Live to Tell (45 page)

What he said was true so reluctantly I agreed. In the twilight of the warm evening we walked away from the hospital up the hill together. As soon as we opened the door to the bar I realised we could never have a conversation above the din. The place was heaving with life. It’s probably full of people just released from visiting duties at the hospital, I thought.

Olivier seemed to share my thought. “Look, I live near here,” he said, “in Belsize Park. I have an apartment just a short walk away. Can I offer you a glass of wine in more civilised surroundings?” He looked at me earnestly and I felt it would be churlish to refuse. After all, I had no-where else to go, did I?

The apartment he occupied was in a modern block on a side road close to the top of the hill. Around us landscaped honeysuckle, roses, and juniper filled the air with their perfume. I was impressed.

“Gosh,” I said as we walked into the large living room. Without lights but with a wall of sliding glass leading to a balcony, the room was aglow. Through the glittering night I could see the city spread out before me. Tastefully furnished in a restrained modern style, Olivier’s home made mine seem scruffy by comparison. Yet it reminded me a bit of the small place Danny and I shared in Maida Vale, which was also on a hill.

“Yes, it’s fabulous isn’t it,” he said from behind me. I’m very lucky to have it. Of course, I don’t own it. I rent. But that’s cool. I mean I’m not tied down to a place or a property.” He laughed. “To be honest, I haven’t got the good taste to do all this. I’d make a complete hash of it. Have a seat while I get you a drink.”

He returned with an open bottle of red wine and two glasses. I looked up.

“Italian?”

“No, I hate to admit it. I usually drink French,” he said, sitting down beside me. “This is a bottle of St. Emilion.”

“Hmm, very nice.” We touched glasses.

I felt relaxed sitting there sipping the rich, warm wine—relaxed and safe. I was surprised just how good I felt. Looking out at the view made me think of Danny and I wondered if Olivier knew we were married. Aunt Jess told him I was alone but how much else had she revealed? Olivier and I were just teenagers when we met. I had grown up. Had he?

“I often sit here in the dark, with a glass of wine,” he said, “looking at the view. It makes me forget the cares of the day. It’s nice to have someone to show it to. I’m single now but I think I’d better tell you, since we last knew each other I’ve been married twice. My second divorce has just been finalised.”

“Right,” I said. “So when did you come back to Britain?”

“In 1994. I was still married to my first wife but it was really over and she didn’t come with me. I didn’t join the staff of The Royal Free until ’97. That’s where I met my second wife, Lisa. My first marriage was a disaster. My second wife said
I
was.”

Once again I couldn’t think of anything to reply. If he expected any sympathy or similar confidences, he was wrong. I would not discuss Danny with him.

“I guess I owe you a bit more of an explanation—about what happened when I first left the U.K. More wine?” He refilled my glass. “You may remember I went very reluctantly. I realise now, of course, that my father
did
want what was best for me, but at the time I was angry and wouldn’t believe it.”

Olivier settled back in his seat and continued. “After we parted that day at St. Pancras station, I went home to Edgware. Both my mother and my father were at the house waiting for me. Dad bawled me out and said Mum was very worried about me. Again I told them I didn’t want to go to South Africa and my girlfriend was upset and didn’t want me to go. (That was you.) Dad went bananas and thumped me again. God knows how he manages to stay calm in the operating theatre. He’s a surgeon, by the way. So I had to comply, or run away.”

Suddenly Olivier seemed a lot younger than his thirty-four years.

“Then when I got there, I started at medical school and, amazingly, it completely blew my mind. I got totally immersed in my studies and suddenly I found my purpose in life. The hours were long, the work difficult and hard, but I felt so privileged to be part of it and I realised it was my vocation. I also came to realise I was a pacifist. You know they often talk about being in the right place at the right time, well in my case it was the right place but at the worse time possible.”

He paused thoughtfully and re-filled our glasses again. He sighed. “In the South Africa of 1986 apartheid was in full swing. The year before, after a lot of violence in the black townships, a ‘state of emergency’ was declared in the country. There were marches and riots. Although I was living with my aunt and uncle in a wealthy white enclave the mayhem was all around. A couple of my classmates decided to go on this demo, you know, anti-apartheid. Well I thought I’d go too. Oh God, it was a mess. It was okay at first but then we reached a road block and the police started firing at us. I’d never seen anything like it. I was this young English kid pitched into the middle of a war. A man near me got shot, then another. I was a first year medical student crawling about on my hands and knees trying to stop the wounded men bleeding to death with nothing much more than my handkerchief and belt.

Later, when we were back at the college, we decided we couldn’t stand idly by without at least trying to protest about what happened. Although I was a medical student, I was so naive. It never occurred to me I’d be asking for trouble. Everything just went downhill from there on. The police threatened to lock us up. My uncle reported back to Dad. He was livid—nothing new there. I just tried to ignore them and carry on. By now I couldn’t give up my studies. It was all I wanted to do. On top of that my father was going apoplectic—kept threatening to turn up and sort me out. It was a difficult time.”

“Is that why you never contacted me?”

“No. It was more complicated than that. In embracing the protest movement and in doing so, finding myself, it was as if everything that I left behind had no reality anymore. I couldn’t contact you because you lived in a world I had given up. I had become a different person. I didn’t feel able to come home at all—even for a visit. Not for eight years. I’m sorry. I know it must sound incomprehensible. It’s hard to explain.” He paused. “Then on a rally I met Miriam, my first wife. She’s a white South African but really radical and she carried me along with her—not that I needed much encouragement. We married in 1989. Then the government changed and reforms began. The original activists were being released from prison but instead of walking away, job done, she carried on as if nothing had changed. I was trying to qualify as a doctor, putting in all hours God sent and she kept accusing me of betraying the cause.” He laughed and shook his head.

