Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘Sally.’ It’s April. ‘Sally, is that you?’ Her voice sounds strange,
breathless and excited.
‘Yes, it’s me. What is it?’ She’s normally so calm on the phone
– businesslike, almost brusque.
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘About Marie’s party. I’ve been thinking that maybe I should come over after all.’
‘Oh, that’s – that’s great.’
‘You’ll be there, won’t you?’
‘I don’t think I have any choice, April. Marie would probably
send out a search party if I was ten minutes late.’
‘I don’t think I can keep this a secret any longer. It’s ridiculous.
It’s high time they all knew.’ Her voice quivers. ‘I’ve been living a
lie. Mum and Dad said they’d tell people when I was twenty-one,
but they didn’t. My therapist says it’s really affected me.’
‘Your
therapist
?’
‘Yes, I started going to him after we met in New York. I’ve been
bottling up all sorts of things for
years
. I really needed to let it
all out.’
I don’t know what to say.
‘I’m going to tell them, Sally,’ April declares, in a tone that
makes me realise she has been drinking. ‘I’m going to tell them,
at Marie’s party, that Al is my father.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, April!’ I exclaim. ‘You can’t do that. Mum and Dad and Marie would be devastated.’
‘You’re the one who keeps saying people should be more open.’
‘
Yes, but not quite so dramatically. I mean, you have to
consider people’s
feelings
.’
‘They haven’t considered mine.’
‘Wait,’ I say urgently. ‘Come over another time. Talk to Mum
and Dad about it first.’
‘No, I’ve talked to them about it countless times.’ She takes a
deep breath. ‘I told them I’d tell people if they didn’t.’
‘Oh, April, please…’ It’s like she’s a teenager again, the April
who went to cider parties and stole clothes and stumbled home at
three in the morning.
‘I want to come over, Sally. I want to tell them,’ she says firmly.
‘I thought you, of all people, would understand. I just want them
all to know the truth.’
Chapter
Thirty-Five
T
he week has gone
by in a busy blur. Since I don’t know what
to do about April’s phone call, I’ve been trying not to think
about it. But I have thought about it. There is no way that April
can announce who her real father is at Marie’s family gathering.
I have been saying this over and over again to myself. But my
phone calls to her don’t seem to be having any effect and she isn’t
answering my e-mails. Now she isn’t even answering the phone.
I have been imagining Mum’s distraught expression as April makes her announcement. I can almost sense the hush, feel the disbelief, hear the uproar as Dad grabs Mum’s bag and coat and
sweeps her out of the room into the car. His face will be stony and
expressionless. His jaw will be clenched with outrage. And Marie
will try to blink back the tears as she rushes around with plates of soggy lemon meringue pie, while everyone stares at April as
though she has suddenly turned into a duck-billed platypus. She’ll
regret what she said almost immediately – and, because she will
be angry with herself, she will become angry with me and say I
should have stopped her. But how can I stop her without actually
going to California and somehow finding a way to make her see
sense?
I get up from my desk and go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As I wait for the kettle to boil, I long with all my heart to
phone Nathaniel. He’d understand; he’d say something wise and
comforting. But I can’t hide my feelings for him any more. That’s why I haven’t phoned to tell him about Diarmuid. I’m free, but he
isn’t. He has Eloise, with her film-star-bright, ruthless beauty.
Someone like Nathaniel would never love me anyway. He’s way
out of my league.
I reach for the box of Earl Grey tea bags. I wish I didn’t keep getting these little nudges, these little whispers saying that Nathaniel cares for me more than I think. My head knows it’s nonsense, but my heart won’t give up on him.
What was he going to say to me, that evening when Diarmuid
found us together? He started to say, ‘Oh, Sally…’ as if he was about to make some kind of declaration. Sometimes I feel the
heaviness of his gaze when he watches me. There’s an intensity in
his eyes, a heat in his touch… or maybe it’s just my imagination. If he really cared for me, he would have done something about it
by now. He’s that sort of person.
I pour some milk into my orange mug and add a spoonful of ant-
free honey. Then I find myself staring at the phone. Should I just pick
it up and ring him anyway? Some of April’s defiant new candour
seems to have found its way to me. I said I wanted to follow my
heart more – and my heart is far more courageous than the rest of
me. I will ring him right now and get it over with.
As I’m thinking this, the doorbell rings – not just one ring, but
four. Whoever it is doesn’t want to be kept waiting.
