- •Harriet evans ))))))
- •If you close your eyes, perhaps you can still see them. As they were that sundrenched afternoon, the day everything changed.
- •Part one February 2009
- •I nod instead. 'Of course,' I say. 'Have you booked a cabin?'
- •I blink, trying to take it in. 'So?'
- •I can't answer this, as I know she's right, but I can't agree with her without hurting her feelings. 'I just don't know, Mum,' I say. 'I look at our life together and I—'
- •Frances Seymour
- •I'm going to scream. I'm going to scream. Yes, I am.
- •I don't care about their damn c/othes.
- •If Louisa was surprised at this sudden confidence from her brother, she didn't show it. 'She is rather a funny old thing, isn't she,' she said casually. 'What do you mean exactly?'
- •Into the silence that followed this statement came Mary. 'Now, does anyone want some more coffee?' she said, wiping her hands on her apron. 'Eggs? Frank, how about you?'
- •91All right,' she said.
- •It came to an end for them not long afterwards. The following day, Saturday, was hot and muggy, and over the next few days the winds seemed to drop as the temperature increased.
- •Part three February 2009
- •I take the pages out from my skirt and look at them, wondering what comes next.
- •I am not in the mood for her amateur dramatics, her sighing and hair tossing. 'I had my reasons,' I say. 'I told you that. I'm sorry if you feel left out.'
- •I remember how angry she was with him in the kitchen, just before I left last night. Only twenty-four hours ago. 'Why not? He seemed quite nice. As if he knew what he was talking about.'
- •I am completely absorbed by the conversation and her voice in my ear, but the noise, someone calling my name, somewhere nearby, makes me jerk upright and I remember. I didn't close the door.
- •I nod. 'Sorry. I needed to get out. You were still asleep.' Oli touches my hand. 'Look,' he says. 'You can't just run away again. We need to talk about this.'
- •I can't believe she feels guilty about it. 'Louisa, you've been amazing,' I say, and it's true. 'Please! What are you talking about?'
- •I'd forgotten; she told me that awful day at Arthur's, that she wasn't working with him any more. I should have remembered. I just haven't seen them. I blush. 'Of course, sorry.'
- •I unfurl my legs, stiff and aching from the cold and from being in the same position for so long. I roll my head slowly around my neck, and it crunches satisfyingly.
- •I ask just one more question. 'You don't know where she is, though?' 'No,' he says. 'As I said, she'll be back.'
- •The frances seymour foundation
- •I laugh: Ben is really funny. Then there's an awkward silence, in amongst the noise and chatter of the pub. I start picking at a beer mat.
- •I nod emphatically. 'Sure.'
- •I don't know how to respond to such honesty, and the silence is rather uncomfortable. After a few moments, Guy recalls himself.
- •I don't say anything. 'Natasha, you don't know what it's like to lose a sibling,' he says.
- •It is V hot in Dad's study. I remember that even in winter & today in the heat it was baking. Me: No.
- •Part four March 2009
- •I stare at him, unsure of what to say next - so, is it normal between us now? Is that it?
- •I don't expect him to remember. 'Cecily's diary?' he says immediately. 'I've been wondering about that. Did your mum have it?'
- •I touched her shoulder. 'Cathy - it's Oli,' I said. 'Look - over there. He's - I'm sorry. I just, I just want to get out of here.'
- •I want to say, I don't bloody care about bloody Fez! What the hell are you talking about! I want to know about the diary, about you, about what you think of all of this! Jesus! h! Christ!
- •I must be imagining it, but it seems his tone is softer, kinder, for a moment, and the parent he could have been is apparent for a split second.
- •I say softly, 'How could you ever forgive Granny, Arvind? I mean - did you know?' He is silent, for so long that I think perhaps he hasn't heard me.
- •I see Mum taking in her out-of-breath cousin, in her slightly too-sheer white kaftan, red shining face, floral skirt and fluffy blonde hair.
- •I lean forward and give her a big hug. 'Thank you for everything you did today,' I say. 'Well, everything. You should come into town some time. Come and see me.'
- •I was starving, but now I have no appetite at all. 'No, thanks. Can I have a coffee?' I say.
- •If I can do this right now.'
- •I blink; it still sounds so strange. 'You didn't have any idea? I mean - you knew you'd slept with her, Guy, didn't you? Are you trying to say she drugged you?'
- •I smile, because he's totally right, and it's so strange that he knows this. Knows her as well as he does. I prop my elbows up on the table, my chin in my hands, listening intently.
