The Crystal Cage (35 page)

As he stepped back from the door, he became aware that the lolling youths were looking more interested. They had witnessed the woman handing him the necklace and the opportunity for robbery was ripe. He turned swiftly on his heels and made his way as quickly as he could out of the alley and into a neighbouring street, almost as narrow and if possible, even dirtier. From there he wandered into yet another miserable alley and then to another, not knowing where he was headed, only knowing that he had to keep walking, had to keep moving. The future, so long in the plotting, so powerfully desired, had receded to nothingness. He could see only this. This was his life: to walk every backstreet and alley, cross every filth-laden yard, scour every crevice of a forsaken city for however long it took. Alessia was here in this maze of misery, and he would find her.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to find you.’

Nick was at my side even before I’d got the door to the flat fully open. He had regained his old Tigger-type bounce and was wearing a tee shirt so well washed that its motto was impossible to decipher. I should be used by now to his mercurial nature, but seeing my original lover resurface before my eyes felt uncanny.

‘I wanted a walk.’ The late August day had been unusually sultry and hardly walking weather, but he didn’t seem to find it odd.

‘I’m glad you’re back.’ He enveloped me in a bear hug. It was getting stranger by the minute. ‘We’ve got stuff to discuss.’

I didn’t feel at all like discussing stuff; I felt intensely weary. I’d been telling the truth about the walk, but an hour strolling by the Caledonian Canal had worn me out and done nothing to help me come to a decision. Before that, a doctor’s appointment had made clear that I needed to, and quickly.

Nick grabbed my hands and pushed me none too gently down into the sagging seat of his best armchair. Half-filled boxes and bags littered the floor space around me; his attempts at packing had been predictably haphazard.

‘Lucy has found this guy, a man with a van, who can move us cheaply. He does jobs for her PR company, and he’ll give us a special rate as long as we can fit in with his schedule. I’ve fixed it for this Friday if that’s okay.’

Friday was just four days away; decision time was coming fast. It’s not that I hadn’t given thought to where I should go. Ever since Nick had thrown out his challenge, I’d been toying with the idea of taking on the lease of Thetford Road. The flat was cheap enough to manage on a small income and work was definitely beginning to look up. I’d been offered a monthly column with
Living History,
and over the weekend Jessica Hanley had phoned, as promised, to discuss a possible commission, which looked substantial. And just today while I’d been pacing the canal side, a message from Oliver had arrived to say he’d recommended me to one of
his
contacts who he was sure ‘
would benefit from your expertise.’
Text messaging and Oliver were never going to be a cosy fit.

The lease was due to run until the end of this month and I could easily request the landlord to substitute my name for Nick’s, but the thought of bringing up a child in such bleak surroundings was more than depressing. I’d also thought of leaving the city entirely, somewhere near enough London to travel in for business meetings, but considerably cheaper. The South coast, I thought, a nicely rundown seaside town. But I’d been feeling too sick to begin the search. So Hampstead still beckoned. The old siren of security was sounding again, even louder now that I had another to think of, and when I pictured the struggle ahead, I was tempted. Nick, after all, was expecting me to move with him; why wouldn’t he be when my two suitcases stood ready packed with all I possessed in the world? I was ready to go—somewhere.

‘Friday, then?’

‘That’s fine,’ I agreed without really hearing him, mind busy elsewhere. I was about to be shocked to attention.

‘While she was on the phone, Lucy mentioned that she’d been up to Gloucestershire again.’

I nodded, still in dream mode. ‘My father’s written his memoirs. He didn’t want to trust the manuscript to the post, so Lucy’s going to deliver it to the publishers.’

It sounded pretty antiquated, but I went on nodding; then I thought I’d better make a polite enquiry. ‘And are they well?’

‘Yes, they’re good.’

He’d sat himself down opposite me and was studying my face rather too intently. His eyes were the most extraordinary deep blue, bluer than I’d ever seen them, almost navy. They were eyes that meant business.

‘They asked after you, Lucy said. They really liked you, Grace.’

I couldn’t imagine why—I’d said so very little. Perhaps that was why.

‘Good.’ I tried to sound cheerfully hearty in the best Heysham tradition, but it wasn’t easy. I was still feeling nauseous much of the time, and Nick’s odd manner was disturbing.

