Never Mind Miss Fox (10 page)

“No reply, ma'am.” The hotel receptionist was brusque.

“What? Not in his room? Are you sure?” Martha looked at her watch.
Where was he?
In the kitchen behind her the kettle rumbled itself off, and now she heard the effortful puffs of Eliza, on the floor and gathering breath.

From New York: “Would you like to leave a message? Ma'am?”

“What?” Martha turned her head back to the telephone. “Oh, let me think—” A message. Did she want to leave one?

But then she heard something else—just a very innocent noise.

“Ma'am? Do you want”—

A small, surprised sound—as if someone had thrown a cushion which had struck the wall. Nothing more than that.

—“to leave a message? Hello?”

What was that?

But Martha knew. She took the receiver away from her ear and turned around with a cold, cold feeling—realization; acknowledgment—pouring over her body.

Eliot left Clive sitting alone at the bar for much longer than “a sec.” When she came back she had changed her clothes and he pictured her undressing and dressing in front of those men. “Don't you mind having so many people in your bedroom?” he asked.

“Which people?” she replied. “Oh, them. No, I don't give a shit, actually. You get used to staff.”

She had painted her face to go out for the evening: red lips and blackened lashes. Clive thought of the wet, streaked head of the untroubled otter. How stupid he had been—there was nothing of that creature in the tall, sinister being which stood in front of him now.

Staring at her Clive wondered what had happened to her army jacket and the little bee that Tom had given her. Because he had now drunk most of the bottle of champagne, he asked her.

“That?” She gave another of her tin-can laughs. “God knows. Junked, probably. Sent to
charidy
”—she mocked a New Jersey accent—“to help the
paw baby awphans.
” She rattled again with laughter. Everything made her laugh, but nothing was funny at all.

“Listen,” she went on. “Update: Lynton's got some meeting downstairs so we can have another drink up here which is good 'cause I can smoke. Shall I make Martinis”—her eyes gleamed—“or are you worried about your job? Always fretting about something, aren't you, Clive? What a little worrier you always were. Here's something to
really
worry about: Lynton thinks you're weird, says he thought you were a pervert, coming into the bedroom like that. But I told him, ‘He's not a creep, babe! He's one of the good guys! You can trust him! I've known him since I was just a little kid…' Lynton's got kids, he's got a daughter at boarding school…weird, huh? ‘Pleeze
pleeze,
babe,' I said to him, ‘can't a girl hang out with the first guy she ever got screwed by, for old time's sake?” Just kidding, Clive—don't look so freaked out! As if I would.”

Clive's ears were being assaulted by the
ack-ack-ack
of her voice.

“He's a softie really,” she babbled on, “Lynton I mean. He wants me to go to the Juilliard or the Conservatory, one of those places. Ha! He's
vewy
sup
paw
tive”—she put on her joke voice again—“which is nice, huh? So anyway he said you can stay and keep me company 'til he's done.” She touched the back of her hand to the tip of her nose and teetered on her heels.

“Really? No, I mean, look—listen—” said Clive, scared and helpless, “I think maybe I should just go—” He edged off the stool, wishing he had not already drunk that champagne.

The phone behind the bar began to ring but Eliot just raised her voice to speak above it. “No way! You're not going any-fucking-where.” She pushed his shoulder with a sharp finger, and Clive sat back down. Slapping her tiny handbag—a flat, green, lizard-skin envelope—on the bar, she flipped it open. “Whaddya wanna do,” she said. “Make drinks, or make lines?”

“Neither,” said Clive. “I don't—”

“Fucking square; you always were. Open another bottle, I'll do this.”

Clive got up and went behind the bar; he would use the time to think. He pulled a bottle from the fridge and began to open it. The telephone began to plead with them again, over and over. Eliot took no notice, busy with her coke. “D'you know,” she said, “I always wanted a Platinum Amex. It's nice when you get what you want, huh? Don'tcha think?”

As Clive stripped the foil from the neck of the bottle he said, “I thought you didn't do drugs?”

This seemed to be the funniest joke so far. When she had stopped laughing she said, “Well, Clive,” in her most chatty, confiding tone. She wiped the edge of the credit card and rubbed her finger on her gums before continuing. “You know you're right—” she wagged the finger at him—“and it's a
funny ole story
because I didn't use to, and then something made me start. Hm.” Now she put her finger beside her cheek, pretending to think it over. “I wonder what that was?” With a cackle she rolled up a twenty-dollar bill, stuck one end in a nostril and snorted up the line with a long, reaching inhalation. Then she licked her finger, wiped it over the glossy surface of the bar and rubbed her gums again. She watched her reflection in the mirror behind Clive and put her head on one side. “I look like a whore,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. The phone began to bleat again, its red light flashing.

Clive said nothing. He thought he might be feeling sick. Concentrating hard, he thumbed the cork from the champagne bottle, poured a glass for Eliot and said, “I'm going for a pee.” After opening and shutting several doors he found a bathroom and locked himself into it.