- •I let his fingers rest on mine, feeling his warm dry hand, his flesh, and I stare at him again in
- •I shake my head, overwhelmed all of a sudden. I don't know what to say and I am very tired. 'I'm
- •I nod. 'He's lovely.'
- •I take a deep breath. I'm feeling completely light-headed, with the running, the sunshine, the events of the last hour.
I am completely absorbed by the conversation and her voice in my ear, but the noise, someone calling my name, somewhere nearby, makes me jerk upright and I remember. I didn't close the door.
'Hello?' I call suddenly. There are feet in the hallway, and I hear a sound I haven't heard for a long time: the clatter of keys being thrown onto the hall table.
'Who's that?' Mum says. 'Hello.'
Oli appears in the doorway. I draw back. 'The door was open,' he says. I stare at him. 'Mum - look. I have to go.'
'Is that Oli?' Mum says. 'Yes,' I say, staring at him, at his trainers, his jeans, his smart shirt, his jacket, his face, his ruffled, boyish hair. This is my husband, this is our home. 'I have to go,' I say, as Mum starts to say something else.
'Why don't you come round next week?' she says. 'Come and have some supper here.'
'OK,' I say, my hand on my cheek, not really listening. 'Look—'
'Wednesday, darling. Come round next Wednesday?'
'Yep, yep,' I say. 'See you then. I'll come round on Wednesday. Yes. Bye.'
I put the phone down and turn to him, my heart thumping almost painfully in my chest.
'Hi,' I say.
I've seen Oli once since he left. We had a drink two weeks ago at the Pride of Spitalfields on Heneage Street, down the road from us. We picked a 'neutral spot', like characters in a TV soap. It was awful. It's one of my favourite places, a friendly, old man's pub, an oasis in the increasing Disneyfication of Spitalfields, and people kept saying hello. 'Hi, you two, haven't seen you in here for a while, what have you been up to?'
Oh, this and that! I wanted to answer. Oli shagged someone else and I'm working on a new autumn/winter range of bracelets, thanks for asking!
Then, Oli was broken, quiet, weeping, wanting to know how I was. I said I needed time. Trouble is I didn't use that time. And now I am no closer to knowing what on earth comes next.
'How did you get that huge bump on your head?' Oli asks now, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets, his thin shoulders hunched. It is such a familiar gesture that I want to laugh. 'What happened?'
'Oh. That.' I keep forgetting about it. 'I fell over. It's fine.'
'You fell over?'
'Yep.' I bend over a little bit, miming the act of falling over and he nods, as if this clarifies it for
him.
We're both standing in the doorway, as though neither of us wants to be the one to control the situation, suggest a move somewhere else. I am terrified of offering an idea in case it's the wrong one.
God, it is so weird, seeing him again. I know him so well, better than anyone. I'm married to him. I love him. I loved him so much before this happened. When we were first together, five years ago now, I used to lie awake worrying about him. What if he got knocked off his scooter on the way in to work? What if he developed a terrible degenerative disease? What if I did? Why would someone give me someone, give me this happiness? To take it away, that's why. I would listen to him in the night, his light snuffling breathing like a baby, and stare up at the ceiling, praying that he'd be all right, praying that we'd make it, that I was worrying for nothing.
'Glad you're OK.' Oli nods. 'Thanks,' I say. 'Nothing serious, honestly.'
As if by mutual consent, we go into the living room. He looks round. There is no way to describe how bizarre it is, how we should just be chilling out on the sofa, not standing up awkwardly. It's our sitting room, it's both of ours. There's a big red rug from a junk shop near Broadway Market on the floor, a rubber plant in a wicker container on the floor nearby, a blue corduroy sofa, deep and comfy, and the huge red and blue abstract print by Sandra Blow that we bought in St Ives, the first time I took Oli to Cornwall. The wall by the door is lined with our books and CDs and DVDs. It's stuff like that. It's our home, our life together. It would be really hard to unpick.
'Do sit down,' I say politely. 'Thanks,' says Oli. He sits on one of the oatmeal low-slung armchairs, which look as though they should be in the lobby of a seventies LA hotel. He loves those chairs. He looks round the sitting room, his hands restlessly stroking the fabric of the arms. The rain has started again. There's a silence.
'Look, Natasha—'
'Yes?' I say, too quickly.
He stops. 'Well, I wanted to see you. Find out how you are, all that shit.'
