Sheltering Rain (14 page)

She paused.

“How's everything—?”

“Where are you—?” They both began speaking simultaneously and then broke off, each unwilling to interrupt the other. “You first,” said Kate, cursing the telephone system for the awkward time lags.

“Look, I can't talk long. I just wanted to say that I'll probably be back by the weekend. We've only got one more person to see, and then I'm hoping to leave the others here and get out on an early flight.”

“Do you want me to meet you at the airport? Just ring when you've got your flight details.”

“No, don't bother. I'm not a great fan of all that arrivals reunion stuff.”

Kate tried to bite back her disappointment. She had had a sudden vision of them embracing in the middle of Heathrow, he dressed in dusty khaki, lines of exhaustion wiped from his face at the sight of her. For God's sake, she scolded herself. Maggie was right. You really are fifteen.

“I'll cook something nice then. For when you get back.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“I want to. I miss you.”

“I just mean that I'm likely to be knackered, and filthy, and will probably head home first and sleep for twelve hours. I'll see you when I'm clean and rested. We'll go out somewhere fun.”

Kate told him she would look forward to it, trying to hide the disappointment she felt at his lack of urgency. She wanted to see him as soon as he touched down; sweaty, exhausted, or whatever, she wanted to smother him in kisses, run him a hot bath, hand him glasses of wine as she listened to his tales of derring-do. Then feed him up with home cooking and watch him doze contentedly on her sofa. But then Justin wasn't really the dozing kind. In fact, she had a strong suspicion that Justin was somewhere not a million miles from hyperactive. He found it difficult to sit still anywhere; he fidgeted and tapped his fingers on his knees, rubbed at his sandy hair, and paced the room. She supposed it was what made him good at his job. Even in his sleep he flinched and murmured as if on some constant nocturnal trail.

Restless, Kate walked slowly up to her room, and stood, staring at herself in the long mirror on the door of the Edwardian wardrobe. What does he see in me? she thought, feeling suddenly vulnerable, at odds with herself. He could have anyone, and yet he picked me: a thirty-five-year-old woman with stretch marks and the definite beginnings of crows'-feet and hair that was, while luxuriant and red, apparently too long for her age, according to her daughter. A woman who, having missed out on her youth, had somehow never gotten to grips with fashion—not knowing where she quite fit in to it all. Sabine told her that the 1950s and 1960s second-hand clothes she got from the shop in Stoke Newington were “a joke”; but Kate had liked them, liked the good fabrics and the feeling of quality that she couldn't afford in a wardrobe of today. She had liked the fact that they separated her from all those thirty-five-year-old mums she saw at Sainsbury's. But now, laid under a sudden cloud of self-doubt, she wondered whether she simply looked odd, out of place. Will he go off me? she thought, peering at her reflection. He was the same age as she was, but his whole lifestyle was so transient, so free of responsibility, that it could have belonged to someone ten years younger. Would he ultimately want someone who shared that freedom?

Kate closed her wardrobe door, trying to displace the thoughts crowding into her head. She was just no good at being alone; it gave her much too much time to think, too much time to mull over everything. Too much of her happiness was dictated by her love life, that's what Maggie had said. She made herself too vulnerable that way. She had denied it, but had been notably unable to come up with reasons why Maggie was wrong. And Maggie had said what she did without knowing half of it: how Kate had spent a fortune on new bed linens because Justin had once remarked that he slept best on white Egyptian cotton; how she had turned down at least two well-paid commissions because she wasn't sure when he was getting back and didn't want to be working when he arrived; how she found it altogether too much effort to look nice when Justin wasn't here and had spent most of his absence in her black plastic reading glasses, a T-shirt, and a pair of pajama bottoms.

God, but she was no good at being alone. She would get a lodger. Or a dog. Or something. Anything to stop these depressive thoughts. Come on, she scolded herself. Geoff will be here soon. Straighten yourself up.