Reeling, exhaling, he sat down on the lip of the bath and shut his eyes. When he opened them it was to find that every surface of the bathroom, including the floor and ceiling, was covered by a terrifying black marble which meant that he could not be sure he faced the right way up.

He would unlock the door, walk out of the room, out of the suite, into the lift, back to his hotel and go to bed. In the morning he would telephone his wife. That's what would happen next.

In his wallet was a picture of Eliza. “Hello,” he whispered, pressing the tip of his forefinger to the photograph. He knew he was drunk.

He came out of the bathroom and went back into the sitting room. Standing in the doorway—he did not dare go closer—he said, “I'm leaving.”

She was as prepared for this as she was for everything. “Well, fuck you,” she said in a flat tone. Then she swiveled round on the stool to face him and bared her teeth to say, “Joke—that was a
joke.
Jeez. Hey, wait”—she swept the detritus—card, note, coke, cigarettes, lighter—from the bar into her handbag, slid off the stool and on to her feet—“I'll come down with you.”

She did not say anything else and they waited for the lift in silence, the Prince racquet pointing its accusing finger at them from the table.

In the lift, Eliot scratched at the back of one hand, over and over. Clive heard a voice say, “Eliot,” and it was his own. He had not meant to speak, but now he could not help himself. “I don't want to leave you here. Not like this.”

Eliot looked at him. For a second she did seem surprised, but then she caught up with herself and blanked her expression again.

“What can I do to help?” Clive went on. “I want to help—”

“Help? Help?” She mocked him and turned away.

Clive was silenced; he did not know what this meant.

Staring straight ahead of herself at the closed lift doors Eliot said in a bored voice—as if she had been saying
I'll have the tuna on rye
—“What do you think this is, Oliver fucking Twist? Do I look like a ten-year-old kid? You've got a fucking nerve, Clive. ‘Help'?” She laughed. “I wouldn't even be here without you.”

Clive watched the red numbers on the screen,
flick flick flick,
count back down towards the lobby.
5—4—3—2.

“Fuck you,” repeated Eliot, punching the button to open the door, “and fuck your precious life. You don't deserve it.”

When the lift doors slid apart she seemed already to be moving—half out and walking away from him—
tack-tack-tack
across the shining white floor.

Clive stood still.

A voice said his name, “Clive?” Now Belinda was standing in front of him, wearing a coat and tracksuit. Her tired, white face seemed to have lost its structure.

Clive stepped out of the lift—its doors were trying to close—and towards her. What was she doing here? “Belinda?” Then he remembered his errand. “I forgot the file.”

“It doesn't matter,” Belinda said. She held out both hands in a placating gesture which frightened him. “I've been trying to ring but I couldn't get an answer—I was on my way up. Your wife has phoned.” Her voice was—what was the word for that tone?—
grave.
“There's been”—her mouth closed and opened—“an accident. Eliza's hit her head. I've booked you onto a flight—”

She continued to speak, and Clive watched her lips move. The word that had been repeating in his head—like a running heartbeat—changed shape:

Eliot Eliot Eliot.

Eliza Eliza Eliza.

Waiting for his flight at JFK, Clive told Belinda about Eliot. “I expect you're wondering who that girl was,” Clive said, “the one in the lift.”

“Not really,” Belinda replied, “but it sounds like you're going to tell me.”

Clive told her everything. It was in part to fill the dead time they had to sit through; in part to distract himself from the crisis that waited in London; in part because of that emergency, and in part because he wanted to hear that none of this was his fault.

When he stopped talking Belinda blew air out of her cheeks and stared down at her shoes. Then she said, “I don't know why you think she's worse off here with Lynton than she was with you.” She sounded tired and depressed.

Clive had not expected this and he did not—could not—reply. His surprise must have shown in his expression because Belinda continued, “Well: think about it—at least he cares where she is and what she's doing; at least someone will notice if she doesn't make it home one night. It sounds like you and her parents—between you—did a pretty thorough job of fucking her up.” She stared into Clive's face which had turned the stained gray of an old dishcloth. “What do you want me to say, Clive? That it's OK? That you didn't do a bad thing? Were you expecting sympathy?”

Yes. Please.

“Well, tough. I've got a fifteen-year-old daughter at home. I wish you hadn't told me any of that. It's a bad, rotten deed, what you did. If I were Martha and I found out, I'd—” She stopped and started again. “I don't know what she'd do if she knew.”

The mention of Martha chilled Clive but seemed to refresh Belinda, to give her back a sense of purpose, and she peered up at the winking screen—
Departures
—above their heads. In a different tone of voice—one that had been washed and dried—she said, “The only thing that matters now is Eliza. Let's not mention it again.”

Once on the plane and stowed in his window seat Clive began to regret his confession. He had not been prepared for the harshness of that judgment—Belinda had condemned him in a bold and indelible type. It had been foolish to tell her.

