Where Love Lies (5 page)

‘… Felicity?’

Molly has asked me a question. I bring
myself back to the present.

‘Pardon?’

‘I was asking if you had any plans for your anniversary?’

‘Oh. We haven’t discussed it.’ I look at Quinn.

‘I’ve got one or two ideas,’ he says.

‘What’s the first year?’ Molly muses. ‘Paper?’

‘I took your mother out for an expensive meal,’ says Derek.

‘You did not,’ says Molly.

‘I always take you out for an expensive meal. I know my duty. I remember
it well. You had the lobster.’

‘I didn’t. On our first anniversary I was pregnant with Susan and we had a quiet evening at home.’

‘Of course we did. You were sick as a dog.’

‘That was with Quinn I was sick. With Susan, I felt wonderful. You were such an easy baby, Susan.’

I gaze at my mother-in-law. This is one possible future for me. Sitting at this table at Quinn’s right hand in thirty years’
time, serving roasts and reminiscing about my pregnancies with my grown-up children. It should be difficult to imagine, but in this room it seems almost inevitable.

‘What would you like to do for our anniversary?’ Quinn asks me.

I’d like to get out a map and close my eyes and stick a pin in it, and go wherever it lands. I’d like to spend the day with Quinn getting drunk in a cinema, watching
as many films as possible and necking in the back row between sips of red wine from a hidden bottle. I’d like to learn a new dance, or go to a gig by a band I’ve never heard of, or spend all day in bed.

‘Let’s see what we feel like on the day,’ I say.

Derek puts down his own knife and fork. He regards his family with affection. ‘That was smashing, love,’ he says. Just as he always does.

‘You
were quiet,’ says Suz to me as we stand at the sink together. I wash, and she dries, because she knows where everything goes, and also (though no one says it) because she’s less likely to drop something on the flagstone floor and break it.

Suz resembles Quinn. Or rather, they both take after their mother, and have thick dark hair and grey eyes. Suz’s is straight, cut in a bob. Their hands are
similar, with long fingers and short nails. Their mother’s sister and brother also have these hands and eyes, this hair. Their belonging is signalled in their faces, but also in something about how they move and talk. Suz is a solicitor in the same firm as Derek, though she specializes in conveyancing while he’s semiretired and deals in probate. She helped us with the legal stuff for our house.

‘Quinn wants to have a baby,’ I tell her.

She takes the gravy boat from the draining board and dries it, paying careful attention to the scrolling round the handle.

‘You don’t seem surprised,’ I say.

‘I’m not surprised that Quinn would like to start a family, if that’s what you’re asking. He’d make a marvellous parent.’

‘It would make your mother very happy.’

‘Well, that too.’ She puts the
gravy boat in its place on the dresser. ‘And my father – and me too, of course.’

‘You’ve left me off that list.’

‘I’m surmising, from the fact that you’ve brought up the topic, that you’re not certain.’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to. I’ve just never thought about it.’

‘You should take your time, then. There’s no rush.’

‘It’s just such a … commitment.’

‘As is marriage. Or so they say.’

Her words are measured, neutral. I knew they would be, which was why I’ve brought this up with her, but now I’m not certain it was a good idea. Quinn is her little brother. He’s always been her little brother. She has never had to worry about disappointing him, or about not being the person he wants her to be. She’s never for a moment felt his love as something precious and mysterious in its matter-of-factness.

‘If you’ve got doubts, you should talk them over with Quinn.’ She sees my hesitation, and adds, ‘He’ll be all right with it, you know. He’d do anything for you.’

‘That’s part of the problem,’ I say to the suds in the sink.

‘You don’t have to have children. Lots of couples choose not to. There’s no point making yourself unhappy because you’re trying to please other people.’

‘I love Quinn.’

‘That’s never in doubt,’ says Suz. ‘Anyone would love Quinn.’

But what I don’t ask aloud, what I don’t say anywhere but inside my own head, is
But do I love Quinn enough?
Because if I did, I wouldn’t be having these doubts, would I?

If I loved him enough, I wouldn’t have any doubts at all.

As Quinn predicted, the weather has turned drizzly, but after the clearing up is done we all still get
ready to go outside, pulling on wellies and anoraks that have been drying in the kitchen. The Sunday walk is nearly as important as Sunday lunch. I’ve always preferred umbrellas to anoraks – umbrellas are things of beauty, and anoraks are not. I have a lovely cherry-red one to use on Sunday walks.

We troop out of the door, en masse, a hearty cheerful clump of Wickhams with me at the tail. Although
sometimes I really enjoy this, striding through the village and into the countryside, waving to neighbours and friends, part of a pack, today I’m quite glad I brought my camera along. It gives me an excuse to lag behind the others. I balance my umbrella in the crook of my arm and begin snapping pictures as I walk. Raindrops dripping off hedges, reflections in puddles.

The idea is to take pictures
of things I’d like to draw, but I’m not really paying much attention. I’m thinking, instead, about Quinn suddenly wanting to have a baby at the same time his parents had a baby. As if there’s a pattern for the correct time for major life events in their DNA, as well as for dark hair and grey eyes.

And what is wrong with this, anyway? There is nothing wrong with being predictable. There is nothing
wrong with being happy. Is it because my own childhood was so chaotic, with us moving from place to place, school to school, that I can’t quite reconcile myself to a life where I can anticipate every step in advance?

It’s what I chose when I chose Quinn.

Plus, my life wasn’t chaotic beforehand, anyway. It had a centre, a constant: my mother. Everything else around us – friends, houses, countries
– might change, but she never did. She always loved me, her Felicity, her only child, her only family.

