Banishing Verona (32 page)

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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Banishing Verona
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Too late for music, he thought, it would disturb his neighbors, and mint would only remind him of the shop. He walked from room to room, searching vainly in his neat bedroom, his immaculate kitchen, for something that would finally, irrevocably banish Verona. At last—he wasn't at all sure it would work—he unplugged the answering machine, put it in a shopping bag, seized the trowel he used to tend his window boxes, and let himself out of the flat.
Almost at once, even passing the stump of the ash tree, he felt fractionally better. The night was cloudy, starless, moonless. Years from now, he thought, perhaps I'll tell someone about my adventures with Verona and the stupid thing I did one night. He made his way through side streets to the local park. He walked across the grass, past the scorched circle marking the Guy Fawkes bonfire, until he reached the row of houses where, late one evening after reading Jigger's notebook, he had watched the man and two women. Tonight all the lights were off and he wasn't sure which house it was. No matter. He paced thirty feet away from the leafless plane trees, knelt down on the damp grass, and began to dig.
The ground was surprisingly hard, and in the dark it was difficult to figure out what he was doing. It must be tricky, he thought
groping around with the trowel, for blind people to garden. He did his best to pile the soil in one place. After several attempts he at last had a hole large enough to accommodate the answering machine. He wound the cords tightly around its body and set it down in the earth. “Good-bye, Verona, good-bye, Ms. F,” he said. “Fare thee well.”
Then he pushed the soil back on top, stamped it down, and covered it with the few ragged pieces of grass he had managed to save. Probably there was some law against this, he thought, burying a machine in a public park. If charged he would explain that it was an emergency. He bowed once to the grave and turned toward home. At the first rubbish bin, he threw away the shopping bag and the trowel. A waste of both, but he wanted no part of her to reenter his home, or his brain.
At every stage of Verona's departure from America, difficulties arose. The limousine, which Adrian had booked to take her and Henry to the airport, arrived late; an accident choked the highway; the airport itself, once they located the correct terminal, was a maelstrom of confusion. Almost no one spoke English. The loudspeaker announcements were incomprehensible. The lines to check in tangled across the concourse; so did the lines to get through security. By the time Verona was free to call Zeke, she and Henry were at the gate and the plane was boarding. At the row of phones she squeezed in between a man in a fake fur coat and a girl in a powder-blue tracksuit and dialed the number of the hotel in Boston. As she listened to the phone ringing, she remembered telling Zeke how she had written the names of everyone she wanted to get rid of on her bedroom wall and painted over them. That was what they would do with America. After a dozen rings the hotel operator answered. She was on hold, waiting for the switchboard, when she felt Henry tugging at her sleeve.
“V, we have to go. You can make all the phone calls you want from London.”
Like an echo came an unusually clear announcement: last call
for London. Furious with herself, with the tediously slow hotel staff and the punctual flight, Verona relinquished the phone and followed Henry down the jetway. As soon as she entered the no-man's -land of the plane, she knew she had done something irrevocably stupid. Nothing was more important than talking to Zeke. Besides, her suitcases were in the hold; they wouldn't have left without her. She let Henry go ahead and turned back down the aisle. She was almost at the door when a flight attendant stepped in front of her.
“Madam, the door of the plane is closed.”
For as long as it took to blink, Verona imagined clutching her belly, complaining of pains. But that would be inviting the dream to come true. She allowed herself to be ushered back to her seat. Slowly, implacably, the plane rolled away from the gate.
“What was that about?” said Henry. “Are you all right?”
“I made a terrible mistake.”
“Tell me about it. I'm a master of mistakes and how to survive them.”
He was leaning back in his seat, his eyes closed. Studying him at close range, she noticed for the first time in years the tiny scar just below his hairline where, one winter afternoon, he had cut his head on a radiator while they were playing catch. As the plane accelerated down the runway and into the air, she finally confided in Henry. She began with finding Nigel and George in her flat and went on to describe her appeal to Emmanuel, her meeting with Zeke and their day together, Toby's frightening fax, her precipitous departure to America, and how she had invited Zeke to Boston, only to find herself going to New York.
“You mean”—Henry opened his eyes and turned to look at her—“he came all the way to Boston, expecting to see you, and you weren't there.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't speak to him just now?”
She gave a small, miserable shake of the head. If Henry was shocked, matters were even worse than she'd imagined. He
reached over and patted her knee. “Poor Verona. What a lot of trouble I've caused you. But look on the bright side. You would never have met him if it hadn't been for my bad behavior.”
Somehow that twisted fact, and Henry's pride in it, did make her feel slightly better. “Do you think he'll ever forgive me?” she said.
“You
are
in a bad way if you're asking me that.” Then, seeing that she was beyond teasing, he went on to explain his theory of lovers' quarrels: the real problem was not forgiveness but coming to terms with lost illusions. “People can forgive each other until the seas run dry, but if you've lost the feeling that the other person is special and amazing then it doesn't help much.”
As he spoke, the noise of the plane's engines shifted to a lower note; they had reached their cruising altitude. “So is that what you think about Betty,” she said, “that your relationship was based on illusions?”
“Well, certainly on her side. She had the bizarre notion that I was a nice person. As for mine, I wish I'd had the chance to find out. I probably idealized her hopelessly as the rich beautiful socialist.”
“Are you going to get in touch with her?”
“I change my mind twenty times an hour. Unless some miracle occurs—she catches me rescuing a drowning child or giving my wallet to a blind man—I don't think much is going to change. She doesn't trust me, and who can blame her?”
“Maybe I could talk to her.” As soon as the words were out Verona was struck by her own contrariness. Her brother had betrayed her twenty times over, yet the old habits of loyalty persisted.
“Maybe,” he said vaguely. And then, “Yes, if you explained what had happened—how I was tempted and fell but it doesn't mean I'm rotten to the core—perhaps she'd understand. I could talk to Zeke.” He was sounding more confident by the syllable. “Tell him it was all my fault you'd abandoned him in Boston.”
Would that help, she wondered. She had no idea. As two flight
attendants approached with the drinks cart, Henry, still enthusing about this plan, asked for her mobile phone and entered Betty's number in the directory.
“A gin and tonic, please,” he said, and then, to her, “If you were drinking, I'd order champagne.”
“Bring it to the hospital in six weeks. When I was ill I kept having this dream that the baby was going to be born in America.”
“Not exactly a fate worse than death. It would have been nice for our new relative to have joint citizenship. So who's the father?”
His voice was so casual that for a few seconds she nearly told him the truth. “Oh, no, you don't,” she said. “It's quite enough that you'll be an uncle. You don't need to know anything more than that.”
“After all we've been through.” He sighed theatrically and raised his glass.
“After all we've been through, I have two questions for you, or a question and a request.”
“Let's do the request first, while I'm still feeling sorry for you.”
She had barely uttered Toby's name when he interrupted.
“Yes, I borrowed money from him, and yes, I'll pay it back. I do have some morals, you know. Besides, it would be very inconvenient for me to have my best friend on the street. And the ques-tiona”
“Why do you change the topic every time someone suggests you use your house to raise money?” The big advantage of discussing difficult matters on the plane was that there was no escape. The disadvantage was that it was easy for Henry to hide his expression by staring out of the window, leaving her only a glimpse of his profile.
“You know the house in Lucca where I go in the summer? It came on the market, and I took out a second mortgage to buy it. The bungalow scheme had already fallen apart and I knew Nigel and George would have a fit if they found out. I haven't even
dared tell Toby, though I'm sure he'll be pleased in the long run.”
He had almost beggared his oldest friend to buy a house where he spent barely a month a year. “Why do you do these things, Henry? It causes so much trouble.”
“I can't answer that in general,” he said, “but the house in Lucca is my favorite place in the world. Nothing makes me happier than to sit on my patio with a glass of the quite average local wine and gaze out across the olive groves and churches. Don't ask me why.”
 
