The Sky is Changing (14 page)

There was no way to end the dilemma but to stop seeing Nora for good, to take herself out of this painful situation. She had too much at stake. How foolish of her to ever think this arrangement would work out. She now blamed herself, biting her lips. An awkward silence had filled the cabin, even the girls had stopped talking to each other, and Claire counted the seconds until they reached the bottom.

“Good luck,” the woman said as the cabin finally came to a halt and the door opened, but Claire couldn't look at her. She just rushed off, her head between her shoulders – it was as if she had scam written all over her.

Walking along the promenade by the Thames, watching the boats pass by, Claire had to fight back the tears. She wouldn't tell Nora; she just wanted to make the most of this last day with her, to cherish and enjoy every minute they had left. At an ice-cream stand she bought her a chocolate ice-cream. Nora was humming a tune while she licked at the cone. With one hand holding the ice cream, and the other gently touching the railing as she strolled past, she seemed completely absorbed in her own little world. How wonderful it must be to be able to daydream like a child, to live in the moment like that, unbothered by the future and past. And as she watched Nora enjoying her ice cream, it was as if she were eating it herself. She could almost taste the cold creamy sweetness of the chocolate on her tongue.

Maybe that is one of the reasons people have children, so they can go through all the stages of childhood again, with all its monstrosities, joys and thousand little miracles. She wondered whether Nora would one day, when she was a young woman, remember the lightness of this moment, remember the scent of the summer air, slightly cooler near the river. Or maybe she would just forget her as soon as she was out of sight, and what was such a precious moment for Claire was just a pleasant but forgettable interlude in this young child's life.

‘Surgical cut' were the two words in her mind when she phoned Mrs Ross. The conversation was surprisingly short. She had planned to tell her about new work commitments, but Mrs Ross wasn't interested in an explanation. Her voice was friendly and distant as usual. She understood immediately, thanked her for everything and hung up. From now on she would have to focus on pursuing their own dream, their own family.

It was bad luck that it was the day Anthony had left for Scotland. Without him the house felt bigger. Her footsteps resonated. Claire roamed the rooms as if she was looking for him. Everywhere she stumbled over traces he had left behind, a sock on the floor, his dressing gown lying inside out on the bed. In the garden she found the tongs they had forgotten about from the barbecue, the tips black from the burnt coal.

Subdued voices came from the neighbours' house. She wished the boys would come out and play football again, kick the ball against the brick wall, so she could hear the squeaking sound of their trainers; she missed their shouting and laughter, the comforting sound of children playing. She noticed that most of the plants she had bought were already dead, some covered in tiny fat greenflies, others eaten away by snails and slugs, the ground covered with their white slimy trail. They were now hidden somewhere but soon they would come out again to continue their attack. The rose and passionflower had become completely interwoven, as if they were fighting for space on the wall, suffocating each other.

She was taken aback by the cruel ugliness of the flowerbed. It was frustrating to think that only a few weeks ago she had spent a whole day on it, trying to make it look nice. She could have wrestled with weeds, digging up the dry soil, irrigating the hard crumbly earth, but the prospect of going into the empty house when dusk was falling was somehow just unbearable. Being on her own seemed like walking into the dark throat of a predator from which she could never come out again. For a moment she just stood there, unable to move, paralysed by an overwhelming sense of being lost. She felt like a beetle that senses danger and just freezes on the spot, pretending to be dead already.

It was the thought of Sadie that released her from her apathy. She was the only person she knew she could go to. She didn't even bother to put some makeup on; she just rushed out of the house, leaving the lights on so that when she came back it would look like someone was already there.

In a cobbled passage in Covent Garden, she heard the rasping smoky voice of Nina Simone from afar. Sadie had turned the music on high volume, leaving the door of the shop open. She threw herself towards her and Sadie pressed her against her breast. “Darling,” Sadie said, frowning, “look at you. All worn out! I am going to cook you dinner. I have just one more customer to serve. Go and find yourself something nice to wear,” and she pushed her towards a rail of dresses.

