Pillow Talk (36 page)

‘But I want to explain. I feel I've been such a loathsome coward—’

Esther took her finger to her lips to sternly silence Arlo. ‘Don't you say that about yourself, my boy. You had the shock of your life. It was desperately traumatic. Look how it's reverberated all these years. But you're dealing with it. And they're dealing with it. And perhaps Petra is dealing with it too.’

Arlo looked a little unsettled. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps. But I think I'll phone them anyway.’

‘If you do, promise me you will take their lead.’

‘Life is worth little without honesty,’ Arlo said.

‘I'm glad you know that now,’ said his mother.

* * *

Petra didn't dare take her chances with the creaky floorboards, nor would she countenance Arlo expertly dodging them to sneak into the spare room for a furtive quickie. So she and Arlo gave each other a chaste kiss goodnight at the bathroom door and went to their respective rooms. Actually, Arlo was exhausted. Only a week ago he had contemplated life without love. Now love filled his life and it was a very, very big deal.

* * *

He woke up promptly at seven in the morning and then smiled at the thought of no Saturday school today, no school whatsoever and a whole weekend with the girl he loved. He lay in bed for a few minutes longer but was eager to look in on Petra. The spare-room bed, however, was empty. He went downstairs to join Petra for a cup of tea. But she wasn't there. With a thudding sense of dread, he checked the front and back doors and was relieved to find both still double-locked. So where was she? Where had she got to? He went upstairs again, checked the bathroom. Oh God, not Dad's study. No, it seemed not; his father's study was pretty much as it always was. The periphery of the room still walled with his books and journals and files; the central floor space prosaically purloined by his mother for the ironing board and clothes airers. But if Petra wasn't here either, it left only one room. His mother's.

He knocked cautiously. There was no sound. He opened the door slowly. There was his mother, propped up in bed with a cup of tea, her reading glasses on, the Rosie Thomas novel he'd bought her in hardback, open. She was sitting up on his father's side of the bed. This was almost as peculiar a sight as that of Petra, soundly asleep, on his mother's side of the bed.

‘It was the strangest thing,’ Esther said softly with a glance at Petra as if she was a stray cat who'd chosen to stay. ‘At some ungodly hour my door opened – and there she stood. I thought she wanted the loo or something. But she came right in, sat down on the edge of the bed and muttered something about nothing. I kept saying her name but it made no difference. Then she stood up and said that she was sleepy; pulled back my covers and in she got. I don't know if she would have laid down right on top of me if I hadn't shifted out of the way.’

‘She sleepwalks. I didn't think to mention it. Sorry.’

‘Does she do it often?’

Arlo nodded, came in and sat by his mother on his father's side of the bed. ‘Most of her life, apparently.’

‘What an affliction,’ Esther said.

‘She's hurt herself quite badly on occasions.’

‘Poor love,’ Esther said and she gently stroked through a ringlet of Petra's hair.

‘She hates it,’ Arlo said. ‘She'll be mortified when she wakes.’

‘I read somewhere that it can be linked to trauma – you know, in childhood.’

‘She's had every test under the sun,’ Arlo said. ‘Sleep clinics, electrodes, CCTV, drugs.’

‘What a thing,’ Esther shook her head.

‘Perhaps she just wanted to snuggle up with you, Mum,’ Arlo said, standing and heading back to the door. ‘I don't think she ever really got to do that.’

Petra stirred, turned, opened her eyes and, with her field of vision filled by Esther's nightgown, closed them tightly again. She turned onto her other side, opened her eyes again only to clock Arlo's legs. She scrunched her eyes shut and groaned.

‘Oh God. Oh no.’

Gently, Esther rested her hand on Petra's bare shoulder. ‘Don't you worry, my darling. I was very glad of the company and you don't snore like my previous bedmate did.’ Arlo grinned gratitude at his mum and she gave him an affectionate nod. Still Petra had her face buried in her hands. ‘Arlo, darling,’ Esther said, ‘can you pass Petra my dressing gown. It's on the back of the door.’ Then she changed her touch to a lively pat on Petra's back. ‘I'm going to make breakfast. Who's for a full English?’

