The Last Time I Saw You (8 page)

“You don’t have to stay down there you know.”

“I made you cry. The least I can do is grovel.”

He gives me a sheepish smile as he says it, and I can see as he does so that all the others have been nothing but well-drilled facial reflexes—he’s like an empty house suddenly flooded with light, darkness chased away by something more powerful. It melts away the stiffness, brings his vulnerability to the surface. For a moment I can sense exactly what it is that Sally would have seen in him, but then I realize that it’s what I would see, not her.

He stands up, awkwardly brushing the lint from his pants, and retreats to his side of the table, pausing for a fraction of a second to reassure himself that I really have collected myself. He reaches to fill my glass, and holds my gaze.

“I’m sorry, you asked me a question.”

“Please don’t feel like you have to—”

“No, it’s actually . . .” He looks at me. “There aren’t actually that many people I can talk to at this precise moment in time.” Again, that sense of Sally: her presence and her absence like two electric currents running through the room. How terrible it must be to lose your closest confidante, and in losing them, lose the very person who you would go to for comfort. “The police obviously released the . . . the body . . .” He grinds to a halt, looks away, and yet again I grope in the dark for the best way to reach across the breach. I think about moving my chair around the table and sitting beside him, but it feels like a bridge
too far. He collects himself, straightens his shoulders. “For burial, but now the insurance company is asking questions.”

“Insurance company?”

“Life insurance. They’re trying to get the investigation reopened.”

That lizard of dread starts to crawl and slither across me, my gaze unconsciously pulled back to the photo. What did you do, Sally? She smiles out at me—those whitened teeth, that perfect hair—she’s giving nothing away.

“But why?”

“They’re saying that it could be suicide.” He looks at me, his dark eyes full of pain, “Which is patently absurd.”

“Of course. Of course it is.” I’m talking too fast, thoughts careering around my mind like moths wheeling around a light. Surely not? Surely not that? She had so much, and yet . . . some part of me won’t throw the idea away like it’s trash.

“They’ve discovered points on her English license that I didn’t know about, and they’re saying that the fact she had a few sessions of therapy indicates a history of depression. They want to talk to us all, get more
background
.”

His tone is one of outrage, but I detect a bleakness that sweeps across him like a wall of sleet. How awful it must be to have to focus on these spots of darkness at a time when all you want to do is focus on the good. And what if the darkness was more than mere spots? It certainly was when I knew her. I think of him delivering that eulogy, the sheer force of will it must have taken. He wants to believe in that version of Sally—the white queen, not the wicked witch—even more than I did. Protecting it is his very survival.

“It doesn’t sound like much,” I say, trying to ape his certainty. “Loads of people have had counseling, I know I have.” Again, that pull to the past. My twentysomething self, sobbing about the kind of girl politics that sounded petty, but had cut me to the bone. “And a few points for speeding . . .”

“They don’t see it like that. They called me—the day of the funeral.” He looks at me, almost ashamed. How much does he think I overheard? “They want to exhume the body.” I take a gulp of air, suddenly light-headed as the blood drains from me unbidden. He looks at my chalky white face, concern in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.”

“No, please . . .” I say, looking at him, trying to regain some composure. “They can’t ask you to do that!” My voice is high-pitched, shrill, like it’s coming from somewhere outside me. I don’t feel fully resident in my body; I look down at my hands lying on the heavy oak wood of the dining table, trying to coax myself back inside my shell. What is Sally now; is she the body that’s lying in the cold ground? Is she the energy that’s pulsating in this room? Or is she nothing more than a collection of our conflicting, overlapping memories?

“I’ve point-blank refused, but they’re trying to mount a case. They want to do a toxicology report. They’re trying to suggest she might have been driving under the influence. These awful suits who don’t know her—it’s ludicrous to suggest she’d do such a thing.”

A memory hits me like a camera flash—Sally: not just drunk, high, willing her nippy little Peugeot to take the corners faster as we drove back from a Manchester club, me singing along at the top of my lungs while my white fingers
gripped onto the seat for dear life. It doesn’t sound so ludicrous to me.

