Flight (14 page)

Wren placed her bag on the floor beside his desk and did as she was instructed, her pulse racing as she entered the dark space, flipping on the dull overhead bulb and stepping up on to the step stool to feel along the top shelf for her marked homework. Mr Reece closed the door behind him, kicking the wooden stop into place with a sharp, fluid movement before stripping her of her cotton knickers and taking her against the metal filing cabinet. The lift and fall of chalk dust in the forty-watt glow, the scent of his suntanned skin in her nostrils, the hollow rattle of academic files shifting in rhythm with their movements… it was, and would remain, the single most erotic experience of her entire life. Afterwards, he
straightened his tie and handed her her underwear, before easing her aside to open the top drawer of the filing cabinet, where her marked homework had been concealed.

‘An excellent essay,’ he said, thumbing through to the last page. ‘I gave you an A.’

‘Really?’ Wren asked, delighted, as she scanned his redpenned commentary.
Intelligent. Astute
.

‘
Really
. Absolutely on merit.’ He smiled, a sexy, lopsided curl of the lips, and leant in to kiss her in the crook of her neck, sending a thrill of excitement down the bumps of her spine. ‘You’re a bright girl, Wren.’

They kept up the affair for the rest of the spring term and most of the summer one, meeting for hurried sex and small talk twice a week, Wren ever hopeful that he might fall for her completely, that one day they might graduate to love outside the stationery cupboard, might embrace beneath the honest glare of open daylight. Eventually, however, after her A-levels were done with, Wren discovered she had been replaced by Karen Taylor in Lower Sixth, and she thought her crippled heart would never recover.

The short coastal train journey to St Ives is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Having lived all this time so close to the water’s edge, having grown so accustomed to the relentless and brutal nature of the sea, of
her
sea, Wren had all but forgotten this serene version of the Atlantic Ocean when viewed at a distance. As the rail path sweeps them along the coastline, alongside golden sands and dramatic rock formations, the sunlight casts a startling hue across the horizon. For a brief moment Wren forgets she is with Laura, so captivated is she by the panorama. She gasps at the sight
of guillemots, more numerous than she has ever seen at the bay, their white underbellies flashing in the sunlight as they plummet towards the surface of the water.

‘Aren’t they wonderful?’ Laura says in response, splitting Wren’s thoughts in two.

‘The guillemots? They’re beautiful,’ she replies.

‘You’re so lucky to live here. To have somewhere like St Ives almost on your doorstep.’

‘Perhaps,’ Wren says. ‘Although I’ve never been before.’

Laura’s expression is of disbelief and Wren suddenly feels the need to explain, to tell her more. ‘I don’t have a car,’ she says. ‘I stopped driving soon after I arrived at Tegh Cottage. I don’t go far. I don’t need to – and if I do need anything more than groceries there’s a bus to Padstow. I like not having a car to worry about.’

‘That’s better.’ Laura smiles warmly. ‘We’re talking.’

Wren hates to admit it to herself, but it feels good. Something feels good about leaving the cottage for a while; her movements are lighter, as if she’d shed a layer when she stepped on to the coastal train, and left that version of herself behind.

The train eases to a halt at St Ives station and, along with most of the other passengers, Laura and Wren disembark and head up through the winding criss-cross of streets and alleyways, stopping at the tourist centre to pick up a map of the town before searching for somewhere to eat their picnic. They eventually decide on a bench on the wharf, where they can look out over the harbour at the fishing boats that shimmy and jangle in the breeze.

‘It’s warm, for November,’ Wren says, taking a sandwich from Laura. The taste of salmon and cream cheese floods her senses, and she wonders if she’s tasted anything quite as good
in the last twenty years. ‘Rob loved these,’ she says, closing her eyes to savour the sunlight that penetrates her skin. ‘They were three times as expensive as the other sandwiches, but he wouldn’t have anything else.’

‘I remember. One time, at college, he gave me money to fetch his sandwich from M&S while I was getting mine. He told me what he wanted, but I used my initiative and got him tuna and sweetcorn instead, and spent the rest on a bag of salt and vinegar twists. I thought he’d be chuffed with the crisps – but he sulked all afternoon. He said the tuna looked like something a baby had spat out, and he dropped it in the bin without even opening it.’

Wren smiles. ‘You two were always having little spats like that. Like brother and sister.’