‘Me, please,’ said Arlo.

‘And me,’ muffled Petra.

After breakfast, Arlo went to the corner shop to buy the Saturday papers and Petra took her cup of coffee through to the lounge. She was gazing at the family photos on the mantelpiece when Esther came downstairs, dressed.

‘That's how I remember Arlo,’ Petra told her, when she'd come to stand alongside. ‘That hair – like Jim Morrison from the Doors.’

Esther laughed. ‘I like this one,’ she said. It was a photograph of a picnic, with Arlo all toothsome at ten, standing alongside his father, both bare-chested, posing like bodybuilders. She took Petra along the mantelpiece, revealing the who and the when and the where of each picture.

‘What a happy collection,’ Petra remarked, wondering sadly to herself where the photos of her childhood were, whether they still existed. Had her parents fought over who would have them? Or had they been turfed out with the rest of the bones of contention? A photograph on the bookshelf caught her eye. A girl. She went for a closer look. Arlo had told her nothing of how Helen looked but Petra knew in an instant that this was her. How beautiful she had been. ‘Helen?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Esther, ‘that's Helen.’

‘Wow,’ said Petra because the look of the girl warranted such a response.

Esther took the picture from Petra, looked at it, smiled. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Helen did love Arlo. And he really,
really
loves you.’

Petra stood alongside her and they looked at Helen together. ‘He's doing OK,’ Petra said and Esther wondered whether she spoke to the picture or to her. Petra turned to her. ‘He's doing OK,’ she said again. ‘It's been a tough old time for him. I think meeting me brought it all to the fore.’

‘Meeting you has been an excellent thing.’

Petra blushed. Then she glanced at Helen again. ‘He blames himself,’ she said quietly, as if aware that she was exposing something of a secret.

Esther smiled kindly. ‘I know he does,’ she told Petra. ‘It's been a desperate burden for him. But you know, I also knew that he wasn't happy during the period leading up to the accident. And it
was
an accident, whatever Arlo might think to the contrary, however much he has tortured himself otherwise.’

Petra fell quiet, as if deliberating how much more of Arlo's confidence to reveal. ‘He's been talking about visiting Helen's parents,’ she said at length. ‘He feels he ought to – I don't know – open his heart to them. Ask their forgiveness. Assuage his remorse, I suppose.’ And when she turned to Esther, she did so for guidance.

‘I know,’ said Esther. ‘We talked about this yesterday. If you can add anything to what I've said, feel free.’ She put Helen back on the bookcase. ‘He listens to you, Petra. And that's a wonderful thing for his old mum to see.’

‘You're not old,’ Petra laughed.

And Arlo arrived back and said, What's so funny? and his mother and his girlfriend said, Oh, nothing.

It was time for elevenses. They could all do with a nice cup of tea.

* * *

The weekend was lovely though it ended too soon with Arlo needing to take a lunch-time train to counteract the infernal works on the line and still be back at school at a civilized time. Esther told Petra she needn't rush off but Petra said that she had something she needed to do. However, before she left, after Esther had taken both her hands and kissed each cheek, Petra invited her to come into town, to meet her for lunch, to see the studio, to meet the Studio Three.

‘I'd love to,’ Esther said. ‘Let me give you my mobile number.’

‘You have a mobile?’ Petra said, amazed.

‘Oh Lord, you didn't think my son being a Luddite was genetic, did you?’

Petra had not realized until that very morning that there was something she really did need to do. Having accompanied Arlo back to King's Cross and spun him a white lie about feeding Eric's neighbour's cat, she left him, covered in kisses, waiting for his delayed train. She changed stations and headed for Watford. She bought anemones, their stems succulent and twisting, their sooty black faces framed by vibrant crowns of richly hued petals.