“Oh God, William, I’m so sorry,” I say, too shocked to even cry. “Is there anything, anything at all that I can do?” I mean it this time. I couldn’t mean it more.

“There is in fact,” he says. “I have to go and speak to the investigators. They need me to make some kind of deposition this coming Saturday. I couldn’t help but notice your kindness with Madeline, and she talked nonstop about you when I tucked her in.” How can she have done, when I was so clumsy and hopeless? I don’t say that, I just smile my assent. “I’m sure she’d relish that trip to the Natural History Museum you suggested, but perhaps with you?”

“I can give it a go.”

“Thank you.”

It’s as though, at least for a little while, we allow ourselves to breathe out. He asks me about my work, I ask him about his, and although it’s a false sort of normality, it feels like a tonic, a cold compress on a scalding burn. Still, when the carriage clock on the mantelpiece hits ten-thirty I can’t help my streak of relief at being able to make a polite escape. I want to get home to see James: in time to bitch about Charlotte and talk about whatever rubbish is on TV—in time to pretend that those kinds of things really matter.

William helps me on with my coat, waiting patiently as I try to thread my arms into the sleeves.

“Thank you again,” he says, his gaze direct. There’s something very grown up about him, that’s about more
than his young-fogey outfits. He’s a man, not a boy, and witnessing it makes me realize how few men can really lay claim to the title.

“No, thank you,” I say. “And I’m glad I’ll get the chance to see more of you and Madeline before you go.”

“Olivia,” he says, suddenly intense, “will you do something for me? Can you tell me something about Sally that you think that I mightn’t know?”

Here it is, the million-dollar question, the reason he asked me to come. How interesting that it’s only now, when I’m standing in the doorway, he feels safe enough to ask it. I take a breath, try to think just enough, but not too much.

“She always lit up the room, made everyone else in it seem about twenty degrees less bright. She could be kind—I mean, she was kind. When she was caring about me, I’d have this toasty sort of feeling inside.” I hope the truth of that feeling will counter the equal truth of my hesitation. I can’t read much in his expression, he’s watching my mouth, like he wants to catch the words the very second they spill out of me. “She could make me laugh like no one else could, she always had the best nicknames for people. She always seemed to win on the Grand National even though she knew nothing about horses; one year she spent it all on a pair of boots I wanted that I couldn’t afford. She cried when Miles didn’t marry Anna in
This Life
but she didn’t cry at
Schindler’s List
.” I pause, look at his drawn face, his eyes pools of sadness. “Is that enough?”

“I’m not sure ‘enough’ is quite the right word,” he says, his voice soft.

We stand there for a moment, submerged in a complicated sort of silence.

“I should go.”

“Of course. And thank you again. You reminded me about some bits of Sally I’d maybe . . .” He pauses. “It’s good to remember.”

It is good to remember. At least I think it is.

CHAPTER SIX

It’s eight p.m. on Friday night, and while what I
should
be doing is drinking wine in a noisy bar, what I’m actually doing is trying to make up for lost time, specifically the lost time of the last few weeks, in which I’ve gone home at six and sleepwalked my way through my working hours. The pitch is less than a week away, and we’re yet to have a eureka moment; I’m hoping that if I sit here long enough, in an empty office looking at clips of Flynn Gerrard and Googling stray news stories, inspiration will strike. When Amy taps me on the shoulder I nearly jump out of my skin. I pull off my headphones.

“Where did you spring from?”

“I’ve been in the conference room. Charlotte’s asked me . . .” She stops, remembering we’re on rival teams.

“On a Friday night?”

“Yeah, on a Friday sodding night. To be fair, she didn’t ask me to do it tonight, but it’s so much work that I thought I’d get a head start so I’m not doing it all Sunday.”

“Couldn’t she help you?”

“She’s going away with Peter.”

“The boyfriend?”

“Have you met him?”

I shake my head, secretly enjoying where this is going.

