The Moment You Were Gone (17 page)

After the first structureless weekend, Ethan got into a routine of a kind – or, at least, a routine was imposed upon him by his timetable of lectures, seminars and tutorials, and the essays he was immediately set. He had always been a nocturnal creature, and he met most of his deadlines in the early hours of the morning, in a blue haze of cigarette smoke, while around him lay the contents of his room. He still had not bothered to unpack and it was becoming increasingly difficult to find a space to work. Every so often he would pile books higher and throw a few clothes back into his case; he put the notes he made at lectures and in the library into a cardboard box and promised himself that one day, soon, he would create a filing system. Colour-coded folders, he thought. Highlighter pens. When he had more time, more inclination; when he had properly settled in.

There wasn't really a centre to his life yet, but he didn't mind, telling himself that that would come later. He was meeting people on his history course, going to parties, drifting amiably in and out of social groups, making tentative friendships, coming back to his room to eat cold baked beans straight from the tin, drink beer from the can or wine from the bottle. He didn't see much of the other residents on his floor, although they bumped into each other in the corridor, the bathroom and kitchen.
The only one from the first evening he ever saw socially was Harry, who was caustic, clever and spectacularly cynical. They had played squash together a couple of times and now Harry had invited him to have a meal with him and some friends at a Mexican restaurant. He let drop that it was his birthday and Ethan had bought him a book about mathematical paradoxes and ethical dilemmas that he and Connor loved. He didn't have any wrapping-paper, so he pushed it into a paper bag he found in the corner of his room and wrote ‘Happy Birthday' on the outside in large letters.

He seemed to have got through a surprising number of clothes since he'd been there. His laundry lay in a large heap by the door and it was hard to find anything clean to wear. He rummaged in his bag for a shirt his mother had given him a few months ago, shook it vigorously, and pulled it on. He found socks under the bed. In the absence of a brush, he ran his fingers through his hair. His stubble was turning into something more like an unsatisfactory beard, but he didn't have time to shave. Harry had said he should be there by eight, and he was already running late.

By the time he arrived fifteen or twenty people were crowded round the table at the back of the restaurant, young men and women who'd already got through several bottles of wine and whose spirits were high and cheeks flushed. Harry waved him over, hugged him in an uncharacteristic outbreak of sentimental friendliness, and tried to introduce him to his friends – several of whom, Ethan gathered, had been at the same school as him.

But he stopped hearing the names and he stopped seeing their faces. They became a blur; their voices a vague and distracting background hum. For she was there – the nameless she, who had walked with such soft steps past Ethan on that first evening and whose luminous face had been in his mind ever since. Half-way to his chair at the corner of his table he halted. She had a smooth, pale, oval face, made even paler by the black shirt she was wearing, and autumnal auburn hair; her grey-green eyes were large. She made Ethan think of moonlight and cool, secret shadows. It seemed to him that there was a mysterious radiance about her, setting her apart from the jostling noise and hot, grinning faces around her.

‘I saw you,' he tried to say, but was drowned out.

‘Sit down, then,' someone was yelling, and his chair was scraped back for him, a large glass of rough wine poured out.

He let himself sink down, and now he could barely see her any more. What was her name? Who was she? He half thought that, out of his sight, she might dissolve and disappear, like a ghost. There was a toast to Harry and everyone raised their glasses. Plates of tortillas and tacos were being slammed on to the table. Ethan turned to the person sitting on his left and tried to smile. ‘I'm Ethan,' he said.

‘Hi. Amelia,' she said.

‘I don't know anyone here, only Harry. Tell me who everyone is.'

She laughed and said he'd never remember, but did so anyway, like a litany. The names flowed over him. Harry, of course, then Daisy and Faith, and Boris from LA; Cleo
and Chloë and Dan times two; Coralie from France, Mick, Lorna, Penny, Morris, Irish Maeve.

‘Lorna like Lorna Doone,' said Ethan, stupidly.

‘Sorry?'

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.'

Ethan started off tongue-tied, then segued swiftly, with no intermediary stages, into a garrulous tipsiness. He spoke loudly, so that Lorna would notice him. He got to his feet to propose another toast, so that she would look at him. He told jokes to make her laugh, mentioned politics so she would know he was thoughtful, and gave Harry his present half-way through the evening, because he wanted her to see what he had chosen. He ordered more wine, so that he could lean across the table, over the remains of the meal, to pour it into her glass and see her look up and hear her say ‘Thank you', in a voice that was soft and clear, and fell like fresh water into the brackish confusion of his mind. Later, he wouldn't be able to remember what anyone had said to him. He had no appetite for the food, but he drank wine and smoked too many cigarettes, once finding himself holding two at the same time.