“Shortly after qualifying in general medicine, I decided I wanted to specialise in oncology. Dad wanted me to become a surgeon, like him but I became more and more interested in cancer research. It is such a big field with so many advances. Surgery plays an important part but there is so much more now. I’m sorry I’m boring you. I forget other people aren’t so interested. Anyway, I needed time and space to concentrate on my work. So we split up.” He sighed. “Not much more to tell, really. There is still a lot of unrest in South Africa, but they’ll get there in the end.”

He leaned back and draped his arms across the top of the sofa, his hands resting on the top. “The life I had before I came back to England seems so unreal now. I feel like a different man.”

Whether it was the setting or the wine, or just being with an old friend, I felt happier than I had for a long time. It was so good to be out of reach of my telephone, in quiet companionship. I leaned back as well and he tousled my hair.

I hadn’t expected to be touched in this intimate way and I felt uncomfortable. He reached over and kissed me. I leaned forward again to move away from him but he moved with me. He put his hand on one of my breasts and it was all too much. No. I definitely did not want this. I really hoped we could sit here like adults and simply talk. I didn’t want to be pounced upon. I tried to push him away. “Stop it,” I said. “Just stop, please.”

He kissed my mouth as his right knee pushed between my legs. “It’s been such a long time and we were great together.”

“No. Stop.”

“Hush. I don’t want to stop. I want you. Don’t you want me?”

His mouth covered mine now, biting my lower lip and in my head was confusion. Had I been stupid coming here? Had I led him on to believe this would be alright? He was licking my ear. The worse thing was, on one level I did want him too. I felt fuddled with the night and the wine and my body betrayed me. Of course he was still attractive. His hair still smelt of almonds and I was transported back to my carefree teenage years, before the collector ruined them. Once again I was back on that Italian hillside. This time, no irate farmer was there to protect my honour. In the midst of the melee, we slipped from the leather sofa onto the dusty wooden floor. I pushed him away harshly and stood up. I felt frightened.

“Why is it that all the men I meet are so damned sure of themselves? Are we women such pushovers? Didn’t you hear me? I said ‘No!’ and that’s what I meant.”

He sat up and looked embarrassed. “I didn’t think you meant it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m going home.”

He stood up, too, and put his arms around me. He went to kiss me again, more gently this time. “I’ll take you.”

“No need. I’ll take a taxi.”

“No, you won’t, certainly not. I’ll just get a sweater. Do you really have to go so soon?”

“Yes!”

I made him stop the car on the main road, at the entrance to the mews. I did not want him to know exactly where I lived and also I worried that somehow Barry might see us together.

“Will I see you at the hospital tomorrow,” he asked.

“No!” I jumped out of the car and walked away.

In my own rather poorly furnished house I sat down on the sofa and flicked through a magazine. On the floor Henry sat staring up at me.

“Don’t look at me like that. Oh, come here.” I picked him up and cuddled him. He gave my ear a quick lick but since it was him, I didn’t mind. Barely ten minutes later the phone rang. Because of my aunt’s illness, I didn’t dare ignore it.

“I saw you. Little whore. Not content with one rich boyfriend with a fancy car, you got to have another. Just you wait!”

The line went dead and I dropped the phone. It was a different voice.

During the night I slept fitfully and woke at four a.m. I felt shivery and frightened. Was that a noise downstairs? I sat up and strained to listen. All was silent but I couldn’t be sure. I got up and crept to the door. As I hadn’t closed the blinds, moonlight flooded through the un-curtained window. The house opposite was empty, so there was no-one to see me. I did wonder why it was still unoccupied. Sometimes I saw the agent take people in, but none seemed interested in buying the place.

As a precaution, I closed the bedroom door and locked it, too afraid to go downstairs to check the whole house. I returned to bed and lay there wide awake listening. I couldn’t bear to think about Barry, so I tried to concentrate on Olivier; anything to stop me dwelling on the horror calls and the collector.

For the first time in my life I felt slightly immoral. I lay in bed, trying to think objectively about myself. I’ve been alone for over ten years, I thought, and then two men come along together. Unable to relax, I did not fall asleep again until the light of dawn pierced the darkness and I felt safe.

All day long the stranger’s voice reverberated in my head. How many more people were on my case? That evening I had to go back to see my aunt, but I felt listless and tired. The three of us tried to ensure she always had visitors. I couldn’t stay away just because of the situation I was in with Olivier.

At the hospital I saw him walking about, watching me. Aunt Jess noticed too. Excitedly she caught my hand and whispered, “Are you two dating, darling?”

I scowled. “No, Jess. He just wants sex. That’s all. It’s nothing—only sex!”

“Oh.”

She looked as if I had slapped her, and I wished I had not been so brutal. She hesitated and spoke softly. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s a good man, dear. You won’t hurt him, will you?”

I wondered if she would see Barry as a good man, too, and what she would think of me if she knew about him.

Inevitably it seemed when visiting time was over, Olivier hovered by the lift. He walked in behind me. “I didn’t know I would see you tonight but I feel I need to apologise,” he said. “You have every right to be offended. I should have shown more restraint. I miss-read the signals. Just because we were lovers before, I had no right to assume anything, and I realise you still have to come here as a visitor. I’m sorry if I made it awkward for you this evening. In the heat of the moment, I didn’t think. It won’t happen again.”

He stood there looking down and the lift doors opened. We were in the basement.

“Oh, damn,” he said looking around. “I pressed the wrong button. Sorry.”

The lift moved back up a floor and he held the door open for me. We both got out but I hesitated. It was strangely comforting being with someone not involved in my trauma, if only for a few minutes.