Eighteen

Vanessa prepares a bath while Gerald dozes on the sofa. She pours in lavender herbal essence and watches bubbles form under the stream of water. Condensation creeps across the mirror. A ghostly sensuous mist blots out the everyday world. She usually loves the ritual of teasing her hair into the elastic band, slipping out of her robe, feeling the steam curl round her nakedness, easing herself into the scented water. Now her hand agitates the foam that will soon cover Gerald’s frail body.

When he first asked if he could stay, she pictured him in her home: on the sofa in the sitting room, in the kitchen, climbing the stairs to the bathroom. She forced her image of him to walk along the streets of Lyme Regis, her streets. No. It would never work out. ‘You’ll manage all right, Gerald,’ she said. ‘We’ll get help in. I’ll come up every week and stay overnight.’ But as the time went on, Gerald grew morose and withdrawn. He failed to put on any weight. When she wasn’t there, he spent most of the time in bed. In the end, she agreed on a trial run.

‘Gerald!’ she calls. ‘Bath’s ready.’ And she goes upstairs.

She’s put him in the room that used to be Esme’s; he can use the bathroom next to it. Her bedroom, which runs the length of the cottage on the top floor under the eaves, has a shower room off it. There will be no bumping into each other in dressing gowns, no toothbrushes nuzzling each other in the mug.

She waits a while, showering and sorting her clothes out, until she goes downstairs. The bathroom door is open. She listens outside his room. Nothing. She looks in. He’s propped up on the pillows, the duvet tucked round his waist. His top half is bare.

He holds out his hand. ‘Come on, I won’t bite.’

‘I said no physical contact.’

He smiles. ‘Ooh, Miss Prim. I only want to say thank you. You’re a darling for letting me stay.’

She approaches the bed. She sees how thin his once-broad shoulders are, how the collarbones stick out from pockets of pasty-looking skin. His chest is a mass of grey hair, and she wants to feel repulsion, but instead an unexpected tenderness hits her. He clutches her hand and his is clammy from the bath. ‘I always knew I didn’t deserve you, Nessa, but I didn’t know how much.’

‘Gerald,’ she says warningly.

‘Okay, okay. I’ll be good, but surely I can say thank you?’

She pulls her hand from his. ‘Yes, but sleep now, or you’ll have a relapse.’

‘You’re the boss.’

By midday, it’s stiflingly hot in the shop and the pencil is sticky in Vanessa’s fingers. Her brain seems to have glued up as well.

‘Let’s have a break for lunch, Josie. Would you like to come home with me? I can put together some salad and things.’

‘What about this place?’

‘Nobody’s going to come in today; they’re all on the beach. We can talk work at home.’

‘Isn’t your husband – ?’

‘My ex-husband … ’

‘Sorry, it’s just my mum and dad are divorced and they can’t bear to hear each other’s names, let alone stay in the same house. That sounds so civilised.’

‘I don’t know about that. Let’s get going. I’ll die if I have to stay in this heat a minute longer.’

Gerald is reading in the living room. He’s dressed and had a shave. He gets up when they come in, and Vanessa can see he’s trying not to limp as he walks towards them. He always was one to put on a performance for a pretty girl.

‘This is Josie Anderson who works with me,’ Vanessa tells him and turns to Josie. ‘Gerald Blackstone, my ex-husband.’

They shake hands.

‘You look familiar,’ Josie says. ‘I’m sure I read an article about you in one of my art magazines.’

‘Possibly. I was a sculptor.’

‘Are, Gerald,’ Vanessa says. ‘You are a sculptor.’

‘I remember your name,’ Josie says. ‘I thought it sounded like a character from Dickens or something.’

Gerald gives one of his loud booming laughs that makes you want to join in.

Josie screws up her nose. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I? It’s not very polite.’

‘I’m not much good at politeness either,’ Gerald says. ‘Vanessa will tell you.’

‘You just enjoy making people feel uncomfortable. You used to anyway.’

‘Ah, but you only see the real person when someone feels uncomfortable.’

Over lunch, Josie questions Gerald about his work. He waves his hands expansively as he searches for the words he wants. Josie, leaning forward on the table, roll and cheese pushed to one side, is clearly absorbed. Vanessa watches him, pleased that the first person he’s met, in what she knows he’s thought of as a provincial backwater, is someone as lively and attractive as Josie.

Vanessa gets into the habit of going home at lunchtime. One day there’s an aroma of fresh bread as she opens the front door. Her eye instantly takes in the plates and cutlery on the table, the salad bowl, the crusty bloomer, its ridges speckled with seeds.

Gerald stands in the kitchen doorway.

‘What a wonderful smell,’ she says.

‘I found that bakery along the path,’ he tells her. ‘I watched the man baking. Do you know there’s been a mill there for centuries?’

She laughs. ‘Yes, Gerald. I do.’

