Left and Leaving Page 9

  ‘You should be in bed,’ Feray said. ‘Tell your brother to switch that rubbish off.’

  ‘Don’t forget it’s cookery tomorrow, Mum.’ She pointed to a list fixed to the fridge door by a magnet shaped like a cupcake.

  ‘You’ve had all evening to do this. You’re old enough to sort it out for yourself,’ Feray said, grabbing the list, opening and banging cupboard doors as she gathered ingredients and slammed them down on the worktop.

  ‘What’s on the menu?’ Gil asked. It wasn’t fair to take it out on Melissa.

  ‘Chocolate brownies.’ The girl glanced over his shoulder. ‘Something’s burning.’

  He rescued the toast but not before the smoke alarm had set up its piercing warning.

  He imagined Vivian Carey’s flat as it would be now. Calm. Neat. Peaceful.

  And, an hour later, when he and Feray made love, he imagined how it might feel to rest his cheek against Vivian Carey’s cold, black hair.

  11

  Vivian detected an increased nervousness around public places. Warnings not to leave luggage unattended, to be on the lookout for suspicious packages, were more in evidence. She was aware of commuters furtively inspecting station platforms and scrutinising each others’ bags. Anyone from the Middle East was the focus of ill-disguised scrutiny.

  The story circulating on Twitter was that it had been a botched job. That a suicide bomber, driving to his target destination – possibly one of the main-line stations – had prematurely detonated explosives strapped to his body. This theory raised as many questions as it answered but, once out there, it gained credibility and the police seemed happy to let the rumour run.

  Gil mailed her most days – a few lines or a comment on something he’d seen. Nothing heavy or intimate, more like passing the time of day. Attached to one of his mails was a photograph of youngsters fooling around near a fountain. The picture was full of life and movement. It hadn’t crossed her mind that his photographic skills might extend beyond the technical requirements of his job. He was a nice guy. Easy to be with. It would be good to see him again. He hadn’t mentioned another meeting but she guessed that he was waiting for her to raise the matter.

  Irene, too, kept in touch. Vivian regretted having given the woman her number and always diverted her calls to voicemail. But that didn’t stop the texts coming. Or the gifts. A pair of tights and a pack of toothbrushes (to replace the ones Vivian had given her that night). A bottle of peach-scented hand cream – Boots’ own brand. A calendar with a different picture of a stately home for every month of the coming year. Each gift was accompanied by a tract and a coy note on a sheet of pink notepaper.

  Gil had received gifts, too. ‘She wants us to get together,’ he wrote in one of his mails. ‘How did you respond?’ ‘I didn’t.’

  The trip to Cologne was firmed up. The four of them – Cara was coming too – would leave early next Wednesday morning and return late on Thursday. Ottilie made appointments for them with the client and the contractor, and also arranged viewings of a couple of offices both of which incorporated living accommodation.

  Cara mailed, suggesting that, at some point, Vivian ‘ditch’ the men and they go shopping. Vivian explained that they were on a tight schedule but Cara wasn’t one to accept work as reason not to have fun and, in the end, Vivian agreed that she would try.

  Work was frantic. Everyone involved in the building process was struggling to get things done before the two-week Christmas break. To make things more difficult, the weather was causing problems with deliveries of materials, and pouring concrete was out of the question due to the freezing conditions. On top of that, there was the inescapable round of Christmas parties which Howard liked his staff to attend but which were no more than networking opportunities.

  The trip to Cologne went smoothly. At home, she and her mother had always spoken German to each other but, since her death, Vivian had had few opportunities to use it. She was concerned that she might be rusty. She needn’t have worried. After a hesitant start, she was soon into her stride and, although most of the people they dealt with spoke English, she knew that her fluency impressed them.

  It appeared that Cara had primed Ottilie and their appointments had been shuffled to leave a couple of hours free.

  ‘I expect you know Cologne well,’ Cara said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘D’you have family in Germany?’

  ‘My mother’s older sister lives in Munich. And I’ve got two German cousins. But we don’t really keep in touch.’

