Where Love Lies (17 page)

Though he doesn’t seem entirely happy about it. His face is grim, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, and his strides are angry.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask him.

‘Pub.’ He veers suddenly to the right down a side street and there’s a pub there at the end. It looks pretty seedy from the outside, with several men leaning against the wall smoking, and when he
pushes open the door and I follow him in, the inside isn’t much better. It’s dingy, airless and full of people who look as if they haven’t left their seats since 1986.

Ewan goes straight to the bar. ‘Whisky,’ he says to the barman. ‘House double. Cheaper the better. I might as well get started.’ He turns to me. ‘You?’

This is all so surreal that I’m not certain that drinking alcohol is a good
idea. Also, I haven’t eaten much today; I’ve been too nervous.

‘Me too,’ I say anyway. Ewan nods at the barman, who goes off to put our whisky in two cloudy half-pint glasses. Ewan carries them both to a table in the corner.

I sit on the cracked vinyl seat of one of the chairs. It’s sticky. Ewan slumps across from me. He takes a drink of his whisky and drums his fingers on the table, looking
off towards the fruit machine.

I sip my own whisky, and shudder at it. On the other hand, a cheap double whisky seems exactly the appropriate drink to have in a pub like this, and perhaps drinking it will give me some clue as to Ewan’s state of mind. Every part of his body language tells me that he doesn’t want to be here with me. And yet this was his idea. He could have slammed the door in my
face, like he did at first.

‘So,’ I say, ‘you never told me what you’ve been up to for the past ten years.’

‘Playing guitar.’

‘And what about your … daughter?’ I wait for him to supply the name of the child he had with Alana. He drinks his whisky instead and doesn’t reply. The minutes stretch out. His hand has stopped drumming and is clenched on the table. The blinking lights reflect in his
eyes.

‘I got married last year,’ I tell him. ‘We live in Tillingford – it’s a village in Oxfordshire. We’ve got a tiny cottage, but it’s big enough so that I have a studio in the back bedroom. That’s what I do, now. I draw. Illustrations mostly, just little things. Children’s books. I’m doing a series called
Igor the Owl
.’

I wait for him to react, to the news that I’m married, or maybe some
sort of recognition of Igor.

‘It’s doing quite well,’ I add.

‘How’s Esther?’ he says as if he’s had to drag the words out reluctantly.

‘She’s dead.’

Ewan’s head snaps up. He appears to focus on me for the first time since we’ve entered the pub. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘She died nearly two years ago.’

‘I need another drink,’ he says. He gets up and goes to the bar without asking if I’d like anything.

Across the room, one of the solitary drinkers is watching me. Leering. He raises his greasy eyebrows when he sees I’ve spotted him, and raises his pint in my direction. I bow my head and study the table, dreading Ewan saying the usual platitudes about how sorry he is, about how wonderful she was, about it being a shame.

When Ewan gets back, he doesn’t say anything. He concentrates on drinking
his whisky as if it’s a job he must accomplish. This annoys me even more than if he’d mouthed the clichés.

‘She had liver cancer,’ I tell him.

He grunts; he doesn’t seem to be listening any more.

I stare at him and my hand tightens on my smeared glass. This is not Ewan not knowing what to say. Ewan always had something to say. He swallows whisky as if I don’t exist. As if my loss doesn’t matter,
as if he never spent any time with my mother. As if she’d never painted his innermost self, the way he looked when he was in love.

I stand up. ‘You’re not interested. I’m leaving.’

‘You were the one who wanted to meet.’

‘Not any more,’ I say. I turn around and walk out of the pub.

The air smells much better out here. One of the smokers mutters something to his companion and they both snicker.
I ignore them and hurry down the street, not sure where the underground station is from here. Not caring. My heart is hammering and my face is flushed with rage.

‘Flick!’

Ewan shouts from behind me. I keep going. I hear him catch up with me, though he doesn’t grab my shoulder this time. I whirl around to face him.

‘You don’t care about me at all,’ I say furiously, ‘or about how I feel. You
act like an arrogant arse and take me to the most horrible pub in the universe and then when I tell you something important, something that really matters to me, all you can do is grunt. You don’t care about me, that’s fine, but my mother cared about you. She saw something in you and she tried to share it with the world, and you don’t give a shit. I don’t understand why you keep coming after me or
why you invited me for a drink.’