Glad of a reason to stop thinking, Kate brushed her hair, marveling at the tangles that could be caused by two days' neglect, applied her lipstick, and then, without thinking, applied perfume: Mitsouko, by Guerlain. Then stared in horror at the bottle; Geoff had bought her that perfume. Every Valentine's Day. It was his favorite. He might think she had changed her mind, that she wanted to win him back. Kate stared at her reflection, and then, after a moment's hesitation, took a tissue and rubbed off the lipstick. She did up the top button of her 1950s cream-silk blouse, and removing her contact lenses, put on her unflattering work glasses. Then she wiped at her neck with a handkerchief, trying to remove the scent. She had hurt him enough already; the last thing she wanted to do was unwittingly inflame his passion. With that in mind, a flat, aged, washed-out Kate, the kind she had just spent the last two hours fretting about, was the most thoughtful gift she could offer him.

H
e arrived late, which surprised her. Geoff was always punctual. It was one of his “things.” She was almost grateful when the doorbell eventually rang; she had found herself seated in silence in the living room, staring as if for the first time at the gaps in the bookshelves and the spaces on the walls where his belongings had been. How would Sabine feel when she saw so many familiar things missing? Had she been attached to any of them? Had she even noticed any of them? How did you know what was going on in the mind of an enigma?

He looked, she noticed, as he walked in past her down the hall, a little better than the last time she had seen him. Less aged by it all. But perhaps that was no surprise; that had been moving day; the weeks since had been an age for both of them.

He stood in the living room, a tall, slightly stooped man of fifty, apparently unsure whether to sit down. Suddenly, perversely glad to see him, Kate smiled nervously at him and gestured toward the sofa.

“Do you want a drink? Your stuff's upstairs but I know you've had a drive, and I don't want you to feel you have to head straight off again.”

Geoff rubbed at the back of his salt-and-pepper hair, a gesture she had never seen before, and sat down tentatively.

“Actually, I only came from Islington. I'm headed back there, too.”

Kate was sure he had said he was renting a place in Bromley, nearer the psychiatric hospital, but she said nothing. Innocent queries suddenly held the capacity to become loaded. It was none of her business anymore.

“Tea? Coffee? Red wine? There's a bottle open.”

“Red would be great. Thanks.”

She fussed with the bottle in the kitchen, marveling at how swiftly one's partner could metamorphose into a formal guest. When she handed his glass to him, she felt his eyes search her face, and it made her flush with unwelcome emotion.

“So, how are you?” he said. Which threw her somewhat, because she had expected to ask it of him.

“I'm—I'm fine,” she said. “Doing okay.”

“Is Sabine still at your mother's?”

“Yes. She didn't like it much to begin with, but she hasn't rung this week. With her I guess that's a good sign.”

“No news is good news.”

“Something like that.”

“Give her my love. When you next speak to her.”

She nodded. “Of course I will.”

There was a lengthy pause. Kate noticed that the top button of her blouse had come undone, and wondered whether to do it up would look like she was making a point. She pulled her thick cardigan harder around her, hoping that would solve the problem.

“You've not got the heating on?” he said, looking around the room, as if suddenly noticing the cold.

“I've had a few problems with the boiler. The man's coming tomorrow,” she lied.

“Is he any good? You don't want to have cowboys messing around—they can wreck the whole thing—electrics, plumbing, the lot.”

“Oh, he's very good. Registered and everything.”

“Good. Because you only have to let me know, you know. I . . .” he paused, awkwardly “Well. Anyway. I'm glad you've got it sorted.”

Kate stared at her wineglass, and felt wretched. It was worse that he was being nice. She found it easier when he was yelling at her. When she had told him about the affair, he had actually screamed that she was a
whore
—a word that had curiously failed to hurt her at the time, in part because it was what she secretly felt herself, but also because it was the only really nasty thing he had ever done, and it gave her an excuse to feel furious with him.

“Actually,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

Kate's heart leaped into her mouth. Geoff was gazing at her; his eyes liquid and softened, his face kind. Please don't be in love with me anymore, she begged him, silently. I can't bear the responsibility.