  ‘No? That’s a shame.’

  When Vivian was growing up, once in a while letters had arrived from Germany. She’d been taken with the envelopes lined with tissue paper. (How could – why should – German envelopes be so different from their English equivalent?) Her mother and Tante Steffi’s handwriting were identical, as if every German schoolchild was taught to write by the same teacher.

  Then there was the stamp ritual – cutting (never tearing) the corner off the envelope, floating it in a saucer of water until the paper saturated. Be patient Vivian, you’ll damage it. Next the most enjoyable part – sliding the stamps off the paper, the glue slimy on her fingers. Drying it between sheets of blotting paper. Sticking it in her stamp album.

  The letters themselves, written on flimsy airmail paper, were of little interest. The snow was late this year. Her cousin had done well in his music exam. Tante Steffi had fallen off her bicycle and grazed her knee. It was dull stuff.

  She and her mother, never her father, had visited every couple of years, spending a week in a characterless suburb of Munich. When her mother died, Steffi came to the funeral but since then they’d done no more than exchange birthday cards. Maybe it was a shame. She had little enough in the way of family. Perhaps she should make more of an effort.

  One of Cara’s friends had recommended they go to Apostelnstrasse. ‘Apparently the shops are very elegant and there are several jewellers which might be worth a look. I’ve checked and it’s not far.’

  Apostelnstrasse turned out to be a narrow street, snarled with traffic. Cara was disappointed with the jewellers – ‘Very passé…’ – but they happened across a smart coffee shop where the Apfelstrudel and pungent coffee made up for the disappointment.

  On the way to link up with Howard and Ralph, they passed a shop window displaying stylish winter hats. The day had been bright and clear but now, as the sun was setting, the air felt dangerously cold. Vivian had checked the weather forecast and packed a warm hat. Cara hadn’t, and complained that her head was aching with the cold. Ten minutes later they emerged from the shop, Cara looking stunning in a grey Cossak-style hat, faux fur with a velvet crown, Vivian carrying a small bag containing a knitted beanie – navy blue with a jade green fleecy lining.

  ‘That’s nice. For Nick?’ Cara said.

  ‘Maybe. I’m sure I’ll find someone who’d like it.’

  On the flight back, they discussed which property the firm should rent, Cara insisting that they choose one which had room for guests.

  Howard smiled and kissed his wife’s cheek. ‘Why don’t we let Vivian decide?’

  ‘I liked the first one,’ Vivian said. ‘It’s cheaper and it’s nearer the site.’

  ‘The living accommodation’s pretty tight,’ Ralph said.

  ‘Yes, but I shan’t be spending a lot of time there. It’s only somewhere to eat, sleep and shower.’

  Been offered a couple of tickets for the Roundhouse tomorrow. Romeo and Juliet – RSC. Not Alice Cooper but great reviews. Free? Fancy it? Gil.

  She checked her diary. Tomorrow. 6.30pm. Damn. A ‘Christmas nibbles’ do in Holborn. The Roundhouse sounded far more interesting.

  She mailed him back. What time?

  They arranged to meet in Belgo Noord, a bar on Chalk Farm Road opposite the Roundhouse. It was a single-storey building sandwiched between Italian and Thai restaurants. Vivian had passed it scores of times but its drab green façade and the limp Belgian flag hanging above the ent
rance had never tempted her inside.

  The place was packed. It was hot and noisy. There was a strong smell of garlic and fish – presumably the mussels, advertised as the speciality of the house.

  Gil was standing just inside the door. ‘Hi,’ he said and they shook hands.

  She looked around, taking in the exposed pipework and industrial-style detailing. In direct contrast, the bar staff and waiters were dressed as Trappist monks.

  ‘I’m not getting it,’ she said.

  ‘It’s Belgian,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

  His tired-looking anorak was unzipped and beneath it she could see a navy shirt and yellow bow tie.

  ‘Nice tie,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks. I wasn’t too sure.’ He tugged at the bow, squaring it up and flattening it against his shirt collar. ‘Tricky things. Only took me and Freddy ten minutes to tie. Surgeons aren’t as good with their hands as you might hope. But I thought I should make an effort for the Bard.’

