Before I Met You (38 page)

‘Of course. Yes. Of course. But first, I feel I absolutely have to mark this occasion somehow.’ He pulled apart his jacket and took something from his inside pocket, something small and metal that gleamed dully in the darkness. Arlette caught her breath, fearing that the ordeal may not yet be over.

‘Here,’ he said, pulling open the penknife. He started to gouge out lumps of the tree behind them. ‘Here, a lasting memorial. Our little secret.’ Arlette stood in abject silence as Gideon chiselled away at the wood and then he brought out a box of matches and lit one up. ‘See,’ he said, putting one hand gently on to her bare shoulder.

Arlette peered at the tree.

She shuddered and turned away.

‘Don’t you like it?’

She said, ‘I’m going inside now, Gideon, to clean myself. And after that I shall be going home.’

‘But, Arlette,’ he said pleadingly, ‘the party. What about the party?’

‘I don’t care about the party.’

‘But – what shall I tell Leticia? What shall I tell Lilian? All your friends?’

‘I have no idea, Gideon.’

She picked up the hem of her beautiful white dress and she walked back across the lawn, her legs trembling, her hands shaking, and she headed through the servants’ entrance in the basement, to the nearest bathroom where she scrubbed herself raw.

Dear Mother,

I am so sorry not to have written you a decent letter for such a long time. I cannot tell you how busy my life is here in London. I work so hard and play so hard and on the rare nights I’m at home with nothing to do, before I’ve even picked up a pen, I’m already halfway to sleep. I hope you are well. It’s been a glorious summer. Did you spend much time on the beach? I did think of you, often, and those long days we used to spend together. It all feels like such a long time ago now …

Well, my news, such as it is: I have spent this summer conducting a remarkable love affair. With a musician. I can’t tell you much more about him, other than that he is a gentleman, and that I love him very much. He is away at the moment, performing in the North with his orchestra, but next Monday he will be returning and I cannot breathe with the anticipation of seeing him again. The period of his absence has almost reduced me to madness. For the past
week
I have not left my room apart from to go to work; I am truly a recluse. And this week, more than any other since I left you on the quayside just over a year ago, I have missed you more than words can say. I have lain in bed at night and dreamed of you, wanting to lie in your arms and have you stroke my hair, like you used to do when I was small. Because, Mother, the most awful thing happened to me last week. I am not sure I can put it into words without feeling the pain of it all over again, maybe I can tell you, maybe I can’t, but a man, a man I loved platonically and with deepest affection, a man I considered to be the best of all possible people and a true, genuine friend, violated my trust, violated my body, in the most heartless and animal of ways. I cannot think too hard and too long upon the details of this incident, and I am sure you would not wish to hear of them. I have told no one, not even my closest friends, because I am scared of how they might react. But I feel constantly now on the verge of hysteria. I feel dirty, I feel like all my joy in life, my trust in humanity, my hope for the future has been snatched from my hands and torn to shreds.

Oh, Mother, I am desperate, I am destroyed. Every time I close my eyes I feel his mouth on mine, I smell the scent of his skin, I panic, my heart races, as if I am locked in a box, as if I have been buried alive. The air turns to dust in my mouth, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I am destroyed, Mother, I am
destroyed
…

Arlette breathed in deeply, caught a sob at the back of her throat, ripped the pages from the notepad, screwed them into a small tight ball and hurled them at the wall. Then she began afresh.

Dear Mother,

Yet again the social and professional whirl of my life prevents me from writing to you properly. Yet again I must
just
dash you off a few paltry and insufficient lines to tell you that I am very happy, very well and missing you very much. The summer has been marvellous, and now autumn is upon us and I have been in London for more than a year. Where did the time go to? Well, Mother, I must dash, I am expected at a party and my friends are calling for me. I will write again next week.

All my fondest love,

Arlette.