 
Immediately after dinner, she fell asleep and woke only when Henry shook her shoulder. He was at his affable, efficient best as he guided her through Heathrow, retrieved their luggage, and got them on the train to Paddington. They took a taxi from the station to her flat, and he carried her suitcases upstairs. “Do you need me to get you anything?” he said, setting them down in the hall.
She was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, taking in the dirty dishes, the grimy floor, the solitary slice of toast sticking out of the toaster, the papers on the table weighted down with a jar of damson jam and, for some reason, a candlestick. On the counter were the two bags of groceries she had bought on the afternoon of Nigel and George's visit. She was so dismayed by the squalor that Henry had to repeat his question.
“No, thanks. The two things I need are right here: bath and bed.” She went into the bedroom and drew the curtains to hide whatever disorder was lurking there. As she turned back to the newly darkened room, she saw that Henry had followed her. “What is it?”
“I meant what I said on the plane. I'll talk to Zeke, make him understand that you were being a good sister rather than a bad girlfriend.”
She was so tired her bones no longer fit together. “Actually,”
she said, “I'm a wretched girlfriend. I'm cowardly when I ought to be brave, obstreperous when I ought to be conciliatory, quick to anger, slow to forgive, stubborn over the stupidest things.” She crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “But if I need you to testify on my behalf, I'll let you know.”
 