She didn't know what she was going to say, really. And she couldn't anticipate how she'd feel. But she knew she had to go there. To make her introduction. And then, to take her leave.

The grounds were peaceful by definition and seemed all the more serene for the presence of many great graceful trees standing tall and benevolent. There were lots of visitors, all keen to reciprocate kindly glances of empathy. Petra had to ask for directions to Helen and, as she approached the grave, she felt tears prickling. She read the inscription on the stone carefully. It was very simple, beautifully carved. Just her name, her dates and how much she had been loved. More tragic than anything Petra had personally known. Horrifically, desperately tragic.

We wish you had not died.

Petra laid the flowers down, stood still and silent for a while. Then she knelt and bowed her head and said over and over, Dear Helen dear Helen dear Helen – I hope you're OK with this, it's important to us that you are.

Arlo did visit Helen's family quite soon after.

In bed with Petra a week or so later, Petra gamely chatting about this and that, he suddenly interrupted her, hushing her with his fingers to her lips.

‘They were happy for me, Petra,’ he said, ‘when I told them about you. Helen's folks. They were genuinely happy for me.’

And from the ease with which Arlo recounted this, as well as from his unfurrowed brow, Petra deduced that during the visit, he'd done everyone proud. His mother. Petra. Himself. And Helen.

Chapter Fifty-two

The last few weeks of term galloped along for all concerned. The GCSE and A level boys at Roseberry Hall willed their last exams to come around finally and they were then duly rewarded with long summer days to lounge around, play sport and simply take stock of all they'd achieved. The rest of the pupils summoned bursts of energy to complete any outstanding work – and some of the work was quite outstanding indeed – to ensure favourable send-offs from this year's form tutors and an auspicious start to the next school year. For the teachers, the summer holidays seemed all the more tangible once they'd written the boys' end-of-year reports. An official farewell barbeque was organized for Miranda Oates and the following weekend those colleagues who were also friends organized a more raucous send-off with a pub crawl through Great Broughton. Arlo was invited – but he couldn't attend as it was a weekend he was spending in London. Miranda said she understood. And she did. She did understand. Which wasn't to say she wasn't slightly hurt. But she kept that to herself. Almost the end of term. Out with the old. A long, hot summer. Then in with the new.

In London, Petra's landlords did not charge her rent and their insurers gave her an allowance; of which, after some pressure, Eric accepted half. Petra put the remainder into a kitty that enabled them to have their weekly shop delivered by Ocado and M&S. She really enjoyed living with Eric and though she still went walkabout at night, the sorties were definitely less frequent. Arlo and Eric rubbed along just fine and Petra and Arlo also spent another weekend with Esther, whom Petra had seen a few times in between visits too. Esther had been intrigued by the way the Studio Four worked – together as a studio as well as individually as jewellers. She'd spent a peaceful afternoon, sitting quietly in the corner of their hive of creativity, watching Petra buzz around and Eric act like queen bee. Charlton had charmed her and Petra continued to delight her.

‘Are you and Arlo going to go somewhere nice this summer?’ Esther had ventured as they took a stroll to St Paul's one lunch-time.

‘Well, we did talk about it – but I have to work. I really want to have the tanzanite piece finished. And one of the actress's friends wants a similar piece but with emerald so I've made a start on that.’

‘Also an actress?’

Petra nodded.

‘“A” list?’

Petra nodded again.

‘Jeweller to the Stars!’ Esther had clapped and a couple of tourists had turned to stare.

‘I don't think Shaun Leane or Stephen Webster or Theo Fennell need watch their backs just yet,’ a very red Petra had mumbled.

In early July, the school year came to a close at Roseberry Hall with just the Walley Brothers mooching about, tending the grounds and terrifying any moles or foxes off the property. Only the rabbits remained; their long cocky ears looking like the equivalent of sticking two fingers up at the Walleys. Most summers, Arlo came and went from his folly but this year, Jenn had invited him to avail himself of her spare room – with Petra most welcome too. And though it was more convenient for Arlo and Petra to use London as their headquarters over the summer, their friendship with Nige and Jenn was now such that spending time together was actively planned.