She pulled the sheet carefully from the notepad, folded it very precisely, and slid it into a lavender-scented envelope, which she addressed to her mother. Then she walked slowly across the room and collected the discarded ball of paper, pushing it deep and dark into the bottom of her wastepaper basket. A moment later she retrieved it from the wastepaper basket, and laid it in the wash basin, where she set it alight with a match and watched it burn itself away to a small pile of blackened ephemera.

45

GODFREY STOOD ON
the doorstep, his suitcase at his feet, his overcoat held over his arm, his hat in his hand. Miss Chettling was looking from Godfrey to Arlette and back again, her face a picture of anguished uncertainty.

‘Miss De La Mare,’ she began tremulously, ‘this gentleman says that he is here to see you …?’

Arlette looked at Godfrey, her love, her joy, her future, and she gulped back a cry of misery.

‘Godfrey,’ she said stiffly, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I was worried. I had expected to see you at the station.’ The smile on his face was strained and slightly embarrassed. Arlette’s heart lurched.

‘Yes, indeed, did you not get my note?’

‘No, I did not.’ His smile faltered a fraction and he squeezed his hat nervously between his beautiful fingers.

Arlette swallowed down a sob and said, ‘Oh dear. I posted it on Friday morning. I had hoped …’

‘Oh, now, that is a pity. Was there a change in your plans?’

‘Well, yes, there was, there was …’ She paused and said, ‘Miss
Chettling
, I would like to talk to Mr Pickle in private, if that’s possible.’

Miss Chettling looked momentarily shocked and then recovered herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if you’re sure.’

‘I am, thank you, Miss Chettling.’

Miss Chettling tiptoed back up the stairs and Arlette turned to Godfrey.

‘Shall I come in?’ he asked.

‘Um, well, I’m not sure that’s necessary, Godfrey. I just …’ She wrung her hands together and stared at the ground, at the gleam of Godfrey’s patent shoes, at a cobweb embedded between the bricks in the doorway. She felt her stomach contract and expand, and forced the words from her mouth, dry and painful as a stone. ‘The thing is, Godfrey, my circumstances are somewhat changed. I, um, I no longer.’ She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. ‘I am no longer in a position to … I think we will have to finish this.’

‘Finish this,’ he repeated.

‘Yes. You and I. I can’t. Not any more.’

‘I’m not sure I understand entirely.’ He blinked at her, still smiling.

‘Oh, Godfrey,’ she exclaimed, ‘please don’t make this harder than it needs to be! I can’t see you any more. Things have changed while you’ve been gone. Irreversibly. I’m so very sorry.’

His big eyes glistened and she saw him gulp. He passed his hat from one hand to the other and said, ‘I see. And in what way have things changed?’

‘I’ve taken up with a new man,’ she said, bile rising at the back of her throat as she released the awful words of truth.

‘Oh,’ his brow twitched. ‘And am I allowed to know who this new man might be?’

‘It is Gideon,’ she said tersely.

Godfrey turned his gaze from Arlette and up to the sky, as
though
the answer had been up there all along. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding just once. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Why would you say that?’ she asked. ‘Why “of course”?’

Godfrey laughed bitterly. ‘Oh, my dear,’ he said. ‘Do you really need to ask?’

‘Well, yes, clearly I do, otherwise I should not be asking.’

He sighed and stared at Arlette with a mixture of fondness and irritation. Then he put his hat back upon his head, picked up his suitcase, bowed his head at Arlette and very slowly turned and walked away.

Arlette watched him for a moment. Every fibre of her being wanted to chase after him, wanted to hurl herself at him, wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to bring him inside, to her room, to her bed, to her life for ever and ever. But then she remembered: that avenue had been closed to her four weeks ago against a tree in Leticia’s garden. That avenue had been closed to her when Gideon’s sperm had entered her body and fertilised her egg, and although no doctor had yet confirmed the terrible truth, Arlette knew. Her monthly curse was two weeks’ late. Her breasts were large and tender. And there had been, for the past twenty-four hours, a peculiar taste in her mouth, a taste of metal and dirt.

