A Question of Love (43 page)

‘What?’ I said. I was suddenly
very
tired.

‘Well…I have a partner now. Anneka.’

‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy, tiptoeing through the tulips together. I’d offer to be a bridesmaid but we’re not divorced yet.’

‘She’s a very nice, kind person.’

‘Well that’s lovely Nick, delighted to hear it, I hope you’ll be happy, and above all, I hope that you will NEVER do to her what you did to me.’ I stared at the mark on the carpet again. It needed stain remover. What was that stuff called again? Of course.
Vanish
. How could I forget that?

‘We have a child.’

Or maybe just warm water would do it. If I rubbed hard enough.

‘She’s ten months,’ I heard him say. No detergent though. It might bleach the colour. ‘Her name is Estella.’

‘That’s nice.’ I looked at him. ‘After the tulip I suppose? Estella Rijnveld?’

‘That’s right.’

But things are different for me now…

‘So that’s why you’re able to…talk about what happened, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I feel that I’m…I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Back in the world…I’d felt that everything I loved was dying. That’s why I liked the work at the farm—knowing that inside each bulb was a life, coiled up, waiting to unfurl if I looked after it in the right way.’

‘Do you have a photo of her?’

He dug his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet from which he produced a small snap. He handed it to me. She was sitting next to a huge vase of red and white tulips. She had a sweet, smiley face, and a mop of dark shiny hair.

‘She looks like you.’ I wondered if
our
little girl would have looked like this. ‘She’s lovely.’ She probably would. ‘Did your partner—Anneka—did she know about me? Did you tell her?’

‘Not until two weeks ago. But then I showed her the newspaper article. She was very angry that I hadn’t told her before. She said that I had to come back; she said I had imprisoned you, and that I had to set you free.’

‘Well…she’s right.’

He stood up. ‘I think I’d better go now.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘At a hotel in Bayswater.’

‘What about your stuff? I’ve kept most of it—contrary to what you might have thought from that article. It’s all packed away in the spare room—your clothes…’

‘They wouldn’t fit me.’

‘That’s true. You’re
so
thin now, Nick.’

‘It’s no bad thing—it’s the outdoor life.’

‘What about your books? Your pictures?’

‘We wouldn’t have room. Do whatever you like with them.’

‘I’ll take them to Oxfam. No. There’s a SudanEase charity shop now. I’ll take your things there.’

‘But I would like the photos of my parents.’

‘Of course. I’ll get them.’

I went into the spare room, and came back with a bag.

He took it. ‘Thanks.’

I handed him a piece of paper. ‘Would you write down your address for the divorce papers? It should only take a

couple of months.’

He took a pen out of his pocket and began to write.

‘Niklaus Gering?’ I said as I read it.

‘That’s how I’m known. It’s just a translation of my name. No-one there knows who Nick Little is.’

‘Do
you
?’ I asked him.

‘I do now,’ he replied quietly.

‘You’ll get your half of the flat,’ I said as he put on his jacket. ‘It’ll go on the market tomorrow.’

‘That’s not why I came back, Laura.’

‘I know that.’

‘You don’t have to sell it. Stay here if you want.’

‘No. Thanks, but no. I don’t want to. It’s spoiled. In any case, you’ll need the money—you have a child.’

‘Where will you live, Laura?’

‘I really don’t know. I think I’ll rent somewhere, for now. So…’ He picked up his bag. ‘Well…What do I say? Thanks for dropping by.’ We went out into the hall. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary by the way.’

He blinked. ‘So it is. I’m sorry. I forgot…’

‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’

He lifted his hand to the door. ‘Don’t think too badly of me, Laura.’ I didn’t reply. ‘Perhaps, who knows, we’ll even stay in touch.’ He smiled a sad little smile.

I shook my head.

‘No, Nick,’ I said. ‘We won’t.’

EPILOGUE SIX MONTHS LATER

It’s the last Friday in October. Tom and I are sitting in the kitchen of Moorhouse Road, the late afternoon sunshine pouring through the open back door, while Felicity and Hugh are upstairs packing for one of their not infrequent weekends away. We are to baby-sit Olivia—
in situ
—as we have done on two other weekends before and which we very much enjoy. Over the baby monitor—which, for some reason, is always on—we can hear Fliss clattering about in the bedroom opening cupboards and drawers, while Olivia yodels indignantly at her from her cot.

