The Lie of You: I Will Have What Is Mine (8 page)

‘I’m so sorry, Kathy. I can’t come in tomorrow. I felt ropey all day. Tonight I’m just terrible. I’ve got some kind of bug.’

‘Oh, dear, poor you...’

‘I am sorry. I’ve got a friend Lisa; she nannies part time. Would you like her number? Maybe she can help out.’

I spent the next two hours trying to get through to Lisa, in between cooking the fish and eating with Markus. I gave up at ten-thirty p.m.

‘That’s it,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll just have to work from home tomorrow. Philip isn’t going to like it but what can I do? It’s the first time I’ve missed a day in the office. I’ll get Aisha to come over with the mail.’

This morning I got a card from my aunt Jennie in Cornwall, which made me smile. I opened the envelope and inside was a black and white photograph of a couple seated in a 1950s open-top sports car. The woman was glamorous with one of those headscarves tied around her head and neck in a fifties film-star way. She was looking over at her male companion with adoring admiration. He was sitting at the steering wheel, staring ahead with manly concentration. On the back Jennie had written:

I was thinking about what you said to me about Markus being reserved. Well, it is a fact that on average a woman will speak 7,000 words over the course of a day, while a man will only speak 2,000 words. Stop worrying. You have a gorgeous husband and son. Be happy and all will be well.

Much love, Jennie xx

Jennie is such a warm and grounded person and when my parents retired to Lisbon she started to keep a protective eye on me. It’s a good feeling to know she is there, rooting for me.

It was lovely, being at home with Billy all day, although hard to focus on the proofreading I’d set for myself. We sat on the rug in the kitchen and I went through picture books with him, pointing at the animals and making their noises, and he loved this. Then Aisha came over for three hours and we did get some work done. I have worked with Aisha for years, although it’s only since I became editor that she has worked exclusively for me. She’s the person I most trust at work. We went through my mail and recent invoices. I told her I would need her help on my forthcoming board presentation on the guide. I wanted to present facts and figures about where our readers travelled in Europe. Aisha is really good with figures, which are not my strong point.

‘Was Philip OK about my working from home?’

‘He didn’t say much. You know him. I’m sure it’s OK. He asked where Heja was.’

‘Did you tell him she’s got a day’s leave?’

‘Yeah, I think he fancies her.’

‘Really? I thought he fancied Victoria?’

‘He’s a letch! He often lurks around Heja’s desk. She’s got a boyfriend; I’ve seen him.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Tall, dark, smartly dressed, looks like a doctor or lawyer or something. I saw them walking in the Barbican last Sunday.’

After Aisha had gone Billy and I both had a nap curled up together in our big bed. I got up an hour later and decided to make roast chicken and ratatouille. While it was roasting and the kitchen was filling with lovely fragrant smells, I ran a bath and poured some bubble bath in. Then I carried Billy in and we sat in the bath, with Billy between my legs. He has this yellow bucket that has a hole in its side and the water spurts out in a stream. Billy finds this very entertaining so I had to fill the bucket again and again and hold it up while he tried to catch the water in his hands. I heard footsteps in the hall and Markus walked in.

‘That looks like fun.’

‘It is.’

He knelt down by the side of the bath and kissed the top of Billy’s moist head. Then he rolled up his sleeves and said, ‘I’m going to wash you Mrs. Hartman.’

He squeezed some bath gel onto his palms and started to caress my breasts with his soapy hands. My breasts are larger than they used to be because of the breastfeeding and I rather like them being bigger. I leant my head back against the edge of the bath, still balancing Billy between my knees, and closed my eyes for a few moments. Markus moved his fingers over and under my breasts with a firm, massaging movement. My skin felt nice and slippery and my breasts started to tingle. Then he burst out laughing. I opened my eyes.

‘You’re squirting milk,’ he said.

He leant over the bath, put my right breast into his mouth and licked around my nipple.