“I met him once at some BBH Christmas drinks. He’s like a postbox.” I try not to look baffled: Amy has a peculiarly off-center way of looking at the world. “You know, square and red and solid with a big mouth. Kept going on about his investments and lumbering up to the bar like he was going to fight it.”

We snort with laughter.

“Why don’t we call it quits?” I say, a bit tentative. “Have that drink we were going to have?”

“Aah, I’d love to, but I’m meeting Evan for dinner.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, feeling knocked back, even though I know it’s not a slight. “Maybe next week?”

“Behind enemy lines? Exciting!” She grins. “I’ll let you get on.” She glances at my screen as she gets up. “What’s that then?”

It’s another side-effect of my blinding realization that life is frighteningly short. Frustrating though it is, I’ve gone back to peering at those tiny website photos trying to find men worthy of “favorite” status. What Amy has spotted is a profile for Pete the Pilot, a good-looking forty-something who I’ve been exchanging e-mails with for the last couple of days.

“Check him out!” she says, having a good look at his photo. He’s wearing his uniform, which is possibly a little over the top, but he looks so handsome in it that it’s hard to hold it against him. “He’s hot, no question.”

“He e-mailed me at lunchtime checking there was nothing in his profile that worried me, but, you know, no one’s
perfect. He’s got a couple of kids, but they’re teenagers so they probably do their own thing.”

I can hear myself jumping ahead in the way that always proves fatal, but I can’t help myself. I just want life to throw up some answers, some certainties. “That’s when I knew,” I’ll say, as a fleet of Red Arrows fly in formation over our wedding, “that I couldn’t live life like a dress rehearsal.”

“Definitely dateworthy,” says Amy. “Besides, they’ve all got kids by now and if they haven’t, they’re probably weird.”

I think of William, of his pale, harassed expression as he juggled yet another piece of bad news with Madeline’s bedtime. I’m glad that I’m going to be able to help out tomorrow, even if it’s only a tiny drop in the ocean of what he’s going through.

“Does Evan have kids?”

“No, but we’ve been together for . . .” She trails off, not wanting to sound patronizing. “Pete sounds great, you should go for it.”

“Thanks.”

I end up staying until after ten, scribbling down random ideas that don’t really hold up and scattering grains of couscous from my M&S takeout supper across my messy desk. I call James a couple of times, but there’s no reply. The house is dark and silent when I get back, and I drag my computer onto the kitchen table and pour myself a glass of wine, logging on one final time. A new message from Pete!
Great!
he’s written.
If you really are not worried at all, let’s make a plan without further ado.
Sweet,
no further ado
, how lovely and old-fashioned. He’s given me his number, which I’m trying to transcribe into my phone, when there’s
a piercing shriek behind me. I whip round, to find a skinny blond clad only in one of James’s work shirts framed in the doorway. James comes bolting out of his room, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Oh man, sorry,” he says, “should have told you . . .”

“It would’ve been nice . . .” I start.

“This is Livvy, my roommate.”

Beanpole Girl’s face floods with relief at the news that I’m not his vengeful wife, lying in wait with a bread knife and a Google search on the temporary insanity defense.

“Silly me,” she says coquettishly, “it was just a shock.”

Maybe if you bothered to—I dunno spend more than two hours with a woman before dragging her back to your lair—there wouldn’t be any nasty surprises, I think, trying to convey it through my narrowed eyes. James is oblivious.

“This is Matilda,” he says, peering nosily at the screen. I try to slam it shut, but he whips out a hand and flips it back open.

“Pete the Pilot,” he says, scanning it in double-quick time.

“James!” I say, glancing toward the Beanpole. I almost feel sorry for her, shifting from foot to foot, futilely attempting to pull the shirt down to a modest length.

“Oh come on, Livvy, even if he is handy with his joystick, it’s not gonna be worth it. You’d never be able to handle it.”