‘Some things don’t change,’ Laura says, and her body stiffens, as if she hadn’t meant to let it out so soon, hadn’t meant to let Wren know the extent of their contact.

‘So – so, you still see each other?’ Wren asks, glancing at Laura as she does so – Laura who looks at once pale and caught out. She takes another sandwich. ‘Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? I don’t mind,’ she adds, her eyes following a motorboat as it heads out across the harbour between rows of undulating red buoys. ‘In fact I’m relieved; it’s what I’d hoped for. Life goes on. Isn’t that the expression?’

Laura picks up the last sandwich with a heavy sigh. ‘Yup. Life goes on.’

As they step into the foyer of the Tate, Wren is soothed by the peace of the place.

‘This is your map.’ The receptionist smiles, handing Laura a leaflet. She’s wearing a vibrant floral dress, with a slash neck
and three-quarter-length sleeves. The woman looks astonishing, flawlessly stylish, radiantly confident. Wren stares for a moment too long, and a little pucker appears between the woman’s eyebrows. ‘Oh – and don’t forget to see the view from the first floor – it’s the most stunning horizon on a clear day like today. You can see why artists have been coming to St Ives for decades!’

Wren returns her smile and it lights her up inside, the warmth of reciprocation.

She and Laura tour the gallery, taking in the permanent collection first, then moving on to the current exhibition. In the echoing silence of the main studio Laura points out an elderly American couple standing at the centre of the room, pinching their chins and nodding sagely at a large nude. They’re both tall and thin as scaffold poles, he wearing cherry-red trousers and a tight biker jacket, she in suede leggings and a silver fur gilet. A little way behind them Laura apes their wide-legged pose, pinching her chin and pouting in exaggeration. She reaches into her pocket and brings out her sunglasses, placing them on the end of her nose for effect, puckering her lips as she does so. When Red Trousers turns irritably to locate the source of the disturbance, Wren’s laugh comes full volume, hurtling out into the white space like a dog’s bark. With a startled expression Laura tugs her by the sleeve and they beat a hasty retreat, picking up pace as they take the steps two at a time, to give up on the rest of the gallery and burst out into the bright blue light of the St Ives shoreline.

The tide is out, and they walk down on to the sand, to stand at the water’s edge where the tide laps gently at their toes. ‘That’s blown my plans for cream tea in the gallery café,’ Laura says, digging a hole in the slushy sand with the toe of her boot, watching it fill as the tide returns.

‘I haven’t done that in twenty years,’ Wren says, her heart still pounding with exhilaration.

‘Visited a gallery?’

‘No. Laughed.’

Laura turns to look at her. ‘Don’t be daft. Of course you have.’

Wren shakes her head.

‘For twenty years? You’re lying. Laughter’s one of life’s few free pleasures. Wren, I don’t believe you haven’t laughed for twenty years.’ She smirks, challenging Wren to own up.

But Wren shakes her head again and starts along the tide line. ‘I haven’t,’ she says.

‘Why not?’ Laura falls into step, reaching for Wren’s fingers, slowing her down. ‘Wren?’

‘Some people don’t deserve laughter, Laura. If you knew the truth of it, you wouldn’t disagree.’

Married life felt like a distant land from the outset. While Wren and Robert moved into a small bungalow in south London to be near work, Laura gravitated towards the North Circular, meaning their free time together was gradually whittled down to weekends and holidays. Their lives were busy; Wren felt as though they did nothing but work and fulfil social obligations, and, with Laura preoccupied with her own new relationship, the gaps between visits had grown longer. They spoke regularly on the phone, comparing notes about the schools they were teaching in – Wren and Robert’s being a well-funded grammar school near the river, Laura’s a low-performing comprehensive in a tough urban community – and they found sport in competing over the mundanities of marriage versus the thrills of newfound lust. The couple had
no money problems, since Wren’s mother had placed a large deposit on the bungalow as a wedding gift, and with the pair of them both working full-time Wren enjoyed the newfound freedom of shopping with her monthly earnings. Robert, despite being the more sensible of the two, encouraged her sprees, enjoying the excitement she displayed as she unveiled her latest purchases, rushing off to try them on and parading up and down the kitchen for his approval. Shoes were her particular weakness – and his, he confessed – and before long she had amassed a collection of expensive and glamorous footwear she knew she might have neither the cause nor the courage to go out in. Robert employed a builder to split the spare bedroom in two, converting one side into a walk-in wardrobe, fitting the other with a single bed, leaving space for ‘whatever the future may bring’, as he liked to say more often than Wren liked to hear it.

