Close Relations (33 page)

Prudence watched her with a close, ardent attention. Kaatya moved to the music. She had dark eyes; there was a haunted, mid-European look to her. Oh, she was handsome all right, but not in the way Prudence had imagined. By now her body was shining with sweat. She lay on the floor and parted her legs; she opened and closed them like scissors, making love to the air. Prudence, too, was sweating. She felt strangely aroused. She and this woman had shared the same body; they had both been entered by the same man.

Kaatya clambered to her feet; she turned and spoke to the woman next to her. Prudence felt a surprising tweak of jealousy. She wanted Kaatya to speak to
her.
What was the matter? Was she a secret lesbian? Erin said that true desire was no respecter of gender; when she loved, the sex of her beloved was irrelevant. Prudence had thought this was hogwash – just Erin's way of getting two for the price of one – but then she remembered her schoolgirl crushes, the hot flush of them, the jealousy and rapture.

Prudence turned away. She walked back to the car. Seeing
Kaatya hadn't solved anything; in fact, it had made it worse. For Kaatya was a person now, flesh and blood. She could no longer be spirited away.

‘I'm fortunate to have travelled,' said the man. ‘I've a collection of book matches from all the major capitals of the world. For service I would recommend British Airways but for legroom the Swiss.' He gazed at Dorothy through his pebble glasses. ‘To be frank, Mrs Hammond, I'm looking for long-term commitment on a loving basis.'

Dorothy must have managed to make her excuses because now she was leaving. She didn't remember how she did it, maybe she had behaved oddly, she couldn't recollect.

It was a dazzling day, the first true day of spring. She crossed the Cromwell Road. To her left reared up the Natural History Museum. She had taken the girls there once, when they were small, way back in another century.

She bumped into somebody. ‘Sorry' She recrossed the Cromwell Road. Where was she going? Where was she supposed to go, for the rest of her life?

It was then that she saw the van. It was parked outside a hotel. Somebody was carrying a bush, holding it like a baby. She settled it into a tub on the front steps of the building. It was Maddy.

A jolt of pleasure shot through Dorothy. In the split second before she'd recognised her daughter she had seen her as a stranger would: a square woman – had she put on weight? – with cropped hair, dressed in army trousers and an old jacket. A woman who was desexed by her shapeless clothes. She worked, oblivious to the passers-by, pressing earth around the shrub.

Dorothy hurried across the road. ‘Maddy!' she called. There is something romantic about glimpsing someone familiar, even one's daughter, in an unfamiliar neighbourhood.

Maddy straightened up. ‘Mum. What're you doing here?'

‘Can you stop for a moment?'

They sat in the hotel bar. The walls were hung with pictures of slaughtered birds. Maddy had washed her hands but there was still a raw, outdoors look to her.

‘Have a glass of wine,' said Dorothy.

‘I don't drink.'

‘Keep me company, just for once.' Dorothy looked at her daughter. ‘Keep me company. Please.'

Maddy ordered a glass of wine. There were two reasons why she didn't drink. She didn't like the taste, and if she did drink, it immediately went to her head.

‘I've done four, now,' said Dorothy.

‘What do you mean, you're done for?'

Dorothy nodded. ‘I'm done for. I've met four of them.' The muzak was playing the Tom Jones song
It's Not Unusual
. She liked Tom Jones, a fact that her daughters had found hilarious. ‘One of them was a scout-master who lived with his mother. I think I want to die.'

‘There must be someone out there,' said Maddy.

‘Who needs men? You don't.' Dorothy stopped. ‘I mean, who needs anybody?'

‘I do.' Maddy took a sip of her wine.

‘But you've got – I mean – where's Erin?' She looked around, as if Erin might come through the door. The barman rubbed a glass.

‘At a conference,' said Maddy.

Dorothy waited. Silently, she urged Maddy to confide in her, but she didn't want to pry. Besides, she didn't like Erin and if one doesn't like the person concerned one's questions seem more intrusive.

‘She's famous now,' said Maddy. ‘She was on TV last night. Did you see her?' She took another gulp. ‘She's changed.'

‘How?'

‘She just has.' She drained her glass. ‘Shit, I'm drunk.'

