Close Relations (31 page)

‘I'm very grateful.' He didn't look authoritarian; rather the opposite.

Allegra slotted the game into the computer and sat down on the floor. Dorothy said to Aziz: ‘Are you getting enough to eat?' She stopped, blushing. ‘I'm sorry, you just look so thin.'

‘I've always been like this.' He smiled, but his beautiful, dark eyes were tragic. She longed to ask him questions. Did he know, at the time, that Erin was just using him to have a child? Had he been in love with her? He looked a private sort of person, however. Besides, what business was it of hers?

‘Allegra's very talented, isn't she?' she said. ‘I've heard her on the clarinet.'

They chatted for a while. It felt stagy sitting there under the bright light – the non-grandmother and the absent father, connected by the thinnest of threads. But then aren't we all? she thought. Everything can snap, just like that.

She felt that she should leave Aziz alone with his daughter. She felt like a gooseberry, tagging along on a date, but where could she go? Allegra, sitting on the rubber floor, seemed engrossed in her computer game.

‘It's just nice having her here,' said Aziz, reading her thoughts. ‘Not just on a Sunday.'

‘It's not fair, is it?' Dorothy blurted out. ‘Any of it.'

He shook his head and gazed at a bowl of lemons. They were the only fruit in the room. Dorothy wondered if this was a lone man's lack of housekeeping talent or whether Aziz was going to use them in some Indian way.

He said: ‘You've caught me at a bad moment, I'm afraid.'

‘Maybe we should go –'

‘No – don't. I'm glad you came. It's just – I've lost a client, and frankly there aren't many of them around nowadays. Too many of us chasing too few jobs.'

‘I know.'

‘Do you?' he asked.

‘I've seen plenty of architects go bust over the years.' Oh dear, that sounded tactless.

‘And my wife – ex-wife . . . well, Mrs Hammond, to be perfectly honest –'

‘Dorothy.'

‘Dorothy – let's just say I feel exploited, one way and another. But can a man say that? Oh no, because it's women who're the exploited sex.' He lowered his voice. ‘Erin – then my wife – they've both used me for what they can get out of me. And because they're women they can bloody get away with it, if you'll excuse the language.'

‘Men can use woman too,' said Dorothy.

‘Yes, but everybody knows about that.'

‘It's still not fair.'

‘So when's life fair?' He ran his fingers through his hair
and gazed at the lemons.

‘Don't be so sad, please!' she said.

He raised his head. ‘Tell me, what's there to be so happy about?'

She thought: this is what I've joined – this mess. Tears of pity sprang to her eyes – for herself, for Aziz, for all of them. For Allegra, who tonight struck her as the ultimate victim of it all.

She leafed through
Blueprint
while Allegra helped her father cook his dinner – there was a microwave and a sink in a cupboard. Afterwards, Aziz walked them to the car.

Allegra got in and fiddled with the radio knobs. Dorothy turned to Aziz. ‘Why did Erin want a child?' she whispered. ‘She hardly ever sees her. I've stayed there, I know.'

Aziz gazed down the street. An empty bus passed, lit like a ghost bus. ‘Erin's a control-freak. That's why she's written a novel. She's invented herself like a character in it. She's really a suburban girl, did you know? Her father's a chartered surveyor in Watford.'

‘That true?'

Aziz nodded. ‘She fantasised herself a role as a mother. It was just another image. And the mother of an exotic, mixed-race child too, what could be better? Unfortunately, in this case, there were other people involved.'

‘Maybe we all do that.' She thought: I fantasised that I was happily married. I concocted my own lies too.

The next day Erin went off on a publicity tour. She was going to be away until the end of the week, giving interviews and readings around the country. Her book seemed set to be a roaring success; the reviews so far had been ecstatic and for days the phone had been ringing with journalists wanting her views on everything from
in vitro
fertilisation to the Middle-East crisis.

Dorothy and Maddy drove Allegra down to the Old Vicarage for the day; it was half-term and Imogen had
promised the little girl a ride on her horse. While Louise cooked lunch the two women went into the garden. The air smelled fresh and clean, as if the world had been rinsed. In the paddock Imogen led the horse around in a circle; Allegra sat there, rigid, clutching Skylark's mane.

