Chances (25 page)

Daylight can be harsh. Daylight can also cast shadows over what seemed a good idea at night. Oliver, therefore, made a further trip to Wynfordbury Hall on the morning of bank holiday Sunday, approaching through the gates this time, along with the other visitors. It was so hot that many folk were choosing to picnic in the shade of the arboretum rather than on the exposed swathes of grass. As he passed the Wynfordbury Yew, he could hear the squeals and scamper of children inside it – a living, mysterious, secret playground which every child should have the opportunity to experience. It was heartening to see so many people, the families in particular, enjoying the great outdoors and eschewing the tat and grime of the bank holiday funfair on the other side of town. He walked away from the yew, on towards the outer reaches of the estate. He walked with purpose. He needed to check something, from his sortie two nights ago. Check it was still as he’d intended it to be. And then he was going to call by Vita’s. And if she wasn’t in, he was going to phone her. And if there was no answer, he’d wait until she was home.

*

Ruth Whitbury didn’t trust it when her daughter was so conscientiously upbeat, skitting over direct questions as if they were puddles on a path, smiling as if her life depended on it, breezing over how life was treating her, laughing excessively over things that warranted only a mere chuckle. They were linking arms, the two of them, strolling along the river path. They were walking out of town and along to the Swan Inn for Sunday lunch. Can’t do a thing on an empty stomach, Ruth thought. She intended to feed her daughter and then, over dessert, she’d pull out of her whatever was caught so deeply inside. Just as her husband had managed the splinters when Vita was a little girl. He’d distract Vita with a choc-ice and the television and then he’d deftly needle and tweeze the splinter out without his daughter realizing.

They chose a picnic table near to the water’s edge. They were lucky it was free – many people were having to loll on the grass, with their pints at precarious angles on the ground and their ploughman’s lunches perched on their laps. Vita insisted on spending a long time larkily discussing whether, having ordered two – one ham, one stilton – she should have asked for plough
mens
’ lunches. She was still hanging on this thread when she’d all but finished her summer pudding.

‘It’s like my friends the Boardmans,’ Vita said. ‘If I’m talking about more than one of them – should I refer to them as the Board
men
?’

Her mother thought this was a tangent too far. ‘And talking of friends, darling – how’s your young man? Well, I know you said he’s older – but I’m ancient so he’s still a whippersnapper to me.’

Vita just nodded. Nodded at the swans, at the water, at the last spoonful on her plate, at her mother.

‘He’s well, is he?’

‘He’s . . . It’s not going to work out. What a shame!’ and Vita smiled her way through it.

‘That
is
a pity,’ her mother said.

‘He’s . . . It’s not the right time for him, Mum,’ Vita said.

‘Why? Did he tell you so?’

‘No,’ Vita said slowly, looking away from her mother’s arched eyebrow. ‘Not exactly. He didn’t need to. You can tell.’

‘You can? How?’

‘He’s still grieving.’

‘He always will, darling.’

‘Exactly,’ Vita said quietly.

‘Grief takes on a variety of different shades,’ her mother said. ‘It’s nothing for you to be frightened of.’

‘I’m not frightened,’ said Vita.

‘Are you sure it’s not you who has the problem with his grief?’

Vita felt irritated. This was not the sort of conversation to be having with one’s mother and certainly not on a gorgeous bank holiday Sunday.

‘Mum – I must look after myself. I don’t want to set myself up for another fall. I don’t want to be second best to another woman ever again – living or dead.’

Her mother thought about it, thought about her daughter. She knew her so well, far better than Vita thought. ‘I don’t doubt you can look after yourself.’

‘I can. So can we just drop it? It’s not easy – any of this. Talking to you about – this. I didn’t think I’d be on my own in my mid-thirties. I thought I’d be happy with a young family of my own. So please – can we just drop it? Oliver was lovely – really lovely. But maybe three years isn’t so long since his wife died. He’s unavailable.’

‘Darling, you need to accept that you will be between two women for some time. You will stand there, looking over your shoulder at the woman your ex takes after you – and you will look in front of you at the woman your new man has had before you. I don’t think it’s the men who are your problem – it’s their women. Living – or dead.’ She paused. ‘It’s not a competition, you know. Have a little faith, darling – please.’