Despite their phone calls, Wren missed Laura, missed her physical presence in their life, the sound of her laughter and tears in the room, the warmth of her embrace. A few weeks after they had moved into the bungalow, Wren prepared a supper of beef stew and potatoes, and as she leant across the table to pass Robert the salt she spilt gravy on the new linen tablecloth and broke down in tears.

Robert was at her side in an instant, cradling her head in his arms, smoothing the hair from her face. ‘Is it work?’ he asked. ‘Is it me?’

She sobbed, unable to contain her grief. Part of her wanted to say,
Yes, it’s work, it’s you, it’s this tiny bungalow, it’s this street
… She wanted to ask him,
Is this it? Is this everything? Because I didn’t see my future looking like this, feeling like this
. He hugged her tighter and she shook her head, wiped the streaks from her cheeks and laughed at her own stupidity.
‘Of course not,’ she said and she kissed his hand. ‘I miss Laura sometimes. That’s all.’

And he smiled, relief flooding across his smooth face as he pulled her back into his arms. ‘So do I, sweetheart. So do I!’

It’s dark when they arrive back at Tegh Cottage, and Badger and Willow start up their chorus as soon as the car draws alongside the back gate. On the doorstep are a dozen eggs. Arthur. Of course, Wren remembers, it’s egg day, and he’ll have noticed her absence when she didn’t collect them from the kiosk this morning. There’s no note, but they don’t do notes, Arthur and Wren; it’s one of the things she likes about him. His brevity, his lack of excess. Opening up the cottage, she pets each of the dogs and sends them out to scamper down through the shadowy garden to do their business and carry out their nightly perimeter patrol, sending gruff little barks ricocheting into the salted night sky.

‘I could make us frittata,’ Laura says, lowering a small box of shopping on to the kitchen table. ‘I picked up some ham at that nice deli in St Ives, as well as a couple of these – ’ She waves a bottle of merlot at Wren, her eyebrows rising wickedly. She’s just as beautiful as she ever was, Wren thinks, turning to catch her own reflection in the black of the kitchen window. The vision momentarily shocks her; since Laura arrived yesterday, it’s been too easy to forget they’re both fifty. She tries to smooth down her hair, which sticks out madly at the sides if she lets it grow too long. It’s about thirty per cent white now, with the lightest streaks congregating around her widow’s peak and temples, almost as if she planned it that way. ‘It’s actually quite a funky look,’
Laura had told her earlier, and Wren was ashamed of how ridiculously pleased that made her feel.

Wren opens the kitchen door to let the dogs back in. ‘I’m not much of a drinker these days,’ she says.

Laura searches around in the cupboards for glasses. ‘Clearly.’ She frowns at two squat juice glasses she’s found at the back of the shelf and rinses them under the tap, drying and plopping them on to the kitchen table with ceremony. ‘You’re not going to make me drink alone, Wren? That would be just
rude
.’

Wren stares at the glasses as Laura snaps open the screw top and pours the wine. There’s something remarkable about the sight of those two glasses of wine. Two glasses, for two people. More than just one. But it’s not just the number of glasses, it’s the wine itself. She hasn’t touched a drop since the day she left Rob.

Laura’s mouth is moving, and Wren realises she hasn’t heard a word she’s said.

‘Say again?’ she asks.

‘You and Rob were always much better at knowing when to stop. I never seemed to know my limits. God, I spent most of my college years throwing my guts up. It’s a wonder I went on to pass any of my exams!’

Wren brings the glass to her nose, inhales the rich notes, instantly recalling a night in late spring when Laura and she had sat out on the flat roof under a full moon, polishing off a bottle of cheap plonk from the corner shop. Laura and Jack had broken up once and for all, and she was
over him
, over men FULL STOP, she kept saying, and she’d vowed that from now on it was friends all the way. She’d far rather marry Laura than any man she’d ever been with – any man in the whole world, she’d said, waving her arms around her head in
a wide circling motion. ‘Let’s,’ Wren had replied, pouring the last of the wine between their glasses and laughing as Laura fashioned a ring from her hair bobble and slid it on to Wren’s wedding finger. ‘What will we call our babies?’ she’d asked as they made their precarious way back down from the roof and in through the living room window.