 
She had in the course of her career done hundreds of interviews, filled thousands of awkward pauses, but something about Zeke's answering machine seemed to render her peculiarly inarticulate. She left another unsatisfactory message as soon as she woke up. Then it occurred to her that she could at least make sure he wasn't still in America. She dialed the hotel and was told he had checked out that morning. Optimistically he was on a daytime flight to London, which meant he would land at eight or nine, be home by ten or eleven. He wouldn't call tonight, she thought, he'd be worried about disturbing her, but surely tomorrow. It would do her good to wait, as he had in Boston.
She took refuge in cleaning. She threw out everything that was rotten or mouldy. She unpacked and bought groceries. She did two loads of laundry and made the bed with clean sheets. She got out the vacuum and went through the entire flat. She scrubbed the stove and the fridge and the counters until the place was cleaner than it had been at any time since she moved in, several years ago. Then she walked down the street to the flower stall and bought twenty pounds' worth of spring flowers. Back at the house she gathered seldom-used vases and arranged them in every room save the bathroom. As she set the irises on the mantelpiece, she noticed how dirty the living room windows were; she must find a window cleaner. I'm nesting, she thought, I'm getting ready for someone. She pictured the baby revolving in its private darkness, Zeke flying to London, both coming toward her. Tonight, tomorrow, she would be in his presence. Meanwhile, she realized there was one person already here whom she could bear to talk to, who indeed owed her a conversation.
 
 
When she stepped into the gallery, Toby was standing in front of a large crimson painting talking to a willowy young man. She paused in the doorway, watching as he pointed to one corner, then stepped back, drawing the man with him, to examine the canvas as a whole. “You can see the influence of the colorists,” he said, “and his use of organic forms reminds me of van Gogh.”
“Or Gauguin,” suggested the young man.
“Absolutely,” said Toby. “He has a super essay about Gauguin, Cézanne, and Pollock.”
“Something for everyone,” said Verona.
“Verona,” said Toby. In a few strides he was embracing her.
The young man—he was not as pretty as Verona had feared—turned out to be the latest gallery assistant, Lawrence. After a brief exchange of pleasantries he withdrew discreetly, promising to deal with customers. Toby led her to his office with its black leather furniture and bright prints.
“You look magnificent,” he said. “Like a galleon under full sail. I bet the Americans loved you. They appreciate size over there. Tell me everything.”
“Why don't
you
tell me everything?” She sat down in the most upright of the chairs and regarded him steadily where he stood, leaning against the desk. “I still don't understand why you never mentioned Betty. And the business about you being one of Henry's creditors makes me feel totally manipulated.”
His freckles disappeared in a tide of color. “I'm sorry. I was an idiot not to tell you.”
“An idiot because I found out anyway?”
“Please,” said Toby, and as if summoned, Lawrence appeared, murmuring apologies for intruding, with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. “Verona, listen,” Toby continued, when they were alone again. “I'm sorry about Betty. It wasn't deliberate. I assumed Henry would have told you. When I realized he hadn't, I didn't want to betray his confidences.”
“Crap.”
“But what difference would it have made?” His blush was fading. He helped himself to a biscuit, then put it back.
“I wouldn't have gone.” At once this seemed true. Toby had flattered her into believing she was the only one who had any influence on Henry, the only one who could sort out his latest shenanigans. From the gallery came the buzz of the door, the sound of greetings.

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