Eleven

The Cobb is precarious on a blustery day, especially in her high-heeled boots. The harbour wall slopes steeply in places and its surface is slippery where sea water has poured over it. A gust of wind whips at Vanessa’s cloak. She pauses to steady herself. At the far end she pulls up her hood and stares into the water foaming against the rocks below. She thinks of Gerald and the text he sent last night: It’s lonely here. When are you coming to see me?

There’s no reason to rush up to London, she tells herself yet again. She’s got a business to run and her relationship with him died a long time ago. He’s not her responsibility. But with every email and text that arrives, it gets harder. Two weeks ago, when he emailed to say he had to have another operation, she almost gave in. But then the hospital phoned to say his condition was giving cause for concern and she should come.

‘Why are you ringing me?’ she asked.

‘You’re down as his next-of-kin,’ the nurse said.

‘He’s nothing to do with me.’

There are two customers in the shop when she arrives, a middle-aged man and woman. She listens to Josie as she explains about modern yarns, their colours and textures. When she first started looking for someone to work with her, she knew that Josie, with her eye for shape and pattern, for the quirky, the distinctive, was the one she wanted. Josie’s also organised and practical – a side of the business Vanessa finds tedious. She has ideas for their own yarn range and has launched an online magazine for knitters.

The customers buy a jacket in a wonderful moss green. It has a stand-up collar, fits snugly at the waist and skims the hips, one of Vanessa’s designs from several years ago. It costs £265. ‘It’s for our daughter,’ the man tells her as he hands his credit card to Josie, and his eyes shine. Josie waves the couple off down the street and turns her attention to Vanessa’s new designs, spread out on the big worktable at the back of the shop.

‘This one’s divine.’ Josie studies a floor-length coat with a wide turn-back collar. ‘It would be good in an Astrakhan yarn.’

‘I was thinking of the Italian one we used for that range of bags and hats.’

‘Oh, wonderful. All little pigtails. Great fun for a coat.’

‘The UK supplier’s dropped it.’

‘We can order online.’

Vanessa studies Josie’s face as she leans over the design. The skin around her eyes is soft and unlined. Her cheek is smooth, her jaw line clear and strong. Vanessa touches the corners of her own eyes, the puffy flesh underneath. Josie is twenty-six; she has a boyfriend who lives in Cardiff and they see each other only at weekends. ‘Means I can concentrate on work during the week.’ If Vanessa could have her time again, if she could be twenty-six, instead of sixty-two – that cruel inversion of digits – would she be like Josie, dedicated and ambitious? Would she be free of toddlers and a husband, ruthlessly in pursuit of his talent, while hers was ignored?

Her stomach knots at the thought of those lost years. What she might have been if she hadn’t sacrificed herself for Gerald. Why should she feel guilty for not visiting him? He’s the one to blame for everything. He needs to be told.

‘I won’t be in for a couple of days, Josie,’ she says. ‘I’m going to London.’

‘Oh.’ Josie looks up from the drawings. ‘I thought – ’

‘I know we’re supposed to start work on the new collection, but … ’

‘It’s all right.’ Josie fills the gap left by Vanessa’s attempt at apology. ‘There’s plenty to get on with.’

Vanessa takes her mobile from her bag and searches contacts. She clicks on Charles Miller. He answers immediately.

‘Vanessa! Lovely to hear from you.’

‘I’m in London tomorrow. Are you free for dinner?’

‘I’ll make sure I am. Eight o’clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we try Romano’s again?’

‘That would be nice.’

‘Are you staying at the same place?’

‘Yes, but I’ll see you at Romano’s. Eight o’clock. Bye.’ She drops the phone into her bag.

*

The smell is horribly familiar. White coats hurry past, stethoscopes dangling. A porter, a nurse by his side, pushes a trolley at speed down the corridor; the patient’s eyes are closed. Vanessa arrives at Balmoral ward. She gazes up at a board with its list of names and rooms: G. Blackstone – 5. She waits outside for her heartbeat to slow and then pushes open the door.

The man is leaning on the bed with his back to her. He’s wearing a hospital gown, one of those stupid things that flap open to reveal people’s behinds. She can see his buttocks, scrawny and shrunken, and his legs look too skinny to support him.