The shop was a treasure trove and the clothes had the light, musky scent of amber, as if Sadie had worn them all, putting her stamp on them. Every dress bore the promise of a different life. Sadie had lived through them all and was now ready to give them up for others to experience. Here in Sadie's little kingdom she felt protected and safe. And she was grateful that she didn't have to ask, Sadie realised immediately that Claire couldn't be on her own tonight. Browsing through a rail of dresses she heaved a sigh of relief when she heard her on the phone cancelling a date with Paolo. Suddenly she heard a familiar voice. Turning, she saw Mrs Ross stride out of the changing room and plant herself in front of the mirror. She was wearing a cobalt blue floorlength gown with batwing sleeves.

Claire hid behind the dresses, her mouth open, as Sadie shouted, “What do you think, Claire?” When she emerged from behind the rail, their eyes met immediately. “May I introduce you to my friend Deborah, the wonderful actress,” Sadie said, obviously proud of her glamorous friend.

“We know each other,” Mrs Ross said, somewhat startled to see her there. “She taught my daughter to swim. And she just quit her job as her nanny.” She smiled and added, “Never mind, Nora almost liked you too much!”

Claire nodded but didn't say anything; she was much too baffled by the situation and too busy working out the relationship Mrs Ross had with Sadie. She remembered the dragonfly necklace she had seen in Mrs Ross's house and now it was clear. It must have come from Sadie, a gift.

Claire could instantly tell that Sadie adored Mrs Ross, and possibly even had a crush on her. “Turn around,” she said, moving her hands as if conducting an orchestra. The light cobalt blue fabric was flowing around her tall, slender body. “You are a goddess!” Sadie shrieked, unable to take her eyes off her.

Maybe it was a pang of jealously that grasped Claire, almost taking her breath away for a moment. Wasn't it enough that she was Nora's mother; did she have to be so beautiful as to take all of Sadie's attention too?

Mrs Ross bought the dress, promising Sadie to give her tickets to the premiere of her next play, in which she was playing the lead. “Maybe you could come too,” she said generously to Claire, and then she left, leaving behind a whiff of her expensive perfume.

“She's just one of those women…” Sadie said, sighing, “strong, independent, everyone at her feet, yet incredibly lonely. No man would ever get or understand her, or be able to make her happy.”

“So you are the one, then?” Claire said, laughing aloud. “Deborah Ross's saviour.”

“I can tell she is not averse.”

“To what?”

“To lesbianism.”

For a moment she contemplated the concept of Mrs Ross and Sadie as a couple – it was hysterical, but then, why not?

“Well,” Claire said, “I wish you the best of luck and, if it ever comes to you running off with Mrs Deborah Ross, I would be happy to play the role of Nora's mother.”

That evening in Sadie's kitchen, over one of her culinary concoctions, Claire told her about their plan to try IVF, the anxiety and the heartache, and she told her about Nora, even how she trespassed into Mrs Ross's house, and her decision to stop seeing Nora for good. It was just after midnight when Sadie got up, carrying the empty wine glasses to the sink.

“I just never had that. That urge for a child; it just wouldn't work for me at all. It remains a mystery to me why any woman would want to burden herself with so much responsibility,” Sadie confessed. “I look after my friends; I look after you,” she said. “That's enough for me.”

“You are looking after me alright,” Claire said, taking her hand in a sudden urge to be physically close. She regretted it immediately; she didn't want Sadie to think she would play around with her or was sexually interested. As if she had read her thoughts, Sadie laughed out loud. “Don't be so paranoid,” she chuckled, “you can take my hand and I won't rape you.”

Claire looked down, embarassed. “I'd better go now,” she muttered, trying to get up, dizzy from all the wine.

“You are not going anywhere,” Sadie insisted, shepherding her into her bedroom. It had the same familiar scent of amber, something oriental and sensuous. Warm from the wine and enveloped in Sadie's smell she gave in, undressed to her underwear and slipped into the cool satin sheets of her bed.