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I half-stand up. 'Do you want a drink—?'
Oli waves me down, almost crossly. 'No, thanks. So - how's it going?' I touch the bump on my head. 'Oh, fine, as you can see.' He sounds impatient. 'I meant yesterday. I mean you. How you are. If you're OK.' He nods.
Suddenly I can feel anger rushing into me. 'Well - I'm not OK, no.' He looks a bit surprised. 'Really?'
'Oli, what do you expect me to say?' I drop my hands into my lap and look at him, willing him to understand. 'Of course I'm not OK. My business is on the verge of going under. My grandmother's just died. My whole family's going into melt-down -' I begin, and then stop, I'm not getting into that now. 'And my husband's left me.'
'You threw me out, I didn't leave,' he says promptly, as if it's a quiz and he knows the answer.
'Grow up, Oli,' I say, feeling a release of anger and riding it, loving the sensation of feeling something, anything again. 'Is that all you've got? Still? "You threw me out."' I am mimicking him. 'You're such a fucking child.'
He stares at me and shakes his head. 'Nice.' He looks as if he's about to say something else, runs a hand through his floppy brown hair, stops. 'Never mind. I'm sorry. Shouldn't have said it, OK?'
'No.'
'No, it's not OK? Or no, I shouldn't have said it?' 'Both. You pick.'
It has become so easy for us to start sniping at each other, these past few months. I don't know where it came from. We know each other too well and take no pleasure in that familiarity. It's little things but they grow. I am bored witless by his alleged devotion to Arsenal. I don't believe it either, he was never into football at university or when we were friends in our twenties, and all of a sudden he's their number one fan, along with every other media wannabe in his office. No chance he'd support Grimsby Town, for example, who happen to be the nearest team to the village where he grew up - no, not nearly sexy enough.
While we're on the subject, I hate the way he always orders pints now when he's with blokes. He doesn't like beer that much. He likes wine. He actually used to love cocktails, but he has to be seen to be one of the lads, to fit in with the metrosexual guys in his office who think it's fine to look at porn and find Frankie Boylehilarious. I think that's pathetic. Be a real man. Have the courage of your convictions and order a damn Southern Comfort and lemonade, you big pussy.
I shake my head, ashamed I'm thinking these things, and I look at him. He has his arms crossed and his face is blank, as though he's shutting down, just as he always does when we have a row. Perhaps he doesn't want to push it, but I can't help it.
He changes the subject, wisely. 'How's your mum?' he says. 'Is she all right?'
Oli is very good about my family. He gets it. His father left his mother when Oli was eight, and she raised him pretty much by herself.
'Mum's OK. Ish.' I wonder what's going on at Summercove tonight. I hope Mum is keeping it together and hasn't gone mad and attacked Louisa with a silver candlestick. Like Cluedo. I smile, and then I think, That's not funny. I feel a bit mad all of a sudden. I look at him, at his face, the face I know so well. His glasses are crooked, his hair is sticking up on end. I smooth my skirt with my hands. 'She's Mum, you know. A bit of a nightmare. But I think she's holding it together. I hope so.'
Oli gives me a curious look. 'You don't have to always hold it together, you know,' he says. 'Everyone gives her a hard time. I feel sorry for your mum.'
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I'm on my mettle. 'You don't know what she's like.'
'I do, because you've told me. Many times,' he says, and then he bites his tongue, clamping his mouth shut. There's a silence again, and I can hear my heart beating.
'I'm sorry, I've obviously been really boring about it,' I say snappishly. I hate the tone in my
voice.
Oli blinks impatiently. 'Come on, Natasha,' he says, as if to say, You're being childish now. He jiggles his legs im patiently. 'I probably don't know what I'm talking about. Your family is a mystery to me.' He has his palms out in a conciliatory gesture and though I know he learned this on a negotiation training course a couple of months ago I nod, because he's right, though it irritates me.
'They're a mystery to me, too.'
'I'm sure they are.' Oli smiles and shakes his head.
I wish I could confide in him, with an ache that surprises me with its intensity. I wish we were here and it was normal again.
I would tell him about the meeting at the bank. Work out what we were going to do about it, the two of us. I would tell him about the diary and what Octavia said. Maybe we'd sit at the table and read it together. I could ask his advice, talk about where we both think the next part is, whether Mum knows about it, what I should do. I would ask about his day, about the little things that have been bothering him: whether the ad agency was happy with the campaign they put together for a new brand of peanut, or the pitch they're doing for a big trainer company, and how the new guy from Apple who's joined them is working out, and what he had for lunch that day and whether he remembered it's his moth-er's birthday in a week's time, and . . .
