Where Love Lies (23 page)

We look in bookshops and delis, sweetshops and museums. A Hawksmoor church where we linger, cooled by the shadows and marble. By instinct, we avoid any parts of London where we might run into someone we know.
Or at least I do, and we don’t run into any of Ewan’s mates, so he may be doing the same. School has finished for the summer and the pavements are full of teenagers, riding scooters and skateboards and laughing into their mobile phones. Ewan tells me about a boat trip he took in Thailand. I tell him about a waitressing job I had once, for two weeks, in Paris, before I was sacked. We talk about
nothing of significance at all. When my phone buzzes, I ignore it.

One day. I can have one day with Ewan, before I think about my real life and my responsibilities. Before I think about who I could be hurting if I have any more than this.

I do not touch him.

We stop to sit outside a pub, at a table usually claimed by smokers. I drink a half of lager and lime, something I haven’t had since I
was a teenager.

‘I met Petra a few times,’ Ewan says suddenly. ‘Lee’s wife. She came to some of the gigs. Lee could never stop touching her when he was with her. He always had his hand on her knee, or her arm, or was stroking her hair. It was as if he knew he only had so long with her.’ He looks at me with his bright blue eyes, the same colour as the summer sky. ‘Do you think that’s what love
is like?’

It’s exactly the sort of question that I have been trying desperately to avoid. I cast around for something to say, a change of subject, and spot a toy shop on the other side of the road. ‘Wait here,’ I tell him.

Inside, I’m a bit stunned by the amount of toys on offer. So much plastic, so many boxes with names in shouty fonts, so much buzzing and flashing and squeaking, segregated
into gendered sections. Guns and cars for boys on the right, pink everything for girls on the left. I pause in the shop, bemused at how different this version of childhood is from my own childhood, or the one that I’d envisaged for Quinn’s and my child.

It’s difficult to find anything that isn’t pre-gendered, but finally I find what I’m looking for, right near the back, in the section marked
EDUCATIONAL. At the counter, I ask them to wrap it, but they only have plastic bags. I carry it out to Ewan, who has got us each another drink.

‘A toy,’ he says. He takes it out of the bag. ‘A ukelele.’

‘I thought it was a crying shame that you didn’t have any guitars left. So this is the start of a new collection. A small start, but a start.’

‘Well, I do have some guitars still in storage.
I haven’t thrown them out of any windows yet.’ He strums it, fiddles with the knobs that tune it, and then strums it some more. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever played a ukelele before.’

He’s smiling. The instrument is too small for his hands, but he coaxes a tune out of it. Something jaunty; probably you can only play jaunty tunes on its plastic strings. It’s too small and ridiculous to play the blues
on, which is one of the reasons I bought it. Passers-by hear him and smile. Like ice cream for breakfast, a silly tune on a ukelele seems like the perfect thing for a London summer day. The men sitting at the table next to us laugh, and give Ewan the thumbs-up.

‘I’d forgotten how good you are,’ I say.

‘I’ve had a lot of practice.’ He starts another tune.

‘Do you think your daughter is musical?’

He stops playing. ‘Oh, I knew this was too easy to last.’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘They moved to Manchester with her stepfather. She’s got a half-brother and sister. She probably talks like a Manc by now.’

‘What colour hair does she have?’

‘Red. Same as Alana’s. She doesn’t look much like me. I don’t know if she’s musical.’

‘Do you at least speak to her on the phone?’

He shakes his head. ‘No
point. Rebecca doesn’t need me confusing her. She’s got a dad. Alana has a husband. They’re happy. I’m happy for them. That’s all.’

‘I never met my father,’ I say, tracing my finger around the wet circle left by my glass on the table. ‘He was married when he met my mother in Paris. They split up before I was born. She didn’t keep any photographs or sketches. She’s never told me anything about
him, except that he was French, and she loved him. I had a happy childhood. I loved Esther and I never felt as if I needed anyone more than her. And still, every single time I went to Paris, I was looking for him. I expected to see him everywhere I went. I knew I wouldn’t recognize him, but I looked for him anyway. Any man of my mother’s age, or a little bit older, with dark hair or green eyes –
I would look at him and hope I’d see something, anything, so I would know he was mine. Even when I was happy, even when I knew he couldn’t give me anything I didn’t already have, I wanted to meet him.’

‘Well,’ he says, picking up his pint, ‘that’s you.’

