I Could Love You (17 page)

She can’t help smiling at that.

‘Russia? Why?’

‘He’d got it in his head that everyone in Russia starved and froze to death. So if you weren’t starving and freezing you could count yourself lucky.’

‘Yes, I suppose he’s right.’

‘I don’t know that he is right. At least with starving and freezing after a bit you die and it’s over.’

‘Yes.’

What an odd conversation to be having with the plumber.

‘Anyway. It’s the pump is the problem. I’ve taken the details. I can pick up a new one on Monday, it’s a standard model.’

‘Look, would you like a cup of tea or something?’

‘No, no. You’ve got enough to deal with. I’ll be off. I’ll call you when I’ve got a price on the pump, quote for the whole job. Shouldn’t be too much.’

‘Thank you.’

She feels confused. There’s more, isn’t there?

‘Look, I’m really sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘Matt. Matt Early.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll call you with the price Monday morning.’

She sees him out. He keeps his shoes in his hands all the way down the stairs.

Back in the flat she feels such a desolation of loneliness she wants to run out after the plumber and call him back. Instead she sits in the armchair again and clasps her hands in her lap and closes her eyes. She wants not to be here if Tom is never coming again. She wants not to be her if Tom is never coming again.

But of course it’s impossible. Life can’t end like this. The very fact that she’s breathing means, guarantees, promises that she will see Tom again. And if they meet, what has ended? Not love. Love lives on. So this is not something that’s in the past, whatever he says. It’s in the present. It goes on.

No doubt there’ll be changes. Tom will have to be very careful. But he won’t leave her. Why should he? She asks for so little.

She wants to go to Tom’s wife and beg her, plead with her. Half an hour a week, that’s all I want. You don’t need him every minute of the day. You have so much. Spare me a crumb.

He said on the phone, I’ve promised Belinda it’s over. Not: I want it to be over. But then he said, I’ll never forget you. That was so horrible. You shouldn’t have to say something like that. A husband doesn’t say to his wife, ‘I’ll never forget you.’ Not unless he is leaving and planning on forgetting her.

So he’s going to leave me and forget me. How is that possible?

17

It’s past midday when Chloe finally makes it downstairs. There’s no one in the kitchen. She can hear her mother talking on the phone in the drawing room. Her father’s out somewhere as usual. Probably playing golf.

Chloe feels restless and irritable, despite having slept for over twelve hours. You go without sleep, you get so you’re sick for sleep, then you get one good night and wake up with a head stuffed full of old socks. It’s a bummer. Bodies should be more grateful.

She wonders if she dares sneak a cigarette but decides instead that what she wants is breakfast cereal. There’s Sugar Puffs and there’s Weetabix, both where she left them weeks ago, no one else eats them. There are five Weetabixes left in the box. She puts two in a bowl, then adds a third. Ladles on the caster sugar. Fills the bowl with milk.

She eats fast, greedily, wanting each mouthful to be part-crunchy, part-soggy. As soon as the bowl is empty she takes out the last two Weetabixes and repeats the process. Finding she’s still hungry she pours out a mound of Sugar Puffs and eats that too.

Her mother comes in and finds her spooning in the sweet cereal.

‘Don’t eat too much or you won’t want your lunch.’

‘I don’t want my lunch,’ says Chloe.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve got a chicken roasting.’ ‘Because I didn’t know.’ Chloe knows she sounds peevish but it all seems perfectly reasonable to her. What’s she supposed to do? See into the future? ‘I got it specially for you. Who’s going to eat it now?’ ‘I don’t know, Mum.’ ‘This isn’t a hotel, Chloe. You can’t just come and go as you want.’ ‘So what is it? A prison?’ ‘A prison?’ Her mother sits down on one of the kitchen chairs.

Her face has gone blank. ‘No. It’s not a prison.’ Chloe’s phone shudders. She looks to see who it is. Hal. ‘Got to take this.’ She goes out into the hall to talk. ‘Hi, Hal. How’s things?’ ‘I’m going crazy, that’s how things are. Why didn’t you call me?’ Wrong move. Chloe feels her defences rising. ‘I just got home, Hal. Take it easy, for fuck’s sake. One day.