We were so close, we used to joke about it. I hated it when the door closed behind him as he left for work in the mornings. I missed him all day. He made the demons go away and the happy, sane Natasha I wanted to be stay in the room. I was even glad when he had the stomach flu and was off for two days, isn't that dreadful? I didn't go into the studio for two days either, I stayed at home with him and we watchedDie Hard and Hitch, his favourite films, and I made him chicken broth. We both longed for the weekends, forty-eight hours together, just the two of us, Oli and Natasha, walking down Brick Lane hand in hand, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, bickering over what shower curtain to get, what dish was nicest at Tayyabs, whether to watch The Godfather Part II again or The Princess Bride.
We were our own unit of one. Joined together to make one. Both from broken families, both looking for love and reassurance, both wanting to make a home of our own, a new family, a fresh start.
So how did it come to this? That he has slept with someone else, broken my heart, killed our dreams stone dead? That we can't say a kind word to each other, that we actuallydi'sli'ke each other sometimes? How the hell did we get here?
My eyes roam round the room, as though I'm searching for something to say next. I find myself staring at the photo of our wedding day, almost the same as the one I have in the studio. It stands proudly in a silver frame on the lowest shelf by the TV. We are smiling. I stand up and look at it more closely. There is glitter on my dress; it sparkles softly in the evening light. Oli follows my gaze, and we look at the picture together.
'Look at us,' he says. 'Funny, eh.'
'I know,' I say, closing my eyes, not wanting to look any more. 'Where did it go wrong?'
When you fucked someone else. I pause, the quick retort on my lips, but I bite it back. 'I don't know.' I shake my head, look down at him, his hair falling into his face.
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He nods, as if acknowledging what I haven't said. 'I still love you,' he says, 'but . . . I just . . . It's been hard.' He scrapes his knuckles along the wooden floor, stretching his arms out from the low chair. 'I know that too,' I say. 'I don't know when it started being like that. Before—' 'I think it was a long time before,' Oli says. 'Long time?' My eyes fly wide open at this. He puts his hands out again.
'Not along time, but a few months now, you know? Because when it started, and for a long time, you and me, well - hah.' He is smiling. 'I thought we were the perfect couple. I think the problem is we changed. Both of us. And we didn't notice. I think we've become different people from the people we wanted to be at university, the people we were then, and that's the problem.'
'Perhaps it has,' I say slowly. He's right. He's changed. So I probably have too. 'I haven't been
easy.'
'Neither have I.' He smiles. 'But it didn't used to matter, did it?' 'No.' I smile back. 'It didn't.'
Oli looks into my eyes from across the sitting room, and suddenly the distance is nothing. 'I loved everything about you, even the stuff I didn't agree with, the things I didn't understand.'
'Me too,' I say, clasping my hands in front of me and looking at him. 'Ol, do you think that—' 'I don't know,' he says simply. 'I don't know where it's gone, and I don't know if we can ever get
it back.'
I take a deep breath. 'You had a one-night stand,' I say. 'One night. You know - perhaps it's - OK. Perhaps we just agree to move on . . . Perhaps we just say it's not the end of the world.'
Oli puts his head in his hands. He gives a little groan. Someone is shouting something outside in the street. I watch my husband, fear inside my head, in my heart.
'Oli?' I say gently. 'Oh, God. Natasha, that's why we need to talk. I didn't want to say it like this.'
I swallow. 'Why?'
'Come on . . .' His eyes peer at me through his fingers, like bars on a window. 'It wasn't a one-night stand. You must know that.'
'What?' I rock on my heels. I feel as though he's just punched me.
'Chloe and I - it wasn't just once. It's more than that - it's, well. It's been going on for a while.' 'But—' I shake my head. 'No, Oli—'
'That's why I'm here, Natasha,' he says, getting up, struggling out of the chair and standing in front of me. 'I'm so sorry. I know this isn't what you want to hear.'
I clear my throat, and when I speak, I am surprised by how calm my voice is. 'You think - you think we should split up. Permanently.'
Oli tugs his hair, hard, and then looks straight at me. 'I don't know. Probably. Yes.'
Chapter Twenty-Five 'Hi, Nat. Same again?' 'Yes, please.'
