Garden of Stars (25 page)

London, 2010

Sarah's immediate reaction to what she was reading was to swear, forcefully, out loud. The reasons that Inês might have for wanting her to read the journal were getting more complicated the further along she got, not less. All the indications were that Inês
had
consummated her relationship with Edmund, knowing she was about to lose him to the other side of the world. This knowledge made Sarah reconsider everything, all the comments that Inês had made recently, everything she seemed to have implied or hinted at. Was she trying to tell Sarah that she should not let love desert her as Inês herself had? Australia, in the 1930s, must have been a destination of impossible distance, precluding any possibility of reunion or chance meeting ever again. But was Canada in the 21st century any different? It somehow didn't feel so. The meaning of it all seemed more elusive than ever.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Hugo had opened the bottle of vinho verde she'd bought at the Portuguese deli on Kentish Town Road. It was telling, Sarah contemplated as she poured herself a glass, how she was not tempted at all to share Inês's story with him, but did long for Scott to know, for Scott's insight and understanding.

Hugo began rummaging in one of the kitchen cupboards.

“What are you looking for?” asked Sarah, knowing exactly the answer to her question. Hugo didn't reply, but began to root around in the bread bin instead.

“Hugo, there aren't any snacks. Sorry.”

“No, there aren't. I can see that.” He closed the sliding metal lid of the bread bin with a sharp clang. “What's for dinner? I'm starving.”

“Well, amazingly, there was nothing in the fridge that was capable of leaping into the oven and cooking itself. So there's no dinner.” Sarah had her back to him and noisily began to wash up the pots and pans from the children's tea. “I didn't manage to get to the shops today,” she added.

“Well, I could have picked up some stuff, if you'd told me that there wasn't anything.”

You could have asked, Sarah wanted to retort. Instead, she said nothing, just continued with her task, placing a saucepan onto the draining board with exaggerated precision, conscious of the way the conversation was spiralling downwards, leading them into a petty quarrel that she didn't want to have but seemed powerless to prevent.

“OK, I get the picture.” Hugo retrieved the stash of take away menus tucked behind the toaster and started flicking through them. “Shall I order a curry, then?”

Sarah concentrated on keeping her voice light and even. “It's a bit late for curry, I think. Too heavy. I'll find something to cook. Omelette or something.” She opened the fridge. “If we've got any eggs,” she continued, doubtfully.

“That sounds exciting.” The sarcasm in Hugo's voice was unnecessary, in Sarah's opinion. She was aware of her cheeks reddening in anger. Rather than mollifying the situation, suggesting she'd scratch a meal together seemed only to have made matters worse.

“Hugo, you could have thought about dinner,” she snapped back, unable to stop herself. “You could have offered to cook. You could have picked something up on the way back from the office without me having to ask you to. You could have done all of those things tonight, or any other night of our life together, but you never do and you never have.” Sarah tore off her rubber washing-up gloves and slapped them emphatically down onto the edge of the sink. “Now there's nothing to eat and you're cross with me.”

“I'm not cross with you about the dinner. I'm cross with you about…about…well,” Hugo shoved the menus back behind the toaster, struggling to find the words he was looking for. “You never used to complain about doing the cooking,” he concluded, weakly.

“Well I am now.”

Sarah turned away to pick up a pile of dirty tea towels from the worktop and shove them into the washing machine. She emptied the dryer and headed to the stairs, arms full of clothes. In her bedroom, she sat down on the bed, her head in her hands. She could feel herself losing her grip, letting go of the precarious hold she had on keeping everything together, pretending that everything was all right. Her predictable, comprehensible life seemed to be slipping through her fingers like fast-flowing water. And the feeling was terrifying.

Half an hour later, she went downstairs and cooked some pasta. She put the bowls down on the table, together with the jar of pesto. They ate in silence. Sarah gazed intently at her glass of vinho verde, observing how the tiny bubbles attached to the sides of the glass before detaching and fizzing upwards.

We don't seem to have anything in common any more, to be able to agree on anything. We've nothing to say to each other. When did that happen? How?