It’s not the end of the world.’ ‘You know I’ve been trying to reach you. You know we need to talk.’ Everyone always has to do all this talking. Talk talk talk. Why can’t people just go with the flow? Live your life, Hal. ‘You’re the one said you never wanted to see me again.’ ‘Oh, Chloe. Baby. You know I didn’t mean it. Oh, fuck. Tell me you know it. What do I have to do? Come on, baby. I’m going crazy here.’ ‘Okay. Fine. You didn’t mean it. I believe you.’ ‘So are we cool? Are we good?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘You’re sure?’

This is what happens. If you’re not hyperventilating with excitement over them they start to sulk. Someone should tell them: don’t beg for it. Begging turns the heart to stone. She can feel her heart turning to stone and she hates that.

‘Listen to me, Hal. You’re in Cardiff, I’m in Sussex. It’s Christmas and everyone gets stressed out. Let’s just all give ourselves some time off, and then it’ll be the new term and we can take it from there.’

‘But are we still good?’

‘Yes. We’re still good.’

‘And it’s okay if I call you?’

‘Course it’s okay.’

‘Send me a picture of you. Try to look as if you’re missing me.’

‘I am missing you.’

‘I love you, babe.’

‘Me too.’

By the end the plaintive note has gone out of his voice and she’s able to sound friendly enough for him to end the call, but it’s an effort. What is it that happens to them? They start out so strong and end up so weak.

She goes back into the kitchen and there’s her mother sitting where she left her, the same dead look on her face.

Something not right.

‘What is it, Mum?’

Her mother turns and stares at her as if she doesn’t know her. This is not good at all.

Chloe sits down facing her.

‘Tell me.’

Her mother says nothing. She presses her lips together as if to stop herself from speaking, and when she lets them go for a moment they’re white. She looks at her hands. Out of the window.

‘Mum. Tell me. Please.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to worry you.’

‘Okay,’ says Chloe. ‘So now I’m worried.’

Her mother turns her gaze back from the window and meets her daughter’s eyes with a look of utter helplessness.

‘Your father’s having an affair,’ she says.

‘What?’

For some reason Chloe finds herself totally unprepared for this. So much so that at first she can’t take it in. Dad having an affair?

‘He can’t be.’

‘I know. But he is.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Ask him.’

Now Chloe’s beginning to register the enormity of the news. She feels as if something unknown and frightening has come into the house. Their home.

‘He can’t. He mustn’t.’

‘Tell him that.’

‘Oh, God, Mum. This is horrible. Can’t we stop him?’

‘He says it’s over.’

Chloe catches a tiny fragment of what her mother must be feeling, and at once, grateful for the chance, she transfers the turbulent emotions inside herself to concern for her mother.

‘How can he do that to you? What does he think he’s doing? I can’t believe this. Mum, this is not on. Seriously, he can’t do this.’ Then, still catching up with the reality of what’s happening, ‘Who is it?’

‘Some woman at his hospital.’

‘Has it been going on long?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t really know. Oh, Chloe, I feel so sick of it all. I just want it to go away.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s in his study.’

‘Right. I’m going to talk to him.’

Her mother says nothing. She goes back to looking out of the window. Chloe gets up. The house phone rings. Chloe gets it. It’s her brother Alex.

‘Hi, Alex. You coming home for Christmas or what?’

They talk briefly. He’s planning to come home next Thursday.

‘Is Jess coming with you?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘She’ll be in Yorkshire. Is Mum there?’

Chloe hands the phone to her mother.

‘It’s Alex. He’s coming home on Thursday.’

She leaves them talking.

Her father’s study is at the far end of the house, deliberately chosen for its privacy and quietness. These days the house is always quiet, and he rarely goes there. She finds him sitting at the big leather-inlaid desk, looking at nothing at all. He acknowledges her appearance with a turn of his head towards her. He looks terrible, his skin blotchy, his eyes puffy.

‘What’s going on, Dad?’

He frowns. He seems to be having trouble collecting his thoughts.

‘You can’t do this to Mum. You know that? It’s not on. She doesn’t deserve it.’ As she speaks the anger rises. ‘I never had you down for a pig, I thought you were one of the good guys. So how come all of a sudden you turn into a pig? Don’t you care what you’re doing to Mum? Don’t you give a fuck about her? How can you do this to her?’

‘Chloe, darling—’

‘Is it over? She says it’s over.’

‘Yes. It’s over.’

‘So you’re not walking out on Mum?’

And me, Dad. You’re not walking out on me.

‘No. I’d never do that.’