She feels as if she’s going to be sick. ‘Gerald?’

The man looks round. He’s got a hooked nose and a thin vicious-looking face. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m so sorry.’ She backs out of the room.

‘Are you all right?’ The nurse sounds concerned. ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Gerald. Gerald Blackstone.’ Vanessa hears her voice squeaking the name.

The nurse indicates a room further up the corridor. ‘He’s been moved. He’s got some company now.’

There are four beds, one in each corner. A man with yellow skin looks scarcely alive. A fan plays on his face. In another bed, a younger man is propped against the pillows, various tubes and machines attached to him. The occupants of the other two beds are sitting in armchairs.

The nurse comes back down the corridor. ‘Have you found him?’

Vanessa shakes her head. She shouldn’t have come. How could she have fooled herself with all that rubbish about thrashing things out with him once and for all?

The nurse gestures to one of the men sitting in an armchair. ‘Look, he’s over there by the window.’

Perhaps alerted by her voice, the man looks over and waves. Vanessa sets off across the room towards a blur of white: T-shirt, face, hair, arms, all anaemic white.

He tries to stand, as she gets close, his hands clutching the arms of the chair.

She bends down and kisses his cheek. He needs a shave and his skin scrapes against hers. A warm stale smell drifts up from him. She rests her hand on his, and her eyes are drawn to his fingernails. Gerald always kept them clipped short for work, but these nails are long and yellow, curved over at the tips.

He slips back into the chair. ‘You’ve come. At last.’ He smiles up at her and she sees the gold tooth she once thought so exotic. Gerald from the past, the Gerald she loved, appears in the gleam of his black eyes, his wide smile.

She pulls up another chair. It’s higher than his; she looks down at him, at the ridges of wrinkles on his forehead, the pouches under his eyes.

‘I thought you’d never come,’ he says.

All the way from Axminster to Waterloo she told herself: one visit and that’s it. One visit. He’s caused so much pain. Too many people hurt. Too much damage. She can never forgive him.

‘Vanessa? Are you okay?’

He’s staring at her and she can see the wounded look in his eyes, the droop of his mouth. She knows immediately that he’s disappointed at her reaction to him, that she’s not behaving as he wants her to. She only ever had to glance at him to recognise one of his black moods.

She nods. ‘I’m fine. What about you?’

He tells her about his progress. The consultant is on holiday, but when he comes back, they expect Gerald will be well enough to be discharged. He waves his hands around as he talks, in that way he always used to, and his expression gets more animated. She senses some of his old vitality waiting to leap out and captivate her all over again. The sound of his voice finds an echo inside her like the vibration of a drumbeat. Deep and melodic, with that faint suggestion of foreignness, it’s the only thing about him that hasn’t changed. An image of his naked body emerges from her memory. It’s not weak and shrivelled as it is today, but heavy, the muscles in his arms bulging under the skin, as he carries her towards the bed, and the hair on his chest tantalises her cheek.

‘I can’t wait to get out of here,’ he’s saying.

Vanessa blinks the memory away.

‘Sabina and I have been talking about how I’ll cope.’

‘Sabina? Is she here?’

‘Gone for some lunch.’

Vanessa thinks of Gerald’s half-sister, the product of one of his father’s flings, this time with a South American actress. She remembers the days when she was married to Gerald, when Sabina would arrive on one of her frequent holidays and sit chain-smoking in the kitchen.

‘Here she is,’ Gerald says, and Vanessa turns to find Sabina behind her. She stands up. Sabina must be in her late sixties by now, and after a lifetime of smoking should be like a wrinkled prune, but her skin looks smooth. She is wearing a white wool dress that clings to her voluptuous curves. Her hair is swept up, immaculate as ever. Vanessa has to stop herself apologising for the jeans and old sweater she’d deliberately chosen to wear.

Sabina leans across the chair and Vanessa feels her cool lips brush her cheek. They both pull back and proffer the second cheek, exchanging dry kisses of mutual dislike.

