Elegance and Innocence (40 page)

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s all right. To break the silence, smoothing it over with noise, questions and conversation.

But then an unexpected intimacy overwhelms me.

His stillness is revealing. It’s as if he’s unfolding, very slowly, before me; invisible layers dissolving into the shadows. The longer I linger, the more I can see …

I step back.

This isn’t an experience I should be having with a man I don’t know. A man who doesn’t even like me.

And yet a fierce longing clutches at my heart: to be in a room where I’m not alone and yet where nothing – no words, no movement, no explanation – is necessary.

Walking upstairs, I move as quietly as possible but the third stair from the top creaks unbearably. She’s awake.

‘Is that you, Evie?’

‘Yes, Bunny.’ It’s like being a teenager again.

‘Did you lock the front door?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Come in and say good night properly, then.’

I push open the heavy wide door. Her room’s spacious,
with a set of small adjoining apartments which take up the entire first floor. She’s sitting, propped up in her
lit-bateau
bed on easily two dozen pillows, dressed in a linen nightgown covered by a pale-gold bed jacket. Across her lap, an ancient edition of
Swann’s Way
competes with the half-dozen copies of
Hello!
and
Tatler
which cover her bedspread.

Pulling off her reading glasses, she cocks her small silver head to one side, examining me thoroughly. ‘Oh, Evie! If only you tried a little! A bit of make-up, a nice haircut …’

I stare at the carpet and smile. ‘Now, why would I want to do that, Bunny?’

She pats the end of the bed, inviting me to sit down. ‘You never know, darling. Lots of girls meet lovely men at work. That’s where Edwina met her partner.’

(Edwina, her only child, came out as a lesbian and moved to Arizona with a woman from her father’s accountancy firm shortly after Harry’s death. Bunny stayed with them for a month last summer. They run an extremely expensive, chic little gallery specializing in Native American art and are not, as she puts it, ‘unfashionably gay’. ‘They’re really terribly sweet,’ she assures me. ‘Discreet, with very flattering hairstyles. And it’s such a relief not to have to humour them the way one must with a man. You know, Evie, as long as one of you can cook, it can’t be that bad.’ I’m not sure she understands that it’s more than just a convenient living
arrangement; with Bunny it’s almost impossible to tell.)

‘Believe me, there are not lovely men where I work. Quite the opposite. And besides, you’re forgetting that I have a perfectly marvellous man of my own. How was he tonight?’

She smiles. ‘As always, the best. Although his diet is appalling, my dear. I made some borscht tonight. Did you see it? There’s a little left over in the fridge. I thought it might be nice, for Piotr, you know.’

‘But borscht is Russian, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, close enough. But Alex wouldn’t touch it. Can you imagine?’

‘Who in the world would turn down your home-made borscht?’

‘Well, Harry didn’t think much of it.’ She smoothes away a crease in the sheet. ‘But then, Harry had no taste. No taste buds, even. Too many cigars. Never allow Alex to smoke, promise me!’

‘I’ll do my best.’ I rise to leave and then stop. The mention of Harry reminds me … ‘Bunny forgive me if this is in any way inappropriate and you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but …’

She laughs. ‘My goodness, Evie! So
formal
!’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just …’ How to put this? ‘Do you ever see Harry? I mean, now?’

She looks at me. ‘He’s dead, dear.’

I feel foolish. ‘Yes, I know, I was just wondering if you
ever … I mean, if you believe that people can come back, you know, once they’re …’

‘Gone?’

I nod.

‘Well.’ She thinks a moment. ‘He sometimes makes an appearance in the mornings. Shuffles in wearing that dreadful old dressing gown and carrying a copy of
The Times
. Wants help with the crossword. Stuff like that. Chit-chat, really.’

My heart dives forward in my chest. ‘And what do you do?’

‘Well, the shit knows I’m not speaking to him.’ She picks up her copy of Proust again. ‘I just ignore him and he goes away. It’s the cheek of it that’s so annoying; the fact that he thinks he can just pick up where he left off.’

She speaks without a trace of irony or insincerity … can it be true? At any rate, she’s begun reading again – her hint that our conversation is over.

I drift over to the door; still full of questions, but unable to arrange my tangled thoughts. ‘Sleep well, Bunny.’

‘You too, darling.’ She looks up. ‘And honestly, if Harry starts hassling you for clues, just tell him to piss off. Never could spell.’