Nige and Jenn were to be married in the New Year.

‘And then I'll be moving into married digs at Roseberry,’ Jenn exclaimed.

‘They're hardly
digs
,’ Nigel protested. ‘Boardman House is one of the most sought after. It's beautiful,’ he said to Petra. ‘Rooms and rooms.’

‘I know,’ Petra winked at him, ‘I've seen it.’

‘Rooms and rooms and boys and boys. Apparently, I have to dispense TLC in times of homesickness,’ Jenn said with mock despair. ‘Anyway, from January I'll be looking to rent out this place. I'll not be selling it. Just renting it out.’ She looked at Arlo. ‘Know anyone, do you, Arlo?’ Before he could respond, Jenn turned to Petra. ‘And you – would you know anyone, Petra? Might you know someone who's looking for somewhere to live up this way, perhaps?’

At the end of the month, on a weekend in London, Arlo looked up a couple of his old friends.

‘Do you remember Jonny Noble?’ Arlo asked. Petra thought hard but shook her head. ‘Of course you do,’ Arlo laughed. ‘He was the world-class rhythm guitarist with the Noble Savages.’

Petra thought back to that distant lunch-time one spring when Arlo's band had played at her school. ‘Vaguely,’ she said. ‘I can see you all up on our stage – but I can't make out his face, really. I just see you – you and your curls and your school shirt rolled up to your elbows. Are you blushing, Mr Savidge?’

‘No, I'm mourning my curls.’

Petra laughed. ‘Anyway, what of this noble Jonny boy?’

‘I gave him a call. I thought we'd meet up later. He was intrigued to hear about you. And you'd love him – he's just the same.’

Petra was game. ‘What does he do now?’

‘He's an estate agent,’ Arlo laughed, ‘but I think he still picks up his guitar every once in a while.’

* * *

Petra didn't recognize Jonny though with his thick dark hair and slim physique he probably looked closer to his schoolboy self than Arlo did. However, his affection towards Arlo and his geniality towards Petra made her feel as though he was indeed an old pal. He and Arlo spent the first half-hour joshing with each other, enlivened with a few slaps on the back and ruffling of each other's heads. They had a prime table, outside the legendary Flask pub in Highgate.

‘It's a toupee, you know,’ Arlo told Petra, patting Jonny's hair.

‘I won't even rise to this, Savidge,’ Jonny said, ‘you bald git. Has he told you he thinks he looks like Bruce Willis, Petra?’

‘Oh yes, Jonny,’ Petra said straight, ‘but I think he looks more like Phil from
Location Location Location
.’

Jonny roared with laughter. ‘Where do you live now, Petra?’

‘Oh, well sort of in North Finchley – only the ceiling fell down so I'm staying with a friend in Brondesbury.’

‘Very nice area,’ Jonny nodded sagely. ‘Where did you grow up? Where were you living when we were all at school?’

‘Well, my teenage years were spent in a flat on the poor man's side of West Hampstead.’

‘Very des-res now,’ Jonny remarked.

‘But up until then, my family home was in that odd area between Hendon and Cricklewood.’

‘It's not so odd now,’ Jonny said. ‘Randoline Avenue.’

‘Randoline Avenue?’

‘You won't know it.’

‘I very do, my dear, I very do. I have currently two or three properties for sale there.’

‘Well, we lived at number 43.’

‘Number 43 is currently for sale,’ Jonny said, having not stopped nodding.

‘Yeah right!’ Petra laughed.

‘On those last hairs on Arlo's head do I swear that I have number forty-three Randoline Avenue, London, North-west two, on my books for sale. It is a three-bed, 1930s semi, with off-street parking. It came on the market a couple of months ago. We are sole agents.’