Sabina places her hands on Vanessa’s shoulders. ‘You’ve hardly changed, darling.’ She pronounces the word with that exaggerated accent Vanessa’s always hated. She studies Vanessa’s face. ‘And no surgery either.’

Gerald laughs. ‘Just because you’ve lost count of your face-lifts!’

Sabina slaps his hand. ‘You naughty thing!’

Behind Sabina’s back, he sticks his tongue out. Vanessa smiles at him. In the old days he never used to support her against his sister.

Sabina takes Vanessa’s seat, leaving her to hover awkwardly. Gerald pats the arm of his chair. ‘You can squeeze on here.’

It will make more of a fuss to refuse, so she perches with one buttock on the chair. She feels Gerald’s arm against her thigh.

‘So, darling,’ Sabina begins, ‘how are we going to look after our man when he comes home?’

Charles is waiting for her at Romano’s. Vanessa usually teases him about his dark business suits, but this evening she can see from his white cotton shirt and blue chinos that he’s made an effort to look casual.

He kisses her cheek. ‘Vanessa! Lovely to see you, and looking wonderful as always.’

‘Thank you.’ Vanessa spent a long time getting ready when she got back from the hospital. Not so much for Charles’ sake, if she’s honest. She soaked in a bath, trying to rid herself of the odour that had invaded her pores. She dressed carefully, black flared trousers, closely fitting orange jacket, and spent a long time over her make-up.

‘Your table is ready.’ The waiter gestures and they follow him.

‘Shall we have a bottle of champagne?’ Charles asks.

‘What are we celebrating?’

‘You suggested meeting tonight. Usually I have to persuade you.’

The waiter takes their order and returns with the champagne in an ice bucket. He pours them each a glass.

The bubbles fizz, golden in the flickering light of the candle on the table. They begin to subside and Vanessa raises her glass. ‘To you, Charles. Thank you for your company.’

He clinks his glass lightly against hers. ‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

She laughs. ‘You’re an old charmer. There aren’t enough people like you around.’

‘It’s not just charm, Vanessa. I’m serious.’

‘Charles – ’

‘No, I made up my mind I would say this.’ He takes off his glasses and lays them on the table, crossing the arms carefully. Without them, he looks different. The skin under his eyes is paler than the rest of his face and slightly bruised looking.

‘I’ve made no secret of my feelings for you … ’ He stops and his adam’s apple moves up and down as he swallows. ‘I sense you don’t feel the same about me.’

‘I – ’

‘Vanessa, it’s okay. Obviously there’s something with your ex-husband. Unfinished business or what, I don’t know and I don’t want to. It’s nothing to do with me. I just want you to know that … as far as I’m concerned … I would like to think we have a future together.’

‘Charles, that’s so sweet – ’

He stops her saying more, putting his finger to her lips. She feels as if she’s an actress in one of those silent films.

‘You are a beautiful woman, but there’s a sadness in your eyes.’ Charles is clearly into his stride. ‘Some pain and I wish … well … I don’t want to sound arrogant, but I think I can help heal it.’ He stops. Is that it? Is he going to say any more? His face creases into a broad grin. ‘That was some speech, wasn’t it? I practised the whole way here, but I’ve even impressed myself!’

Vanessa laughs and the tension spiking the atmosphere disappears. ‘You are a lovely man, Charles. I’m glad I met you.’

‘That’s enough to keep me going for now.’ He finishes his champagne and looks round. ‘Where’s that waiter with our food? Emotional outpourings make me ravenous!’

Vanessa can’t sleep, and she gets up to look for tablets. She rarely drinks more than a glass or two these days and the champagne and wine have given her a headache. She puts on a bathrobe and sits at the window looking out over London at millions of lights. Even through the double-glazing, she hears the hum of traffic. She can scarcely believe she spent so many years in the middle of this city; now she longs for the darkness and tranquillity of home, only the owls and the shushing of the sea to disturb the silence. Out there somewhere, Gerald is lying in his hospital bed. Is he asleep? Wide awake, unable to settle? Perhaps he’s thinking about her. ‘Please come again soon,’ he whispered in her ear as she left, so that Sabina couldn’t hear. ‘I’ll be counting the days.’ She squeezed his hand and he held on to it as she tried to draw away. ‘And the girls,’ he said. ‘I’d love to see Cordy and Esme.’