When someone – Tom or Dan or Boris – said they should all go back to his room and continue the evening there, Ethan agreed eagerly. Of course the evening mustn't end. He imagined sitting on the floor a few inches from her; he imagined touching her hand as if by accident. The very thought sent an electric thrill through him.

But what was this? Harry wasn't coming, and neither was Lorna. ‘We're a bit tired,' said Harry.
We?
The casual intimacy of that ‘we' was like a bucket of ice thrown over
Ethan's hot head, dousing every fantasy, and he was suddenly stone-cold sober and wretched. He watched as Harry helped Lorna into the light-grey coat she'd worn when Ethan had first seen her, then wrapped her scarf round her neck for her. She lifted her chin to let him do it, smiling very slightly. Ethan wanted to howl like an animal as Harry led her from the restaurant. A few moments later, they passed the window holding hands, lacing their fingers together and matching their strides.

Back in Tom's room, Ethan continued drinking, but the alcohol only gave him a heavy, metallic headache and thickened the sour taste in his mouth. He smoked a joint, two, to make the pain more distant. He lay back against a cushion. People spoke to him and he replied. They laughed and he laughed too. More people arrived. The room was crowded now. There was music and he let himself be pulled to his feet to dance. Someone kissed him and, obediently, he kissed her back.

It was dawn, drizzly and grey, when he let himself into his room, drank three glasses of tap water, then lay down on his unmade bed in his damp, smoky clothes. He put his pillow over his face, closed his bloodshot eyes and, in the tipping room, he dreamt of Lorna.

For three weeks, Gaby said nothing and did nothing about what she had discovered. Her life continued as normal. She went to work each day; two or three nights a week she saw a play, usually taking a friend with her. She met up with people, and talked and laughed with them as if nothing had changed. Read books, went for walks on Hampstead Heath, gossiped on the phone, called Ethan to check he was all right, started going to an art class with two friends every Tuesday evening, tried and failed to take up running, organized a small party and baked a large chocolate cake to celebrate Connor's birthday. She and Connor saw each other early in the mornings and late at night; they told each other about their day and fell asleep together, their bodies touching. Nobody, looking at her, would have known that inside she was turmoil and dismay. She had discovered that she could lead a double life: smile, talk, listen and yet feel continually shadowed by dread. Sometimes she wondered, if she simply let the secret lie inside her like a package dropped down a well, whether it would gradually decay and dissipate. In a year or two, say, would it no longer exist in its original state but have been mixed in with the rest of what was inside her mind? Like salt, or like a soluble bitterness. And if that happened, did it mean
that she had been forever corrupted, her whole make-up changed by reading the letter?

She saw Stefan several times during those three weeks. Once he came over for supper when Connor was working late. He arrived with a bottle of white wine and a bunch of dahlias: he always brought flowers when he came for dinner. He would present them to his sister with an embarrassed half-bow and be surprised and delighted when she hugged him exuberantly in thanks. He told her of the next book he was planning tentatively to write; she outlined a new project that she and a director-friend had recently embarked on, trying to involve constantly truanting pupils in theatrical events. ‘It could be extremely exciting. But, of course, it depends on finding sponsors,' she said, all the time thinking about Nancy, about Nancy's daughter.

Suddenly the secret that had been lying quiescent inside her felt like steam under pressure. ‘Do you ever think about Nancy?' she asked abruptly, tipping her chair back and not meeting his eyes.

The question hung in the air. Stefan prodded at a tiny shred of lettuce on his plate. ‘Nancy,' he repeated musingly, as if he was trying to remember who she was.

‘I know it was a long time ago, but all the same –'

‘It was a long time, yes.'

‘Eighteen years. And two-thirds.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Yes. So, do you?'

‘Now and then,' he said vaguely. ‘She's in my attic, as it were.'

‘Attic?'

‘Junk room. Memory bank. Whatever. Things don't just disappear, do they, although they might get mislaid for a bit among the extraordinary, multitudinous space of one's brain? Imagine all the things I don't remember that I remember, if you see what I mean. You say a name, mention an event far back in the past, and I rummage around, pull open a few drawers, lift a few lids and find it.'

