Authors: Madeleine Wickham
Ìt doesn't feel like an escape,' said Milly.
Òf course it doesn't,' exclaimed Esme. `Not yet. But it will. Just think, Milly you're no longer tied down. You can do anything you choose. You're an independent woman!'
Ì suppose,' said Milly. She stared miserably into her coffee. Ì suppose.
`Don't brood, darling!' said Esme. `Don't think about it. Drink your coffee and watch some nice television. And then we're going out for lunch.'
The restaurant was large and empty, save for a few single men, reading newspapers over their coffee.
Rupert gazed about awkwardly, wondering which one was Martin. Black jeans, he'd said. But most of them were wearing black jeans. He felt over-smart in his own suit and expensive shirt.
After he'd left chambers the night before, he'd walked mindlessly for a while. Then, as morning began to approach, he had checked into a seedy Bayswater hotel. He had lain awake, staring up at the stained ceiling. After breakfast at a cafe he'd taken a taxi home and crept into the house, praying that Francesca would already have left. Feeling like a burglar, he'd taken a shower, shaved and changed his clothes.
He'd made a cup of coffee and drunk it in the kitchen, staring out into the garden, then had put the mug in the dishwasher, looked at the clock and picked up his briefcase. Familiar actions; an automatic routine. He had felt, for an instant, almost as though his life were carrying on as before.
But his life was not the same as before. It would never be the same as before. His soul had been wrenched open and the truth had been pulled out, and now he had to decide what to do with it.
`Rupert?' A voice interrupted his thoughts and he looked up. Standing up at a nearby table was a young man dressed in black jeans. He had close cropped hair and a single ear-ring and looked very obviously homosexual. In spite of himself, a shiver of dismay went through Rupert and he cautiously advanced.
`Hello,' he said, aware that he sounded pompous. `How do you do.'
`We spoke on the phone,' said the young man. His voice was soft and singsong. Ì'm Martin.'
`Yes,' said Rupert, clutching his briefcase tight. He felt suddenly petrified. Here was homosexuality.
Here was his own hidden, unspoken side, duplicated in front of him for all to see.
He sat down, and shifted his chair slightly away from the table.
Ìt was good of you to come up to London,' he said stiffly.
`Not at all,' said Martin. Ì'm up at least once a week. And if it's important . . .' He spread his hands.
`Yes,' said Rupert. He began to study the menu intently. He would take the letter and if possible a telephone number for Allan, then leave, as soon as possible.
Ì think I'll have a cup of coffee,' he said, not looking up. À double espresso.'
Ì've been waiting for your call,' Martin said. Àllan told me a great deal about you. I always hoped that one day you might start to look for him.'
`What did he tell you?' Rupert raised his head slowly. Martin shrugged.
Èverything.'
A fiery red came to Rupert's cheeks and he put the menu down on the table. He looked at Martin, ready for a surge of humiliation. But Martin's eyes were kind; he looked as though he wanted to understand.
Rupert cleared his throat.
`When did you meet him?'
`Six years ago,' said Martin.
`Did you . . . have a relationship with him?'
`Yes,' said Martin. `We had a very close relationship.'
Ì see.'
Ì don't think you do.' Martin paused. `We weren't lovers. I was his counsellor.'
Òh,' said Rupert confusedly. `Was he-'
`He was ill,' said Martin, and looked straight at Rupert.
A flash of deadly understanding passed through Rupert and he lowered his eyes. So here it was, without warning. His sentence; the end of the cycle. He had sinned, and now he was being punished. He had committed unspeakable acts. Now he was to suffer an unspeakable disease.
ÀIDS,' he said calmly.
`No,' said Martin, the tiniest note of scorn creeping into his voice. `Not AIDS. Leukaemia. He had leukaemia.'
Rupert's eyes jerked up, to see Martin staring sadly at him. He felt suddenly sick, as though he'd entered a nightmare. White stars began to dance around his field of vision.
Ì'm afraid so,' said Martin. Àllan died, four years ago.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOR A WHILE there was silence. A waiter came up and Martin discreetly ordered, while Rupert stared ahead with glassy eyes, trying to contain his pain. He felt as though something inside him was splitting apart; as though his whole body was filling up with grief and guilt. Allan was dead. Allan was gone. He was too late.
Àre you OK?' said Martin in a low voice.
Rupert nodded, unable to speak.
