Elegance and Innocence (71 page)

‘Ellery?’ I repeat. ‘Ellery King? The fight instructor?’

She flushes. ‘Such a cliché, isn’t it? A staff room romance! Do you know him?’

I shake my head a little too vigorously. ‘I’ve … you know … seen him around, that’s all.’

She laughs again, touching me on the arm. ‘Apparently he kept stealing my camomile tea!’

And I laugh too; the image of him leaning in to flirt with the red-haired student still floating in my mind.

She’s about to go; then she stops. ‘Listen, I don’t even know your name!’

‘Evie. Evie Garlick.’ I offer my hand and she takes it. ‘I
teach, I was going to say an acting class but it’s more like a reading-aloud class with my lot. I did try my hand at playwriting once or twice … it’s not easy, is it?’

She tilts her head, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘No, I suppose it isn’t. But then, if you get to a place where not writing is harder than writing … have you done anything lately?’

‘No, I …’ I’m longing to give a fascinating, detailed account of why this is true, but this is all that comes out.

Fishing around in her capacious leather satchel, she pulls out a slightly tattered card.

‘Here’s my number. If you ever want to talk about anything you’ve written, why not give me a call? Sometimes all you need is an extra pair of eyes to see something that’s been right in front of you all along.’ She smiles again. And I can see why Ellery likes her; there’s something sexy about her warmth and immediacy. ‘Lovely to meet you, Evie. And thanks again!’

She waves and I watch as she walks down the long corridor, the blue-and-white china teacup rattling in her hand.

The front gate squeals, banging irritably behind me. Climbing the steps as fast as I can, I twist my key in the lock, pushing the door open. I dump my broken bag and coat, and race through to the living room.

It’s empty.

And my spirits sink.

I thought he might be here; all the way home on the train, I held the image of Piotr in my mind, sitting in front of the piano, perfectly still. But he’s not.

Of course he’s not.

I sit on the sofa; a dull ache fills my chest. I’ve been so stupid! So backward and impossible and insane! What was I thinking? That he’d just be waiting here, in the dark, like an idiot?

I bury my heads in my hands.

There was time when my heart was barred against the world. When Alex was born it swung open and a terrifying capacity for joy and fear invaded.

Now something new has taken hold: a fine, rare feeling; at once calm and powerful, coursing through my veins.

Only I’ve made a mess of everything.

I press my eyes closed.

‘Please God,’ I murmur, ‘whatever you are, wherever you are … please, just give me one more chance! I beg of you, please!’

Opening my eyes, I look around.

The room’s still empty.

I wander upstairs.

It’s always the same step that catches me out, third from the top. It groans underfoot and I hear her shift above.

‘Evie? Is that you?’

‘Yes, Bunny.’

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

I push open the door. She’s still fully dressed, reading glasses balanced on the end of her nose, sitting at her writing desk in the corner.

She turns, waving me in. ‘Come and sit down,’ she commands, gesturing to the bed. I perch on the end of it. She tears a cheque off and slips it into a preaddressed envelope. ‘There’s something I want to discuss with you.’

I feel overwhelmingly adolescent, as if I’ve been caught sipping my parents’ sherry from the bottle.

She folds her hands in her lap, looking at me over the top of her glasses. ‘I normally wouldn’t intrude, darling, but has something happened with you and Piotr?’

‘Piotr?’ I try to sound casual.

She continues to stare at me.

‘No, I mean, I … why?’ I stammer, my face flushing.

‘Because he left this morning for Paris.’

My heart stops.

‘Paris? For how long?’

‘He didn’t say. It just seemed odd.’ She turns back to her desk, taking out another bill.

‘Did he say why?’ I venture after a moment.

She doesn’t look up. ‘No.’

‘Oh.’

I sit there.

Another minute passes. I stand up. ‘Well …’

‘Although’ – she peers at me again – ‘I was rather under the impression that he was in love with you.’

‘Really?’ My heart starts again, a secret joy rushing through me. I look at her eagerly. ‘How do you know?’

‘Oh, Evie!’ She sighs, shaking her head. ‘Have you always been this … this naïve?’

‘Yes, Bunny,’ I admit sadly. ‘I suppose I have. What can I do?’ I persist. ‘What can I possibly do?’