‘Right.’

She goes back to her book and I close the door. Like so many conversations with Bunny, I have absolutely no idea if she’s serious or just having me on.

As I pass by Allyson’s room, I hear her humming softly.
Something lovely. Something I don’t know. Probably something German.

I climb the last flight, twisting the doorknob very carefully. Slowly, I creep through to the next room.

And there he is, sleeping. In his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. Alex, my lovely, gorgeous, perfect four-year-old son. I lean down, softly kissing his forehead. And he shifts, brushing away the clinging attentions of his watchful mother, even in sleep.

I could spend all night staring at him, at the gentle curve of his forehead, the soft, smooth pink of his cheeks, the angelic (at least in repose) set of his mouth. Every day he grows more and more beautiful.

Like his father.

A cloud trails across the night sky. Cold white moonlight floods in through the window. Everything’s illuminated, the countless toys scattered across the floor, the second-hand rocking chair in the corner, the brightly painted toy chest … Here is a world where nothing’s lost for very long; where everything’s retrievable. A fragile, temporary universe.

I settle quietly, as I do so many nights now, in the wooden rocking chair and watch.

He’ll be bigger tomorrow and yet I’ll have never seen a glimpse of him growing in the night. But I’m here, nonetheless. A sentinel, standing guard against a whole, impossible, unknowable future.

And here, in the stillness of my son’s room, with the soft, sighing rhythm of his breathing for company, the thought enters again, uninvited.

Would I do it differently?

If I had to make the choice again, is this the fate I would choose?

I look out at the silent street below. At the daffodils bowed by the wind and rain.

It’s a fragile, temporary universe.

And always has been.

‘This is it,’ Robbie says.

We’re standing outside a pub in Camden Town called the Black Dog. The throbbing bass of the music inside pulses each time the door opens.

I waver.

‘Come on,’ she says, swinging the door wide. She’s a New Yorker; nothing can scare her. She gives me a little smile and I follow.

It’s crowded, heaving. A Friday night mix of drunken Irishmen and City boys straight from the office. Jesus and the Mary Chain are wailing on the sound system. The bar is three deep. We find a corner at one of the low round tables.

‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Robbie asks. It’s a group of girls, mid-gossip. They nod and wave their cigarettes at
us. ‘Go ahead.’ We perch on the edge of our stools; I’m clutching my handbag in front of my chest like an old lady waiting for a bus. Robbie pushes it down on to my lap.

‘I’ll get us a drink. What will you have?’

I fumble for my wallet. ‘Ah … I don’t know … a beer, I guess.’

She puts her hand over mine. ‘How ’bout a pint? On me.’

And then she’s gone, engulfed in the crowd. I smile at the girls across the table. They ignore me. Can they tell I’ve never been in a pub before? Does it show that I’m American? I readjust the embroidered vintage cardigan Robbie lent me and my Guess? Jeans. Everyone else seems to be chicer, more convincingly put together. With bigger hair, shorter skirts and sharper shoulder pads. I’m the only one with a ponytail. Slipping the band out, my hair falls round my shoulders. I check my Swatch. Almost nine o’clock.

Robbie comes back, carrying two overflowing pints. ‘Here.’ She hands me one. I take a sip and almost immediately spit it back out.

‘Jesus, Robbie! It’s warm!’

The girls across from us stare at me like I’m a freak. Robbie giggles. ‘Yup,’ she says, settling onto the stool next to me. She whips out a compact and reapplies her lip gloss. I marvel at her poise. This is probably the sort of thing she does all the time back home in the Village.

I take another sip of my warm beer. ‘How will we recognize them?’ I feel childish and stupid even asking.

‘Well’ – she pouts at herself in the mirror – ‘Hughey will be wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of the
Evening Standard
.’

I look around the bar. All the men are wearing white shirts and carrying copies of the
Evening Standard
.

‘Robbie …’

‘Just kidding.’ She slips her compact back into her bag and crosses her legs. ‘He’s bringing me a bunch of flowers, so all we need to do is spot the sap with the bouquet and we’re in business.’

I’m impressed. ‘How romantic!’

She makes a face. ‘I told him to. Start as you mean to go on, Evie. I may be easy but I’m not
cheap
!’

