The House on Fortune Street (36 page)

off to say that he was coming down to London in a fortnight: could they have lunch?

“That would be great but I think Dara is working.”

“Dara?” Then he said, given Abigail’s questions, why not keep lunch just the two of them; he would see if Dara was free for an early supper. The address he had given her, his club, turned out to be a tall, cream-colored house near Trafalgar Square. When she stepped into the hall, the first person she saw was Alastair seated in a chair, facing the door, his briefcase on the floor beside him. He was not reading the newspaper, or studying a file, or checking his phone; he was simply watching the door and, for a few seconds, he went on sitting there, watching her as if she were stepping onto a stage. Then he rose to his feet and kissed

her on both cheeks.

“You look lovely. If you’re not ravenous, let’s have a drink before we go into the dining room. The place gets pleasantly quiet after two.”

He led the way upstairs to a large, elegant room and over to two armchairs beside a window. A few other groups of chairs were occupied but the room seemed to absorb all conversation. “So tell me everything,” said Alastair, after he had ordered them each a glass of wine. “I haven’t seen you since we had supper in America.”

He and Fiona had been over in New York and Abigail had taken the train down from New Haven to meet them. They had had dinner on the Upper East Side and afterward—it was a warm summer evening—strolled through the city. Alastair had talked, she remembered, about his childhood in the Orkneys: the sea all around him, the beautiful light. Now she briefly summarized what had happened since she bought the house: her acting, the success of her one-woman show, her plan to start a theater.

“And rumor has it,” said Alastair,“that you’ve come down from Mount Olympus and joined the rest of us with our earthly passions.” His arched eyebrows signaled his meaning.

“Yes, I’m living with Sean.” She gave a few vital statistics. “And does he pay rent?” Alastair smiled.

“Not at the moment,” said Abigail, taken aback. “He’s a poor scholar.” “I used to wonder what kind of man would bring you low.”

Before she could say that she didn’t think of herself as brought low, a waiter was standing over them: their table was ready. As she rose to her feet, she was aware of the wine she had drunk. I must watch myself, she thought. But Alastair had different ideas. After studying the menu, he insisted they start with oysters and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. She told him about her father and his dying feast.

“I can understand that,” said Alastair. “I plan to ask for oysters on my deathbed. I have to say I was surprised you came back to take care of him.” “I didn’t mean to. I was worried he’d die without my getting to tell

him how badly he’d treated me. And then there was no one else.” “Did he apologize?” He handed her another oyster.

“Not exactly, but I finally understood that his behavior wasn’t”—she savored the smooth saltiness—“malicious. He really did think he was giving me an exciting childhood. By the time he died, my anger was gone.”

Over the main course they talked about her theater. Alastair was impressed by her organization, the funding she’d got so far, and had several suggestions. She reached for her notebook, but he said they shouldn’t spoil their lunch. He would jot down the main points for her later.

For coffee they returned to the armchairs by the window. In the street outside dusk was falling and people were going about their normal lives: a man went by on a bicycle, a woman walked a dog. Watching them, Abigail was filled with a sense of how far she had traveled from the marshes of the Medway to this quiet, expensive room.

“I’m afraid I’ve asked a lot of impertinent questions,” Alastair said, eyeing her over the rim of his cup.

“Yes.”

“I’m not like this with anyone else, but I feel entitled with you.” “Because you’ve known me for so long,” she suggested.

“No, or only partly. Because—it’s a little private vanity—I see myself as one of your authors.”

He too, she realized, was quite drunk.“You and Fiona were very kind to me. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” She spoke both sincerely and automatically.

“So you didn’t guess?” He set down his cup. “You’re so clever, I was sure you would.”

“Guess what?” she asked, even as she knew she shouldn’t. What she should do was get out of her chair, pretend to be going to the ladies’, and never come back.

Alastair laughed softly. “That I was Mr. MacPherson, so to speak.”

Oh, so that was all, she thought, and was amused at the force of her relief. “I know he didn’t pick me for my stunning acting. You and Fiona made it happen. She saw how hard up I was, that I hated to spend the summer as a chambermaid.”