Gaby sighed. He wasn't going to tell her anything.

‘What sometimes bothers me,' continued Stefan, ‘is our ability to find memories that aren't really there. So if I say to you, “Remember my blue jacket?” You might search through your memory and eventually find a blue jacket hidden away there, although I never actually had one. It was brown. Hypothetically, of course, because I do have a blue jacket. At least, I think I do.'

‘You were wearing it this evening. Do you ever think it was Nancy who stopped you meeting someone else?' Gaby said doggedly.

‘I meet people all the time.'

‘You know what I –'

‘How do you know I'm not seeing someone at the moment?'

‘Are you?'

‘Not as such. But you shouldn't worry about me so much. I'm quite all right. I like being on my own, you know. I don't think I'd be a very easy person to live with. Shall we watch a film? I brought a selection of DVDs with me.'

‘OK, I won't ask you anything else.'

‘I don't mind you asking.'

‘You just don't want to answer.'

‘There's nothing to answer. It's a question of patience. I know you're not a great fan of patience. But in the end the pain goes away.'

The trouble was that Gaby remembered the address on Sonia's letter. The more she tried to forget it, the more she remembered, until it was branded on her mind. She could see it now, printed at the top of the page: 52 Willow Street, Stratford-upon-Avon. And what was more, she had to visit Stratford quite regularly for her work. She would be there the next day, for example, to meet the actor who was going to talk to her current group of Americans about Shakespeare's problem plays before they saw
Measure for Measure
in the evening, and to check out a couple of restaurants where they might eat. She would be alone, with time on her hands.

So it was that at half past eleven the following morning, Gaby found herself standing in a neat suburban street on the outskirts of Stratford, where plane trees lined the road. The door to number fifty-two was dark blue, with a brass knocker in the shape of a fox. A car was parked outside, but she could see no sign of life within. In fact, the whole road felt deserted.

She should turn round and go about her business. She had no right to be here. Yet even as she thought this, she felt the familiar gulp of excitement inside her, like a bubble forming at the bottom of a beaker and slowly glinting to the surface. She stepped forward, raising her hand as if to press the bell, then stopped dead. No, this was wrong, quite wrong. As she stood there, appalled by her own folly, the door opened and she found herself
face to face with a middle-aged woman, a few years older than herself, but plumper and with short grey hair and glasses hanging round her neck. She wore the kind of coat – thick and shapeless – that makes middle-aged women start to seem invisible, but her face was strong and her grey eyes shrewd. She looked faintly surprised to see Gaby standing on the path.

‘Can I help you?'

‘No. Sorry, wrong house.'

‘I see. What number are you wanting?'

‘Forty-three,' said Gaby at random.

‘This is fifty-two.'

‘Yes. Stupid of me.'

The woman's eyebrows rose.

‘I'll be on my way, then,' Gaby said, backing away. ‘Sorry.'

She walked off in a daze, trembling at her own recklessness. Looking back, she saw Sonia's mother get into a red car and drive in the opposite direction. It was a cold day, with a sharp wind and rain in the air. Dead leaves blew round her feet. She shivered, put her hands into the pockets of her jacket for warmth, and found the last of the cigarettes she'd bought in Rashmoor. Without thinking about it, she stuck one into her mouth and, turning her back to the wind and shielding the flame with her hand, lit it. A familiar vertigo hit her as she took a deep drag. She'd smoke it and then go, she thought. But as she walked slowly back down the short street, she saw that in the house where Sonia lived a curtain was being pulled open in an upstairs window. She halted. Now, as she stared, she saw a young woman with dark hair at the
window, looking out on the bare street. Gaby drew a sharp breath and turned away, though her limbs felt heavy and she moved as if underwater. She had seen Sonia. She knew it. And now that she had, Sonia was no longer just the indistinct face in a miniature photograph tacked to Nancy's noticeboard but had become real and solid – flesh and blood in Willow Street.

A youth passed her, coming from the other direction; she glimpsed a hawkish nose and very pale eyes that met hers briefly. Then he was gone and she found herself at the end of the street, where it joined a busier road, full of shops and cafés. There was a bus shelter at the junction, with fold-up seats inside; Gaby collapsed on to one, pulling her jacket closer round her and trembling. Her legs weren't working properly. Her mouth was dry. She sat there, waiting for her breathing to return to normal, and then she smoked another cigarette, relishing the slight ache in her lungs as she sucked at it deeply. A few drops of rain spat at the bus shelter's window and the sky darkened further. She should have brought her umbrella with her; she was definitely going to get wet.

