Long Lies the Shadow (12 page)

Viv turns the hot water tap on fully. The water coughs out. Her body aches from her day’s work and she longs to soak in a tub of frivolous bubbles. It is not just a physical ache, she realises. Memories of Gabe had risen unbidden throughout the day, thoughts she normally held at bay with her busy schedule and her own perverse will. Perhaps it had been the route she had driven that day to Camps Bay. As she lipped over the rise of road, the sea had stretched out endlessly beyond. It was the colour of his eyes, when she had met him, before they had darkened to a stormier shade. She remembers the intensity of his gaze the night they had met, his eyes lit like blue smoke in the wood-dark students’ bar. For a moment this morning her heart had lifted as she watched the rise and swell of ocean and she had slowed the car as much as she safely could. She thinks often of Gin’s accident these days, mindful of the city’s endless curves and pitfalls. Then her heart had wearied suddenly, the blue had sallowed, washing out like the tide. Blue no longer held any azure happiness for her, she had decided. Now it meant sadness – blue, blue days.

Viv sighs. The tub fills slowly, steam rises, misting the rectangle of mirror on the bathroom wall. She wipes absently at it and then stops, startled by the smudged circles beneath her eyes. Her pallor is pronounced, and she stares down at her body. She is thin, too thin, she thinks. Her hipbones jut out from her concave stomach and she feels almost insulted by their pronounced angularity. She traces the faded whitish stretchmarks that lace across her buttocks and her thighs, faded reminders of her two pregnancies. Her fingers move up,
involuntarily finding the slight scar from her Caesarean. From Kayleigh’s birth. So easy, lifted from her numb womb, she remembers, her daughter’s nutbrown skin smeared with blood. Whereas Abbie had been so difficult, so painful. Viv’s own screams had melded with her eldest daughter’s first cries. She knew now that she had screamed not from the agony of childbirth but in rage, and grief, for Gabe.

Viv looks in the mirror again, at the lines raying out from her brown eyes. Laughter lines, the great misnomer, she thinks, not without some bitterness. Each one furrowed through hardship and sorrow.

What would Gabe have thought of her now, she wonders, had he lived? She cannot picture him as a man in his forties. His face never ages. Nick’s face replaces Gabe’s youthful one. Nick would age well, eyes crinkling with his broad smile, on that tanned and weathered face. She imagines he would grey at the temples, without losing his hair, and keep his lean figure. A shiver passes through her.

The tap splutters, and she turns it off. She is about to step into its heat when the phone rings.

Afterwards, she thinks, I could have left it to ring.

The bath is tepid now. Adding more hot is usually futile, but Viv does so anyway.

She feels shellshocked.

She picks up the bar of sandalwood soap, holds it between her hands, lifts it, inhales its spice. Her heart had recoiled at the sound of Jonnie’s voice, her body instinctively shrinking into itself. She had drawn the towel up around her breasts, as if he could see her semi-nakedness, sense her vulnerability. She had tried not to be hostile, worried, foremostly, about the girls. But no, there was nothing wrong. His tone was upbeat, vibrant. In a good mood, it seemed, asking only to keep the girls a little longer, over this weekend as well, if that was all right. As always, his plans took little account of her
own, but they had always remained civil about the girls. At times like these he seemed more like the old Jonnie, the man she had loved.

So Viv had relented, but asked him why.

First bombshell. He was leaving Cape Town.

Viv felt a stab of anger, followed by apprehension. Fear even, she admits to herself now, as she soaps the sandalwood down her arms. Whatever his failings as a husband, Jonnie had been a decent father, she concedes, providing always, if largely materially, for the girls. Even for Abbie, not his own. Yet he did so unquestioningly, without making either of the girls feel guilty or grateful. Viv thinks of Gabe again. What sort of father would he have been? Kind. Gentle. Full of fun. She almost hears his laugh now, and sighs. She tries to stop the familiar run of thoughts, but cannot. She is too tired. Would she give up Kayleigh to have Gabe back? It is a useless hypothetical. Viv wants to cry, weariness overwhelming her. Now the inevitable, unbidden thought. The other child, the other one. Viv swallows, concentrates on lathering her legs. She picks up her razor; it rasps against her shin.

Second bombshell. London.

Not just anywhere. Not another hospital here, or near, not even Johannesburg, not even Africa, but London.

Third bombshell. A year, a whole year.

Such a long time in the girls’ lives. Abbie will start Matric next year, her final school year. Viv’s heart aches. Oh, Gabe. Our daughter, finishing school already. So much to organise, to decide. Abbie must decide which university, what degree. How typical of Jonnie to let her down at such a pivotal time, she thinks acidly.

So, London. He wanted the girls to visit. Viv could not answer. Not yet.

She thinks of Gin. Gin is there, in London. Abbie could see her aunt. Finally, they could meet again. Viv wonders if she ought to tell Gin about Jonnie. But then, she thinks, what would be the point?
Gin no longer works. London is huge. Their paths were unlikely to cross. And still Viv finds it hard to contemplate talking about Jonnie to Gin. A matter she’d broached when Gin was here, but that somehow they’d still avoided.