She looks at me for a long time.

‘You have to wait, darling.’ She reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘You’ll just have to give him his time.’

I wash my face, warm water against my skin. All I can think of is him; the smell of his hair at the nape of his neck, the flash of his eyes, his boyish, teasing grin, hands that slice the air when he’s excited.

Give him his time.

Why is doing nothing the hardest thing of all?

I should be tired, exhausted. But lying in bed, my thoughts ricochet, bouncing around my head. My feelings flame my imagination, setting it alight. But it burns in vain; he’s gone.

I turn over, frustrated.

I close my eyes. Images swell to the surface.

Suddenly, something else is setting them off, a small glowing nucleus of an idea …

Have I always been this naïve?

Have I always been …

naïve …

And then it’s there, fully formed.

I turn on the light, peel back the covers. Out comes the blue Ryman’s box from the chest at the bottom of the bed; I dump its contents on the floor.

I reach for a pen on my bedside table.

‘Innocents in the Underworld’ the old manuscript reads.

I draw a thick line through the title.

‘The Ingénue’ I write above it.

It stares back at me, clean and sure.

I pile a couple of pillows on top of one another and jam them into place. Then I climb back into bed.

Back goes the title page.

Act One, Scene One …

The words come thick and fast, filling the page, as if they’ve always been there, dormant; just waiting for me to wake up.

The man following Bunny around the house has a clipboard and a pair of narrow reading glasses on his nose. He’s wearing a bespoke suit; it’s easy to tell it’s bespoke by the bizarre combination of rigorously conservative tailoring and the flashes of extraordinary turquoise silk lining in his jacket. They walk, slowly, through each room, pausing to examine certain pieces of furniture or an unusual
objet d’art
… they speak quietly, in low voices, between themselves.

It’s only after he’s left that I notice the catalogue he’s left behind; Christie’s Auctioneers.

And there are others, more men; not quite so finely dressed, with tape measures and cameras.

I watch their comings and goings, on my way to make fresh cups of tea before trudging back to my room to continue my work. I’m up early, filling page after page, stealing hours to and from classes on the train, one ear always attuned to the voices chattering in my head and the other waiting to hear his footsteps or the sound of the front door opening, when everyone else is home. Bunny teases me, says I’m possessed.

But I’m not the only one.

She’s changed too; she’s quieter, more self-contained. She’s mulling something over in her mind, a string of suited men for company.

Then it’s finished.

It’s late. The staff room’s almost empty.

I sit down at the wobbly beech table and take out the long brown envelope from my bag. It’s a satisfying weight in my hands. Over seventy thousand words in three acts.

A familiar fear grips me.

I don’t have to do this.

I can put it back in my bag and no one will know.

My mind contracts, pulling at the question from this angle and that; what could happen, what should happen, what might happen …

Suddenly the sound of the dripping tap in the corner is unbearably loud.

I look up.

There’s the pile of washing up; the same chipped mugs and stained teaspoons, the same brown sponge, worn and filthy, under the same empty paper towel dispenser. And the same indignant laminated sign, curling now at the edges: ‘THIS IS NOT A HOTEL!’

No, this is not a hotel.

This is the staff room I’ve been sitting in, week in, week out, night after night for three, going on four, years, hoping that somehow, something, somewhere would change.

As long as it didn’t have to be me.

‘You’re the hero of your own story.’ I remember him saying it, the tone of his voice; he leant against the kitchen counter and spoke of slaying dragons; of happiness … ‘Happiness is a shabby little goal.’

I didn’t understand, then.

There’s a peace that comes from the integrity of self that the rough fortunes of happiness can’t touch. But it can only be paid for in acts of courage.

I stand up, cross to the staff mailboxes.

Here it is: R. Fitzroy.

I place the envelope carefully, soundlessly inside.

There are no fanfares for the truly great moments of your life. Just dripping taps and the sound of your own footsteps, walking from one room into another.

I pause when I reach the door.

The room’s a dingy grey under the blinking fluorescent
bulbs. They cast a sick, greenish light on the furniture; chairs which literally cave inwards, bearing the imprint of a thousand different lethargic bottoms; coffee tables, so beringed from tea mugs and take-away coffee cups that it seems a deliberate part of their design, and the ill-fitting, stained carpet tiles.