‘And you’re sorry?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

He looks so tired. So beaten. Don’t do this to us, Dad. Be loving for ever, but be strong. Hold me in your arms and tell me you’ll never leave. Tell me I’m too little to understand. Tell me I don’t need to worry, there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s only noises in the night.

‘Then come into the kitchen and be with Mum. Don’t hide out here.’

‘Chloe, sweetheart. It’s not what you think.’

‘I don’t think anything, okay? You say it’s over, so it’s over. I don’t want to hear any details. I really don’t want to know.’

‘I’m saying sorry to you, too.’

‘Yes, okay. So you’re sorry. Great. Meanwhile Mum’s dying in there.’

She knows he wants her forgiveness but she can’t do it. It won’t come. Too much anger.

Why do they always have to fuck everything up and then turn round and ask for pity? I hate pity. If you want to fuck the nurses then for fuck’s sake enjoy it.

Don’t do this to me, Dad. Don’t leave me. Don’t go and leave behind this sad old fart who wants to be forgiven. I’ve got issues of my own. It’s Christmas. I came home for a rest.

He stands up.

‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘It’ll be lunch soon.’

There’s a chicken roasting in the oven. Family lunch. Whoopde-doo.

18

Alice tries to tell him but Cas won’t listen. Stubbornly he sits by the front window looking out onto the street, expecting to see Guy come walking up from the station at any moment.

‘He may not be able to make it, Cas.’

‘Yes, he will. He said he’d come.’

Alice is appalled by her little brother’s unshakeable faith. She does her best to instil doubts in him by pointing out all the reasonable and honourable accidents that may arise: pressure of work, a minor illness, a breakdown of his car. Caspar merely shakes his head and goes on staring out of the window. What more can she do? Impossible to give him the real information that lies beneath her lack of faith in Guy, that he’s an entirely selfish person driven by the whim of the moment. Cas has chosen Guy as his imaginary friend. How else can you describe it? He knows nothing about Guy and has only ever met him twice. It’s all very strange.

‘I don’t understand why you’ve got so keen on Guy all of a sudden.’

‘He’s my half-father,’ says Cas.

‘Your half-father? No, he’s not.’

‘Yes, he is. You’re my half-sister, and he’s your father.’

Liz and Alan are both out. They have the house to themselves. Alice has had various plans for today, she thought she might sort out the mess of her room, maybe do some more on her story. But she has done nothing. She made lunch for Cas and herself, it was supposed to be cheese omelettes but Cas wanted baked beans, so she made baked beans on toast; the toast being her nod to cooking. Then she tried to get Cas to come out Christmas shopping with her but he said, ‘No, Guy’s coming.’ He’s been waiting since he got up.

Alice too is waiting, though she does her best not to think about it. Chloe’s text was ambiguous:
All fixed up for Sunday
. What has she fixed? Alice can’t stop herself from investing that one word,
fixed
, with a little freight of hope. Chloe is active where she herself is passive. Chloe makes things happen.

‘There he is!’

A shrill cry of triumph from Caspar. He races for the front door, hauls it open before Alice can stop him.

But he’s right. Against all the odds, there’s Guy standing on the doorstep, smiling his usual irrepressible smile.

‘Guy! Guy! You came!’ cries Cas, bouncing up and down.

‘Stroke of luck, eh?’ he says. And to Alice in the hallway behind, ‘I had to come down to Brighton anyway.’

‘Good to see you, Guy.’ She never calls him Dad.

A peck on the cheek as he comes in. He’s carrying a box in a carrier bag. He lets Caspar take him by the hand and lead him into the front room.

‘You know how you live in London?’ says Cas.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to come and visit you.’

‘Great. When are you coming?’

‘It’s to be a surprise.’

Alice looks on: the little boy so unaware, the man so unthinking. He seems to her never to have changed, always handsome, always worthless. She wants to call out to Cas, He’ll let you down. It’s what he does.

‘You want some coffee or something, Guy?’

‘That would be great.’

She goes into the kitchen to put on a kettle. Instant will do, he doesn’t deserve better. Probably can’t tell the difference. She thinks as she does every time she sees him how odd it is that he doesn’t seem to age. His floppy shiny hair still abundant, his face unlined, his smile youthful. And yet he’s over forty now.

Why has he come? He hasn’t asked after Liz. He hasn’t shown much interest in her, his own daughter. What is this thing with Cas?