  ‘How did you get the tickets?’ she asked.

  ‘Perks of the job. You’d be surprised how often doctors fail to check their diaries. They’re constantly double-booking themselves.’

  ‘So they give you their tickets?’

  ‘Yep. They see me as a charity case. I’m badly paid. I’m from a cultural wasteland. In fact I’m doing them a favour.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I turn them into philanthropists.’

  They caught up with each other’s news. She told him about her trip to Cologne and he told her that he’d made no progress in patching things up with his daughter. They drank beer and ate crisps and she found herself thinking that were she going with Nick, they’d be eating in some chi-chi restaurant, each of them preoccupied with what was in tomorrow’s diary.

  They made their way across the road and found their seats in the packed auditorium. Vivian couldn’t remember the last time she saw a live performance of Romeo and Juliet. (Probably when she was at school.) The Roundhouse was an iconic venue and this was a startling production. Live music, pyrotechnics and video imagery more than compensated for the minimal sets, and by the time the lovers lay dead, she had forgotten that she was sitting in a defunct railway shed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said afterwards as they shuffled towards the exit. ‘I loved it.’

  ‘Well you should really thank Mike Newham and his lack of forward planning.’

  They were only ten minutes walk from her flat and she’d been debating whether to invite him back for that promised drink. But tomorrow was a working day.

  Gil solved her dilemma. ‘Will you be okay from here?’

  The route was well-lit and there were plenty of people about. ‘Of course,’ she said, experiencing a tug of regret. ‘Goodnight. And thanks again.’

  ‘Goodnight, Vivian.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Last time, you said you enjoyed being with me. I enjoy being with you too.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You can take me out next time.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  He leaned forward and planted a kiss her on the cheek. ‘That’s settled then.’

  Gil had watched enough middle-aged saddos go gaga over girls young enough to be their daughters. On the day his divorce came through, he’d vowed never to tangle with any woman more than ten years his junior. He’d also promised himself that he would be straight with Feray. It was as well to lay down a few ground rules and, until now, it had been easy to stick to them.

  This Vivian Carey thing, coming as it had out of the blue, had wrong-footed him. He’d understand were she the kind of woman who drove a man’s brains into his boxers. But she wasn’t. In fact men (he used Kevin Lisle as his benchmark in these matters) might be turned off by her candour and near androgyny.

  So what was going on? Was it the challenge? The thrill of the chase? If so, he’d better knock it on the head right now because challenges were for round-the-world yachtsmen and chases ended up with someone getting hurt.

  And yet. He found himself planning interesting places to take her. Things to tell her. Gifts he might buy her – modest things like a postcard from Tate Modern or a packet of multicoloured paperclips.

  It had taken willpower not to suggest walking her home after the play. He’d wrestled with the dilemma throughout the final act. She might have felt obliged to ask him in for the promised coffee. He should have accepted her invitation last time when it was eight o’clock and when ‘a coffee’ meant just that. At eleven the agenda wasn’t so clear-cut.

  Their email correspondence kept ticking over. Her replies, prompt and witty, made him think that she was happy to continue their association. And that made him happy. He wanted to see her again but he wasn’t sure how to go about it. Mike’s tickets had given him the perfect excuse, but the last thing he wanted was to come across as a creepy old perv.

  He’d let it ride. Leave it up to her.

  ‘Had any thoughts about Christmas?’ Feray asked.

  ‘Why?’ Gil said.

  She glared at him. He was doing it again – answering her question with one of his own.

  ‘No. I haven’t had any thoughts about Christmas.’

  ‘Well here’s what the kids and I are doing.’

  She gave him a rundown of the commitments she had with work and the children over the holiday period. ‘We’ll be spending Christmas Day with Mum and Dad.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  ‘Mum said you’re more than welcome. She can’t cope with the idea of anyone being on their own on Christmas Day. I’d like you to come but I’m not going to get into a fight about it, okay?’