I laugh and we sit, side by side, staring at the door. It opens and closes. More men in white shirts. More copies of the
Evening Standard
. Not a single petal in sight.

The girls across from us are laughing loudly, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, flirting with the guys at the table opposite.

‘How ’bout another?’ I’m feeling brave.

‘Sure.’ Robbie hands me her glass and I weave my way towards the bar.

‘What it’ll be?’ the barman asks.

‘Two more pints,’ I say, proud that I’ve mastered the lingo.

‘Yeah, what kind, luv?’ He points to a vast array of pumps.

I blink.

‘Are they all the same temperature?’

He frowns. ‘Yeah.’

I choose the pump with a picture of a harp on it. That seems pretty. ‘I’ll have that one, please.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Suit yourself.’ And begins to fill the glasses.

It’s black.

I panic.

‘It’s black,’ I say.

He hands me the glasses. ‘It’s what you ordered.’ And removes the fiver from my hand. I wait for change but he turns to the next person. I guess that’s it.

I walk back to the table with the drinks.

‘I’m sorry, Robbie. It’s black. I think it may have gone off.’

‘It’s Guinness.’ She takes a sip and wipes the white foam from her upper lip. I hold mine warily. Warm and yellow is bad enough. ‘Don’t worry.’ She nods encouragingly. ‘It’s sexy. And Irish.’

We wade through the Guinness. The music gets louder and so does the crowd. I go to the loo and come back. Then Robbie goes. She buys a pack of cigarettes and we bum a light. A couple of spotty city boys try to pick us up. The girls across from us leave with the guys at the next table. It’s 10.10.

I look at Robbie. ‘Well …’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m not worried.’ And she lights another cigarette, even though she has one burning in the ashtray.

At 10.20 a man appears in the doorway. He’s stocky, wearing a pair of round John Lennon glasses and sporting a shock of spiky, sandy-coloured hair. He’s carrying a slightly crushed single rose in clear plastic wrap.

Robbie spots him and stands up. Walking over, she takes the rose from his hand. ‘This is not a bouquet, Hughey, is it?’ She lets it drop to the floor, where it becomes a chew toy for someone’s dog. ‘Now, are you going to buy me a drink or what?’

He smiles and wraps an arm round her waist. ‘I’d have come sooner if I knew that you were going to look like this.’

‘You should’ve seen what I looked like an hour ago.’ She shoves him in the direction of the bar. ‘By the way, we’re drinking champagne.’

He whistles under his breath and saunters up to the bar.

Robbie winks at me. ‘I told you it would be OK.’

That’s when I notice the guy behind him. Tall and slender, dressed in a faded suit and T-shirt, he stands, lingering by the door, running a hand through his long black hair.

He looks up at me, tilting his head sideways. ‘Hey.’ His voice is quiet but deep.

‘Hey.’ My voice has gone quiet too.

He holds out his hand. ‘Jake,’ he introduces himself. He has soft dark eyes and the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.

‘Raven,’ I say, holding out mine.

He wraps his fingers round mine. He holds them just a moment too long.

And I let him. As far as I’m concerned, he can hold them as long as he wants.

‘No!’

‘Well, what about some toast, then? Most of the superheroes I know have toast for breakfast. Often with a little peanut butter and banana on it.’

Alex crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘Mummy,
nobody
knows a real superhero!’

‘I know you, don’t I? And you’re going to have to sit down properly. No standing on the kitchen chairs. Now, with peanut butter or not?’ I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

‘Good morning, mate!’ Allyson’s dressed in a white towelling bathrobe. She swoops down on Alex, scooping him up in a great big bear-hug. ‘Hey, mister! Where’s my kiss!’ she demands, tickling him under the arms.

‘Ewww! Gross! Ugly Aussie girl germs!’ He giggles hysterically. ‘Ewwwww!’

‘No quarter, mate! Give it up! Say, “I love Allyson!”’

‘Never!’ he screams, delighted. ‘Never, ever, ever! You stinky poofter!’

I whip round. ‘Hey! Where did you learn that word? That’s not a word I want to hear again, do you understand me? Where did you hear that?’

He looks at Allyson who, in turn, stares at her toes. ‘Sorry, mate. Must’ve been me,’ she admits. ‘I’m really going to try to clean up my language. Promise.’

Sometimes I hate being Mom. ‘Well, it’s not a word I want to hear again from either of you. Do you understand?’