‘The thing is…’

I’d started to slip back into my dreamy state, but when he didn’t go on, I jerked awake again. What on earth was the matter with him? I’d never seen him so awkward.

‘The thing is, the olds were hoping…’

‘Yes,’ I said encouragingly, hoping myself—that I could soon find my way to the shower. It was hot and sticky in the flat, and I hadn’t done myself any favours with an hour’s walk in the sun.

‘Why don’t we do the decent thing and get married?’ he rushed out.

No wonder he was wearing clothes from a past life: they were to give him courage. And no wonder he’d appeared so strange. It was a startling declaration, but it made my life ten times harder. I’d always thought that if he knew about the baby, Nick would insist on getting married. But here he was, without obligation, offering to be a husband. Did he really love me then, love me deeply enough to make a marriage work? Or was it that he loved me sufficiently and wanted to make his parents happy? I was bewildered. I wasn’t at all sure that I loved him. I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted to marry anyone. Yet he was offering me a way out of my difficulties: a pleasant enough flat in an attractive area, a little part-time work while he brought in the solid money, shelter and security for the small being I was carrying. It was tempting, more than tempting. I had no idea how to answer him so I didn’t.

Instead I took refuge in a cowardly, ‘Why?’

His blue eyes lightened. They registered surprise, as though it was the last question he’d expected to hear. ‘A new start, I guess, a new page. Hughie says that he and his wife moved into their place the same week they married. It sounded good to me.’

Ah yes, Hughie, who values his freedom too much to have children. I must have grimaced without realising because Nick reached out for my hands and clasped them so tightly it hurt. ‘I know you’re not keen on the idea of living in Hampstead, but I’m sure that once you get there, you’ll really like the flat. I wish you’d been to see it. You’d know then that moving will make a big difference to us. It’s a place we can put down roots.’

‘In a small London flat?’

‘It’s a start,’ he said defensively. ‘Why knock it?’

‘I don’t mean to, but I’m finding it difficult to picture you settling for something so conventional.’

In fact, I wasn’t finding it that difficult. Not any longer. But somehow I felt the need to pretend an earlier Nick still existed. It stopped me from having to confront the truth of my situation.

He grinned, the rueful grin that had once swayed my heart. ‘It happens to everyone, doesn’t it? Sad but true.’

He got up and took hold of my shoulders and shook them gently. ‘You, too, Grace, if you’re honest. What was all the stuff with Oliver but your wanting to settle down? That didn’t work out, but this will.’

I couldn’t decide where he was most wrong. My life in Lyndhurst Villas hadn’t been about settling down; it had been about fear, panic that I had to grasp whatever security was on offer. Putting down roots implied growth, but I’d been stultified, merely clinging on with my fingertips. And now his assumption that all was going so well between us that marriage was hardly a question he need ask, made me squirm.

He got up and produced a paper carrier from behind the fridge.

‘Bubbles—to celebrate! Or are you still on the wagon?’

I accepted a glass of what I knew was very expensive champagne. With luck he would soon be feeling too hazy to work out just what we were supposed to be celebrating; I hadn’t agreed to either a wedding or a house move. Surely one glass wouldn’t hurt and hopefully it might dim my feeling of being a fraud. I’d begun to believe I could depend on myself alone, but Nick’s offer had revealed that an illusion, a disguise for my very real lack of guts. If I’d had courage, I would have rejected his suggestion outright, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t even voiced my doubts. Instead it seemed I was ready to fold at the first touch.

He downed his glass in minutes and was already pouring a second when I thought it time to lob
my
grenade. ‘While we’re talking about the future, Nick, there’s something I need to tell you.’

He stopped drinking. My tone of voice must have bothered him, the tension I was feeling suddenly manifest. His eyebrows were question marks that demanded an answer. I took a deep breath.

‘I’m pregnant.’ There was no way of saying it gently.

He gaped at me, his mouth slightly open and his eyes those of a startled hare. ‘You can’t be.’

‘I am.’

‘But…’ No congratulations, no smile. Just a ‘but.’ ‘We’ve been very careful.’ He ran agitated fingers through his hair. ‘I just don’t see.’

‘We weren’t careful the first time,’ I reminded him.

‘Yes, but one time.’

‘Once is all it takes.’

‘I don’t need a biology lesson.’ He was almost angry.