As she stood up to leave, she could not resist looking back down Willow Street. A young couple were walking towards her, not touching, but close to each other and talking animatedly, and as they drew nearer she realized with a jolt of alarm that it was the pale-eyed youth and the girl she had seen in the upstairs window. Sonia – daughter of Nancy and Stefan, unexpected time bomb ticking away in Gaby's life – was about to walk past her. Gaby pressed a hand against her heart. A skinny, loose-limbed, knock-kneed girl she was, wearing a colourful
ra-ra skirt over leggings and Converses, and a bomber jacket on top. Her hair was dark and spiky and her jaw firm, just like Nancy's. There was a stud in her nose, a large ring on her thumb. She looked like an urban elf. Her eyes were turquoise-blue. She smiled at something the youth was saying and her angular face was transformed.

They sauntered past, ignoring the rain that was splattering down on their bare heads. Gaby held her breath. If she put out a hand, she could touch her. She could call out her name and the girl would turn. She watched them go by, feeling a tear roll down her cheek, into her mouth. They linked hands loosely and she saw them stop before a café a little further up the road. He was saying something and she was nodding. Then he gave her a kiss on the mouth and she went into the café alone.

Gaby sat and watched the rain streaming down the windows. There was a hollowness in her stomach; maybe it was hunger. She thought about getting some fish and chips before her early-afternoon meeting, something soggy, salty, greasy, comforting. She and Ethan often used to get fish and chips when Connor was out; they would sit companionably in front of the TV with the warm damp bags on their laps, and a can of beer each. She wondered what he was doing now. It was odd how you don't realize that they are leaving. The day creeps up on you in a version of Grandmother's Footsteps, softly, softly, until it pounces. Once she had known everything about his life; he had been part of her. When he cried, she fed or changed him; when he held out his arms, she hugged him; if he fell over, she lifted him up and comforted him. She walked him to school in the morning and
collected him in the evening, and knew every lesson he would have that day. He would tell her his secrets, climbing into her bed and pressing his mouth against her ear, whispering what was inside him until she felt that it was inside her as well. Bit by bit, it changed. He stopped holding her hand. He stopped calling her ‘Mummy'. He stopped telling her things. He locked his door. But now he was in another world entirely. He had friends she would never meet, interests she could never share. Soon there would be another place that he would call home, while for her home would never have quite the same meaning again.

She was glad. Of course she was glad. But sad, too. Something was over and it would never come again. She understood now that she should have been better prepared; should have rehearsed for this moment of her life, had other interests and plans to fill the emptiness she felt. One of her friends, when her daughter had left last year, had hurled herself into new projects with almost alarming vigour, filling her evenings and weekends with piano lessons and Italian classes and some extra-energetic type of yoga. She said she was refusing to pine. Gaby had always assumed that she would be like that too – she had no intention of being a moper, an abandoned mother in the grip of maudlin nostalgia: when Ethan left, she would decide what she was going to be next, who she was going to be; doors that had been closed would swing open and she would step into whole new landscapes of possibility. The chance of self-renewal had always excited and cheered her. One stage of her life would be over, but the next just beginning. So what was she doing now, sitting
in a bus shelter in the outskirts of Stratford, spying on the daughter of her ex-friend, groping around in the treacherous and incomprehensible past? It was no way to behave.

She stood up and stepped out purposefully into the steady downpour. Almost immediately, she was drenched. People were walking fast, umbrellas up and heads down. Gaby hurried past the florist and the Oxfam shop, past the pub. Past the café. But, no, not past the café. She stopped dead at its entrance and tried to see inside, the water plopping on to her from its awning. Of course, she had known all along that she was going to push open its door and take shelter from the rain; take off her soaking jacket and hang it on the coat-stand, shake her head so that her dripping hair scattered droplets of water over the floor; sniff the aroma of coffee and pastries; look for Sonia.

Sonia wasn't sitting at any of the tables. She was standing behind the counter in a white apron, working the espresso machine, which hissed and frothed from its various nozzles. Gaby hesitated, then sat on a tall stool at the counter. The girl glanced at her. ‘I'll not be a moment,' she said, and her voice had a slight burr.