‘If Rebecca feels even the tiniest little bit like I did – like I do – don’t you think you owe it to her to keep in touch?’

He puts his glass
down without taking a drink. ‘Flick. Listen. I know you think this will help me. But it’s complicated, okay? I can’t just pick up the phone.’

‘If you have her number, you really can. What’s the worst that could happen? Alana hangs up on you? At least you’ve tried.’

‘I thought you were trying to make me feel happier?’

‘I’m just trying—’

‘I know what you’re trying to do. It isn’t working. Do
you want another drink, or should we go?’

He’s already out of his seat. ‘Let’s go,’ I say, and he walks off rapidly, in a seemingly random direction.

Well, that was an error. But I have learned enough of this new Ewan to know that this is what he does when he’s sad, so I walk silently along with him.

I remember how we broke up all those years ago. How, when he told me the news that Alana had
rung to say she was three months pregnant, he seemed angry. Surly, close-faced. I’d been furious with him, even though I didn’t know Alana, even though I’d helped him to cheat on her and then break up with her. How could he be angry at her? It wasn’t her fault she was pregnant. It was both of them together. Something they’d both done before I met Ewan, planting the seeds that would take him from
me.

‘If she’s going to keep the baby, you have to go back to her,’ I told him, choking, imagining already how I’d feel if he didn’t, how our relationship would become heavy and guilty. He’d turned to me, his blue eyes flashing. I’d never seen his temper before; I shrank back.

‘If that’s how much you care about me, then I will,’ he said. And he left.

And that was that. Both of us making our
choices for what we thought was for ever. As I recall, it took less than ten minutes.

The memory and the rapid walking makes my lager and lime slosh in my stomach. We were so young and so dramatic. Now, we walk up a hill and into yet another park. London is alive with green spaces today; we have bounced from one to the other and all of them have been full of people. Dogs bark, children shout.
A man on roller skates narrowly misses us. All of the shady bits have been colonized by families with picnic blankets; Ewan flings himself onto a sunny patch of ground and I remember what he said in Greenwich: ‘It’s a strange and wonderful day to be alive.’ Now I know he was being ironic.

I sit beside him and watch a football game. The children wearing shirts are drenched, and the ones without
are sunburned. In the heat, their movements are sluggish. My phone rings, and rings, and falls silent.

The scent of frangipani coalesces around us.

‘I’m a prat,’ says Ewan quietly. ‘You were trying to help.’

‘Can you smell that?’ I ask him. Because maybe he does. Maybe it’s something meant for both of us. Sweet and spicy, heavy and exotic.

‘Smell what?’

‘I need you to help me,’ I say to him.
I reach for his hand and it clasps around mine. His skin is even hotter than the air. ‘I need you to sit here and not let me move. Just for a few minutes. Don’t say anything, don’t look at me. Don’t touch me any more than this. Just sit here and hold my hand.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s … something like meeting you in Greenwich,’ I say. ‘You just have to do it without knowing why. I’ll be all right in ten
minutes.’

‘Okay,’ he says, and I have barely enough time to draw my knees up and hide my head between them, hair dangling around my face, to keep him from seeing it or me from seeing him. I sit there, on the hot dusty ground with the shouts and laughter around me, the sun beating down on my head. I will myself not to move, to stay rooted, to stay sane.

I hold Ewan’s hand and I love him. My heart
is beating so hard that I can feel my body moving with every beat. I tense my muscles and let his hand hold me in place. I clamp my lips together to stop laughing aloud.

I don’t know if it’s ten minutes, or fifteen, or half an hour. Eventually I feel it ebb. My heartbeat slows. The sounds of the park begin to filter in. My back hurts. I stretch out one leg, then the other, and look up. True to
his word, Ewan is staring straight ahead, not looking at me.

‘Thanks,’ I say. I feel there’s a silly smile on my face, but I can’t seem to get rid of it. Just like I can’t seem to let go of his hand, not quite yet.

He turns to me. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Absolutely great.’ I’ve got through it without doing anything stupid. This proves something, though I’m not sure what – that I’m more powerful
than fate? That I have the ability to choose what I do?

Yes. That’s it. I have the ability to choose. And despite all this elation buzzing through my body, I know what the right thing is to do. I drop Ewan’s hand and stand up, brushing down the skirt of my dress.

‘I’ve got to go home now,’ I say. ‘Thanks for a great day.’