‘Bloody bloody hell!’ Petra marvelled.

‘Fifty-foot rear garden facing south-east, sizeable conservatory.’

‘Oh, can't be the same place – we didn't have a conservatory.’

‘The vendors put it in a couple of years ago.’

‘Did they? That's rather grandiose.’

‘It's added thirty grand to the price. I'll take you round if you like,’ Jonny said. ‘Nothing like a trip down Memory Lane.’

Curiosity saw Petra taking up Jonny's offer on Monday lunch-time. Arlo accompanied them.

‘There it is!’ she said excitedly. ‘Fancy new drive. We had the front door red, not black.’

But as Jonny's key went into the lock, Petra felt suddenly a little shy of the place. It had been almost twenty years. What memories could she possibly have, really? And what would be the point of unearthing new ones?

Although she didn't recognize the smell of the place, the way the light bathed the entrance hallway from the tall window as the stairs climbed was immediately evocative. Arlo caught Jonny's arm swiftly, raised an eyebrow, and the men allowed Petra to take the lead. All the doors were shut. They had been stripped back to the bare wood though Petra distinctly remembered them as white gloss. Opening each was odd, in a Lewis Carroll way. With her hand on the doorknob, how the room used to look flashed across her mind's eye. When she pushed the door open, however, the interior was of course totally different. But seeing someone else's brown leather suite didn't cancel out the memory of her family's beige velvet one. And she could easily carpet over the current laminate flooring with an image of the rather pub-like blue-and-gold patterned wool mix of her childhood.

‘The kitchen's twice the size,’ she marvelled. ‘Blimey – and look at the conservatory.’ Everything was rather echoey. She turned to Jonny. ‘They don't have much stuff.’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘they've already moved out. I just always suggest my clients part-furnish – or
dress
– the properties if they are empty. All this furniture is just hired while the house is on the market.’

Petra led the way upstairs. All the doors were closed up there too. They were still the gloss white of her childhood and not stripped like those downstairs. ‘This was my bedroom,’ Petra said quietly, opening the door slowly and peeping through before stepping in. There was a single bed, in the same position hers had been. It appeared from the curtains and the wallpaper border that a boy had most recently had this room. The airing cupboard still jutted into the room from one corner and Petra wondered if it was the same hot water tank inside it, portly in its big red Puffa jacket. Did it still sigh and creak – as if to say that providing hot water for a family was so very onerous?

Jonny and Arlo stood well back to allow Petra to continue her tour. Spare bedroom. Petra found her hand faltered. She moved on instead to the next room – the bathroom, now with corner bath freeing up space for a walk-in shower. At the front, her parents' room. Again, she felt herself waver before opening the door and going in. The same fitted bedroom furniture, which had been the height of Scandinavian curvilinear chic twenty-odd years ago. How bizarre to keep that, yet build such a fancy conservatory. She walked over to the window. Same old view, though the road seemed narrower these days. Perhaps because every house now had two cars. One in the drive. One on the street.

Giving Jonny and Arlo a quick smile, Petra went back along the hallway, peered into the bathroom again, and shut the door. Went back into her bedroom for a few more minutes. Then shut that door too. Lastly, she did look into the spare room briefly but she didn't step inside and she left that door open before she went back downstairs, stood by the front door and said, Thanks, Jonny, that was – bizarre. Let's go.

Petra was quiet and reflective for the rest of the afternoon.

‘There's so much I do remember,’ she said to Arlo, ‘and so much I sense I don't.’

Later that evening, Petra went to bed early leaving Arlo and Eric to enjoy a beer and a rerun of
The Office
on TV.

‘Can I make a phone call, Eric?’

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks.’ Arlo dialled Jonny.

‘Hullo, mate! Please don't tell me you're going to put in an offer on Randoline Avenue, for old times' sake?’

‘No, but I am going to ask you for a massive favour,’ Arlo said to Johnny, ‘and I don't even know if it's legal.’