Ì can't tell you much about his death, I'm afraid. It happened in the States. His parents came over and took him home. I understand it was quite peaceful at the end.'
`His parents,' said Rupert in a cracked voice. `He hated his parents.'
`They came to an understanding. Everything changed, of course, when Allan became ill. I met them when they came over. They were decent, compassionate people.' He looked up at Rupert. `Did you ever meet them?'
`No,' said Rupert. Ì never met them.'
He closed his eyes and imagined the two elderly people Allan had described to him; imagined Allan being carted back to a town he'd always hated, in order to die. A fresh pain swept over him and suddenly he felt as though he might break down.
`Don't think it,' said Martin.
`What?' Rupert opened his eyes.
`What you're thinking. What everybody thinks. If only I'd known he was going to die. Of course you would have done things differently. Of course you would. But you didn't know. You couldn't have known.'
`What ...' Rupert licked his lips. `What did he say about me?'
`He said he loved you. He said he thought you loved him. But he wasn't angry any more.' Martin leaned forward and took Rupert's hand. Ìt's important you understand that, Rupert,' he said earnestly. `He wasn't angry with you.'
A waiter suddenly appeared at the table, carrying two cups of coffee.
`Thank you,' said Martin, without taking his hand from Rupert's. Rupert saw the waiter's gaze run over the pair of them, and, in spite of it all, stiffened slightly.
`Will there be anything else?' said the waiter.
`No thank you,' said Rupert. He met the waiter's friendly eye and a painful embarrassment flooded him like hot water. He felt like running for cover; denying everything. But instead he forced himself to leave his hand calmly in Martin's. As though it were normal.
Ì know this is hard for you,' said Martin as the waiter left. Òn all levels.'
Ì'm married,' said Rupert roughly. `That's how hard it is.' Martin nodded slowly.
Àllan thought you might be.'
Ì suppose he despised me,' said Rupert, gazing into his cup of coffee. Ì suppose you despise me, too.'
`No,' said Martin. `You don't understand. Allan hoped you were married. He hoped you were with a woman, rather than-' Rupert looked up.
`Rather than a man?' Martin nodded.
`He agonized over whether to contact you. He didn't want to rock the boat if you were happy with a woman. But equally, he couldn't face discovering that you were with some other man. What he wanted to believe was that if you had ever changed your mind, you would have come back to him first.'
Òf course I would,' said Rupert, his voice trembling slightly. `He knew I would. He knew me like no other human being has ever known me.'
Martin shrugged diplomatically.
`Your wife '
`My wife!' exclaimed Rupert. He looked at Martin with pained eyes. `My wife doesn't know me! We met, we went out to dinner a few times, we took a holiday together, we got married. I see her for about an hour every day, if that. With Allan it was-'
`More intense.'
Ìt was all day and all night,' said Rupert. He closed his eyes. Ìt was every hour and every minute and every single thought and fear and hope.'
There was silence. When Rupert opened his eyes, Martin was pulling a letter out of his bag.
Àllan left you this,' he said. Ìn case you ever came looking.'
`Thank you,' said Rupert. He took the envelope and looked at it silently for a few moments. There was his name, written beautifully in Allan's handwriting. He could almost hear Allan's voice, speaking to him. He blinked a few times, then tucked the letter away in his jacket. `Do you have a mobile phone?'
he said.
`Sure,' said Martin, reaching into his pocket.
`There's someone else who needs to know about this,' said Rupert. He tapped in a number, listened for a moment, then switched the phone off. `Busy,' he said.
`Who is it you're going to tell?' asked Martin.
`Milly,' said Rupert. `The girl he married to stay in Britain.'
Martin frowned.
Àllan told me about Milly,' he said. `But she ought to know. He wrote to her.'
`Well if he did, she never got the letter,' said Rupert. 'Because she doesn't know.' He tapped in the number again. Ànd she needs to.'
Isobel put down the telephone and ran a hand through her hair. `That was Aunt jean,' she said. `She wanted to know what we're going to do with the present she sent.'
She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the cluttered kitchen table. Lists of names, address books and telephone books were spread over the surface, each covered in a pattern of brown coffee cup rings and sandwich crumbs. Shoe boxes filled with wedding bumf, brochures and catalogues were stacked high on a kitchen chair: from one box protruded a glossy black and white print; from another had spilled a length of lace. Open in front of her was a sample bag of pastel-coloured sugared almonds.
