Ed leaned against the city-blackened railings across the street from Christian’s house. He wished he were wearing a trilby and maybe a trench mac and had a cigarette that he could light moodily with a Zippo lighter. But he didn’t. So instead of lurking mysteriously and glamorously, he just hung around in the hard-edged shadow of his Mitsubishi Shogun, looking slightly furtive.
Also, the sun was shining, whereas his mood was more suited to swirling fog, lamplight and sinister shifting dusk. A cooling breeze ruffled his hair, and the scent of traffic fumes was building up nicely from the crush of cars in Notting Hill Gate. He’d left the shoot early, having subjected the disreputable Ice Cool Chew-Chew Mints to the iniquities of cold water torture more times than was absolutely reasonable. He’d probably get complaints from Equity, but it had been worth it to raise his spirits, which would otherwise have stayed languishing around the doldrums somewhere.
He was struggling to come to terms with the Orla-and-Neil thing. His brother wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, and Ed suspected that this might be one. Selling up your entire life on a whim and a whirlwind relationship was a pretty big step. And he worried about Orla’s motives. She was too driven and too dynamic to last the distance with someone as lackadaisical as Neil. What would happen when she tired of him, as she eventually would? But then, who was he to pour the cold water of reality on someone else’s dreams? How could he tell Neil that he thought it wouldn’t last? Maybe it would. He had thought the same about Ali and the starving artist, but here they were, months down the road, still at the impasse between marriage and divorce called separation, with neither of them seeming to want to make the first move toward disentangling the life they had shared together.
There didn’t seem to be much in the way of activity inside Christian’s house, and he wondered if Ali was alone or whether she had company. Whichever way, he’d come this far and would tough it out. For the sake of civility, he would try to avoid pushing Christian’s teeth down his throat. Unless he was really provoked.
He’d been standing here for half an hour already—trying to pluck up courage to see his own wife, for heaven’s sake! If he hung around any longer, he was likely to get arrested for loitering with intent, so he crossed the road, rapped firmly on the knocker and tried to convince his legs that they really would like to stop shaking.
A young woman, who looked like she’d been crying, opened the door. “Is Alicia Kingston at home?” he asked.
The girl nodded and stood to one side.
It was a nice house. Not terribly homey, but smarter than he’d expected.
“Top of the stairs,” the girl said.
“Is she alone?”
She smiled briefly. “Yes.”
Ed climbed the stairs. He should have brought flowers. Or chocolates. Or grapes. Or something. But he hadn’t, and it was too late now. There were four doors at the top of the stairs and only one was ajar, so he pushed it open slightly and, knocking tentatively, stepped inside.
Ali was asleep on the bed. The duvet was pushed down by her feet and she was wearing a white cotton nightdress which was stained with drops of blood. She was lying on her side with a pillow jammed between her knees, just as she’d done when she was pregnant with all three of the children. Her face was as pale as her nightgown, and her jumble of gold curls was spread out over the pillow. Dark lashes emphasized the hollow shadows under her eyes.
The Apocalypse Now theme of the decoration made her seem all the more small and fragile, as if she were being held hostage here against her will. Ed’s throat tightened and his eyes started to burn, hot and prickly. How had they ever come to this? What on earth was she doing lying alone and sick in some stranger’s bedroom, done out with all the taste of a ten-year-old? He wanted to lie down beside her and take her in his arms and never let her go again.
There were jeans hanging up at the side of the wardrobe. Trendy, slim-hipped men’s jeans. Jeans that he never would have fit into twenty years ago, let alone now that he was fast approaching middle-aged spread. A packet of Durex Extra Condoms Ribbed for Sensitivity and Sensation mocked him from the bedside table. Ed pressed his lips together grimly. He shouldn’t be here. Ali hadn’t wanted him to come. She’d made it abundantly clear that it was over between them. He should leave now and make his excuses later.
He looked back at his sleeping wife. Ali opened her eyes. “Hi,” she said, as if she’d been expecting him to be standing there.
Ed’s voice wouldn’t come. It had lodged somewhere deep down in his chest and was refusing to budge. He cleared his throat. “Hi.”
Ali patted the bed and he sat down facing her. She’d lost weight. Her arms were like sticks and her collarbone jutted out beneath her skin. She tried to push herself up on her elbows, but gave up and sank back on her pillow. “Here, let me help,” he said, and eased her upright, plumping the pillow behind her.
“How are you?” he said.
Ali bit her lip, tears filling her eyes.
“Oh God,” Ed said and wrapped his arms round her. She collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest, painful, racking sobs, and he could feel the tears soaking through his shirt. “I love you, Ali,” he murmured into her hair. Alicia cried louder.
He held her away from him and looked into her sad, tear-stained face. “Come back to me,” he said.
Ali nodded. “Yes.”
“I love you, Ali Kingston.” Ed smoothed her hair. “I always have.”
“I love you too,” she whispered and clung to his neck.
Ed held her tight, letting the relief flood through him. “Let’s go home.”
Alicia wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and smiled weakly. “I’ll get my things,” she said.