A Hidden Life (14 page)

‘No, that's fine, really.' Where had he got the number? Lou wondered, before realizing it must be in her file in the Cinnamon Hill offices.

‘The thing is, I wondered if we could get together before your next visit to the office … I need to find something to show George Fuertes from Disney who's coming over next week. There're a couple of things I put in the almost pile I'd like to talk to you about, if that's okay?'

‘Absolutely.' This was not the moment to say she'd quite forgotten what they'd decided ought to go in the almost pile. ‘I'll come in tomorrow, shall I? What time's good for you?'

‘I thought it'd be good to do it over a meal. Are you busy Thursday night? There's a nice place in Camden Town – that's quite near you, isn't it?'

‘Yes. Yes, it is. Thanks, Harry, that'd be great.'

‘No probs. I'll pick you up at your place at seven-thirty, okay?'

‘Yes, that'll be fine.'

A silence fell and Lou wondered what she ought to say next.' I'm looking forward to it.'

‘Me too. Bye.'

He was gone. She sat down at the table and opened her laptop. As she went through the moves that got her into her screenplay file, Lou kept returning to what she'd said; what Harry had said. He'd asked her out. He thought it would be ‘good' to do this over a meal. That meant he wanted to have a meal with her, right? Not necessarily. It could be that he wanted to do this work and didn't have time at the
office. This was just convenient. He'd said he was looking forward to it. But that was only in response to her saying she was … Oh, God, did I come across, Lou thought, as too eager?

She'd wanted to do some more work and speaking to Harry had disturbed her. She felt … she had no idea what she felt. Churned up. Worried. What on earth was there to worry about? She took a deep breath. She was worried that Harry might really like her. What if he meant this to be a date? A first step in trying to get closer to her. Was that possible? And if it was, what was she going to do? I like Harry, she thought. He's kind and good-looking and so why does the thought of him touching me, of
anyone
touching me, scare me stiff? She dreaded the thought that this, the way she was now, was how she was always going to be. Surely not – she'd get over it in the end, of course she would. She knew that not all men were like Ray, but that knowledge didn't seem to make any difference whatsoever. Since he left her, she'd been out with a couple of men who seemed really nice and gentle and unthreatening. She was no longer attracted to bastards, and had developed a kind of radar that allowed her to spot the obvious ones a mile off. Still, the moment any relationship moved towards the physical, she'd been unable to cope and had pushed – sometimes literally – whoever it happened to be as far away as possible. I must, she thought, hold a kind of record for pushing blokes away. Tears came into her eyes as she stared at the screen and wondered how long it would be until she was normal again. How would she feel about Harry kissing her? She had no idea. She was drawn to him. She liked the idea of him, but wondered whether she would be able to relax enough to allow him to come that close to her.

She clicked open her computer file and tried to turn her mind to her work. This was all crap. Harry probably had no plans to do anything other than eat a meal with her and discuss movie scripts. Conceited as well as stupid, she chided herself. Who'd want to kiss you? Grow up. Do some work and take your mind off Harry Lang.

‘I'm not complaining,' Matt said, aware of the complaining note in his voice and conscious that complaining was precisely what he was doing. ‘It's just that …'

She was gone.
It's just that I thought that tonight we might, you know … it's been a while since we
 … Who was he kidding? He lay in the double bed. That was the thing with babies. You couldn't ask them to wait. No one ever did. Many years ago, when Lou was tiny, Matt found himself saying sometimes, ‘Leave her crying for a bit. She may change her mind and go back to sleep again …' but then as now, Phyl was out of bed and in her dressing gown and on the landing almost before he'd spoken. And in those days, he hadn't minded. Every one of Lou's babyish cries went right through him, and he'd have done the same as Phyl in all probability and rushed off to tend to her if she hadn't beaten him to it. His grumbles usually came when they were interrupted during sex, which happened, it seemed to him, almost every time he took his wife into his arms. It was as though the tiny Lou knew what was going on and wanted to put a stop to it. Phyl always claimed that she was the best baby in the whole world. The best-behaved, the best sleeper. Simply the best. Lying, Matt had realized then, was part of being a parent. Phyl didn't even notice she was doing it and, moreover, that she'd now returned to doing it again.