London. A whole year.

Viv washes off. She pulls the plug, the water almost cold. Jonnie’s fault. She knows she is being unfair. I could have left it to ring, she thinks again.

She wets her long hair with the handheld shower as the bathwater drains out. She picks up the shampoo, contemplates its creamy hue. Sighing again, she squeezes out a blob of it into her palm. It smells of almonds. She starts to massage it into her hair.

Leaving. London. A whole year. Viv rinses off her hair, feels the shampoo slide down her neck, between her breasts. She rinses it again.

And then, fourth and final bombshell.

Blithely, almost. Nonchalant, a facile afterthought, an aside even. “Oh, and Viv, I’m getting married again.”

His room is devoid of colour, bereft of Michael’s presence. She had seen him off at the airport. They had tidied it before he left, pulling off sheets and leaving only the heavy cover on the bed. Gin sits in the chair near the window, looking out over the back garden, the view Michael had loved. It seems as bland as the room to her now, as empty as the house. A dull dolour has settled on her chest since his departure and her leg throbs constantly when she walks. She rubs at her thigh absent-mindedly.

She does not want to be alone when the time comes to give birth. A vague panic grips her as she realises it is only some four weeks away now. Michael had made her feel safe, but now she is alone again. Maybe Michael was right, that she should see someone, talk. She does not feel like talking. He had suggested hypnotherapy after she told him about the dreams. The constant dreams of Simon, his face distorting, bleeding.

It is late afternoon and the light dissolves quickly. The room feels bare. Gin rises to draw the curtains, disregarding the roses outside that need pruning. She turns to leave, pulls the door to shut it. As she does so, a last ray shafts into the room between the open crease of curtain, and a flash of blue pierces her eye. Intrigued, she opens the door again, walks across to what was Michael’s chest of drawers. Along the silky mahogany finish of its surface, her fingers find it.

She had barely remembered packing it with the pile of her belongings when she left Cape Town, not noted throwing it into her jewellery box, which the removal company would transfer from the flat to the house. Only when Michael had pulled it from the broken packaging had its presence jarred back into her consciousness. Not silver, as he had thought, but platinum. And not rust, but blood. The force of it had made her nauseated. Then the baby had kicked her with something like viciousness. Like anger. That was the moment she had thought:
this is it
. This is when I lose his child again, when the pain rips through my abdomen, and the blood pours down my legs in clotted grief. And then it would be over. Her punishment would be over. And perhaps there would be an end to the nagging state of
nothingness, an escape finally from the numbing hell she had lived in since he died.

Gin holds the circle of metal in her hand, feels the smooth ice of it start to thaw beneath her touch. She stares at the stone as if for the first time, its faceted face. Blue, impossibly blue. Even in the dimness it captures what light is left, trapping smalt fire in its core. Four small, cold claws hold the jewel to the ring. The name of its cut escapes her. Emerald cut? No, that is long, rectangular. Cabochon? No, this has a bevelled edge. I ought to know, thinks Gin. The granddaughter of a jeweller ought to know. She should have paid more attention. Simon, Simon would have known.

Anger spits into her chest. She wants to fling this vile jewel across the room. What is she to do with it? She hates it. She sees Simon’s face. Twisted, deformed, his mouth bleeding words.

Instead, Gin folds her fingers around the ring, grasping at it so tightly she feels its edges stab into the soft flesh of her palm.
Breathe
. Michael would tell her to breathe. Her free hand reaches to steady herself on the chest of drawers. She brings her closed fist to her mouth and she shudders with the effort to inhale. Once. Twice. Had she chosen it? Or had Simon? She shuts her eyes.

Her breath is strained and gasping. The ring is cutting into her skin but she cannot unclench her fist.
Breathe
. Michael would tell her to breathe. With agonising slowness, she starts to uncurl her fingers, the pain like unrelenting cramp. Deep red marks striate across her palm. She stares at it, hating it, but she knows now she must keep it. One day she will give it to her child.

One day she will say:
Here, this is from your parents, from the very day of your conception. If you look deep into its depths, maybe you can even see your soul. This ring, this sapphire stone whose cut I do not know, this ring was given to me by your father, in his last few hours of life
.

The remnants of summer mean the afternoon sun is late in reaching the front door. Stencilled streaks purple the horizon. Nick stands in the doorway, his blond hair an angel’s halo.

“You knew Simon Gold,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She steps back, holding her hand to her chest. “Nick –,” she says.

“You lied to me,” he says.

She backs away towards the door of the living room. “How did you find out?” she whispers.

“It was in his diary.” He paces the floor of the entrance, not looking at her. “He sent you flowers, for Christ’s sake! You lied to me!”

She feels herself tremble, wills away an image of an angry Jonnie. She turns away from Nick and walks into the lounge, pulls the curtains shut against the glare of sunset. He follows her.

“You had an affair,” he says. “That doesn’t matter. But you lied to me. That does.”