Dorothy suddenly asked: ‘What are we going to do?'

‘Have another go. You can do better than Dad.'

‘You think so?'

‘Dad bullied you,' said Maddy. ‘He kept you down. I used to listen to him eating. And then he'd light up before we had finished. He was a pig.'

‘He wasn't.'

‘Actually, I like him better now. At least he's done something unexpected.'

‘I know you do,' said Dorothy tartly. ‘But what about me?'

‘I told you, you're well rid of him. He's a control freak. Remember our holidays, when he planned everything with the map and we had to go exactly where he said. He had a bloody timetable!' She ate a crisp. ‘He bullied you and you let him.' She hiccuped. ‘It takes two to be bullied.' She hiccuped again. ‘It's sort of an unhealthy pact.'

Dorothy waited. Her daughter didn't continue. ‘Maddy –' she began.

‘Try one more,' said Maddy. ‘Go on. Just for luck. Just for you. Whatever. Let's have bloody one of us being happy. You seen Prudence lately? She looks terrible. Let's one of us be happy. Lou's the only one who's got off scot-free.'

Louise had told nobody about the incident with Tim. She didn't want to humiliate him by making him into a story. She could imagine, only too well, Robert's reaction. Since it had happened, the week before, she hadn't been to the shop. She thought how ironic it was that Tim's declaration had deprived him of her custom.

It was a beautiful day. The hedgerow was starred with celandines as if somebody had flung coins there. There was a breezy largesse to the air. She wondered what it must be like for Tim and his wife to witness this yearly renewal, when the one thing they had loved was stilled. She walked past the churchyard. The headstones leaned together like teeth loosened with age.

Children's shouts floated from the primary school down on the green. Louise loved children – in fact, she wished she had had more of them – mothering came naturally to her. She
had been at her happiest when Jamie and Imogen had been babies. Now she helped six-year-olds learn to read, taking them, one at a time, out of the class. That morning, gazing at Sophia Wilmott's bent head, she thought about Tim. He had no daughter to love, her blond hair scraped back into pigtails. Louise had never suffered, not really. Tim's grief was too vast to comprehend. Perhaps – who knows? – it was the cause of his startling declaration. What on earth could she do? It had never crossed her mind that he harboured a secret passion for her. From now on, if she were friendly he would take it as an encouragement; if she were businesslike he would be hurt.

‘Goblin,' she said, pointing to the sentence. ‘
Wimbush the Goblin was the saddest goblin in the wood
.'

That evening Robert announced that he wouldn't be home the next night, he had to go to Walsall.

‘Again?' she said. ‘What are you doing in Walsall?'

‘Markham Brothers, remember? The brake linings? We've got a board meeting first thing in the morning. Somebody has to work around here.'

‘Want to swap? I spend the whole time slaving away, cooking for your bloody friends, keeping this place nice.' Her voice rose peevishly. ‘I helped three children learn to read today, not that you'd be interested.'

She walked round the room snapping on the lights. Getting older, she realised, meant saying things one never thought one would say.
When I was your age
, she said to the kids.
You don't know how lucky you are
. The sentences were waiting, like her reading glasses, until she put them on without even thinking about it.

She stopped at the window. ‘I wish I'd had more children.'

‘God, isn't two enough?' he asked.

‘I wouldn't feel so alone.'

In the old days Robert would have put his arms around her. Now he sniffed and looked at the grate. ‘Has the cat been
peeing in the fireplace again?'

She gazed at the window. Her husband, standing in the lamplit room, was reflected back. When she moved closer to the pane he vanished. All she saw was the darkness outside.

‘At least somebody loves me,' she said.

‘Who?'

She turned round. She bent down to stroke the dog. ‘You do,' she said to Monty.

Robert collapsed into the armchair. ‘I'm sorry. Things have been, well, a bit fraught at work.'

‘You sound like somebody on TV,' she said. Later, she realised why.

His name was Eric. He listed
Wining and Dining
amongst his recreations. He described himself as
Vintage, certainly, but not Premier Cru
. He said on the phone that he would like to take her out for dinner and at first Dorothy hesitated. What if he was boring? What if they realised they had two more hours to go?