‘I’ve already asked them. I can’t keep on.’

‘Just once more. Please.’

‘I’m not promising anything, Gerald,’ she said and saw the light die in his face.

Her mind drifts to Charles. It was a good evening: once he recovered from the emotion of his declaration, he set himself to entertain her. He knows how to make her feel special. She’s never been to his flat but it’s somewhere in central London. She could phone him and go over there now. Tell him she’s decided. Maybe he’s sitting in his kitchen – it will be all stainless steel and black marble surfaces, she’s sure – wearing striped pyjamas and drinking the cocoa he probably makes when sleep eludes him. She imagines him holding her in his arms, his tentative, gentle kisses. Fate might have decided to give her another chance, a chance to have a different life, with a very different sort of man. Perhaps she could begin to feel the healing he spoke of.

The river alongside her cottage is dark and fast flowing on its way to the sea. The sound is familiar and comforting, the first she hears when she wakes, the last before she falls asleep. As soon as she gets home, she takes a lasagne from the fridge and puts it in the oven; she clears the dishwasher and makes up her bed with crisp cotton sheets, every action helping to throw off London. She resists checking emails or phone messages, wanting only to absorb the feeling of being at one with herself that this place gives her. When she moved to Lyme Regis more than twenty years ago, the three-storey cottage was almost derelict. There had been a flood and a lot of work was needed to put the damage right, but she could see straight away that it would make just the sort of home she wanted. Somewhere to rebuild her life. And she has. She’s been happy and successful. Her work, her children, her friends, they’re all she’s needed. What pain is Charles talking about? She rushes to the mirror in the hallway. What can he see that she can’t? If there’s anything, it’s Gerald’s fault. If he hadn’t materialised again after all these years, if he wasn’t ill, if … oh, what’s the point? If is a little word that stands in the way … No matter how much she might want to pretend otherwise, he has come back, he is ill.

She picks up the phone and dials Esme’s mobile.

‘Hi, Vanessa. How are you?’ Her daughter’s voice sounds light and carefree. She’s living with Jake and has got herself a job in a boutique.

‘Fine … well … not actually.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve been to see Gerald.’

‘Jake and I wondered how long you’d hold out.’

Vanessa bites her lip. She’ll have to ignore the gibe. ‘He’ll probably be out of hospital soon.’

‘That’s good.’ Esme sounds detached as if they are talking about a casual acquaintance.

‘The thing is … ’ How should she say it? ‘… he wants to see you and Cordelia.’

‘You said before.’

‘Do you think you might visit him?’

‘God, Vanessa, I mean, I don’t want anything to happen to him, but seeing him again after all these years … ’

‘I know, but it’s hard for me. He asked me to ask you.’

‘I bet you haven’t said anything to Cordelia.’

‘Well … ’

Esme laughs. ‘Thought you’d try me first, did you? If I didn’t explode – ’

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘You know Cordelia will go apeshit if you suggest visiting him.’

‘Will you ask her?’

‘Not likely. But if you can get her to agree, I’ll come too.’

Without giving herself time to think, Vanessa goes to the computer. She can’t face a phone call. She clicks on to email.

Darling – How are you all? I’ve been hoping to hear from you. I haven’t phoned. You seemed so cross last time. I know how angry you are with your father – and I don’t blame you – but he’s desperate to see you. He’s better and they’re hoping to discharge him soon, but he’s not going to be around forever. How will you feel if he dies without you seeing him? I’ve asked Esme and she’ll go if you will.

Hope the painting’s going well. Love to Savvy and Patrick, and you, of course!

Mum

Vanessa’s finger hovers over send. Her eyes scan the message. Is it too strong? She doesn’t want to lumber Cordelia with the guilt she feels about her own father’s death. She sees Cordelia reading the email, showing it to Patrick. She can imagine what he will say: ‘Stay away from the bastard’, and Cordelia’s mouth will twist in that way she has when she’s hurt.

Vanessa saves the message as a draft. She’ll sleep on it and decide what to do in the morning.