His face screws up and he rubs his eyes with both palms. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why. It was stupid.’

‘You’re telling me!’ I shout at him, and I step backwards. I should go back to Lauren’s, go back to Tillingford, pick up my life again.

All this. For nothing.

I turn away so that Ewan won’t see me crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ewan says behind me. ‘I don’t know
what I thought would happen. You were just – unexpected. A distraction. It might have been another path.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ I say, and begin to walk away. He catches my arm.

‘Do something for me,’ he says urgently. ‘I know I don’t deserve it and I know I shouldn’t ask. But do one last thing.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because you’re right, your mother saw something in me. Because you did.’ I can smell
the whisky on his breath. His hand is hot on my arm.

‘Agree to meet me on Monday,’ he says. ‘No, Monday’s too early, I could still do it. Tuesday. Agree to meet me Tuesday.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t tell you, not now. Say you’ll meet me somewhere, anywhere, somewhere away from here. Meet me in Greenwich, near the Meridian Line. That’ll do. At noon.’

His words are so urgent.

‘Why?’ I ask again. ‘I’ve
given you enough chances. Can’t you tell me whatever you need to tell me now?’

‘I can’t. And I might not be able to tell you then, either. But if I can’t tell you, I won’t show up.’

‘You want me to agree to meet you all the way over in Greenwich but you might not even be there.’

‘If I’m not there, it won’t be your fault. It’ll be mine. Don’t wait for long. And if I don’t turn up, forget all
about me. Forget I even asked you. It’ll be for the best.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t need to. I probably won’t be there. Just say you will. Tuesday, at noon. It’ll either be too late, or it won’t.’

This close, I can see more changes in Ewan. There are threads of silver in his hair, at his temples. I don’t recognize his scent.

This intensity, however, I know. The colour of his eyes,
too, though they are tired.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’ll be there.’

THE SCENT DOESN’T
come until Ewan and I have parted and I’m walking towards the underground station. But then suddenly the air is filled with frangipani and I stop and look around, convinced that Ewan has followed me again, that he’s behind me and is about to put his hand on my shoulder, and this time when I turn around he’ll say all the things that he was supposed to have said.
About how he’s missed me and has thought of me all these years. About how he remembers this feeling, this love love love.

He isn’t there. He didn’t say any of those things. I lean against the metal railing that’s meant to stop people crossing the road at the wrong place and I do the only thing I can do, which is to close my eyes, ignore my surroundings, and give myself up to bliss.

‘Are you
all right, miss?’

I pull myself back to reality, as much as I can, and see an elderly gentleman nearby. His skin is dark, his hair is grizzled, and he is wearing a tweed suit in full summer. This is so brilliant. I love people who utterly disregard the weather in their choice of clothing.

‘I am fantastic,’ I tell him. ‘I’m the best I can be.’

‘That is good to hear. You don’t need help, then?
Only you’re holding on to that railing as if it’s about to fly away.’

I laugh. ‘I don’t need help.’ And yes, the feeling is fading. It’s not so overwhelming; I can stand up straight (somehow I’d sunk down, so I was nearly kneeling, without noticing it).

‘I’m in love,’ I tell him.

‘Well, that is also good. Love is good.’

‘It’s the best thing in the world. I know it is. It has to be. Otherwise,
what have we got?’

‘You be careful now. Look where you are going.’

I let go of the railing, flexing stiff fingers.

‘Are you certain you’re feeling well, miss? You seem unsteady.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’m just on my way to …’

I don’t know this street. I thought I was near the underground station, but I must have taken a wrong turning when I was paying attention to the frangipani.

‘To where?’
asks the gentleman, concerned again. But I don’t care; I feel great and I’ll find the station eventually. It can’t be hard. I smile at him, the smile of a woman in love who knows that everything is going to be all right.