‘Drop it, mother,’ Vita muttered.

So Ruth decided to drop it. She didn’t want to run the risk of doing more harm than good. She’d done so before – pleading with her daughter to take Tim back the first time Vita left him. ‘Shall we move on?’ Ruth stood and offered her arm for her daughter to link hers with.

I shall move on.

‘Let’s!’ and Vita’s smile, unnervingly beatific, was rigor mortised to her face once more.

Vita could hear her house phone ringing as she unlocked the door but it had stopped by the time she was inside. Then her mobile started up. It’ll be Mum, checking I’m home OK.

No, it’s not. It’s Oliver.

Let it go through to voicemail.

Do not let this call go through to voicemail.

Vita knew precisely how many rings she had left to decide.

Her mum’s voice was in her head. But so too was Jonty’s. Generations apart – but strangely united.

Come
on
! Just answer it! If you bottle, once you’ve done so, just say, Oops, I have to go.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and answered.

‘Hullo?’

‘Hullo, missy.’

‘Hullo, Oliver.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m well – and you?’

‘I’m well. Jonty always says, “I’m good” – that is rich American, but it’s poor English.’

That’s so Oliver. ‘Poor kid! I bet you never let him use “random”, do you?’ Chatting. I’m chatting. This is pointless.

Oliver laughed. ‘Certainly not.’

A pause. Quick!

‘Vita – I –’ Bugger. He’d practised this and now he was rummaging around for the words the way he’d ferret around in the glove compartment for his house keys. He’d invested those missing words with the potential to unlock. Where the fuck were they?

‘It’s OK,’ Vita was saying because she didn’t want to hear –
stuff
. ‘It’s fine. I understand. Honestly. No biggie.’

‘No – it’s not fine. I wanted to see you – just to explain.’

‘I –’ Then Vita thought, No. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to explain. It’s fine. I’m fine. I understand.’

And then Oliver thought, No. He thought, No – I’m not going to let you go so easily. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry,’ he said. He said, ‘that just won’t do.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Stay there – I’m coming over.’

‘
Pardon
?’

‘Bye.’

Moments later, he was at her door. He’d made the calls from around the corner. She was tempted to dart out of the kitchen door, wasps, pears, whatever. But then she thought of all those conversations she’d never had the chance to have with Tim, precious words which had remained trapped and ricocheting around her head, unheard, un-exorcised. It’s called Closure, she thought rather grandly. And then she thought, Just answer the bloody door and whatever he has to say, take it on the chin. Whatever you hear, make it useful for the long run, in the closure stakes. So she opened the door slowly, just a crack, as if he might be Jehova’s Witnesses or, worse, that odd chap wanting to talk about speed bumps from the neighbourhood scheme she wished she’d never joined.

‘Hullo,’ Oliver said, peering in at the half a face he could see.

‘Hi.’

‘I don’t want to come in – it’s OK,’ he said, ‘but I want you to come with me.’

She looked at him, suspiciously.

‘Please?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Please.’ No question mark this time.

She left him on the doorstep, went straight past her door keys and through into the kitchen where she gave herself a moment. Come on, girl, she told herself. Outside, in the branches of the pear tree, DeeDee’s wasp catchers were doing their job. Outside, on her doorstep, Oliver was waiting. She retraced her steps, picked up her keys and left the house to see Oliver already walking away down the path.

He drove her directly to his home.

They didn’t go in through the front door; this time, he took her around to the side gate and walked ahead of her into his back garden. There was a bowl of strawberries on the wooden table, a jug of Pimm’s, a plate of shortbread biscuits. Two chairs were set, with plump floral cushions. She knew just who they were by.

‘They cost silly money in comparison to the sensible green wipeable ones from the garden centre,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

‘They’re Cath Kidston,’ Vita said. Just as DeeDee had said to him. Fait accompli. What’s the problem? Men!

‘Please,’ he said, motioning to the chair he’d just drawn back. ‘Come and sit in the lap of Cath Kidston.’