“Do you know what, most people have kids by our age. It’s a fact of life.” My eyes swivel toward BG, whose perfect twentysomething tummy looks like it’s never accommodated as much as a croissant, let alone a baby. It’s so bloody unfair that he can date down as well as up. Suddenly I’m feeling properly furious. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Take Martha . . .” James looks around with me, leaving me deeply suspicious he doesn’t know either.

“Matilda,” she clarifies.

“Take . . . Matilda back to your room and leave me alone.”

“Fine,” says James snappishly, “but I didn’t mean the bloody kids and if you think I did, there’s something seriously up with your priorities. How can you want to go out with a naturist? It’s so fucking obvious it’s internet code for a swinger.”

I stop in my tracks. “What are you talking about?”

Matilda gives the shirt a final tug. “I think I might just go back next door.”

“I’m really sorry about all this,” I say, with an embarrassed laugh.

“I’ll be there in five,” says James, giving her the kind of crumpled, sexy smile that will ensure she won’t do the sensible thing and run for the last tube as fast as those skyscraper legs will carry her. “Here,” he says, jabbing at the screen. “I have a wide variety of interests, including naturism.”

I slump back on the kitchen chair, the fight having left me. “Oh,” I say, in a small voice. It feels momentarily disastrous, symbolic of the wrongness of everything: Pete the Pilot and his naked member has made the world seem a dark and unforgiving place. Suddenly I’m dreading tomorrow, wishing I could fake an illness. My moods are so fragile right now, like I’m holding a brimming cup of scalding water and trying not to stumble, but the more I try not to, the more inevitable it becomes.

“You thought it was nature?”

I nod.

“I didn’t read it properly. Maybe I should go on one of those adult literacy courses,” I say, feeling myself choke up.

“That’s not the only sign he’s a perv. ‘
You look like you’re having loads of fun in the pic in your red dress
.’”

“I was, it’s from Jenny’s wedding when we went to Scotland.”

“Translation: I’m wanking over you.”

“Don’t be so disgusting!”

“Trust me. There’s a million ways men say it. ‘I was thinking about you last night.’ Translation: I’m wanking over you. ‘It’s been ages since we spoke.’ Translation: I’m wanking over you.”

I look at him, doleful. Sometimes I really, really wish I was a lesbian.

“Come here, you muppet,” he says, putting his arm around me. “It’s easily done. You just read it too quickly. That’s why you need me.”

“I just wanted . . . I just want something to make sense,” I say, leaning into his familiar bulk. I’m probably covered in a light dusting of Timotei Girl hair, but I don’t pull away.

“I know,” he says, voice low, words muttered into my hair. “Don’t we all?”

I stay there a second longer, then force myself to pull back. “You ought to get back to Martha.”

“Matilda.”

“Yes, Matilda. You ought to get back to Matilda.”

“You’re right,” he says, making no attempt to leave. Eventually I force myself to get up. “Thanks, James,” I say, my voice soft.

Sleep just isn’t one of my talents. Sometimes I lie rigidly in bed listening to CDs of creepy mid-Atlantic men telling me how relaxed I am, but tonight I know it’s pointless. I’m thinking about James, wondering why it is that, although we speak the same language, we speak a different language:
even now, there are these moments where we seem perfect for each other, the Marthas of this world nothing more than an amuse-bouche that brings out the very worst aspects of his character. Surely someone as intelligent as him must be able to see that he needs a more sustaining meal? He was attracted to me once, twice even, so there must be some kind of physical spark on his side. It hurts tonight in a way that I never let it anymore, particularly when I hear a little mewling giggle coming from down the hall.

The morning sees me hitting snooze repeatedly, finally forced awake by the sound of Beanpole Girl calling through my door. “Lovely to meet you, Livvy,” she sings, and I look, horrified, at the time. William will be fully decked out in a casual weekend tank top by now, dipping toast points in his egg with geometric precision. James, by contrast, is munching on a bowl of Crunchy Nut cornflakes, the debris sprayed out around him like a hurricane’s blown through.

“Morning,” he says. “How’d you sleep?”