“Shall I get your stuff down first?” she said, briskly. “Then we can talk afterward.”

“No.”

She stared at him.

“Look, I'd like to talk to you now.”

We spend our whole lives trying to get men to talk, she thought. And then when they do we wish we were a million miles away.

At that point, O'Malley padded silently into the room, his black coat bristling and dusted with raindrops. Ignoring her, he walked up to Geoff, and after sniffing with a studied lack of interest at his trouser leg, jumped lightly up beside him on the sofa. Not you, too, thought Kate, desperately.

“This is all very awkward,” he began.

“No. No, it's me who should feel awkward. Geoff, I'm so sorry about what happened. I really am. You are such a wonderful man, and I would give anything for things not to have turned out the way they have. I'm so, so sorry. But I've moved on. Moved on, you know?” Here she smiled at him in a way that she hoped conveyed all the love and thanks she had felt about their relationship over the years—and also her determination that there was nothing left to resurrect.

“That's very sweet,” he said, looking down at his shoes. They were new, she suddenly noticed. Thick-soled. Expensive looking. Very unlike Geoff. “I'm glad you said that. Because I felt slightly awkward about coming here today.”

“You need never feel awkward coming here,” Kate said earnestly, half believing that she meant it. “Sabine will always want to see you. And I will always . . .”—here she struggled for the right words—“always care about you. I would hate that we would never see each other again.”

“You really feel that?” He was leaning toward her, both hands resting lightly on his knees.

“I do,” she said. “Geoff, you have been a huge part of my life.”

“But you've moved on.”

Kate felt her eyes fill with tears.

“I have.”

“I'm glad,” he said, and for the first time, his expression seemed to relax. “Because what I need to tell you—well, I was a bit worried, because I didn't know how you were.”

Kate stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Look, it just makes it a bit easier for me. Because I've moved on, too. I've—well, I've met someone.”

Kate's mind went blank.

Geoff shook his head slightly, as if what he were saying were unbelievable even to himself.

“I've met someone. And it seems pretty serious. And it's made me realize that you were right. You were right to do what you did. Oh, I know I was as hurt as anything at the time. You can't believe how hurt. Which makes it all the more astonishing, really, that this could happen so quickly. Because when did you tell me—what was it, six weeks ago?”

Kate nodded her head dumbly.

“But this person—this woman—has made me realize that your decision was incredibly brave. Because we were just drifting. We weren't really challenging each other, or making each other happy. And I've got that now. And if you've got it, too, well—God, I can't believe I'm saying this—but I just feel that it's all worked out—somehow—for the best. As long as Sabine is okay, that is.”

There was a faint ringing sound in Kate's ears. She shook her head, trying to get rid of it.

“Are you okay?” said Geoff, reaching out a hand.

“I'm fine,” she said, softly. “Just a bit—surprised.” The shoes, she thought suddenly. This woman had made him buy the shoes. He had been gone three weeks, and already this woman had him buying decent shoes.

“Who is she?” she said, lifting her head. “Is she anyone I know?”

Geoff looked a little uncomfortable.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He paused.

“It's Soraya.”

Kate looked blank. Then: “Soraya? Not Soraya from your work?”

“Yup. That Soraya.”

“Soraya, who has come here for dinner? What, five or six times?”

“Yes.”

Soraya, Asian queen of psychiatry. Soraya, forty-something, doe-eyed goddess of quality designer labels and expensive shoes. Soraya, inheritor of a vast, immaculately furnished Georgian house in Islington, a private income, and no children. Soraya, witch. Husband-stealer. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

“She didn't waste any time, did she?” She couldn't keep the note of bitterness from her voice.

Geoff shrugged and smiled ruefully.

“She was pretty careful to ask whether it was definite. She's very proper, you know. When I told her it was, she told me that if she didn't snap me up, someone else would. She reckons there's a shortage of decent, grown-up men.” He had the grace to blush at repeating her compliments, but neither could he quite hide his pride in them.