Maddy flung herself onto the grass and lay full length. ‘You shouldn't have taken her to Aziz's, you know.'

‘I know,' said Dorothy. ‘But I did.'

‘It's all right. I won't tell.'

Dorothy sat down on the bench. ‘She wants to live with him.'

‘How could she? It's his office.'

‘I know. What a mess.' The sun warmed Dorothy's face. She closed her eyes. ‘A man that night, in the café, he asked if I was Allegra's grandmother. I thought,
What if I tell him the truth?
If I said,
No, she's the daughter of an Indian man who was just used for his sperm, and my daughter's lesbian lover
.'

There was a silence. In the flowerbeds the daffodils, enquiring trumpets, appeared to be listening.

Maddy addressed the sky. ‘How did you know?'

‘Oh, I've known for years.'

Maddy sat up. ‘You have?'

‘I knew you weren't interested in men. And that only left one option.' Dorothy gave a shrill laugh. ‘Unless it was going to be Alsatians.'

Maddy picked at the grass. ‘Did
everybody
know except me?'

‘I'm tired of lies. I've been lying to myself about all sorts of things, it seems.'

‘Like what?' Maddy looked up at her, for the first time.

‘Oh, being happily married.'

‘You were.'

‘Apprently it died long ago. I just didn't want to notice.'

‘That's Dad's excuse to make himself feel better.' Maddy tugged at the grass. ‘So you don't mind?'

‘Why should I mind? As long as you're happy.' Dorothy looked at the bent head. ‘You are happy, aren't you?'

Maddy didn't look up. ‘Of course,' she said.

Lunch was high-spirited; the conversation in the garden seemed to have cleared the air. They ate slabs of lasagne that Louise had left in the oven too long because the rabbit had escaped again; it had taken them half an hour to corner him and heave him, kicking and hissing, back into his cage.

Louise looked at their scratched wrists. ‘We look as if we've made a mass suicide pact,' she said.

Dorothy shook her head. ‘He's not going to get off that easily.'

‘I think you ought to get another husband,' Imogen said.

‘Already?' Dorothy helped herself to fruit salad. ‘I don't want another husband. One was enough.'

‘But won't you get lonely?'

‘Who did you have in mind?'

Imogen jumped up and fetched the local paper. She pointed to the front page. ‘Look – Mum got this article printed about the shop. She got hold of this journalist.'

‘He's going to find me a husband?'

Shaking her head, Imogen leafed through the pages. ‘I'm looking for the Lonely Hearts.'

‘This is very kind of you,' said Dorothy, ‘but I'm perfectly all right.'

Louise took the paper. She fished in her handbag and produced a spectacle case. ‘Look, I've had to get reading glasses. I'm getting old.' She turned to Maddy. ‘It'll be your turn next.' She put on the delicate, gold-rimmed glasses. They made her instantly look more intelligent. She peered at the Personal column: ‘
Clairvoyant and psychic – confidential and friendly guidance . . . Egg donors needed for infertile couples, phone Assisted Conception Unit . . . Qualified plumber
– whoops! Wrong column.' She peered closer. ‘Look.
Widowed gentleman, 63, seeks lady for companionship
– there you are. There's lots of them.'

‘You just want to get rid of me,' said Dorothy. ‘Marry me
off so you needn't worry about me any more.'

Imogen took her grandmother's hand and pulled her to her feet. She led her upstairs, into Louise's and Robert's bedroom, and flung open the wardrobe.

‘First, you've got to revamp your image,' she said. ‘You can borrow some of Mum's clothes. She never wears them.' She riffled through them, rattling the hangers, and pulled out a silk blouse. ‘You'd look great in this.' She pulled out a dress and held it against her grandmother. ‘That's just your colour, look!'

Dorothy stopped smiling. She looked at herself in the mirror. Suddenly she was back in the bedroom at home, twirling round in front of Gordon. She turned, and saw his face changing.

‘What's the matter?' Imogen was a warm, impulsive girl. She flung her arms around her grandmother.

