going
away to France. It’ll give her some headspace. She’s seeing Chloë in Paris, apparently.’
‘God, Mum,’ I shook my head, ‘how can I deal with this?’
‘Because you have to. One of my nurses once told me that people are only given in life what they can cope with,’ she mused.
‘Unless they can’t, and commit suicide,’ I said morosely, as I lay with my head on her knee and she stroked my hair as if I was still a child.
‘Well, I think she’s right. Take me, for example. Yes, there’s been pain and misery, but I know it’s made me a better person. And probably everyone in the
family, too. Even though it’s been hardest on Immy and Fred, in the long run, it will almost certainly have made them more independent and stronger. And of course, your father’s been
wonderful.’
I looked at Mum and saw the love shining bright in her eyes, which then made me think of my own
lost
love, and got me depressed all over again.
‘I often think of life as a train journey,’ Mum said suddenly.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, there we are, chugging along towards the future, and then there are those occasional moments where the train pulls into a pretty station. And we’re allowed to get
off and order a cup of tea. Or in your case, Alex, a pint of beer,’ she chuckled softly. ‘And we sit there drinking it for a while, looking at the lovely view and feeling still and
peaceful and content. I think those are the moments most human beings would describe as “happiness”. But then of course, you have to get back on the train and continue your journey. But
you’ll never forget those moments of pure happiness, Alex. And they’re what give us all the strength to face the future: the belief that they’ll come again. Which they will, of
course.’
Wow
, I remember thinking,
perhaps it wasn’t just my father from whom I inherited my philosophical meanderings. For an amateur, that really was pretty good.
‘Well, I’ve just sunk about one thousand “pints of beer” with Viola over the past few months. And I’d really like to sink a hundred thousand
more,’ I mumble miserably.
‘You see?’ My mother smiled down at me. ‘You already have hope that you will.’
λδ
As I stand here alone on the terrace – Viola has gone upstairs with Chloë to freshen up – I am struggling to believe that life has given me a second chance,
that she is back. I want to run to the nearest church, go down on my knees and give thanks to whichever deity has granted it to me. And swear I will learn from my mistakes.
It’s all we humans can do.
I also understand that my own personal traumas – and those of the rest of the Pandora posse – are minor compared to the suffering happening elsewhere in the world. None of us have
experienced war or famine or genocide.
My ten years’ worth of diary is merely a snapshot of small lives lived in a vast universe. But they are
our
lives, and our problems are big to us. And if they weren’t, then I
doubt humanity would still be around, because, as my mother so wisely said to me (and I’m sure Pandora would agree) we have been granted the innate gift of hope.
I watch the crowd begin to dance as the band moves into party mode. I see Jules on the floor with Bertie, and Alexis with Angelina. I then notice a familiar figure staring intently at little
Peaches, who is dancing with her mother.
Andreas – or Adonis, as Mum and Sadie used to call him – her father.
I gulp, wondering if I am having some weird, karmic out-of-body experience and revisiting that moment when Sacha first set eyes on
me
at Mum and Dad’s wedding all those years ago.
Perhaps I will talk to Sadie later. Try and give her the benefit of my experience on the subject. The ‘subject’ which has been the cause of the deepest pain for most of those (who are
not Cypriot) gathered here tonight.
The spectre at the feast – the one who is
not
here – is, of course, my father. Sacha – Alexander, or what you will.
Just a man, born to a woman . . .
I walk to the edge of the terrace, lean over the balustrade and look up to the stars. And wonder if he
is
looking down on all of us as he sinks a bottle of whisky, laughing at the mayhem
he’s caused beneath him.
And for the first time, I actually feel a stirring of emotion. An empathy with him. After all, I have recently got my own life horribly wrong: I made a simple, human error, and almost lost what
is most precious to me.
I know I will strive all my life to be a better man, but equally, I know I may not always succeed. I can only
try
to be the best I can be.
‘Alex! Come and join us!’ Mum and Dad and Immy and Fred are now holding hands in a small circle.
‘Night, Dad,’ I whisper to the glorious night sky.
I walk up to the terrace to take my mother’s hand on one side, and Immy’s on the other. We jig round in a circle to some strange bouzouki version of what I believe was originally a
song called ‘Pompeii’. Or at least, that’s what Fred tells me, since these days, he’s the one who’s up on that kind of thing.
Then I see Chloë arrive on the terrace.
As Mum beckons for her to join us, I see another pair of eyes upon her. Michel is transfixed, as if he has been turned to stone by Medusa in the Greek myth.