Ìt takes so long to put a wedding together,' she said, reaching out for a handful. `Months and months of time and effort. And then it takes about five seconds to dismantle it all. Like jumping on a sandcastle.'
She crunched on the sugar almonds, and pulled a face. `God, these things are disgusting. I'm going to break my teeth.'
Ì'm very sorry, Andrea,' Olivia was saying into her mobile phone. `Yes, I do realize that Derek bought a morning suit especially. Please give him my apologies . . . Yes, perhaps you're right. Perhaps a lounge suit would have done just as well.' There was a pause and her hand tensed around the phone. `No, they haven't set a new date as yet. Yes, I'll let you know . . . Well, if he wants to take it back to the shop, then that's really up to him. Yes, dear, goodbye.'
She turned the phone off with a trembling hand, ticked off a name and reached for the red book.
`Right,' she said. `Now, who's next?'
`Why don't you take a break?' said Isobel. `You look whacked.'
`No, darling,' said Olivia. Ì'd rather carry on. After all, it's got to be done, hasn't it?' She smiled brightly at Isobel. `We can't all just sit around feeling sorry for ourselves, can we?'
`No,' said Isobel. Ì suppose not.' She stretched her arms into the air. `God, my neck's aching from all this phoning.'
As she spoke, the phone rang again. She pulled a face at Olivia and picked it up.
`Hello?' she said. Òh, hello. Yes, it is true, I'm afraid. Yes, I'll give her your best wishes. OK then.
Bye.' She slammed the phone down, then took it off the hook.
Èveryone has to ring back and gloat,' she said irritably. `They all know she isn't ill.'
`Perhaps we should have given some other excuse,' said Olivia, rubbing her brow.
Ìt doesn't matter what excuse we give,' said Isobel. `They'll all guess. Horrible people.' She pulled a face. `Bloody Aunt jean wants us to send her present back straight away. She's going to another wedding in two weeks' time and she wants to use it. I'm going to tell her we thought it was so hideous we threw it away.
`No,' said Olivia. She closed her eyes. `We must try to act with dignity and poise.'
`Must we?' Isobel peered at Olivia. `Mummy, are you OK? You're acting very weirdly.'
Ì'm fine,' whispered Olivia.
`Well, OK,' said Isobel doubtfully. She looked down at her list. Ì also had a call from the florist. She suggested that as Milly's bouquet is already made up, we might like to have it pressed and dried. As a memento.'
À memento?'
Ì know,' said Isobel, beginning to shake with giggles in spite of herself. `Who are these people?'
À memento! As if we'll ever forget! As if we'll ever forget today!'
Isobel glanced up sharply. Olivia's eyes were open and glittering with tears.
`Mummy!'
Ì'm sorry, darling,' said Olivia. A tear landed on her nose and she smiled brightly. Ì don't mean to be silly.'
Ì know how much you wanted this wedding,' said Isobel. She reached over and took her mother's hand. `But there'll be another one. Honestly, there will.'
Ìt's not the wedding,' whispered Olivia. Ìf it were just the wedding ...' She broke off as the doorbell rang. They both looked up.
`Who the hell can that be?' said Isobel impatiently. `Don't people realize we're not in the mood for visitors?' She put down her list. `Don't worry, I'll go.'
`No, I'll go,' said Olivia.
`Let's both go.'
The couple on the front doorstep were strangers, dressed in shiny green Barbours and carrying matching Mulberry holdalls.
`Hello,' said the woman brightly. `We'd like a room, please.'
À what?' said Olivia blankly.
À room,' said the woman. À bed and breakfast room.' She waved a copy of the Heritage City guidebook at Olivia.
Ì'm afraid we're full at the moment,' said Isobel. `Perhaps if you try the Tourist Board ...'
Ì was told we would be able to have a room,' said the woman.
`You can't have been,' said Isobel patiently, `because there aren't any rooms.'
Ì spoke to someone on the phone!' The woman's voice rose crossly. Ì specifically checked that we would be able to stay here! And I might add, you were recommended to us by our friends the Rendles.'
She looked impressively at Isobel.
`What an honour,' said Isobel.
`Don't take that tone with me, young woman!' snapped the woman. Ìs this the way you usually conduct business? The customer comes first, you know! Now, we were told we could have a room. You can't just turn people away at the door with no explanation.'