‘I'll be all right in a minute,' said Dorothy. She patted Imogen's head and put the dress back in the wardrobe.
Sweet sixteen.
She remembered Imogen's birthday party. Gordon tapped his plate for silence. She remembered Imogen's gasp, when she saw her horse . . . the magical moment that had stilled her family.

‘I hope you'll be happy,' she said.

‘Oh, I am.' For a moment Imogen was tempted to tell her what had happened, how she had been kissed in Blackthorn Wood and how the world was transformed. It was easier to confide in her grandmother than her parents. But she didn't speak, and the moment passed.

They left for London when it was getting dark. Louise watched the tail-lights disappear round the corner. She watched the headlights reappear, beyond the church, and illuminate the lane as her mother's car drove towards Beaconsfield. Soon it would be swallowed up in the darkness, then emerge into the arc-lights of the M40, a time-traveller plunged into another day. Soon Robert would be
returning in the other direction. Sometimes it seemed that he had indeed been travelling through time-zones to reach her, so distant did he seem nowadays.

She went back into the kitchen and gazed at the dishwasher. It was grinding away as if it, too, found the whole business wearisome. The phone rang.

It was Robert, calling from work. ‘Got a breakfast meeting,' he said. ‘Think I'll stay in town tonight, I've got to take some clients to dinner. I'll kip down at Henry's place.'

She told him about the Lonely Hearts ads. ‘Immy bullied Mum about it. The young are so conventional, aren't they? They think marriage solves everything. Anyway, Mum's promised to look in the London papers.'

‘Wow. Your mother doesn't waste any time.'

‘She's in a what-the-hell mood.' Louise paused. ‘So am I, actually. I think I'll look in them, too.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Why are you always staying away? It's been twice this week.'

‘Darling.' His voice was patient. ‘Do you really think I want to spend the evening with somebody who, battling against strong competition, must hold the title for the most boring man in the world? And his crimplene-clad consort? You really think that?'

Louise put down the phone. She felt deflated. Robert was good at that.

The house was empty. Imogen and Jamie had gone out and wouldn't be back until late. When Louise was alone the darkness outside seemed a solid presence. She pulled down the kitchen blinds. She went into the living room and drew the curtains. Last night's ashes lay heaped in the fireplace. She fetched the coal-shovel and started to clean them out. Lonely, lonely heart, she thought, and felt feverish with self-pity.

Later, she took the dog out. It was a still, moonless night. Next to the churchyard wall the lane was lit by a single lamp.
She walked a few steps, breathing the air. Suddenly, Monty growled.

‘It's all right, it's only Rocky.' She bent down to pat Tim's arthritic spaniel. Tim stood by the lamp-post, hunched in his anorak. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘You gave me a fright.'

Tim's face was narrow; the children called him the Weasel. In the lamplight she saw how his hair was thinning. Away from his shop, his domain, he looked smaller. She had noticed this before.

Tim indicated her house. His glasses flashed as he turned. ‘I saw that he wasn't there.'

‘Who?'

‘Your husband. His car's not there.'

She swallowed. ‘You look awfully cold.'

‘Louise, I have to talk to you.' He cleared his throat. ‘I can't bear it any longer. I've always thought, how could a woman like you possibly be interested in me, someone who's not worthy of washing your feet –'

‘Tim –'

‘– but then, well, you've been coming round to see me so often recently, I thought to myself – does she really care about this campaign, or could I dare think –' He twisted the dog lead round in his hand. ‘Could such a woman, such a goddess –'

‘Tim, please –'

‘No, hear me out. I've been wanting to say this for years, five years, since I saw you for the first time, getting out of your Volvo –'

‘Oh yes, the Volvo!' she said wildly. ‘Funny how you forget a car the minute you get rid of it –'

‘And then, that day in March, remember? When the bag broke and we picked up the potatoes and you put your hand on my arm –'

‘Did I?' She stared at the wall; its stones were sweaty in the lamplight. At first she'd thought Tim was drunk but now, with a sinking heart, she realised he was sober.

‘Your eyes were so sad, and I thought, nobody realises how
sad she is. And then at the fête, when my photograph won first prize –'

‘What did I do then?'

‘You don't remember? You kissed me.'