15 to 10 Days
Dora
‘Papa told me everything. I love Louis very much, too. That’s why Papa let me come back to the changing room with you. You know he didn’t believe you. He knows when I’m not feeling well, because I make a big fuss. I’m a rubbish actress and I hate people who lie. So does Papa. I think you needed to cry – it’s not good to bottle all that up, it had to come out. Papa always says to me, “Isa, sweetheart, it’s better to show your feelings and look stupid, rather than keep things inside you.” I think he’s right, and that’s not because he’s my father, OK? Oh, and, actually, I hate sweets. I know, it’s weird – everyone likes sweets. I guess I’m just not like everyone else.’
I sat up and dried my tears. I was gobsmacked by this incredibly mature monologue. In a few sentences, this little girl had just revealed an amount of information that my brain was struggling to process:
1. She’d spoken of Edgar as Papa.
2. She knew Louis.
3. She’d referred to herself as Isa.
To recap: she was Edgar’s daughter. That was clear. Once again, there was no visible family likeness. Now I knew the connection, I was able to detect a few resemblances between her and Charlotte – just about. Edgar stood out strikingly in this fair-haired family. I wondered what this child’s mother must look like and I felt an irrational pang. I pictured her as very beautiful, very fair – as fair-haired as I was dark. I’ve always borne a grudge against blondes. They have some connection with envy, desire. Blondes represent a fantasy, for men and women alike. Brunettes are reality – wallpaper that blends into the surroundings. They only make waves when their hair is jet black. The brunette is in between, only revealing her true flavour when you really taste her. I’ve sometimes thought of bleaching my hair, but I’ve always given up the idea, full of lofty principles that made me narrow-minded. At the end of the day, perhaps I should have tried.
Another crucial nugget of information that she’d let slip: it sounded as if she was Louis’s Isa. The one who’d made my heart skip a beat, from the first page of the precious notebook. I felt a huge sense of relief mixed with huge embarrassment. Relief at finally being able to put a face to the name of the girl I’d fantasized about hundreds of times over the past weeks. Above all, at being able to associate that name with a child’s face. The Isa in the notebook could have been an adult in whom Louis had confided, who was important to him. I’d have died of jealousy. Louis was my child, and I couldn’t bear the idea of another woman stealing his attention. I thanked the heavens – just the heavens; there was no divine being in my imagination – that this Isa was a child, a pre-teen; it didn’t matter. Anything except another woman. So, a huge relief, but I also felt huge embarrassment at having made such an idiot of myself in front of her, revealing, one by one, the less admirable sides of my personality: I’d shown myself to be a cheat, always whingeing, a deserter, lazy, tearful. At least I hadn’t pretended to be anything I wasn’t.
At that precise moment, Edgar and the rest of the troop marched into the confined space of the changing rooms, raising the noise and smell levels. Some of the kids were chanting ‘We are the champions!’ and imitating the victory signs of their stadium idols, others snorted angrily and wore the expressions of would-be presidential candidates learning the fatal outcome of a bitterly contested election. Edgar laughed, rubbing the heads of the disappointed kids, finding the words to comfort them. A family trait, apparently. I stood up and headed for the adults’ changing room. Before leaving, I wanted to thank Isa.
‘Thank you, Isa . . . or Dora? What am I supposed to call you? I must say, I don’t understand—’
‘Both, captain. My name’s Isadora. Like the dancer, Isadora Duncan. Mum was a dancer. Papa . . . Papa calls me Isa, and everyone else either calls me Dora or Isa, so it’s up to you.’
I collected my sports holdall and slowly left the sports ground, taking the time to digest all this news.
I was exhausted.
As I walked through the gates, Edgar caught up with me and wouldn’t let me go. Literally. He invited me to dinner at his place – their place. I protested, for form’s sake, but then I very quickly accepted.
I entered their world. I wanted to.
*
Edgar and Isadora lived with Charlotte. It was their choice, and they made a happy household. Their apartment was where I had first met Edgar, but it felt very different without the extra fifty people in it. Although it was small, they each had their own room, their personal space.
‘It’s important for everyone, especially schoolgirls,’ Edgar had joked, giving his daughter a knowing wink.