He jumps to his feet too. ‘Are you certain? You look a little … woozy.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Was it the lager? On a hot day it can go to your head.’

‘Yes, probably.’ I laugh. ‘I’m going to go now. Don’t forget to see the doctor, all right?’

‘But when will I see you again?’

I’m too light to answer that right now. I don’t know what the right answer is. If I can resist Ewan, then that’s the right thing to do. If I was only meant to see him to save his life, then maybe I’ve
done that already.

‘When it has to happen,’ I say. And I head across the park, in a direction I’m not certain will lead me back home.

EVENTUALLY, BACK AT
Lauren’s, I go straight to bed, my limbs still tingling, and sleep until the intercom to the entrance door rings. Ewan, I think, and then I remember that Ewan doesn’t know where I’m staying. Quinn?

I pull on Lauren’s dressing gown and stumble to the door to pick up the phone. My head feels clearer for a bit of sleep, though I’m still tired. If it’s someone
selling something, I’m going to be cross.

‘It’s Suz,’ she says over the phone. ‘I tried to ring, but no luck, so I thought I’d come by on the off-chance.’

I buzz her into the building and have a moment of panic whilst waiting for her to take the lift to this floor. Will she be able to tell what I’ve been doing all day? Who I’ve been with? I dash to the bathroom and splash water on my face, try
to finger-comb my hair into something respectable. I’m scrubbing traces of mascara from underneath my eyes with the corner of a towel when she knocks on the door to the flat.

Suz looks good. Not having seen her in nearly three weeks, I can see her for what she is, rather than just another piece of the Wickham family: a tall, attractive, professional woman. She’s wearing smart, tight jeans, high-heeled
sandals and a summery top. Her hair’s been blow-dried into a pretty, tousled style and she’s wearing a bit more make-up than she does around Tillingford. It emphasizes her grey eyes, which are the same shade as Quinn’s.

She kisses me in a businesslike fashion on the cheek. ‘It’s lovely and cool in here. Did I wake you?’

‘Just from a nap. Come through to the kitchen, I’ll make tea.’

‘Quinn said
you’d had a late one last night.’ She follows me, looking appreciatively at the modern, airy flat. ‘Out with friends?’

‘Yes, old friends. This is a nice surprise. What brings you to London?’

‘Seeing a friend, too. I thought I’d pop in, see how you were getting on before I caught the train back.’

I fill the kettle, and then hesitate. ‘Would you prefer something cold?’

‘A glass of wine, if you’ve
got it. I think the sun’s past the yardarm.’ Some loose papers are scattered on the table. She picks one of them up. ‘I see you’ve been able to get some work done. That’s great.’

‘Oh, that’s just … it’s only some sketches I’ve been doing. I don’t think they’ll go into the book.’ On the way to the fridge I see which sketch she’s picked up. It’s a robin, his head cocked with curiosity at the viewer.

‘I love it,’ she says. ‘That’s Quinn, isn’t it? Quinn as a robin.’

I pause, my hand reaching for the bottle of white wine that Lauren keeps in here. ‘How can you tell?’

‘That’s exactly the expression he gets when he’s interested in something. The eyes, the mouth – the beak, I mean. It’s marvellous. Do you have any more?’

I do. ‘Er … not really.’

‘Any of me? What about Mum? She’d be a magpie,
don’t you think?’

‘Chattering.’

‘And collecting shiny objects.’ She sorts through the drawings, which are mostly half-finished, scrawls of lines, or studies of wings. ‘Is Igor supposed to be you, then?’

‘I don’t know. Not really. Maybe. I suppose I liked drawing him as part of a big owl family. Because I never had a big family. Not before marrying Quinn, I mean.’ I uncork the bottle and find
two of Lauren’s roomy, elegant glasses. ‘And he’s an oddball, so he’s like me that way.’

‘You’re not that odd, Felicity. Oh, I love this sketch. What a handsome crow.’

The crow is Ewan. Swaggering, once glossy, now leggy and a bit rough around the edges. Because the drawing’s in pencil, you can’t tell that he has blue eyes.

‘Here you are,’ I say quickly, handing Suz her wine. ‘It’s probably
nice. My friend Lauren’s got expensive tastes.’

‘Chin-chin.’ Suz chimes her glass with mine and raises her eyebrows when she takes a sip. ‘Very nice. How long do you think you’ll be staying here in Town, Felicity?’