  A similar invitation had been extended last year but he’d had a legitimate reason to dip out. A mate of his, a journalist he’d worked with back in his days on the Gazette, was in London researching a book on orphans who had been shipped to Australia under The Empire Settlement Act. Andy had been delighted to spend Christmas with him and together they’d reeled around the pubs of north London. Whatever they did (neither had much recollection of the detail) served the purpose of passing the day – and the next day, too.

  He’d met Feray’s parents a fair few times but he’d never been to their home. As far as they were concerned, he was a neighbour who gave their daughter a hand now and again when she needed something doing. He guessed that they knew there was more to it than that. The kids were a source of information if they wanted to probe but maybe it suited them to maintain the pretence that he was a just a friend. Turgut and Munire Ergen were hardworking, down-to-earth people (he worked in the dry cleaners, she in the bread shop). But Christmas Day? To be honest he’d rather spend it listening to Miles Davies and sorting his photographs.

  His face must have revealed his reluctance because she added, ‘You’ve got two weeks to come up with an excuse.’

  The stand-off with Polly continued. Janey, too, was behaving like a petulant teenager, ignoring his emails and refusing to take his calls. Needing someone whom he could trust to tell it like it was, he phoned his younger sister.

  Despite the five-year age gap, he and Louise got on well. Always had. He suspected, although they never discussed it, that what bound them together was their dislike – maybe that was too fierce a word – of their sister, Rachel. As a kid, Louise had been a tomboy, always off with the boys, playing cricket or fishing for crabs. This had irritated Rachel. What use was a sister who preferred kicking a football to dressing up like a fairy? The irony was that Louise, without making any effort, had turned into a real beauty. She’d had her pick of the boys and had ended up marrying Dan, one of Rachel’s old flames.

  ‘Hi, stranger,’ she said. ‘Good to hear you.’ Her voice was as clear as if she’d been speaking from the next street.

  After they’d exchanged niceties, he told her about the baby and Polly’s ultimatum. ‘I said I needed time to get my head round it. That pissed her off big time.’

  ‘Actually I ran into her a few weeks ago,’ Louise said, ‘and I have to say she l
ooked washed out. It did cross my mind that she was pregnant.’

  In all his ponderings, he’d never wondered how his daughter was faring in her pregnancy. ‘She was okay though?’ he said.

  ‘Seemed to be. I was on my way to work and we didn’t have much of a chat.’ She paused. ‘I wouldn’t expect her to tell me stuff like that anyway. She knows we’re close, you and I. Since you left, she and the twins have been pretty wary of me.’

  ‘Left? As in left Janey or left Oz?’

  ‘As in left them, Gil. Kids are egocentric little bastards. We were no different. When Gramps died I thought he’d done it to spite me. All that changes when you have kids of your own, of course.’

  Gil guessed she was adding the silent rider for some of us, anyway.

  ‘How’s Mum,’ he said.

  ‘Pretty chirpy. She’s talking about taking a trip to Sydney after Christmas. Something to do with her quilting class.’

  ‘D’you think she knows about the baby?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t. We speak most days. She would have told me. And she’d be knitting, too.’

  ‘Does she see much of my kids?’

  His need to grill his sister on his children’s habits filled him with sadness. But he’d chosen to leave. What did he expect?

  ‘They drop in occasionally. The boys more than Polly, I think. That probably has to do with food. You know how she loves feeding people.’

  ‘And Rachel?’

  ‘Oh, Rache is Rache. Busy organising us for Christmas. We’re all going to hers. I’ve had my instructions. What presents to buy. Food to bring. Time to arrive. And we’ve all got to promise we’ll have a good time.’

  Poor Louise. He knew that her perfect Christmas Day would be spent with her nose in a book. She’d be happy with a cheese sandwich for lunch and a stroll along the shore with Dan and her children as the sun was going down. But she’d go along with Rachel’s demands for the sake of their mother.

  ‘Look, Gil, I’ve got absolutely no right tell you what you should do, but…’

  ‘I’m a selfish prick and I should come back to Oz and face my responsibilities.’