He was not reacting as I’d imagined. After that proposal, I thought he would have leapt on the news and had me halfway up the aisle before the day was finished. But he was finding the idea of fatherhood difficult to accept. It turned out that he didn’t accept it.

‘It could be Oliver’s.’

‘It isn’t.’ I was as certain as I could be that Nick was the father. ‘And “it” is a baby.’

‘It, the baby, could be Oliver’s. You can’t know for sure.’

‘And how does any of this alter the fact of my pregnancy?’

‘It doesn’t, but…’ There was that ‘but’ again. ‘Grace, this could mess us up.’

He came and sat close to me and took both my hands in his. His eyes were very blue and seemingly very sincere. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he soon enlightened me.

‘Look, we’ve got this chance of a new start in Hampstead—a great little flat, two good jobs—I’m sure you’ll land on your feet soon. We could be living a comfortable life.’

‘Without a baby?’

He looked at me gratefully. ‘Babies are great at the right time,’ he soothed, ‘but this just isn’t the right time.’

‘And when would that be?’

‘Later, when we’ve got ourselves sorted. We’ve only known each other a matter of months after all.’

‘But long enough for you to suggest we get married.’

‘A wedding first, babies later—much later!’ Sensible, pragmatic. You couldn’t quarrel with the sentiment. But something visceral had taken hold of me, and I did.

‘What you’re saying is that you want me to have a termination.’

‘I’m not saying that I want it. It’s hardly something that you want. But in the circumstances…’

So many unfinished sentences were muddying my thoughts. Was he pushing for an abortion because the baby might be Oliver’s, or because he was intent on moving to a new flat near a new friend and a baby would cramp his style? Or was it both? He wanted to marry—that would fit neatly with Hughie—but he didn’t want more.

‘I know this is difficult,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t want to force you into something you’ll regret, I really don’t. It’s just that I’d rather we have a clear run. A few years to settle as a couple before we get into the grown-up stuff.’

It was all sweetly reasonable, but reasonable was not how I felt. Protective, yes, possessive, yes. I was already a defender.

‘It’s for the best, Grace.’ His voice was soft and persuasive. And if I didn’t do what he clearly wanted? No doubt he would prove a true gentleman and shoulder the unwanted burden, but it was hardly the most encouraging way to begin a marriage.

‘It’s not too bad these days, I believe. You can’t be far gone, and it will be over before you know it.’

When I didn’t reply, he urged, ‘I’ll go with you, I’ll be there to support you.’

How could a girl refuse such an offer, but I did. ‘I need to think,’ I said, like the coward I was.

* * *

The next morning he was slightly the worse for wear and for the first time since starting at
Art Matters
, he stumbled into work late and heavy-eyed. Last night’s momentous question didn’t surface and I began to wonder if he was regretting his impulsive proposal, particularly in the light of my pregnancy. I couldn’t be sure. And I couldn’t be sure of myself. I didn’t want to talk to him again until I’d lost the shadows from my mind.

There was something else plaguing me, too, unfinished business I had to finish. It was the sale of Wisteria Lodge and the disappearance of all three of its inhabitants. Perverse, I know, at this critical moment of my life to lose myself in the past, but I felt pushed, compelled even, by an intangible force. I went back again to the trusty
Holborn Mercury
. Renville had been a prominent resident and the
Mercury
had taken an interest in him, so I thought it a good bet. I found a picture of the house almost immediately in the paper’s 19th May edition—a solid Victorian villa with, yes, wisteria twining itself on either side of an arched door. But it was the banner above the picture that was most intriguing: Sold by Auction. Now why would a prosperous man such as Renville auction his house rather than sell privately? An auction meant public exposure, even perhaps a sacrifice of dignity. Was it to get a better price, or did he for some reason need a quick sale? I ploughed on through the paper. There had been scant details accompanying the picture, but just when I thought I wouldn’t discover anything further, I found a small article tucked away at the bottom of the next to last page. It was headed Prominent Citizen goes to Queen’s Bench. I read on astounded. The Queen’s Bench in Southwark had replaced the notorious Fleet and Marshalsea debtors’ prisons a few years earlier. Edward Renville had been in debt! The price the house had raised at auction must have been insufficient to cover everything he owed and until 1869 debtors who could not pay went to prison. How on earth could a man with so much end up with so little?