And no, it was not Godfrey’s baby. She had still been bleeding when Godfrey had left for Manchester; they had not had encounters of that type since before her last curse. And even then they had been careful, had employed techniques to ensure that conception would not take place. As they always did.

It was Gideon’s baby inside her. She knew it. She felt it. She hated it.

She watched Godfrey until he was but a toy figure in the distance and then he turned the corner and was gone.

She called at Gideon’s house that afternoon, dressed as a far plainer woman than the one he had last seen in white knife pleats and a Marcel wave. The house that she had first entered as a
virgin
, with Lilian as her escort, the house that had charmed her with its vagueness and its clutter, now looked ominous in the dark gold October light. She felt nausea rise from her stomach to the back of her throat, not knowing how she would feel when she saw his face again, heard his voice, watched those lips turn up into his oafish smile. He opened the door to her half dressed, his hair lank behind his ears, his eyes full of sleep. He blinked at her, and then there it was, that smile, Gideon’s smile. Childlike, pure, slightly confused.

‘My God,’ he said. ‘Arlette! How wonderful! I thought you were cross with me.’

Arlette could barely think straight; her words jumbled up and rearranged themselves inside her head. She breathed in deeply and pulled them back together, and she said, ‘Gideon. I believe I am pregnant. I believe it is yours.’

Gideon said nothing at first. He merely ran a hand through his hair and stared at her.

‘But surely not,’ he said with a hoarse laugh. ‘I mean, we made love only once.’

Arlette closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to calm herself against the twin assault of his misuse of the words ‘made love’ and his blatant ignorance about matters of a reproductive nature.

‘It only takes one …’ she said, unable to find a word to complete her sentence that would in any way be an accurate reference to what had occurred between them. ‘It only needs to happen once,’ she finished.

He rubbed at his stubbled chin and nodded at her, as though grateful in some way for the clarification. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well …’

‘I have an appointment tomorrow with the doctor. If I am right, if I am pregnant, then you are to marry me. Immediately.’

‘Marry you?’ he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

She nodded, once.

‘Why, of course. I mean, Arlette, as you know, I adore you, I –’

‘This has absolutely nothing to do with love, Gideon. Far from it. I am pregnant, with your child –’

‘Are you sure?’ he interrupted. ‘Sure that it is mine?’

‘Yes,’ she snapped, unwilling to enter into an explanation. ‘I am sure.’

Gideon smiled and rubbed his chin, chewing over the prospect happily. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said.

‘I am pregnant. With your child. I will have to give up work. I have already given up Godfrey. You will marry me and be a generous and kind father and husband. You will care for us both and ensure that we have everything we need. In perpetuity. But, Gideon, you will never,
ever
lay a single finger of yours upon my body again. I will not so much as feel the touch of your breath against me. Do you hear? And if you do I will tell everyone what happened at my birthday party. Absolutely everyone. And I will leave out not a single disgraceful detail. I will also take away your child and make sure that you never see it again. Do you understand?’

Gideon stared at Arlette and nodded dumbly.

‘Goodbye, Gideon,’ she said. ‘I shall be in touch. And keep Saturday free.’

‘What for?’

‘For a wedding,’ she said. ‘Of the most inglorious variety.’

46

1995

SOMEONE HAD BEEN
sick on Betty’s front step. It was bright yellow and smelled of fish. She stopped breathing and stepped over it gingerly. It must have been deposited there after the street cleaners had left – fairly recently, in other words. While Betty was awaking and showering and getting ready for work other people were stumbling around, throwing up on doorsteps.

Amy was taking the children to her best friend’s house in the country at lunchtime, so Betty had the afternoon and tomorrow morning off. She could barely wait. She’d been working for Amy since only Tuesday but with the ten-hour days and the rather eventful evenings, it felt like much longer.