“The question is,” I ask archly, “how did you sleep?” Why do I pretend that his sexual antics are some kind of shared source of hilarity?

“Yeah, very funny,” he says.

“Where’s she gone?”

“I told her I had to work. I’m playing squash with Adam, but I thought it’d sound a bit harsh.” He munches away, unconcerned, half an eye on the
Guardian
.

Tension bubbles out of me as my equilibrium returns. This, this is why I have the perfect version of James. My toast pops up at me, and I hastily butter it so I can eat it en route to the tube.

“Wish me luck,” I say.

“You’ll be a natural,” says James. “Mary Poppins eat your heart out.”

Let’s hope he’s right.

I so wanted her to come meet William and Madeline with me, break up the cloying intensity, but it’s not to be.

They’re waiting in the lobby of the hotel, holding delicate china cups, facing outward on a low couch as though they’re posing for a portrait.

“Olivia!” says William, reflexively standing to attention. I misjudged him on the tank top, he’s wearing a starched green shirt that brings out the hazel flecks in his deep-set eyes. Another memory hits me, Sally talking about the first time she met him—at a dinner party that she’d been taken to by another date. I asked her all about it on that night we had. “He wasn’t fit exactly,” she’d said, “but he had a look about him. Hidden depths, you know what I mean?” I hadn’t, of course, not then, but I think I might be beginning to.

“Hello,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the moment at hand. “Hi, Madeline!”

“Hello, Olivia,” she says, giving me a long stare. Did she ever even want this—“play date” is so not the right phrase—scientific outing?

“Are we waiting for your sister?” asks William. “Shall we organize you a cup of coffee while she’s en route?”

“No and yes,” I say. “I mean, yes to the coffee, and Jules is meeting us there.” Soon I’m dropping sugar lumps into
my steaming coffee with a pair of tiny silver tongs, imperiously holding it out so an obsequious waiter can dribble milk into it. I keep enjoying little pieces of this life, and then feeling guilty as I’m slammed by the terrible context. I bet Sally took to it like she was to the manor born.

“Would you like me to bring Madeline back here afterward?” I ask him, trying to silently convey my sympathy to him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t communicate anything back, and I wonder if he’s willing me to back off.

“My cunning plan was to meet you on the front steps at one and take you all out for a slap-up lunch.”

“That sounds like a great plan. What do you think, Madeline?”

“Thank you, Daddy.” She turns to me. “But I don’t eat certain things. I don’t like sushi because it’s a bit like slime and I don’t like sausages because of the pigs.”

“Got you,” I say. “I don’t like sushi much either. It’s too fishy.”

“And I don’t like green beans, even though Mommy says they are very good for me.”

William’s eyes flit away for a second, and I feel him wince.

“And she’s right,” he says, voice steady. “Green beans are very good for you.”

There’s another gaping pause, and I cling onto my bone china cup like it’s a life raft. I soldier on.

“Your mommy didn’t always eat things that were good for her.” A flash of memory, the two of us munching on our beloved family-sized Galaxy, the concept of a real family not even a blip on the horizon, cheap red wine sluicing its acidic path down our throats. I look at her, this little piece of Sally’s future. “We both hated beetroot,” I tell her, trying
not to choke on the words, trying to make myself strong and safe for her.

Madeline turns those big eyes up to meet me, pale face set.

“Let’s go and see the dinosaurs,” she says in a high voice. “And I want to see if they have any rulers in the gift shop.”

To my profound relief, Jules is already out front at the museum, a sleeping Nathaniel strapped to her chest. I tried my very best with Madeline on the walk over; I asked open-ended questions in the hope she’d feel able to talk more about Sally, I inquired about school, about pets, even about her pencil case—nothing elicited more than the briefest and coldest of answers. It gives me that deep feeling of helplessness, the mountain too big to scale, even though there’s an arrogance to ever thinking that I could. I introduce the two of them, and Jules offers her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she tells her, as Madeline gravely shakes back. What a genius move, such formality is obviously written through every frond of her DNA.