‘It’sALLrightsweetiedarling,’ we hear. ‘Mummy’sJUST-coming. Oh there you are Hugh—get my weekend bag off the top of the wardrobe for me will you—now what do you think of
this
little number? I bought it yesterday in Agnès B.’

‘Hmmm—delicious,’ we hear. ‘Especially now that you’ve lost that last stubborn four stone.’ We hear neck-nuzzling noises, then Felicity squeals with laughter and Olivia squawks.

‘It’sALLright darling,’ Fliss says. ‘ ‘It’sALLrightsweetie-darlingMummyandDaddyarejustPLAYING.’

‘You really were a bit of a jumbo mumbo, Fliss.’

‘I know. And look at me now.’

‘A
scrummy
mummy…mmmmmmmmm.’ There are more squeals.

‘You really should flirt with my friends more often Hugh,’ we hear Fliss say. ‘Nothing like the stress of that for making the weight fall off.’

‘But I don’t
want
to flirt with any of your friends,’ says Hugh. ‘I only want to flirt with
you…
mmmmmmmmm
.
Hope we’ve got a four-poster at Chewton Glen.’

‘She has to keep the weight off now,’ I say to Tom. ‘Now she knows that Hugh
could
be tempted. Best thing that could have happened to her.’

‘I am now
so
slim,’ Fliss says proudly, ‘that I could probably wear Hope’s cast-offs.’

‘I don’t know about that, darling, but she could certainly wear yours.’

‘That’s true—she’s
huge
—you’d think she was having triplets!’

Felicity’s annoyance that Hope had become pregnant at the first try is tempered by her happiness that, at five months, Hope is already enormous and has a face like a melon and feet like footballs. To Felicity, this seems only fair.

‘I always
thought
she’d change her mind on the issue,’ she opines. ‘Very nice of Mike to go along with it like that—he didn’t seem remotely interested. I mean, he never wanted to come round here much did he—showed
no
interest in Olivia

- I was rather offended actually. Some men just have no feeling for babies, do they? Don’t know
what
they’re missing.’ I smile at Tom—who by now knows the whole background.

‘But what a guy,’ we hear Hugh say, as I flick through Felicity’s copy of
Mother and Baby
magazine. I turn to page five, and there is Olivia in her Tiddli-Toes baby bouncer. ‘I mean, not only prepared to do that baby cuddling programme that Hope got involved with—’

‘That’s what did it of course,’ Fliss interjects. ‘Made her go all broody.’

‘- but also prepared to take a three year career break to look after the kid himself in case she doesn’t take to the whole “mummy” thing.’

‘Well so much for
my
three year career break,’ Fliss says, as I turn the pages. ‘I’m frantic.’

‘Ironic really, because we could actually have afforded for you not to work.’

‘I know. Funny isn’t it?’ We hear a snorty laugh.

I am staring at a photo of Hugh, accompanied by a two-page article all about the BurpaBib which he designed and developed and has now sold, under licence, to Mothercare, Asda, JoJo Maman Bébé and Little Urchin, as well as to the massive Babies’R’Us, in the States, where they are doing a particularly roaring trade. The article mentions
en passant
that Hugh’s business partner, Chantal Vane, has just become engaged to a senior Vice-President at Babies’R’Us and is moving to the States.

‘How romantic,’ I say to Tom. ‘Brought together by baby sick.’

The article goes on to say that Hugh is now developing a line of baby products, including a range of shaped cloth nappies with Gore-Tex outer wrappers and flushable liners called Top Bots.

‘I’m frantic,’ we hear Fliss say again. ‘Happy though.’

‘Well what you’re doing now really suits you,’ says Hugh. In addition to doing the product development and PR for Hugh, she has become an NCT teacher, where she can indulge her passion for boring on about babies for hours on end—but to a rapt audience. She is also working on a pilot for a baby care programme,
Baby Talk
, which Trident would make and she would present. Tom says she has screen presence—as I always thought. It would be the first such programme on network TV.

‘Okay Hugh,’ we hear her croon. ‘I’m ready. I’ll just change the baby…’

‘I don’t
want
you to change her,’ he replies, right on cue. ‘She’s lovely as she is.’

‘ComeonmylickleSWEETIEchops.’ There are gurgled protests as Olivia is put on the changing station. ‘Don’t wriggle, my girl. These nappies of yours are
so
nice, Hugh,’ we hear Felicity say. They are using the Top Bots prototypes. ‘You
are
clever, darling—all your wonderful ideas.’

There is silence.

‘I love you so much,’ we hear Hugh say.