It’s Greta. She marches in a bit haphazardly and nearly stumbles
over a heap of files by the large wooden table I use as a desk. Then she says, ‘Oops,’ and smiles, and slumps onto my orange sofa. It is two o’clock in the afternoon and I suspect she’s had a rather liquid lunch.
Great
,
I think.
This is just what I need.
I look at her warily.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Greta?’
‘He’s driving me crazy,’ she declares, waving her arms for
emphasis. Alcohol tends to make her a bit dramatic. ‘He’s
howling at all hours of the night and he’s made huge scratches on
the front door. He won’t even eat properly; he just grabs a couple
of mouthfuls and goes back to his cushion.’
‘Who?’ I say. ‘Who’s howling?’
‘Fred, of course. He’s howling for Nathaniel.’
‘But… but why?’ I get a terrible stricken feeling in my heart. ‘Isn’t Nathaniel there to look after him?’
‘No, he’s gone off with some fancy woman – Fabrice, I think
she’s called. His writing was a bit scrawly, but I could read the name quite clearly.’
I just gawp at her.
Fabrice
?
Surely I’m dreaming.
‘I was away at a conference, and when I got back I found this
scribbled message about flying out of the country with this Fabrice woman for a few days. He didn’t even say where they were going.’
I fidget agitatedly with a cushion tassel. Fabrice and Nathaniel
have flown off somewhere together? It’s not true. It can’t be.
‘It’s been a week now, and he hasn’t even phoned. They really
must be very taken up with each other.’
I lean forwards anxiously. ‘Are… are you sure you read the name correctly?’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. It definitely said Fabrice.’
I gulp.
‘I think I heard him planning the trip, actually,’ Greta continues.
‘It was a very odd conversation. I don’t normally eavesdrop, but I
went into his flat one day, the sitting-room door was half open,
and I heard him talking on the phone. He sounded very strange.’
‘Strange in what way?’
‘Well…’ Greta stretches out her long and rather muscular legs.
‘I heard him saying, “Yes, I’d love to go with you, but you’ll have
to buy the plane tickets. I’m a bit short of cash at the moment.”
Then he added, “I wish I could tell people, but I suppose we’ll just
have to keep it a secret for the moment.” Then he saw me, and
his face went blank and he said, “Pepperoni and mushroom, yes,
with extra cheese.” He wanted me to think he was ordering a pizza. I should have asked him what he was up to.’
I feel like I have suddenly landed in Outer Mongolia. Is
Nathaniel having an affair with
Fabrice
,
of all people? No
wonder he couldn’t stop talking about her.
‘Do you know anything about the woman?’ Greta enquires.
I don’t know what to say. If Greta finds out her cousin may be
the toy boy of an elderly blonde, she’ll have a hissy fit – and I really could do without that just now, since I feel like wailing
myself. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. Nathaniel is far from conventional; he believes other people’s opinions are none of his
business. But surely he has some
taste.
I can admire him for not caring about Fabrice’s age, but why would he fancy a woman who cakes her face with make-up and piles her hair, which is probably the texture of straw, on top of her head like a small mountain? Hasn’t he noticed her coarse laugh and the fact that she jangles with cheap jewellery? And what about Eloise?
Greta is staring at me, so I force myself to make some sort of
comment. ‘I met Fabrice once,’ I mumble. ‘She’s… she’s a bit older
than Nathaniel. And a bit flamboyant. She’s probably just a friend.’ Now that I’ve said it, I suspect that it’s the truth: he just enjoys her company. But then why did he say he wished their
relationship didn’t have to be a secret? Come to think of it, every time he has mentioned her, I have sensed there is something he’s
not telling me. Dear God, I hope she hasn’t lured him into some
dodgy escapade.
‘Poor Nathaniel,’ Greta sighs. ‘Women keep falling in love with
him. I think it makes his life rather complicated.’
‘In what way?’ I gaze at her disconcertedly. It’s like she’s talking about someone else. Not
my
Nathaniel. Not my secretly lonely and charmingly bewildered friend.
‘Well, Eloise and Ziggy have been calling every evening asking
where he is,’ she says wearily. ‘When they can’t get him on the phone, they call me.’
‘Ziggy?’ I frown. ‘I thought they weren’t that close any more.’
‘
Oh, no, she’s still in love with him – though it’s pointless, of
course, since she loves Richard too.’