She looked as Sadie was undressing herself in the half-lit room. “I hope you don't mind; I always sleep naked.” But it wasn't awkward to have Sadie naked next to her, and she didn't mind as Sadie tenderly stroked her back. Claire relaxed, feeling like a cat in its basket, all curled up, warm and cosy.

“Sleep well,” Sadie murmured, kissing her on the forehead. Closing her eyes and, slowly drifting off, she thought of Helena, who was far away, trying her luck in LA. She hoped she was alright and not getting beaten up by life too much. Maybe that was what it all came down to, surviving, and being content with the simple fact that one was lucky to be still alive.

Anthony couldn't hide his disappointment when he called on the way home. The trip to Scotland hadn't had the bonding effect with his colleagues he had expected. Although he was now on another level and would soon be promoted, he suddenly seemed uneasy with his newly-acquired position. Never before had he questioned the way the bank did business, but he was now talking of amoral practices and irresponsible risks. Maybe Dave's words have finally got through to him.

“I know this comes at the worst time, but I don't know how much longer I can do this job.” It was as much a confession as a warning, but Claire wasn't concerned yet; maybe he was just nervous because of his new responsibilities.

He would have to get used to it. That's at least what she told Anne on the phone as she was cooking Anthony's favourite meal to welcome him back home. She was talking to her sister while basting the roast chicken. Anne had sent her a picture of Margarethe on her BlackBerry, looking round and happy, a tattered Paddington Bear under her arm. His left eye was missing; Maragrethe had plucked it out, fascinated by the round cold glass. Anne and Claire were laughing about the complete ignorance babies have about things, destroying everything they could get their hands on, when she suddenly heard a loud rumbling noise coming from the hallway upstairs.

Immediately she went to put the phone down. “What is it?” she heard her sister shout from the other end. But Claire didn't answer. There was Anthony standing by the door, blood all over his face.

“Quick!” he said in a shaky voice, grabbing the phone. While he called the police, Claire stepped outside and looked down the half-lit street. But there was no one there. At the end of the street she could see the slow-moving traffic of City Road. Anthony was bleeding from his ear. “There were two of them. I couldn't see properly; it was dark. One had a hammer.”

Ten minutes later two young, heavily-built policeman were standing in the living room, one of them taking a swab from Anthony's face with a Q-tip. “Maybe we can match the DNA with an existing offender,” he explained. “You will have to come into the station to have a look at our database; you might remember their faces when you see some pictures.”

A minute later they were gone. Claire stood in front of the house watching the police car speed away with Anthony sitting in the back. No doubt these were kids from the estate. She noticed he didn't have his bag when he came in – of course they had taken it. He could have been beaten to death for his laptop bag. She went back down into the kitchen and found the roast chicken was black.

Anthony came back from the police station half an hour later. She put some ice on his cheek, which had turned violet. He hadn't been able to indentify his attackers. “You won't believe how big their database is,” he said. “They told me violent crime in this area has doubled in the last two years.”

“They'll probably never find the bastards,” Claire said angrily. “I'm sure that not too far away they're celebrating their successful haul.”

Anthony put his hand on her shoulder as if to calm her down. “Somewhere down the line these guys are victims themselves.”

She looked at him, amazed that he could be so philosophical about it, as if forgiving them. It was as if he had aged in a very short time. That night, Anthony held on to her like a shipwrecked sailor to a piece of wood.

How easily she could have lost him that night, to a random pointless attack. She listened to his breathing, waiting for it to become deeper, slowly taking on the rhythm of sleep. It was as if the attackers had kicked them out of their own house. Claire was alarmed by every noise. From afar she could hear the helicopter again, but this time it didn't come closer. Finally they had chosen a different spot to observe.

It seemed they had been waiting for something like this to happen. Her parents, Anne and even Karl urged her to move back to Germany. It didn't help that she told them an attack like this could happen in any city in the world. Since the bombings they were convinced London was an extraordinarily dangerous place.

“Just think about if you ever have children. Do you think this is a good place to grow up?” The blame in her mother's voice was impossible to ignore.