'Flat white coming up, my dear. Sit back down, it'll be ready in a minute.'
I sit down at the counter, watching the organised mayhem behind as Arthur, the owner, and his two cohorts juggle with beans, huge silver machines belching steam, frothing milk, and paper cups, as people stand patiently waiting for their orders to come through. I watch the world go by, the smell of fresh bagels from the shop next door wafting tantalisingly in, as Brick Lane slowly comes alive again. I love the early mornings here, before the tourists and the hungry hordes arrive, when it's just people who live here, work here.
I have been here since it opened at seven, sitting on a tall stool, staring out of the window and trying to read the papers, but I can't. I haven't slept yet. It is just after eight.
'Nat?' someone behind me says. 'Hey, I thought it was you.'
I turn round slowly, and look up. 'Oh, Ben. Hi.'
Ben stares at me. I must look delightful, unbrushed hair, no sleep, bump on forehead, in an assortment of crazy clothes. I had to get out of the flat. 'How weird.' He stares at me. 'I was just thinking about you. We didn't see you yesterday after lunch. Wondered if you were OK. Tania, look—'
He pats his girlfriend's arm and Tania looks up. She smiles when she sees me. 'Nat, how are
you?'
'I'm fine,' I say. They both look me over. 'You don't look fine,' Ben says. 'Natasha . . . ?' I look through the window. Oli is staring at me. He pushes open the door. 'Where the hell did you go?' he says angrily. 'I've been looking everywhere for you, you just ran off—'
'I didn't want to wake you,' I say. I push my hand through my hair.
Ben and Tania are still staring at us, with increasing discomfort.
'Sorry,' I say. 'Oli, you've met Ben. And this is Tania.' I wave my arm limpidly at them, as if it's filled with heavy liquid.
Ben steps forward. 'Hi, Oli,' he says. He stretches out one thick, blue jumper-clad arm. 'It's good to see you again.'
'Thanks,' Oli says, pumping his arm back heartily. 'Ben - yes, it's good to see you. We met at that open studio night a few months ago, didn't we? You're a photographer, aren't you, I really liked your
stuff.'
This conversation is unreal. I want to pinch myself. 'Hey. Thanks. Thanks a lot.' Ben smiles at him, and turns back to me.
'Tania's Ben's girlfriend. She works with him,' I say. 'Not any more,' Tania says hurriedly, as if she wants to fill the void. 'But we used to.'
Oli waves his hand to attract Arthur's attention. 'Oh,' I say. 'I didn't know that. I'm sorry.' How could I not have noticed she wasn't working there any more?
'No, it's fine,' she says, smiling. Ben drums his fingers on the counter. 'Look, we should go,' he says. 'Um - good to see you both. See you around, I guess,' he says to Oli.
'Sure, mate,' Oli says, not really listening. 'Nat - see you at the studio.'
'Yes,' I say. 'See you - see you soon.' I watch them go, Ben striding down the street, Tania next
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to him. It occurs to me then that they didn't order anything. 'Weird guy,' Oli says. 'Got a crush on you.'
'No, he hasn't,' I say, picking at a napkin. 'He has. He's the one who likes Morecambe and Wise, isn't he?' He laughs. 'That hair, and those big jumpers . . . Weird guy.'
'He's not weird,' I say tiredly. 'He's lovely. I've known him for years, remember. He's a good
man.'
A good man. That's what he is. I think it now, and I turn to Oli, turn and stare at him. Is he a good
man?
'I'm starving,' Oli says, patting his pockets. 'I'm going to order some food.'
Arthur's voice rises with pleasure. 'Oli, great to see you again, it's been a while now. Where you
been?'
Oli smiles and pulls out his wallet. 'Working too hard, I guess.'
'Neglecting your beautiful wife?' Arthur is shaking his head. 'You want to be careful. I'll snap her up if you don't watch it!' He laughs and, of course, we laugh merrily back. 'Same as usual?'
Oli nods. 'Yeah. Same as usual.' He comes back, and sits on the stool next to me. 'I thought you might be here.'
Before all this, we virtually lived at Arthur's, which is at the top end of Brick Lane. It's a little bit Brooklyn New York wannabe, with simple wooden tables, chalked menus, and every third person owns a MacBook, but the food is delicious and the coffee is great. And Arthur is friendly and genuine, and it's locals of all ages here, not just tourists, and we could sit here happily for hours and read the papers. It's very lifestyle section. Our life together was, I've been realising, very lifestyle section.