Elegance and Innocence (73 page)

‘I’m on my way!’ Bunny calls in a sing-song voice. She’s starting her grand entrance down the stairs as I open the door.

She stops. ‘Oh, dear! You’re not who I expected.’

I close the door with a bang.

‘Evie, you just shut the door on that man!’ She hurries down the stairs. ‘Why?’

My hands are shaking.

‘Evie!’ She peers out of the window. ‘He’s just standing there! No, he’s walking down the steps. Now he’s stopping …’

‘Get away from the window, Bunny, please!’ My whole body’s going numb. I walk into the living room. ‘Get ready. Your date will be here soon.’

‘Bugger my date! I want to know why you shut the door on that young man!’ She stands in front of me with her hands on her hips.

I turn away.

This can’t be happening. Not again. A pressure builds in my head, pressing against my brain. I have to think.

‘If you don’t tell me, I’m going to go out there and ask him myself!’ She waits a moment. Then marches dramatically towards the door.

‘He’s Alex’s father.’ I say the words as quietly as possible.

She’s staring at me; her silence like a weight, pushing me into a vast, unknown space.

I’m cold.

‘He’s the father of my son.’ I say it again, louder this time.

It’s strange how years of silence can be washed away in seconds.

I turn to face her.

It’s done.

‘Well, then,’ she says quietly, ‘you’d better open the door.’

Acacia Avenue is abandoned; the long row of plane trees stretching their thinning branches towards the wash of grey light sweeping across the evening sky. A cool rush of wind scrapes a handful of dry, early autumn leaves across the walk. And they dance, trapped in an eddy, whirling around one another.

Jake’s standing, head bowed, near the front gate.

He raises his head.

I know it’s him because I recognize his features. But something … everything about him has changed. He holds himself differently, as if his whole centre of gravity’s shifted; he’s more solid, but not any heavier; his hair’s clean, short, and there’s none of the mercurial agitation I know so well. But now he looks at me, simply and clearly. It’s the light in his eyes, the directness of his gaze that unnerves me the
most. And I realize with a shock that he has nothing to hide.

I walk down the steps; the cool air blows my hair back from my face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, oddly, ‘I had no idea you lived here.’

I don’t know what to say or how to begin.

As it happens, I don’t have to.

‘I saw a photograph in the paper.’ He’s choosing his words carefully, slowly. ‘You were at some concert. I called the news desk … they gave me the name of the photographer and he had this as a contact address … I thought the woman, Bunny Gold, might know you …’ He pauses. ‘I’ve been looking for you, Evie.’ His voice is unspeakably gentle. ‘I’ve been looking for you for over three years …’

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a brown envelope. It’s worn and battered, frayed around the edges; it looks as if he’s been carrying it around a long time.

‘I was going to ask her to give you this.’

‘What is it?’ I sound defensive.

He runs his hands over the surface of the paper, as if he’s reluctant to part with it. ‘It’s something that belongs to you,’ he says at last.

And he hands it to me.

Inside the envelope is a small black leather book.

As I turn the pages, I have a curious sense of falling.

Rome is no stranger to heroes …

‘You really had a way with words,’ he says quietly.

A street light flickers on, casting a circle of white light around us.

‘When did you …’ I can’t speak.

He shifts uneasily. ‘When Chris made me leave, I found it. I thought, maybe, someday …’ He pauses, forces himself to continue. ‘I thought maybe, someday, I might become the man you saw.’ His eyes meet mine. ‘I’m so sorry, Evie. For all the damage I’ve done. To you, to us … I know it’s not enough – to say I’m sorry …’ He stops, brow furrowed.

For a moment, I think he’s going to continue.

But then he turns and opens the gate instead.

The gate swings shut, banging against the old metal lock.

‘Jake!’ I pull it open again.

The wind’s picking up.

Suddenly, all the pieces fit together, although it seems incomprehensible. ‘You’re clean, aren’t you?’