“No, not Fiona. Me. She liked you but she worried about you becom-ing too dependent on us. You really had no idea?”

“There was the letter, the flat, the checks.”

“The letter came from me, if you remember. So did the checks. There was a Mr. MacPherson, a colleague of mine, and he owned the flat where you stayed, but I paid the rent, and your little stipend. I always enjoyed your grateful letters at the end of the summer. I still have them in my files.”

“So Fiona . . . ?” So Fiona hadn’t sympathized with her, believed in her.

“Knew nothing about it. It was my secret. Ours,” he amended. “But why?”

“One,” said Alastair, holding up his fingers.“I was curious to see what would happen if someone gave you a hand. Two, I was grateful to you for helping Dara to get on her feet. Having you as a friend made such a difference. Three, I fancied you something rotten. As you surely realized that day you came round and I nearly succumbed. Remember we were talking about Dickens, about which book was the key to your life?”

She picked up her handbag and stood up. At once Alastair was on his feet. Before she could move, he seized her shoulders and kissed her ardently, openmouthed. For a moment she kissed him back. And then she was out in Trafalgar Square among the hapless tourists and the scruffy pigeons.

few weeks after lunch with Alastair, Abigail was walking

home from the pub with Sean one evening when she asked him to pay rent. And a few weeks after that, she noticed that she was no longer immune to the glances of other men. The one person to whom she could have confided these changes was the one person to whom she couldn’t. Most weeks she ran into Dara but they seldom talked for long and, even during their brief conversations, she found Dara’s endless optimism about Edward hard to bear. Her friend had joined a cult in which all dissent was forbidden. And then one afternoon, when she was sitting in her office, two pages slid out of the fax machine, the first a curt note from Sean, the second a letter.

Dear Mr. Writer,

How is it that you don’t see what’s right in front of your face? Abigail was hanging out with Mr. Cupid in the pub last week and

again yesterday, for all the world to see. Ask her who was with her in Manchester last March.

You deserve better, Sunshine. Open your bright blue eyes and wake up.

A well-wisher

Her first thought was that the author had guessed her secret long-ings. One night in Manchester she had flirted with a young actor and narrowly avoided going to his room. And last Monday, when she and Sean’s friend Valentine had a drink—she loved the conceit of calling him Mr. Cupid—she had found herself flushed and laughing. Valentine flattered her outrageously and his confidence was attractive. As was his willingness to produce crisp twenty-pound notes to pay for their drinks. During their third round, in the midst of telling her about the latest row at the BBC, his hand had come to rest on her thigh; she had left it there.

She phoned Sean to complain about the letter, and went home to make dinner. She could tell that he did, and did not, believe her; in bed that night she had to coax him. His doubt and his lack of passion justified what happened when she ran into Valentine at the pub the following week. “So listen,” she said. “Someone thinks we’re screwing around.” She told him about the letter.

“Wild,” he said. “I wonder if they’re watching us now.”

“Who knows?” She glanced around the room where there were at least half a dozen people she knew, including the stage manager and the accountant. Then she leaned over and kissed Valentine.

When she drew back, he looked at her questioningly. “‘The grave’s a fine and private place,’” he offered.

It was an old line but she drained her glass and rose to her feet. His

car was parked nearby and every light was green. They both knew, she thought, where they were going and why, but at his flat he seemed non-plussed when she began to pull off her clothes. “Abigail,” he said, “are you sure you want to do this?” But she was already reaching for him. They fucked on the sofa and then, a second time, on the floor.

Afterward she carried her clothes to the bathroom where she peed and washed, avoiding the perfumed soap and her reflection. When she came out Valentine was sitting on the sofa, naked, smoking a cigarette. She sat down beside him, keeping her clothed self at a careful distance. “That was fun this evening,” she said, “showing off in the pub, but I don’t want to hurt Sean.”

“Of course,” said Valentine. “That goes without saying. I wouldn’t hurt dear old Sean for the world.”