JUNE

Yesterday I went for a consultation with a Mr Banerjee in Kentish Town. He practises Ayurvedic medicine and was recommended to me as an extraordinary physician and healer. He was a small wrinkled man with large sympathetic eyes and he spoke with a bit of a lisp. He did not carry out any formal examination as such. He looked into my eyes, felt my pulse, examined my hands and told me to stick my tongue out. He asked me about my eating habits.

Then he said that he believed that Panchakarma therapy could help me. It is a form of detoxification, which has been practised in India for centuries. It involves steam baths, herbal-oil enemas and herbal inhalation. The Panchakarma system cleanses the body. He has put me onto a rigorous regime. The plan is for me to see him every two weeks.

Tonight I parked my car and walked along a street of expensive houses and shops in an area of London I do not know until I found the restaurant Robert had described. He said it was a recent discovery of his and that the food was outstanding. It had a discreetly opulent entrance hall. The walls were panelled throughout with dark wood. A man in a footman’s outfit took my jacket and handed it to the cloakroom assistant. Then he led me into a room with leather armchairs grouped around low polished tables. Robert was sitting at one of these with our menus. He was wearing a dark grey suit and white shirt. He dresses formally for a man in his thirties. I think he tries to look and behave older than he is, perhaps for the benefit of his patients.

He stood up, kissed me softly on my lips as his greeting, then stood back and looked at me appreciatively.

‘Love the dress.’

‘Thank you. I had time to go home first. Have you come straight from work?’

‘Yes, another busy day.’

‘I never know how much I should ask you about your work,’ I said.

‘Do I seem secretive?’

‘No, just professionally discreet.’

Robert had ordered some red wine and the waiter placed a very large glass in front of me, showed the bottle to Robert and then poured the wine reverentially into the bowl of my glass. I swirled the plum-red liquid and sipped it.

‘This is so good. Are we celebrating something?’

‘Just wanted the best for you,’ he said, toasting me. ‘Now, there are some wonderful things on this menu.’

I looked and the menu listed rich and expensive dishes – lobster mousse, Norfolk wild duck with peach and bigarade sauce, truffle sausages and roast venison. Nothing simple like grilled fish and steamed vegetables, which I prefer. After we had made our selection we were shown to our table.

The dining room had the same feel and atmosphere as the other room, that of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. There was a high, ornately plastered ceiling and white-linen covered tables with plenty of space between them. The diners spoke in tranquil tones.

‘What are you working on at the moment?’

‘Our editor has this idea to do a series on World Heritage Sites in Europe.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘I am not so sure. A reference work on historical buildings... I prefer to write about new buildings.’

‘I think your editor knows her audience. The British love to look back.’

‘All the more reason we should be educating them about modern architecture.’

‘I think I should subscribe to your magazine. I need some educating.’

‘Yes, I think you like to look back too,’ I said as I glanced meaningfully around the room.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘It is delightful, for a change. I couldn’t live in such a traditional space, though.’

‘I find it very restful,’ he said.

‘You are a bit of a traditionalist,’ I said in a teasing tone.

His dark brown eyes gazed at me seriously. ‘I appreciate very fine things. Are you free on Saturday? There’s a Bette Davis classic showing in Hampstead.’

‘Which one?’

‘
Dark Victory.
’

‘I don’t know it.’

‘Bette Davis is a rich, spoiled heiress who falls for her doctor. He discovers she has an incurable brain tumour.’

‘Sounds cheerful! I thought doctors were not supposed to date their patients?’ I said.

‘Suspension of disbelief, if you please... They get engaged and she goes to meet him at the surgery. He’s already gone ahead to the restaurant. She takes a peek at her file and sees the words “Prognosis negative” written there.’

I wondered whether to tip my glass of wine on to the tablecloth. It would be nice to see the plum red seep into the thick white linen and the other diners would look over surreptitiously and then look away. Robert would be all solicitude.

‘So she meets him at the restaurant. And when the waiter asks her what she’d like to drink she spits out at him: “
I’ll have a prognosis negative!
”
then she does this great thing with her eyes and rushes out of the restaurant.’