Poppy was lovely, you couldn't argue with that. He loved her to bits, and had almost grown accustomed to having his house turned upside down. Phyl did her best, but babies seemed to come with
a whole barrowload of
stuff:
baby wipes, nappies, fragranced nappy sacks (that was what Phyl called them) which turned out to be little plastic bags that smelled almost as unpleasant as the contents they were designed to contain. And what kind of a word was ‘fragranced' for heaven's sake? Then there were cuddly toys on every chair, bricks underfoot, the fridge crowded with miniature pots of mush and the television permanently tuned to CBeebies. He even knew the signature tune for
Balamory
 … that was how bad it had become. Even when the child was out of the way, in bed, there were the endless telephone calls between Lou and Phyl during which every detail of Poppy's day had to be recounted in mind-numbing detail. He was drowning in a tide of babyness and Poppy had only been in the house a week.

When the children left home, Matt had thought that perhaps their sex life would improve. He wasn't the sort of man to confide in his friends and he would have been horrified and embarrassed to hear any confessions from them, but he had the idea that what went on between him and Phyl was pretty normal. They'd settled into a pattern early in their marriage which worked out, he reckoned (though he never really did calculate it … that would have seemed too scientific), at about three or four times a month. Well, they were busy. And, he told himself, we weren't like a young married couple at all, even when we first got together. They started married life with Nessa and Justin to think of, and then Phyl became pregnant with Lou. The baby often interrupted them, that was true, but even worse was the knowledge that Ellie's children were just
there,
across the landing. That was the true inhibiting factor. At all events, he felt inhibited, even if Phyl didn't.

Phyl. Matt turned over in bed and looked out at the triangle of light on the carpet. Perhaps it was her fault. She wasn't … he searched for the right word … passionate? Abandoned? Reckless? He wasn't quite sure, but perhaps a combination of all three. His marriage to Ellie, however short-lived it had been, was full of specific occasions which he could still recall. Nessa and Justin were still very young in those days, and Ellie made sure they attended good nurseries so that she could have more time for herself. She didn't work, and seemed to spend most days visiting Constance and going to a bewildering
array of coffee mornings, bridge afternoons and cocktail parties. But Ellie quite often summoned him home at lunchtime and once or twice they'd fucked on the stairs, unable to control themselves long enough to make it to the bedroom. They'd fucked in an armchair in the conservatory; standing up in the kitchen against the back door; and once, memorably, in his study late one night when Ellie, fed up with waiting for him to come to bed, just sat naked on his lap with her breasts in his face, forcing him to leave the papers he was working on. They were lucky that night. Ellie might easily have woken the children with the cries and the constant throaty moans and sighs that he loved to hear.

He was becoming aroused just thinking about it. Stop that at once, he told himself … He turned his mind to Phyl. It was impossible to think of making love to her anywhere other than in their double bed. She'd regard it as a kind of showing-off – unnecessary and flashy, even pornographic. Phyl with her skirt pushed up and bending over the kitchen table – unthinkable! Matt smiled at the idea. It didn't turn him on. She'd regard it as a kind of vandalizing of the kitchen which she kept so clean and pretty.

He'd had a vague notion of starting afresh: getting to know Phyl again, and being together in a way that hadn't been possible with three children growing up around them. And now look at us, he thought, taking care of Poppy for no very persuasive reason that he could see. The fact was, Phyl was besotted and wanted the baby near her. It was as simple as that.

He began thinking about his mother. The first sorrow that he'd felt after her death had been dissipated by fury at the provisions of her will. It was only now, after a few weeks had gone by, that he allowed himself to miss her a little. She had irritated him beyond measure more often than not, and his visits to Milthorpe House had become shorter and shorter because she always found a way to annoy him; to say exactly the thing that would rub him up the wrong way. It was like a game with her. She'd toss little hand-grenades into the conversation, and watch them explode. A criticism of Lou here, a catty remark about Phyl's clothes there, a comparison (always unfavourable) between the way he ran the firm and what used to happen in his father's day.