Lauren’s flat in Canary Wharf is sparkling new and beautifully designed, climate controlled, with tall windows that look out towards the Thames. When I return to it, Lauren’s
spare laptop is still open on the table, asleep. If I pressed the space bar, it would come up immediately with Ewan’s Facebook page, which includes his address and his telephone number and says that he is a professional guitarist. The profile photograph shows him on stage playing guitar, recognizable only by his hair and his stance. He has 1,453 friends and his relationship status says
It’s complicated
. He has been here, online, ready to be found, at any time. But I only looked him up this morning.

It’s taken five days. That’s how long I’ve waited between leaving my husband and trying to find another man. Of course, that other man appears to have spent the last ten years turning into an utter tosser.

And yet I still felt as if I loved him.

I stumble across the polished hardwood floor and
collapse on one of Lauren’s twin sofas. It’s composed of straight lines and not all that comfortable, but I’m exhausted. Bone-deep tired. There’s a lot to sort out in my mind: should I meet Ewan again? Should I tell Quinn about him? Should I forget about all this and go back to Tillingford?

But my eyes close by themselves. I dream Ewan as a crow, leggy and wild-winged, with his eyes reflecting
the lights of a fruit machine. He opens his beak and a ringing comes out.

I blink awake. My phone is ringing in my bag. I grope for it and see it’s Quinn calling. Habit makes me answer.

‘Hello, love,’ he says.

‘Sorry, I’ve only just woken up.’ I sit up on the sofa, pushing my hair out of my face.

‘Are you all right? Do you want to go back to sleep?’

‘No, no. Just taking a nap.’ I glance at
the big digital clock glowing over the door to the kitchen; it’s half past six, which is the time Quinn has rung me every day since I’ve been in London. Right after he’s got home, made himself a cup of tea. My head feels full of cotton wool. ‘How’s your day been?’

‘Summer fêtes. Charity walks. We’ve got a meeting with Tamsyn Ford next week to discuss the campaign for keeping Boscombe House open.
She’s our MP,’ he reminds me, without my having to ask. ‘Cameron Bishop stole my bicycle again.’

‘Have you got it back yet?’

‘He only stole it five minutes ago. I saw him through the window.’ He doesn’t quite sigh.

I know where he is: in the armchair by the side of the telly, the one we rarely ever sit on. That’s the one with the best view through the side window. One of the wooden arms is
coming loose and I can hear it creaking when he talks.

I imagine him in the cottage, sitting in different chairs to make it seem less empty.

‘Are you going to the pub later?’ I ask him. I want him to be with other people, talking, laughing.

‘Not tonight. What have you done today? Have you had any inspiration?’

I look around at the living room of the flat. Modern, bright, with windows looking
out onto the grey and brown river. ‘No, not really. Not yet.’

‘It’ll come.’

When I left, I mentioned spending the time to do some work as an appeasement. So that my leaving wouldn’t hurt so much, so that I had a good, non-emotional reason to be in London. By tacit mutual consent we seem both to have latched on to it. We’re both pretending that I’m only here to work. It’s easier.

‘I met up with
an old friend,’ I say. ‘We might meet up next week, too. But I’m not sure.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Well, he’s a bit of a tosser to be honest. But you know … old times’ sake.’

He’s silent. Our phone calls are like this now, with these pauses. The weight of everything we’re not saying. Mentioning Ewan to Quinn doesn’t help me feel any better. But that’s what I’ve done, after all. Met up with an old
friend, who’s turned out to be not as nice as I remember. I might meet him again.

I staggered down Shoreditch High Street, drunk with love for him this afternoon.

‘So what are you going to do about Cameron and your bike?’ I ask. ‘That can’t keep on happening.’

‘I might have to get a lock. But I’m worried that then he’ll bother himself to get a pair of bolt-cutters, and he could get hurt that
way.’

‘He could also ride your bike into the path of a car. You wouldn’t be responsible for that, either.’

‘I don’t know why he likes my bicycle so much. It’s not anything special. His mother says he has a BMX in the shed. Anyway, I can’t get a lock. Every time he steals it, he says he’ll never do it again. If I get a lock, it stops him being able to prove himself.’

It’s a conversation we’ve
had many times before, over tea, over supper, walking down the lane. I’m suddenly certain that if I’d been pregnant, we’d have done this: talked about our baby to cover up these silences.

Come back
, he doesn’t say. I can hear it in his breathing, in the creak of his chair.