‘No need to see it now. You’ve done such a brilliant job describing it,’ I said.

‘That’s only the first act. It gets better. Don’t you like old movies?’

‘Sometimes...’

I knew I was sounding unenthusiastic. He looked crestfallen. He was not trying to upset me. He knows nothing about my depression or how much I had loved my analyst. It was not my task to comfort him. There was an awkward silence as the waiter walked over and took our plates away. I ran my finger around the rim of my glass.

‘I think I’ve upset you,’ he said.

‘No, Robert, you have done everything to make it a lovely evening. Don’t mind my northern glooms.’

He reached for my hand. ‘Heja, I wish you felt able to open up to me more. What brought on the glooms?’

‘It’s too difficult,’ I said, my eyes on the tablecloth. ‘Not like it is in the movies.’

He left it then. He does not push it if I give the signal so far and no further. He expected us to take a taxi back to his flat. He was expecting sex after that expensive meal. I told him I really could not. I had brought my car and needed to go back to my flat. I had a demanding day ahead of me tomorrow. He insisted on walking me to my car. We stood under the lamp-post and he put his arms around my waist and looked down at me a bit mournfully with his large brown eyes.

‘Are you sure you want to drive?’

‘I’ll be fine. I only drank one glass of wine.’

‘Did I drink all the rest?’

‘When wine is that good it slips down. Thank you for taking me there.’

‘Can we meet up this weekend?’

I agreed to meet him on Saturday. It is getting more difficult with him. He has started to want more than physical intimacy. As I drove home I wondered when I would have to end the relationship.

I parked and took the lift up to my apartment. Then I poured myself a small glass of wine and sat at my great window, looking out at the river. These were my special moments when I could be alone and at peace. I could see lights from a few craft twinkling on the river. Markus was strongly in my thoughts again. How he would love this flat and this view.

The first time my mother met Markus she set out to insult him. We had been together throughout our time at university. My parents found out about him when he was filmed leading the occupation at the university. He was all over the evening news. A friend of my mother’s, whom I had never liked, told her that she had seen me with Markus on several occasions; that I was clearly involved with the student revolutionary!

So finally, after I had graduated, Markus was invited to dinner at my parents’ house. I had my first junior job in television then and he was still studying for his architecture qualification. I was apprehensive about this meeting. My mother could be so cold and critical and would let people know if she did not approve of them. I travelled home the night before. I wanted everything to be just right for him. My mother had bought a large tray of takeaway moussaka from the delicatessen, which she planned to serve up with a salad. The next evening she laid the table with earthenware plates and goblets for the wine.

‘Rather fun to be a bit rustic, don’t you think, Heja?’ she said.

I was beside myself. Had Markus been someone she approved of she would have cooked an elaborate meal for him. Her finest porcelain and silver would have been brought out. She was making a point. He was a socialist, so let him eat takeaway.

The beauty of it was that Markus preferred it that way. I was standing next to her as she opened the door to him and I felt her shock of recognition when she saw him standing there. His eyes were more dazzling than any TV camera could ever capture. He followed her into the sitting room and my dad got up and shook hands with him.

My mother said, ‘We’re going to be informal tonight. I hope that’s all right with you, Markus?’

He turned his eyes on her and smiled. ‘Sounds good to me...’

I was standing by the fireplace, watching this exchange, and my love for him was so overwhelming that I felt like that paper ballerina who leaps into the fire to join her tin soldier and as he melts she is consumed in an incandescent flame with him.

At dinner Markus and my father spoke easily and comfortably together. They were discussing a recent performance of
The Caucasian Chalk Circle,
which was part of a Brecht revival that had just finished in Helsinki. My mother, who had said very little all evening, broke into their discussion to insist that we take our coffee in the sitting room. We all stood up and trooped through to the other room. Then Markus reached into his rucksack and pulled out a book, which he handed to her.

‘Thank you both so much for tonight. I’ve really enjoyed it. I found this in a bookshop and thought you might like it.’