He smiles a little, running his hand through his hair in a slightly self-conscious gesture. ‘It’s about time, wouldn’t you say?’

I should say something, congratulate him. But instead I just stand there; unable to form any words at all.

He must be used to this reaction. ‘Well … take care, Evie.’

I take another step. ‘You disappeared.’

He stops.

‘I sent a letter, to Alfred Manning.’ My words echo in the empty street, hollow, vacant sounds. They topple out
anyway. ‘It was returned. And then I thought perhaps it was best if you didn’t know … you were so, so … I didn’t believe you could ever change …’

‘Know what?’

I grip the book harder.

‘Forgive me, Jake,’ I whisper.

I can hear the light footsteps, skipping down the stairs behind me, two at a time.

‘Please forgive me …’

‘Mummy?’

Jake looks up.

‘Mummy! Look!’

Alex, his makeshift cape billowing behind him, leaps down the walk, arms spread wide. And he laughs, throwing his head back, a thrilling, uninhibited sound of pure delight.

He’s so beautiful, my son. The curve of his lips, the dark, almond-shaped eyes …

For a moment, he almost appears to have taken flight.

Brian stands up, walks boldly into the centre of the room. He looks around. Then, taking a deep breath, he begins.

This world is Not Conclusion
.

A Species stands beyond –

Invisible, as Music –

But positive, as Sound –

It beckons, and it baffles –

Philosophy – don’t know –

And through a Riddle, at the last –

Sagacity, must go –

To guess it, puzzles scholars –

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown –

Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –

Blushes, if any see –

Plucks at a twig of Evidence –

Asks a Vane the way –

Much Gesture, from the Pulpit –

Strong Hallelujahs roll –

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth

That nibbles at the soul –

Pulling himself straight, he grins broadly.

‘Well done, Brian!’ I say, clapping. ‘What a wonderful reading!’

‘Very clear,’ Mr Hastings agrees, surprised. ‘More of the Dickinson woman, I suppose?’

Brian nods, making his way back to his seat.

‘Not half bad,’ Mr Hastings muses. ‘Almost as good as Eliot.’

‘Actually’ – Brian crosses his legs, smoothing out a crease in his trousers with a careless brush of his hand – ‘Dickinson
was a great innovator. Eliot probably wouldn’t exist without her.’

A hush descends.

Mr Hastings’s eyes widen. ‘Well,’ he says stiffly, ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘I do,’ Mrs Patel cuts in.

We all stare.

This is the first time she’s ever opened her mouth.

‘It’s the weird spinster women, locked away in their quiet rooms, who have the most shocking things to say,’ she asserts.

Mr Hastings blinks indignantly, suddenly overwhelmed.

I dive in. ‘Would you like to read something, Gerald?’

He frowns, slowly unearthing the worn volume of Eliot from his overcoat pocket.

‘
The Waste Land
,’ I suggest as brightly as I can. He seems quite old tonight.

But he shakes his head. ‘No, no …’ he fumbles with the pages.

There’s an almost audible shift in the energy level of the room.

‘I would like to read … something considerably shorter …’

Doris gives me a worried look.

Even Clive seems concerned.

‘Something …’ He rests a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose. ‘Something from
Journey of the Magi
.’

February, A Year Later

‘Evie …’

I look up, surprised.

The woman standing next to me on the corner of Madison and East Fiftieth, waiting for the lights to change, is staring at me.

‘Evie Garlick, am I right?’

There’s something familiar about her …

‘Yes.’ I’m furiously trying to place her. How many people do I know in New York City?

Pulling her long silver fox fur coat tighter against the arctic wind, she draws a slender black Sobranie cigarette to her lips. She almost appears to be enjoying my confusion. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ she deduces.

And then, suddenly, I do.

She’s older, thinner; streaks of silver mingle indiscriminately with her carefully coiffed blonde hair but her pale-grey eyes are sharp as ever; boring into me as if not a moment has passed since our last meeting.