The plane pressed forward and lifted into the air; Clive wrestled with his terrors. Everything but Eliza was trivial:
forget Eliot.
But try as he might he could not dismiss from his mind that wretched other girl, the shock of her words and the swim of the falling lift.

His mind raced as the plane made its steep ascent. Belinda had told him to put Eliot out of his mind, and that was what Clive must do:
forget it.
To afford Eliot even a corner of his concern—given the circumstances—would be unspeakable. He would not—could not—think of anyone but Eliza. He spoke to himself with a voice of authority:
Eliot's present situation is neither your fault nor your responsibility.
Her accusations had been disproportionate and—yes—more than that: unjust.

The airplane relaxed its climb by a few degrees, and Clive settled more comfortably in his seat. He looked out of the little oval window beside him and remembered what Eliot had said in the penthouse, before she had taken the coke:
Me? Great. Good. Brilliant.
When she used those words to describe herself, there could be no need for concern.

Outside the window the lights of the city were nothing but dwindling points. Clive pulled down the blind and looked ahead at row upon row of quiet, placid passengers. His near environment was calm, and now the cabin was brightened again as they leveled off. He was reminded not to smoke, advised to keep his seatbelt fastened and implored to press the bell if he needed attention. Obedient, relaxed, Clive let his shoulders fall into the seat. The plane struck out across the lightless span of ocean towards home.

I
n her hospital bed, Eliza lay mute and inert—a butterfly pinned to a card—but the room was not quite silent:
mip-mip-mip.
In the past, Clive had listened out for her sleeping breath. Now he heard this.

Martha sat beside her, knotting and pleating her hands.

“Come home,” Clive pleaded.

“No.” She was stubborn; white-faced; resolute. “I'm not leaving her. Never again.” She was as good as her word.

Belinda sent flowers to the hospital:
For you both at this difficult time.

When it was safe to take Eliza home, Clive brought her and Martha—strapped and reluctant—back with him in the car. He felt like a kidnapper: Martha sat next to Eliza, Eliza yelled and Martha cried too, as wordless as her daughter. They clutched each other's hands. Clive watched them in the mirror as he waited at every set of red lights. He could think of no words to comfort.

Martha did not make it easy: “I wish we could stay in hospital forever,” she said that night. She stood staring into the cot and pulling at her lips with her teeth until she made them bleed.

“Let me help,” Clive begged, but she would not answer. She fetched the camp bed and slept—lay awake—in Eliza's room.

In the morning, Clive went to work and the other two stayed in the flat. It was just as it had been before—it was the same routine—and yet this time it had nothing to do with Clive. Martha came into her own, and Clive was no longer useful. Eliza was undamaged—“It's little short of a miracle,” they were told—but now she was out of his reach.

Home became clean, quiet and tidy. Frustration and anger vanished overnight, along with smoking and the snapping bad temper. Both gates on the stairs were kept shut, and Martha and Clive scissored over them. Precautions were taken against other types of accident: smoke alarms appeared, kitchen knives were locked in a cupboard, a safety catch was fixed to the dishwasher door, windows were barred, outdoor shoes banished and surfaces polished with antibacterial cleanser.

Martha's time was spent in the pursuit of domestic excellence. She did not mention the past, complain about the present or articulate a future of any kind. She took to home-making with the zeal of a religious convert: the flat sparkled, Eliza and Clive glowed, their clothes shuddered round in the washing machine and the kitchen shelves were piled with cookery books.

Clive, back from work, would try to find his place. “Can I help?” he might ask.

Martha would look up—from the sink, the hob, the bath or the bedtime story—and reply, “No; don't worry; it's all done.”

Can I help?

No; don't worry.

At weekends Clive felt unwelcome—an accessory. “What's Daddy going to do today?” Martha would ask Eliza on Saturday mornings. She did not want him there, she wanted Eliza to herself. Clive's presence alone was a disruption to ordinary service—Martha described Mondays as “Getting back to normal.”

Disconsolate, Clive began to spend Saturdays at work but there was not always work to be done, so he joined a gym and went there. Sometimes he stayed, after he had exercised, to drink a freshly made juice and read the weekend papers.

He asked Martha when she would like to go back to work.

“Work?” She blinked at him.

On another day he asked her, “What about getting some help?”

“Help? What for?”

“So that you…can have some time to yourself. Away from Eliza.”

“That's not what I want.” The subject was closed, and the days and the months went by.

Clive knew what had happened, and he knew why:
Fuck your precious life. You don't deserve it.

He knew that Eliza would never remember her father holding her bottle, upturned toward her besotted gaze, in their quiet London kitchen. While he would remember sprinkling water on her in the bath, she would not. He would always know that to pluck and
swoosh
her from the cot had made her laugh, but she was too young to remember it into the future. That precious life had been captured and placed behind glass; pinned to a card with its wings outstretched.