He grins. It’s different from his usual smile that often has some ulterior motive or hidden message. This one is how he used to smile when he was satisfied with the way a piece had gone: a grin of pure delight that held some hint of the little boy’s face that once was his.

‘This is a brilliant place, Nessa. I can see why you like it here.’

Over lunch Gerald tells her about his walk along the river. He’s even managed to get as far as the beach.

‘You mustn’t do too much.’

He cuts himself another slice of bread and some cheese. ‘That almost sounds as if you care about me.’ He studies the bread as if it’s the most fascinating slice he’s ever seen.

She wipes her mouth with her napkin. ‘Of course I care. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Do you really want a list of reasons? There’s – ’

‘No. Don’t go through it all. It’s in the past.’

‘Is it?’

‘It was all a long time ago.’

‘But you haven’t forgiven me.’

‘You’re here, Gerald. I’m here. Isn’t that enough?’

He reaches across the table and takes both her hands in his. She starts to pull away, but he tightens his grasp. He stares at her palms and then he turns the hands over and studies the backs. She’s conscious that in a couple of places her freckles have grown into ugly age spots and the skin is thin and lined with blue veins.

‘Do you remember when I gave you this little ebony ring?’ he asks.

‘The day Cordelia was born.’

‘All these others. What do they mean?’

‘Who says they mean anything?’

‘I know you, Vanessa. They mean something. Tell me.’

‘Gerald, there’s no point – ’

‘Tell me.’

She points to the biggest one on the middle finger of her right hand. ‘I bought that one in Buenos Aires.’

‘You went to Buenos? What for?’

‘I was sourcing yarns.’

‘When?’

She tries again to pull her hand away. ‘If you’re going to give me the third degree on each one … ’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. It’s Buenos Aires. I wondered if you went to look for me.’

‘I told you; I was sourcing yarns.’

‘Yeah, yes, you did. Yarns. Tell me about the others. What about this little fellow here?’ He points to the silver snake.

‘I got it in Venice.’

‘Venice. I always thought I’d be the one to take you there.’

‘Gerald.’

‘Have you been across to Torcello?’

‘It’s one of my favourite places. I love the mosaic Madonna in the cathedral.’

‘Who did you go with?’

‘I’m not doing this, Gerald. I’ve got to get back to work.’

He still doesn’t let go. ‘Sorry. I can’t help it. I need to know stuff.’

She rushes through the background to the remaining rings: the Celtic one Jake gave her for her sixtieth birthday, the silver ring from Lizzie that she wears on her little finger, the gold circlet with a tiny diamond that was a gift from a grateful customer …

‘And the emerald?’ Gerald asks, when she stops. ‘You haven’t mentioned that one.’

She doesn’t answer.

‘Let me guess.’

‘It’s not a game.’ There must be something else she can say to stop him before the past erupts like a concealed landmine.

‘It was from Andrew, wasn’t it?’

She nods.

‘It’s lovely,’ he says. ‘Lovely.’

When Vanessa gets back from the shop, she calls hi to Gerald who’s in the living room and goes straight up to her room. She pulls the curtains and lies on the bed. After a while she hears Gerald moving around on the landing.

‘Are you okay?’ he calls up the stairs.

‘Just a headache.’

‘Would you like some tea?’

‘No thanks. I’ll be down to make supper.’ She listens as he goes into the bathroom and then back downstairs, imagining the slight pout of his mouth, the way his shoulders will have sagged at her refusal.

She drifts in and out of sleep, enjoying the draught as the fan plays on her face. The phone rings a couple of times, and she stirs but then thinks better of it; the answer phone will pick up any messages.

When she goes downstairs, Gerald is watching television. He switches it off as soon as she appears.

‘Carry on with your programme. I don’t mind.’

‘I was only watching for something to do. You know I could never stand the box. Feel any better?’

‘Much. Ready for a glass of wine in fact. What about you?’

‘Don’t tempt me! You know alcohol doesn’t agree with me at the moment.’

She goes to the kitchen and takes a bottle from the fridge. She inserts the corkscrew and starts to turn it.

Gerald comes in and leans against the doorframe watching her.

‘Supper won’t be long,’ she says. ‘I thought some salmon and – ’

‘Why haven’t you told the girls I’m here?’ he asks

She pulls at the corkscrew and it flies out of the bottle, taking only half the cork with it. ‘Damn,’ she says, trying to unscrew the broken end of cork. It crumbles in her fingers. ‘Damn,’ she says again.

Gerald takes the bottle from her hands. ‘Let me.’

‘I’m perfectly capable – ’

‘I know, but I want to help.’ He twists the corkscrew into the remaining bit of cork in the neck of the bottle. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

‘What question?’

‘Vanessa, stop prevaricating. Why haven’t you told the girls?’

‘How do you know I haven’t?’

‘Because Esme phoned a while ago. She nearly had a heart attack when she heard my voice.’