He must have sensed this. He said simply: ‘I'm tired of eating alone.'

‘So am I,' replied Dorothy. He gave her the address of a restaurant in Holland Park. ‘How will I recognise you?' she asked.

‘I'm not very memorable,' he replied. ‘So you can always forget about me afterwards.'

The restaurant was called Archie's. This sounded like the sort of egg-and-chips place that had brought on her husband's heart attack. At first glance it did indeed look functional – bright lights, plain wooden tables partitioned off like stables. She was relieved that it wasn't overly romantic.

Eric, rising to greet her, said: ‘Don't be misled. It takes itself very seriously. They pour balsamic vinegar on their mashed potatoes.'

Eric was a small, rather feminine man. He said that he adored cooking; in fact, with his bald head he resembled a
hard-boiled egg. He said that he had always cooked for his sons. Now that they had grown up, and his wife had died, he sometimes rallied himself by making spectacular meals-for-one.

‘But it's not the same, is it?' He pointed to the menu. ‘The fishcakes are good, do you like fish?' He moved his finger down the page. ‘This is their speciality, it's got roasted peppers on top. If you choose first I can order something different and you can taste mine, if you like.'

If Gordon had said this it would have sounded like bullying. Eric, however, simply seemed enthusiastic. She relaxed. He was a chatty man, at ease with women. She thought about Gordon. All his life he had been surrounded by women, but he still stayed resolutely male. Nothing had seeped in; he was waterproofed.

Eric told her about himself. He had worked as an industrial designer and retired the year before. He had two sons, one a vet and the other a teacher. He spoke of them with the teasing affection of someone who took love for granted. ‘John, the oldest, he's the cautious type. He's the only person I know who straps himself into the seat-belt in taxis.'

The food arrived. She told him about her daughters. ‘Louise is married, two children, a boy and a girl, they live in a lovely house in the country. Prudence is the career girl, she's in publishing, in fact she's an editorial director at Unimedia, have you heard of them?'

‘And the other?'

‘Madeleine's led an interesting life – Canada, Africa – she's been all over. She's the adventurous one, the independent spirit.' She stopped. She pushed a piece of fishcake around in its sauce. She looked across at Eric. Under the clownish dome his face was frank and enquiring. The wooden partitions boxed them in like a confessional. Beyond, she heard the murmur of voices and rattle of cutlery.

‘Actually, that's only partly the truth,' she said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's easy to tell you things like that. Boring, isn't it?' She gazed at her side plate. Vegetables lay there; stripes were
seared into their flesh as if they had been branded. ‘The truth is – well, Louise's husband bullies her, like my husband bullied me. She's got everything anyone could want, she's been blessed from birth, but I don't think she's happy. My second daughter always wanted children but now it's probably too late. She's living in sin with a man who's run away from his family and she doesn't look happy either. And Maddy's always been difficult. Her first word was
No
. Now it turns out she's gay.'

‘Really?'

‘I'd guessed but it's still a shock. She's living with another bully – what do my daughters want, to live with their father? Her girlfriend's too busy to care for her own daughter – for my daughter, too. So there you have it.' She picked up the peppermill and ground it over the fishcake. ‘I've learned more about my daughters in the past three months than in the past thirty years. I don't know why I'm telling you this, you're a complete stranger.'

He smiled. ‘Maybe that's why.'

‘Maybe.'

He smiled. ‘Try this.' He offered her a piece of pork on his fork. She opened her mouth, like a baby bird, and ate it. She felt a curious sensation, as if, after a long winter, she were thawing.

She told him about her childhood, how her father had worked in the haulage business all his life; how he had seated her beside him in his cab and driven her around Britain. How she had felt the monarch of all she'd surveyed. ‘The roads were so empty then. They rolled away ahead of us like the road to Oz. I loved that film. It was as if I saw my life ahead of me, I was going to conquer the world.' They were drinking coffee now. ‘There's a Peggy Lee song – have you heard it? – called
Is That All There Is?
In one of the verses, she's taken to the circus, when she's a little girl, and she asks that. My husband played it, he liked Peggy Lee. Is that all there is? Well, it wasn't, not for him.'