‘And I love you so much,’ says Felicity.

‘We
both
love you, darling.’

‘Alathatdobeylyerlgoyagoyagoya,’ Olivia replies.

Five minutes later they all come downstairs. Fliss and Hugh open a bottle of champagne and we all have a glass, except for Hugh, who’s driving, and we show them the details of the garden flat we’re buying in Stanley Square, a quarter of a mile away. We gulped at the price—but Tom is getting great royalties from overseas for the quiz—particularly from the States.

‘It looks wonderful,’ Fliss says. ‘Three bedrooms, one ensuite—and access to the Stanley Square gardens.’

‘I know,’ I say happily.

‘There’s a lovely little playground in that one,’ she adds. ‘With swings and a sandpit and a roundabout.’

‘Well…that’s what attracted us to it,’ Tom says. ‘We think that might be…useful.’

Now we quickly show them our Canadian photos from the trip Tom and I took there ten days ago. There are the photos of Montreal, and his parents outside their house in Westmount, and Christina and me walking in the Botanical Gardens, and Tom and me up on Mont Royale, looking out over the city, and then of our trip to Lake Memphremagog a couple of hours’ drive to the south.

‘How beautiful,’ Fliss says. ‘The colours of the trees…’

‘It was wonderful,’ I say. ‘It’s twenty miles north of Vermont. Tom’s parents have a chalet there. They’ve been going for years.’

‘Do you see many animals?’ Fliss asks. ‘I imagine there are bears aren’t there?’

‘Yes there are,’ Tom says. ‘And deer.’

‘And eagles,’ I say. ‘We saw a very good eagle.’

‘A “good” eagle?’ says Hugh, narrowing his eyes.

‘Yes, it was really good—you could see it quite clearly. I also saw an ostrich.’

‘An ostrich?’ says Fliss.

‘Ostriches are a bit harder to see,’ says Tom. ‘But it’s not impossible.’

‘And there were a few elephants,’ I add.

‘Indian ones,’ Tom explains.

Fliss is rolling her eyes. ‘Have some more champagne you two. Anyway, we’d better get going if we’re going to be there in time for dinner. Bye-bye Babyboots.’ She kisses Olivia’s cheek with little smacking sounds, while Hugh strokes Olivia’s head. Her face crumples and goes crimson as she realizes that her parents are going—and tears spill from her scrunched up eyes. I carry her up to the sitting room to distract her with something on the TV.

‘What’s it to be?’ says Tom as I cuddle Olivia on my lap. She has stopped crying, and he is looking at the stack of her videos and DVDs. He holds up a Fimbles case. ‘
Let’s Find The Fimbles
?’

‘No, seen it too recently.’

‘
Fimbly Bimbly Finding is Fun
?’

‘Hmmm…I
quite
like that.’

‘
Glitter Stars and Sparkly Things
?’

‘That’s a possibility—there’s that lovely “snowflake” song that Florrie sings, remember?’

‘I do, but let’s have this one—
Get the Fimbling Feeling
.’

‘Fine.’

And I have a very nice fimbling feeling myself as Tom and I sit there, with a happy, sleepy baby and the Fimbles, and each other and a glass of champagne, on a Friday evening at the end of a pleasantly busy week. The DVD finishes, and then it’s Olivia’s bedtime, and I tuck her up, while Tom winds up her musical lullaby toy, and she falls asleep in
seconds
, her teddy clasped under one arm. And Tom and I go downstairs where we can hear her little snorts and sighs over the baby monitor as I get our supper out of the fridge. And I think how happy I am. How happy I am again—the trauma of Nick’s disappearance—and return—behind me at last.

I pour Tom another glass of champagne. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, looking through our photos.

‘It
was
a wonderful trip wasn’t it,’ he says.

‘It was.’

‘But you know, when we went down to Lake Memphremagog, and we were sitting watching the sun set that evening over Owl’s Head Mountain, there was something I really wanted to ask you.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘A question.’

‘I see.’

‘But somehow I didn’t quite get to do it…And then the next day we walked to the top of Bear Mountain, and we had that fabulous view beneath us of the whole lake and the hillsides all red and gold—I wanted to ask you my question then. But again, I didn’t. So I think I might as well ask you it now. It’s one of my very serious questions. In fact—’ he stands up—‘it’s so serious that I think I’d better whisper it.’ He comes up to me, and stands next to me, slipping his arm round my waist, then bends his head, and murmurs it into my ear. I feel my body suffuse with warmth.