He poured her some Pimm’s. He swiped away a wasp and offered her a strawberry, the biscuits. And they sat, quietly, not knowing who was meant to say what next.

A barrage of thoughts racketed through her head. If he was going to dump me, wouldn’t he have done so on my doorstep? He wouldn’t have done the Pimm’s and the strawberries and the cushions thing, surely? She glanced at him shyly. He looked relaxed. Looking out at his garden. She followed his gaze.

‘Blimey, your garden’s in a bit of a state, Mr B,’ she said quietly.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘you’re right. It is. But I’ve booked a bloke to come in for a few days this week.’

She nodded. She thought that was the end of that and wondered what to converse politely on next. But then Oliver started talking again.

‘I’ve hardly been out here since DeeDee died. It was her territory. I haven’t wanted to come out here – but then I thought of Pimm’s, how I haven’t had Pimm’s yet this summer. And I thought about strawberries and how comfortable these second-mortgage cushions are. And I thought to myself how much I wanted to sit out here, on them, on the last bank holiday Sunday, sipping Pimm’s –
with you
. So!’

Vita stirred and stirred the drink, crushing the mint against the side of the glass, sucking thoughtfully on a boozy chunk of apple.

‘So there you have it,’ said Oliver and he necked his entire glassful down. He replenished it. ‘Vita,’ he said and this time he reached for her arm – his lovely way of putting his hand over her wrist – ‘the other night, I couldn’t believe how out of sorts I felt. The last few weeks with you – I’ve felt so relaxed, happy. Then,
here
– suddenly I was on a knife edge. I just didn’t realize that there are still things that are a first, for me, after DeeDee. They’re milestones, however bizarre or banal they might seem. Some are more logical – the first birthdays, Christmas. Some are odd – the first online delivery from Ocado, selected by me, unpacked by me. Some loom large ages in advance – you dread them, prepare for them, get through them – the change of a year, for instance. Others – like the other week – come out of the blue. I’m sorry. For shouting. For not explaining.’ He let go of her wrist and stroked her forearm, covered her hand with his. ‘I owe you that honesty. I’ve missed you.’

And I’ve missed you too.

So tell him.

He’s speaking. He’s on a roll.

So listen.

‘It’s not just the sex – I’ve been all right on that front, in that I’ve shagged when I’ve needed to,’ he said and she almost choked on another piece of apple. ‘But it’s the
connection
, the emotional –
stuff
. The feeling
for
someone, rather than just feeling them. Well – it’s both, if I’m honest. And with you, it’s new. Sex with you is great – fantastic. And the connection – it’s
there
. Well, it is for me. And that’s great too. But new. I’m feeling my way, Vita.’

He refilled her glass.

‘The other week – in the kitchen. The dishwasher. Look, it’s going to sound daft, but –’

And Vita wondered whether to save him the load, whether to tell him about Jonty’s visit. Would that help him? Would that be kind and the right thing to do? To let him know that, in his own gawky way, his son was giving his dad the thumbs-up and an active shove in the right direction?

‘I know about the dishwasher,’ Vita interrupted him quickly. ‘Jonty popped in to the shop – and he told me.’

‘
Jonty?
’

‘Yes.’

‘The blighter!’

‘Not at all. He’s such a great kid.’

‘Playing Puck, eh?’

‘So let him.’

‘Really?’ Oliver’s eyes were suddenly glinting.

‘Really,’ Vita nodded. And then she thought, Look at all these words he’s given me. And then she thought, actions speak louder. So she walked round to Oliver and sat on his lap, held his face in her hands and kissed him with her eyes gently boring into his. There they sat for a while, holding each other, alternately gazing at each other or way out into the garden.

‘By the way,’ Vita said, ‘where
is
Jonty? You haven’t plonked him in front of the TV with a ready meal on his lap, have you?’

Oliver laughed. ‘He’s gone camping again – back to the same place. He’s home tomorrow night.’

‘So we have the house to ourselves?’

‘We do.’

And they looked at each other and all the romantic gazing and tenderness was replaced by lascivious grins. The kissing changed from affectionate to lustful and, with her lips still lightly against his, Vita asked him, Well, what are you waiting for.