When they had finished, as she began to clear away, Hugo put his arms around her. “Come on, let's go upstairs. We can deal with all that tomorrow.”

Sarah released herself from his embrace, shoved a stray plate into the dishwasher and turned to look at her husband.

“It's been a long day and I'm tired,” she sighed. “I'm sorry, I just want to go to bed and sleep.” The dishwasher's familiar rumble started up as she pressed the button. She pushed the cork firmly into the wine bottle, knowing that by morning its delicious effervescence would have gone.

“Night, night.”

Scott suggested they videocall and, using the journal and Inês's assertion that ‘we all only have the one life' as permission, Sarah agreed. She had decided not to read any more of it for a while, unconsciously knowing, but not admitting to herself, that she didn't want to come across anything that took that permission away. Inês had gone for a fortnight's stay in the Peak District with John's brother and his wife, Sarah's grandfather and grandmother, as she did every summer. It was strange for Sarah, the only time in the whole year that she was not responsible for taking care of Inês. Her absence gave Sarah more time, time that she could make available for Scott.

The first videocall, each sitting in their offices so many miles apart, enabled a connection that faceless communication could not match. Sarah's heart leapt to see Scott's unhurried smile, directed at her alone, to watch as he locked his long fingers together, put them behind his head and leant back in his chair. She was almost with him, living and breathing him as she so wished to do.

“What's up?” he asked.

Sarah looked down and fiddled with her headphones lead. “I miss you.”

There was a slight delay on the line and then his reply came through. “Me too, you.”

Sarah could see the Vancouver cityscape through the picture windows behind him; soaring skyscrapers, the distant mountains beyond. He asked about her writing; she about his work. The chat was relaxed and casual on the surface, but underneath tensions, desires and emotions seethed and bubbled. And then Scott's phone was ringing, loud and insistent, and he had to go, the red type that said he was offline popping up on the screen. It was all over so quickly and left Sarah longing for more.

Contact with Scott became Sarah's lifeline; the only thing that gave meaning to each passing day. But with the pleasure came the pain, of hearing about his weekends with his family, of imagining him sleeping, eating, living, without her. And sometimes she felt scared, about how easy it was to live two lives, be two people, and not know any more who was the one she wanted to be, or ought to be. Articles accumulated on her desk, waiting for completion, but seeming inconsequential and insignificant.

The weather was still wonderful, the summer a hot one. Outside Sarah's window, the people walking along the pavement were dressed for the heat; women in maxi dresses with thin spaghetti straps, men in sleeveless T-shirts and many-pocketed shorts. The children had broken up and were at the local summer holiday club, loving their days spent in sandpits and paddling pools and the adventure playground.

Sarah took to roaming the Heath and Parliament Hill, going over and over everything in her head and getting nowhere. One day she stopped to gaze up at the blue expanse of sky above the green of trees and grass, and to wonder if the answer lay up there, somewhere, if only she could find it.

Walking unseeingly along the path she had to veer abruptly to the side as a small boy came racing up the hill, galloping as if on horseback and firing a stick-gun. Sarah watched as he ran and shouted, his flashing trainers sending out bullets of light. Perhaps Hugo and Scott should fight a duel, she thought, with a grim snort of silent disdain, prove who wanted her and deserved her the most. Pistols at dawn! She laughed out loud, a laugh that turned to bitter tears at the farcical absurdity of it all.

Her secret seemed to hang more heavily upon her every day, to be harder to keep and to manage. Even though she had revealed a part of the story to Inês, she could not tell her everything. She couldn't tell any of her local friends, such as Lorna, either – it was too close to home, too likely that someone would let the cat out of the bag. She phoned Carrie.

“Can you get out for a couple of hours?”

“Who's asking?”

“Me. Sarah. Your old and very dear friend.”

They met at Bar Italia in Frith Street. The pavements were crowded with chairs and tables and thronged with people, teenage tourists in skimpy clothing exploring Soho getting in the way of office workers searching for a lunchtime sandwich.