‘Mrs Hale! Of course!’ I offer my gloved hand. She squeezes the tips of my fingers.

‘So you’re a playwright now,’ she says, titling her head to one side as she exhales through her nose. ‘Congratulations.’

The light changes. A swarm of people rush past us, jostling for position in the crowded rush hour streets, doing their best to maintain speed on the icy snow-covered pavement.

‘Thank you.’ I blush, despite the cold.

‘I saw the first one.’ She nods briskly. ‘At the Brooklyn Academy. It was good,’ she concedes. ‘Are you in town doing another?’

‘No, I’m with my husband this time.’

‘Oh!’ She raises her eyebrows, as if this is a turn-up for the books. ‘And what does he do?’

‘He’s a musician.’ I’m smiling with pride now. ‘He has a concert tonight.’

‘How exciting.’ And she takes another drag, scrutinizing me through narrowed eyes. ‘So, tell me, did you ever go to Juilliard? Alice never told me anything.’

It’s strange, somehow even shocking, to hear Robbie referred to by her real name. I shake my head. ‘No, I decided not to go. But Ro … I mean Alice was such a huge help to me …’ My voice trails off. I’m unsure of the appropriate etiquette. I don’t want to offend her. Robbie stands, almost palpable now, between us.

She looks away, pulling the coat again with her long, thin hands. And then she smiles, a quick, tense flash of the teeth.

‘Well, she had a special talent for make-believe.’ She sounds weary. ‘I often wonder what would’ve happened to her if she’d just stuck it out.’

The lights change again. We’re engulfed in a fresh herd of people.

‘You mean’ – I’m confused – ‘you mean with acting?’

‘I meant with Juilliard,’ she sighs. ‘But call it what you like. It was stupid of her to leave after only a year; to waste her scholarship and run away to London.’ A look of resignation clouds her features. ‘But then I suppose she wasn’t very … very well.’

She turns, waves, flags down a passing cab. ‘I’m going to be late. Can I drop you anywhere? Where are you going?’

‘Carnegie Hall,’ I murmur.

The cab pulls over. She opens the door.

‘I’m headed the other way.’ She reaches out, squeezing my fingers again. ‘So nice to see you again.’

Frowning, she looks up in irritation at the thin veil of snow drifting down. ‘I hate this weather! You have to be so careful,’ she warns, ‘these pavements are treacherous. It’s so easy just to slip off the edge!’

The door slams shut. The cab pulls away, disappearing into a sea of yellow, under a freezing February sky.

And that’s the final thing you should know about Robbie.

Nothing was ever entirely what it seemed.

E-book Extra

The first thing you should know about Robbie is she’s dead. She died in a car accident in New York – a hit and run, crossing the street one February afternoon to buy more Diet Coke. She really loved Diet Coke. Couldn’t function without it. And she was never the type of girl to cross at a street corner.

The second thing you should know is that we’d lost touch years before that. Not exactly fallen out so much as given up on one another. We no longer saw the world in the same way. She refused to grow up and, at the time, I thought being grown up was a very serious, terribly important business.

I’m not so sure now.

She was larger than life, even at nineteen. Too large, as it turned out. But sometimes fate is mean in its portions of love, boldness; of heroism. The sweeping colours of the canvas are reduced to that irritating point precision of Seurat, the man with all the dots that join up from a distance, when what one wants is the audacity and eloquence of Michelangelo; that rare feeling that being alive is a grand and glorious thing.

There’s an art to life. Some people have a talent for it. A boundless hope illuminates them. Where others are vague and tentative, they have only sharp, clear edges. Energy soars; lights burn brighter when they enter a room.

And that’s the other thing you should know about Robbie.

She had that knack in spades.

In hindsight, it was a mistake serving wine at the Thursday night adult education drama and poetry workshop. I’d imagined that it might help the group bond; loosen everybody up.