For a long time, this was the best I could aspire to.

I turn off the light.

As I open the kitchen door, a thick wave of heat and smoke washes over me. It’s coming from a battered black skillet, flaming away on Bunny’s ancient cooker.

He’s bent over a chopping board, sleeves rolled up; a look of intense concentration on his face. He could be Hephaestus at his anvil, forging weapons for the gods in the smouldering depths. But he’s pounding a steak with an old potato masher instead.

I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

Piotr looks up, pushes his dark hair back from his eyes.

‘Hello,’ he says guardedly.

‘You’re back!’ I’m grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.

‘Yes.’ He smiles softly. ‘I’m back.’

He flings the steak into the skillet. It sizzles and splutters in the olive oil. His eyes meet mine; he turns away shyly. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Because I’ve been stupid,’ I confess.

I want to touch him so badly; to wrap my arms round his neck and bury my face in his chest.

I trace the edge of the counter with the tips of my fingers. ‘And you really have no idea how much I’ve missed you!’

He’s quiet.

The steak hisses and pops. The rich, savoury smell fills the kitchen.

He turns it over, one-handed, the other hand slung into the pocket of his jeans. He’s got a way of standing, of moving: the assured, swaggering grace of a cowboy.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

He nods to a chair. ‘Sit down.’

I watch, a growing knot of apprehension in my stomach, as he pulls the steak from the flames, puts it on a plate. Then he walks over, crouches down in front of me.

Oh no.

Here it comes: the ‘I don’t think we’re really suited for one another’ speech.

Why shouldn’t he feel that way? I look down, biting my lower lip, staring at my fingernails.

Please, God …

‘Evie, look at me.’

I force my gaze up.

How could there ever have been a time when this face, these features, weren’t dear to me?

‘Tell me about Alex’s father.’

I blink. ‘Why?’

‘Because’ – his eyes are sad and tender at the same time – ‘it happens I missed you too. But I won’t be on the outside of your life. I want to know all of it.’

He stands up, reaching for a bottle of red wine.

‘I … I don’t know where to start,’ I falter.

He pours out two glasses, handing me one.

And he smiles; that wonderful teasing grin I’ve missed so much. ‘Why not start by saying again how much you missed me.’

There’s a knock on my door.

I poke my head out, as usual, half-dressed and verging on late to take Alex to school.

‘Yes?’

It’s Bunny. Her expression’s grave. ‘Piotr’s smoking,’ she says. ‘There’s been a phone call and now he’s out in the garden smoking!’

‘What? Cigarettes?’ I ask stupidly.

‘Yes.’ She somehow manages to imbue this single word with profound sinister undercurrents.

I follow her down the steps. Out in the back garden, as reported, Piotr’s pacing up and down the length of the lawn, puffing away anxiously. He’s clearly a practised hand at the art of smoking, a skill no doubt perfected during those years in Paris.

Before I can reach him, Alex joins us, racing past me to tackle his legs. ‘Hiya!’

Most of their bonding follows this basic pattern: Alex hurls himself repeatedly at Piotr and Piotr lets him.

‘Oi!’ Alex shouts gleefully, as Piotr lifts him up over his head. ‘Oi, oi, oi! Put me down!’

Piotr twirls him round and then deposits him back on the grass. Alex, giggling hysterically, lunges at him again.

‘Are you all right?’ I watch as Piotr flings Alex over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

‘No. I don’t think so.’ He launches Alex on the lowest bough of the horse-chestnut tree, where he scrambles off excitedly. ‘Pogorelich has pulled out of a concert, a performance with the Philharmonia. They’ve asked me to play Prokofiev Three.’

‘My God! Piotr! Alex, stop it, now! When?’

Alex wraps himself affectionately round Piotr’s leg.

Piotr rests his hand on his head. ‘Tonight.’

‘Oh. Bugger!’ I think I might need a cigarette too.

‘Can I come?’ Alex looks up at Piotr. ‘Can I turn your pages?’

Piotr ruffles his hair. ‘There will be no pages tonight. Well,’ he adds wryly, ‘with any luck there won’t.’ He turns to me. ‘Do you remember what I told you about? You have to play two concertos in the final round of the Tchaikovsky?’