She turns back to him, her eyes wide, her hand still to her chest. “What did you say?” she asks shrilly. “I had an
affair
with him? You think Simon Gold was my
lover
?”

They face each other in silence.

He starts to pace again. Viv recoils. She had dreaded this moment, knowing it would come, eventually. Inevitable that one day she would have to face it. A deep-seated pain twists in her abdomen.

“Where are the girls?” he asks. His voice sounds strained.

“With Jonnie.” She pauses. “Nick, I –”.

But he interrupts, turning towards her, openly angry. “Why did you lie to me, Vivienne?”

“Nick!” She almost shouts. The pain has spread to her back. “I need to sit down.” She sits on the edge of the armchair, her chin in her hands. She breathes deeply, trying to gather her thoughts. The room is dark now with the curtains drawn. Night encroaches. She is trying to absorb his words, his accusation.

Nick stands in the doorway, across the room from her, watching her, arms folded. His fists are clenched.

Inevitable that it should come to this, that he should look at her like that. My own fault, thinks Viv. My fault he looks at me like that. Inevitable.

“Don’t look at me like that, Nick,” she pleads into the half-gloom.

He stops pacing, runs his hand through his hair. That lock falls back almost immediately. “How should I look at you, then, Vivienne?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.

She has hurt him. The realisation makes her ineffably sad. Her throat feels raw with regret.

Standing, she turns her back to him, moves to crouch before the stone hearth. Her hands shake slightly as she reaches for the brush to sweep away the ashes of the last fire. Taking a fold of last week’s
Cape Argus
from a pile of newspapers, she separates a page, crumples it into a ball and throws it onto the grate. She repeats the action. Page after printed page, ball after ball. It is the only sound in the room, the slip and rustle of the paper as she clenches each one in a trembling fist. Piece by piece, the grate fills.

When it is fully layered, Viv moves towards the stack of kindling piled high alongside the hearth. It is so quiet that she thinks Nick must have turned and left. She bends to pick up a load of wood. Her back still hurts and she arches as she stands.

“Here, let me do that.” He is beside her so suddenly that she jumps, instinctively moving away from him. If he notices, he does
not comment. Instead he takes the kindling from her, lays it neatly over the tightly-fisted balls of paper. He picks up the copper scuttle and scatters coal over the kindling. Viv watches as he lights one of the long matches, holding it to the paper until it ignites sulkily. The thin swirls of grey smoke remind Viv of the mist over the mountain, seeping over the top of its cyanic peaks. Orange flames start upward between the plumes. Nick stands, poker in hand, his outstretched arm resting on the chimney breast, staring intently into the grate, as if the force of his glare alone could light it.

Viv folds her arms around herself. The warmth from her early bath has deserted her, and she feels cold, almost naked beneath her thin T-shirt. Anxiety shivers through her veins. She longs for a cigarette. She does not want to talk.

Nick rubs at his eyes. He looks tired, thinks Viv. The continued silence unnerves her. I should have known it would come to this. The past will always find you out. She still cannot take in his words. She wonders what details Nick has unearthed. An odd forgotten entry here, an unguarded note there? Simon would not have left the truth. He had, after all, been as much at risk as she.

The fire starts to burn with an efficient briskness, the dry kindling catching quickly, feeding the coal. Nick reaches into the battered enamel bucket of pine cones, throws a handful on the shifting heat. Happier days spent collecting them come back to her as she watches them splutter and glow.

Eventually, eyes still fixed the progress of the fire, Nick asks, “What was Simon Gold to you?” He sounds tired.

“Nick, look…”

She starts to speak, but he stabs angrily at the fire with the poker, as if he cannot bear to hear her answer. His face, in profile, is set. He mutters something to himself.

“What did you say?” she asks.

He turns to her, his eyes meeting hers. But she drops her gaze,
looks into the flames. Her arms are still wrapped around herself. The room is warming now, but she still feels chilled.

“You told me you didn’t know him. That you’d never met him. Yet you saw him, several times. That, at least, is documented.”

Policeman. Interrogator.

Viv says nothing. The colourless office, its high ceilings, the uncomfortable chair reform in her mind. She remembers her halting words, stumbling out her story to Simon. His grave, kind eyes. She had never told anyone else. Over the years, she had occasionally managed to forget. At times it had seemed it had never happened. Like parts of her life with Jonnie, that would sink and then surface with a randomness that felt surreal. Now she must tell someone else: Nick. And it is harder, infinitely harder, she realises, than telling Simon Gold.

She clears her throat. “I should have told you.” She looks up to see him still looking at her, arms folded again. “What made you think I had an affair with him?” she asks quietly.

He sighs at her words, but his stance does not change. When he speaks, his tone is exasperated. “Vivienne, you met with him. You had dinner, he sent you flowers… you denied knowing him… what was I supposed to think?”

It sounds so ludicrous to her that she starts to laugh, her laughter coming out in exhalations that sound to her like sobs. Only then does she realise she is sobbing, but no tears are forming. All she can hear are the hollow hiccoughing sounds from her throat, and all she can see is that window. That awful day, looking out the window at a sunny Johannesburg sky.