“I need to talk to someone,” Sarah blurted out, as soon as the waitress had brought their coffees. “I've known you for so long, and you're the only one who might understand. I didn't lie to you about what happened with Scott that weekend in Portugal – I didn't sleep with him, I swear. But – I did spend the weekend with him, he came with me to Porto, we – we kissed.”

Carrie was silent, considering Sarah's words. She took a measured sip from her bowl-sized cup. “I see.”

Sarah remembered how Carrie always used to deal with other people's problems in the Lisbon days – impatiently, uncompromisingly – and realised that she must be desperate to have chosen her to confide in. There just didn't seem to be anyone else.

“And?” continued Carrie, her voice a mixture of curiosity and disapproval.

“It was so amazing. It was like we last saw each other two weeks ago, not twenty years. It was as if the other half of me just walked into the room. I feel that he can see into my soul. I know that sounds sentimental and melodramatic, but that's how it was. It felt so comfortable, so right,” Sarah had been enthusiastic, the words pouring out. Now her voice tailed off. “But there's nothing we can do about it.”

Carrie forehead furrowed in bewilderment. “What do you mean, nothing you can do? About what?”

“Exactly that. There's nothing we can do about any of it.” Sarah's throat was tight, her voice wavering now.

“Gosh, Sarah, you're throwing an awful lot of stuff at me in a very short space of time. Brain cells are in short supply right now. Ouch!” Carrie's frown deepened and she rubbed her belly. “Sorry, kicking.”

“Poor you. Ruby did it all the time, it was awful.” Sarah was glad of the diversion, but Carrie was not deflected for long.

“So where has this come from?” she demanded, once her baby was still again. “Is it just seeing him in Portugal? I thought he was long forgotten, you've never mentioned him once in all these years, I had no idea…”

“I was trying to forget about him, I've been trying for so long. I never succeeded. I've never stopped thinking about him. Not ever. Meeting him again – well, it's made it worse. Because now I truly know how much I lost, what I could have had if only…”

Sarah stopped in full flow, suddenly running out of steam, weary to her core. It would be easier if she could just make it all go away.

Carrie rubbed her bump with her right hand. “I do not get it. I just do not understand that you're risking everything for a teenage love affair you seem to have suddenly decided you've never got over.”

Sarah shut her eyes in despair, wondering why Carrie was determined to deny that her feelings were genuine. And at the same time, the thought ricocheting around her mind was that perhaps Carrie was right. Perhaps she was inventing it all, perhaps she was, indeed, behaving like an idiot, and a selfish one at that.

“And just think about it for a moment. What if Hugo finds out? What will you do then? You're playing with fire!” Carrie's warning tone heightened as she spoke.

“I really don't know why I feel the way that I do. I just know that I do.” Sarah's attempts to stem the tears had failed and they were pouring unchecked down her cheeks. “And I don't think Hugo'll find out. There's so little to find. It's not as if I'm disappearing off in the afternoons or evenings to meet Scott, having to find alibis for regular clandestine meetings. We can only communicate online or on the phone.”

Her tears began to fall onto the formica tabletop and lay there in little pools that slowly spread, drop by drop. Carrie's gaze shifted around awkwardly before she collected herself and smiled encouragingly.

“I'm sorry, Sarah, I don't mean to be unsympathetic. I just don't want you to do anything rash. We've been friends for so long, I care about you.” She patted Sarah's hand. “I worry about you. This is the trouble with you artistic types. You feel everything so deeply.”

Sarah shrugged her shoulders helplessly and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “Like I said, I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel that I don't know anything any more.”

Carrie paused. She tapped her fingers on the table edge slowly before replying. “You know, Hugo will never be Scott, however much you want him to be, however much you idealise Scott.”

“Of course not. That's the problem, isn't it? And surely I'm allowed to regret, to wish things had been different?”

“Perhaps you should take a look on my website, see what the separated women say there. They think the grass is greener, but when they try it, they find that arguing about whose turn it is to clean the loo or do the shopping is no different whoever you're living with. Romance soon dies and then all you're left with is who forgot to feed the cat, book the dental appointment or put out the bins.” Carrie folded her arms and sat back in her chair, emphatically. “I wish I could tell you different.”