So we’re going to do this again, thought Abigail. The letter writer was right.

ften enough in the past she had had more than one lover, but she had never before concealed the fact. Now she discovered that she enjoyed the scheming, and arranging. The company was touring, performing in various towns, most of them no more than a couple of hours from London. Valentine would meet her in dingy Indian restaurants after the show; they would eat quickly and then she would sneak him into the hotel. Sometimes he stayed for an hour; sometimes he stayed until dawn. Afterward, alone in bed, Abigail would

imagine talking to Dara.

You persuaded Sean to leave his wife and now you’re cheating on him? He already betrayed me, by regretting his decision to leave her.

And you’re doing this with his business partner?

Valentine is Sean’s friend. We’re careful not to hurt him.

Abigail, that’s absurd. Of course you’re hurting Sean. Even if he doesn’t exactly know he must sense the change.

But it’s a good change. I’m much easier to get on with these days. And he doesn’t sense anything. If he still sensed things about me, I wouldn’t be doing this.

Back and forth the exchange would go, Abigail deftly conjuring up Dara’s criticisms, until the knowledge that her own behavior was inde-fensible, and that she had no plans to change it, would drive her out of bed and downstairs to whatever the hotel had to offer in the way of breakfast and newspapers.

he had also never before had such a significant secret from Dara. Added to her doubts about Edward, it made it even harder to get in touch, but when they ran into each other at the supermarket in early November—she was buying food as an alibi for meeting Valentine—she was so pleased to see her that she at once suggested a drink. As she waited at the bar of the Lord Nelson, she glanced over at Dara sitting on the banquette, and was struck by how elegant she looked in her gray pullover and black skirt. When she set their wine on the table, she saw that Dara’s eyes were carefully outlined and her lashes

dark. “How are you?” she said. “You look fabulous.”

“I’m fine,” said Dara emphatically. She mentioned a new support group at the center. Then she said she’d been longing to tell Abigail about the amazing conversation she had had with her father the day they went to Sissinghurst. All her life she had believed him to be an only child. Now it turned out that he had had a younger brother, Lionel, who died in a rugby scrum when he was fourteen.

“But what Dad has been carrying all these years,” she said, “is the fear

that he killed Lionel by moving his head. Suddenly everything made sense. Why he was so distant, why he left, it all had to do with Lionel, and his guilt. I’m so glad”—she blinked—“that he finally felt able to tell me.”

Within the awkward confines of the table, Abigail reached to hug her. She meant to comfort Dara, but she herself was comforted by her friend’s familiar warmth: a constant presence in her topsy-turvy life. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” she said when she was back in her seat. “I hardly have time to brush my teeth.”

“Yes,” said Dara in her counseling voice. “Sean’s told me.”

At once Abigail could imagine Sean’s litany of complaints: so just, and so inaccurate. And what would Dara say if she revealed that she had left Valentine’s bed an hour ago? “I know the touring is hard on him,” she offered.

“And the new book is a lot of work. When I ran into him a few weeks ago, he couldn’t stop talking about the interviews.”

“I wish he’d kept going with his dissertation. I liked it when he came home from the library and told me stories about Keats and Fanny.”

“But”—Dara set down her glass—“you started charging him rent.”

Perhaps it was the pressure of her other secrets, the ones she could on no account divulge, that made Abigail say, “Your stepfather told me to.” Of course Dara asked what she meant and she explained about common-law marriage. “That’s why I broke up with Ralph. I couldn’t risk him suing me for half the house.”

“Abigail, that’s insane. Why would Ralph sue you? And poor Sean. I remember your saying you wanted him to feel that the house was his home. How can he do that when you treat him like a tenant?” She leaned back in her seat as if this startling information required a fresh perspective. “So even at the beginning,” she said, “you had your doubts about Sean. That’s so sad when he gave up everything for you.”

Finally, thought Abigail, they were having her imaginary conversation. “‘Everything,’” she said. “You sound like we’re in a Harlequin