Charlotte was on night duty at the hospital that evening, so it was just the three of us. Isadora took me into her den. Seeing the posters of footballers, I felt my legs turn to jelly. I had to lean against a wall to stop myself from crumpling. Her room was so similar to Louis’s, it was disturbing. Now, I understood the bond between them, their shared passion – the attraction of those ecstatic victory gestures on glossy paper. The champions were jubilant, exuding extreme pride and elation. Visceral snapshots of fleeting joys, so enthralling. I didn’t dare ask Isa about her relationship with Louis. She held out a scarf, signed by some obscure player. She teased me gently, wondering how it was possible not to have heard of Zlatan Ibrahimović. I replied, ‘It’s easy, you see . . .’ then I handed back the precious scarf. With a solemn expression, she placed it in my hands like an offering, asking me to give it to Louis when he woke up. Because he was going to wake up, she just knew it. I hugged her and began to cry. She pushed me gently away, forcing herself to laugh, saying, ‘Oh no, you’re not going to start that again . . .’ More role reversal. I thanked her, saying I was sure Louis would be thrilled with her gift. She thought so too.
We ate pizza, sitting on the floor. Edgar had put on the soundtrack from Jane Campion’s The Piano as background music. I recognized it at once. An excellent choice – that was one of my favourite films, and the music was quite simply astounding. My mental portrait of Edgar was becoming clearer. Edgar was a man who easily managed to gain the respect of a whole group of adolescents, a man who showed such consideration for his daughter and had created with her a complicity based on mutual respect and teasing, a man capable of rolling in the mud in the morning and of being stirred by Michael Nyman’s exquisite piano playing in the evening, a man with a generous smile and dark, sad eyes, a man who must enjoy great success with women, but who seemed oblivious of his powers of attraction. That week, I’d seen the mothers simpering when they came to pick up their children . . . and ‘Edgar this,’ and ‘Edgar that’. I sensed in him a tumult of joys and sorrows. Isadora had spoken of her mother in the past tense. Who was he? What had he been through? I was increasingly intrigued. I was in turmoil, and I wanted to know more.
After only a few minutes, we were using the informal tu, and I’d begun to let go, to relax. Louis stayed in a corner of my mind, all the time. Everything brought me back to him. Allowing myself to eat with others was a big step for me. I told myself that these people were in my son’s precious notebook, they were important to him, and that Louis had implicitly approved our friendship because it was he who’d pointed me in the direction of Isadora and Edgar. By staying, I was entering my son’s world, in a way. I was aware that I was enjoying it a great deal.
At around ten o’clock, to my amazement, Isa announced it was her bedtime – whereas I used to have a nightly battle with Louis to get him to go to his room. She kissed us, and Edgar went to tuck her up.
I was left alone for a few moments. The contrast with my own living room was striking. My place was all designer chic, sterile, impersonal. But, here, the untidiness was part of the decor. Magazines lay on the floor, a few games too. The top of the solid wood sideboard was covered in dusty knick-knacks, but no one could blame those who lived there. I could see immediately that they had better things to do than dusting. They were busy living. Here, everything was vibrantly alive.
I got up and gathered my belongings.
‘Thank you again, Edgar, it was really delicious.’
‘Not true, of course. Industrial pizza, not a great cook . . . but it’s kind of you to say so. But why are you on your feet? You look as if you’re about to leave. That’s out of the question. I won’t let you give me the slip again.’
‘I’m not giving you the slip, Edgar. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I’m spending my days with you, at the moment.’
‘Again, not true. You’re spending a lot of time nattering in the changing room . . . I’m joking. You know what I mean . . .’
A hesitation, a breath.
He came over to me and gently put my coat and bag down on the sofa. His hand brushed mine, or was it no accident? I felt a shiver run through my body.
I stayed.
Edgar offered me a herbal tea. I retorted that I wasn’t an old lady yet, and that I’d rather he uncorked another bottle of wine. During the course of the evening, under the combined effect of the alcohol and the whispering, ‘so as not to wake Isa’, Edgar opened up. I didn’t ask anything. He was the one who talked, spontaneously, freely. Several times, I said he didn’t have to tell me anything, but he told me he wanted to. Needed to.
I learned their story. Heartbreakingly sad. As bleak as he and Isa were joyful.