Matt smiled. Her technique was amazing. She'd say something that you'd rush to deny, but there was always just enough truth in the accusation or observation to get under your skin. For instance, about Lou, she'd once announced: ‘I'd have thought you'd show such a young man the door, Matthew, instead of going along with Lou's childish infatuation.'

He couldn't, of course. You didn't, as Constance put it, show the door to the man your daughter said she loved – too Victorian and Heavy Father for words – and yet, Matt still felt guilty about allowing Lou to suffer for so long without intervening. She'd have called it interference and she'd have been right, but still. It was something he regretted. As for him, and the way he ran the business, Matt could remember very similar conversations at table when he was a boy, when Constance (who had forbidden him to call her Mum or Mother – why was that?) nagged his father ceaselessly. John Barrington had been a patient man, but there had been one or two scenes during Matt's childhood which he could still remember in detail. His father smashing a wine glass down on the table so hard that shards of glass flew into the air and fell glittering and sharp on to the carpet. Constance watching her husband leave the room and ringing the small brass bell that stood beside her plate to summon Miss Hardy, and smiling a particularly acid smile at Matt, transfixed in his chair, unable to move.

‘Your father,' she'd said, ‘is not himself.'

How old he was then Matt could no longer remember. Eight or ten, perhaps. Now, looking back, it occurred to him that smashing wine glasses maybe
was
Father's real self and the quiet, polite, self-effacing man, who spent a great deal of time shut up in the study and very little with his son, was the disguise. He couldn't remember what Constance had said that day. It must have been something to do with Father's books – that was what always got to him. The books were a bone of contention. His mother wouldn't have valued them unless they'd made money, which they never did. It was no good talking to her about their literary merit, she wasn't a reader. The books in the library were Father's and Constance put up with them because someone had once told her that they made a room look rather splendid, that they indicated culture and discernment on the part of their owners. They were a useful decorative fixture, no more.

Where was Phyl? This was ridiculous. Should he go down to the kitchen and get a cup of tea? He listened to the silence. Poppy wasn't crying. She must surely come back soon … Yes, here she was.

‘You awake? I'm so sorry, darling,' she whispered, hanging her gown on the back of the door and getting into bed next to him.

‘It's okay. I was just wondering whether to go down and get a cup of tea.'

‘I'll go, if you like. I'll get us both one.'

He leaned over and kissed the warm flesh of her upper arm. That was the thing about Phyl. She was kind: genuinely kind and loving and he felt retrospectively guilty about comparing her sexual prowess with Ellie's, who, if fucking were an Olympic sport, would have brought home the Gold.

‘You're a darling,' he said. ‘Thanks.'

Phyl got out of bed and put on her gown again. Matt settled himself against the pillows and turned on his bedside light. Why had his father stood it for so long? Why hadn't he simply left her? It might have been the money, which was hers and not his. It was his grandfather who'd started the law practice and Father joined it very young. And he was still very young when he married Constance. Matt wondered whether marrying people who were older than you ran in families. Milthorpe House, the business – they must have represented security for John after a very shaky start to life, out there in North Borneo, in a prison camp, no less. Perhaps he didn't want to lose that comfort.

Why didn't I ask Father about his childhood, ever? Why didn't we speak more? Matt treasured the fact that he and Lou had always been able to talk about anything, and frequently did, but the conversations – proper conversations – he'd had with his father were so few and far between that he could remember most of them quite clearly. Once, he'd asked about aunts and uncles. Did Father never have any brothers or sisters? He was sitting on the grass in the front garden of Milthorpe House and Father was on a deck chair with a book in his hand. Perhaps I'd just come back from school, Matt thought. Constance wasn't around. Neither was Miss Hardy. Father had put his book down on his lap and said, ‘I did have a sister. She died when she was still a very small baby.'