‘What the hell were you doing answering my phone?’

‘I was trying to get it before it woke you up. Now are you going to answer me?’

Gerald pulls the remaining bit of cork out of the bottle. Vanessa snatches it from him and pours herself a large glassful. She glares at Gerald over the rim.

‘It’s nothing to do with them.’

‘Of course it is. Their parents are living together under one roof for the first time in God knows how many years and – ’

‘What did she say?’

‘Who?’

‘Esme. Who else?’

‘She was fine with it once she got over the shock. She wants to come down to see us. But she said Cordy would go mad.’

‘Cordelia.’

‘That’s what I said, Cordelia.’

‘You didn’t. You said Cordy.’

‘Cordy, Cordelia. What difference does it make?’

‘But that’s just it,’ she snaps back at him.

‘What’s it?’

‘Cordy was your name for her. She never let us call her Cordy again after you left. Her heart was broken and you didn’t even know or care.’

He stares at her for a few seconds, his mouth open, and then he comes towards her. He puts his hands on her shoulders. ‘My darling, tell me, say these things to me. This is what we need to clear the air.’

She raises her hands and throws his off her shoulders. ‘Get out of the way,’ she says, and pushes past him.

Up in her room, she presses the numbers for Cordelia’s phone.

Cordelia answers on the first ring. ‘I knew it would be you.’

Esme has got there before her. Vanessa was afraid that would happen. ‘Let me explain – ’

‘Go on then.’

‘You mean you’ll listen to what I’ve got to say?’

At the other end, Cordelia laughs. ‘I can’t wait to hear what gems you come up with this time.’

‘I couldn’t leave him in London on his own.’

‘Why? He left you.’

‘He’s ill, Cordelia.’

‘Ever heard of social services? Isn’t it their job to look after sick old people who haven’t got anyone else to care for them?’

The receiver is wet and slippery with perspiration. ‘That’s a bit cruel about your own father.’

‘I must have inherited it from him.’

‘Cordelia, I know it’s terrible when fathers leave little children.’

‘It wasn’t only when I was little though, was it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He came back. Remember that?’

‘It was a difficult – ’

‘Promised he was back for good this time.’

‘But what could he do? I was with Andrew.’

‘It was always about you, wasn’t it? You were with Andrew, so what was the point in him staying? There was me, and there was Esme. Why couldn’t he stay for us?’

There’s a catch in Cordelia’s voice, and for a moment Vanessa thinks she’s going to break down. The terrible barrier of anger she’s erected might crumble.

‘Perhaps he would have done,’ Vanessa says. ‘We’ll never know. When Andrew died …’ There was the bloodied head, she remembers, massively swollen, tubes everywhere, and the machine monitoring his heartbeat, silent. Her hands cover her face. All she can hear is the sound of her screaming. Then she realises the noise is in her ear; it’s coming from the telephone …

‘He left again, didn’t he?’ Cordelia’s voice shouts down the phone. ‘Too chicken to handle the fallout. But me, stupid me … I carried on meeting him – ’

‘What? You mean you saw him afterwards?’

‘ “Don’t tell, Vanessa,” he’d say. “She’ll only stop us.” And I fell for his flannel all over again. Ask him about those meetings. Ask him what happened when I came back from the States and he promised to take me out for lunch. Ask him. Go on, ask him … ’

It takes Vanessa a moment to realise that Cordelia’s tirade has stopped. There’s silence on the other end of the line, and then a long continuous hum.

Vanessa climbs into bed. Her hands won’t stop shaking. Her chest feels so tight, she can hardly breathe. She pulls the duvet over her, and curls into a ball. She shuts her eyes and waits for the nausea to subside. She doesn’t want to face Gerald; she doesn’t want to ask him about the past. Andrew died; Gerald left. It’s not a place she can bear to go back to.

Vanessa straightens her shoulders and wipes her palms against her trousers. Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the door of the living room. It’s empty. Gerald must have gone up to his room without her hearing him. She goes into the kitchen to get the wine she poured earlier.

On the worktop is a note in Gerald’s writing.

My darling – I heard raised voices and I thought it best to make myself scarce. I expect you’ll want some time to yourself. Hope the phone call with Cordelia wasn’t too awful. I’m sorry I’ve caused all this trouble for you.

I’m going for a walk. I’ll try to get to the Cobb. I want to be able to see what you see. If you love it, I’m sure I will. You always did have a good eye.

When I get back, I’m going to ask you to marry me. I know I’m not much of a prospect, but the one thing I’ve got is money, and I want you to have it. I know you don’t need it – you’ve made a success of your business without my help – but do whatever you like with it. Sorry if that’s not the most romantic proposal you’ve ever had. I could do all the love stuff, and Christ knows, I’ve got enough of that for you, but I don’t think it’s what you want to hear right now.

By the way, the other phone call was from some guy called Charles Miller. Said he’d ring again tomorrow.

Gerald