‘Your father,’ she would whisper to me when she kissed me good night, in whichever place we’d alighted on for a day or a month or a year, ‘was the only man I ever truly loved. And though we weren’t able to be together, he gave me the most precious person in my life.’

‘Who’s that?’ I would whisper
back, snuggling into my blankets, sure of the answer.

‘It’s you, my darling,’ she would say. ‘It is you.’

There is a ladybird perched on a leaf, vivid red against green. I frame it in my camera and take a shot. I glance up and see that the Wickhams are all far ahead of me now, walking with their purposeful gait. All except for Quinn, who is jogging back to me. His hands are in his pockets and
he is smiling. The sight gives me butterflies in my stomach, fluttering along with the undigested lamb and potatoes.

‘Thought you could use an umbrella-holder,’ he says. He takes my cherry umbrella from my hand. ‘So you can concentrate on taking photos.’

I didn’t really intend to have company, but it is kind of him, so I say, ‘Thanks,’ and squat down to take photos of some wild geranium. The
rain has called up the smells of things and I inhale earth, green stems, and something else. Something heavy, exotic, flowering. I’ve smelled it before, not long ago, on a London street. And here it is again. White velvet petals, a sweetness that is not quite cloying.

I stand up; Quinn is holding my umbrella, humming slightly under his breath. We’re in a lane about half a mile from the village,
with no houses in sight. There’s no one to wear the perfume, no exotic flowers to create it. It reminds me of my mother, but my mother is gone.

‘Do you smell that?’ I ask him.

He sniffs the air. ‘Someone’s having a bonfire?’

‘No, the flowers.’

‘Can’t say that I do.’

Warmth rolls through me, a happy feeling of exhilaration. What a lovely husband I have, and how wonderful it is to be out in
the countryside with him.

I fling my arms around him and kiss him on the lips.

‘What have I done right?’ he says when I’ve finished, but he looks pleased.

‘I love you,’ I tell him. My heart is beating fast and my fingers are tingling. My cheeks feel flushed. ‘Isn’t springtime fantastic?’

‘Well, rather wet at the moment, but in general, yes.’

I inhale deeply. ‘I love the air, everything growing.
It smells wonderful.’

And I
feel
wonderful. Five minutes ago, I was worrying, wanting to be alone, missing Mum. Now a barely suppressed joy runs through my veins. The cherry-red umbrella, the grey of the sky, the frayed and well-worn collar of Quinn’s blue anorak, the ladybird poised on the leaf. I’ve seen it all before, it’s familiar and exquisite and it’s all meant to be here, it’s all here
for a reason. It’s all exactly right and correct, the way the world is supposed to be – and I’m in love with it.

It’s the most amazing relief. I’m in love with my husband. Totally, wholeheartedly in love.

‘What’s so funny?’ asks Quinn.

‘It’s not funny,’ I say. ‘It’s … fantastic.’

I hug him and kiss him again, and then I can’t contain it any more so I do a little pirouette in the damp lane
in my wellington boots.

I feel as if I want to dance forever. I want to smile at the whole world.

Later, in bed, my husband falling asleep beside me, my body still warm from his hands, my lips tender from his kisses, I think about that moment in the lane. The perfume, so maddeningly familiar, out of nowhere.

I’ve wanted a sign, and maybe this is it. Confirmation that I’ve made the right decision
in getting married, in choosing this life. That Quinn is my one, the person I’m meant to travel with, the one I’m meant to be with for ever. That even though I might have had a doubt or two, that can be over now.

I reach across the pillow and stroke his face with my hand. He shaved before he came to bed and his face was smooth against mine while we made love. For thirty, Quinn is quite young-looking,
and he usually tries to keep a bit of stubble on his chin and upper lip so that people don’t think he’s younger than he is. Apparently the editor of a local newspaper needs to have a certain amount of gravitas. He shaves at night before he goes to bed, and only every few days. I found this careful ritual fascinating when we first got together. It was as if he were the opposite of every other
man I’d ever met, all of whom shaved in the morning.

This Quinn, this clean-shaven man, only exists here with me at night. By the morning his chin will have become rough; his skin is pale and his hair is dark and the stubble shows through within hours and feels like fine sandpaper. Smooth-faced Quinn is mine alone.

It’s one of the surprises of our marriage. My slender, courteous husband, the
local-newspaper editor, softly-spoken and knowledgeable, is nearly another person in my arms in the dark. He is more solid. He feels taller and wider than he looks.

Drifting into sleep, I think about the myth of Cupid and Psyche. How Psyche only met her husband Cupid at night in bed, in the dark, and was never allowed to see him during the day. And then how Psyche grew more and more curious to
know what her husband looked like. One night she was rash enough to light a candle. For a moment she saw him – the most beautiful man imaginable, the God of Love – and then a drop of wax fell from the candle onto his skin and awoke him, and he flew away and she lost him for ever.

But that’s only a myth, with a moral: beware of curiosity. I don’t need to be curious about Quinn. I know all there
is to know. And finally, I feel the way I should.

DR JOHNSON WRAPS THE
blood-pressure cuff around my arm and pumps it up. ‘All good,’ he says, letting the air hiss out. ‘Everything all right in yourself?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, fine.’

I nearly cancelled my appointment, but I scheduled it six months ago. I forget about appointments on a regular basis, so it seemed rather wasteful not to turn up to one that I actually remembered.

What will Quinn think, I wonder. He will have noticed the pack of pills on my side of the medicine cabinet emptying, and he will have seen the appointment written on the calendar. Will he ask whether I kept the appointment? And what if I say that I did?

After all, just because I’ve been given a repeat prescription for birth control pills, it doesn’t mean I have to take them for the full six months.
Or indeed that I have to take any of them. They’re just handy things to have around.

Dr Johnson sits back behind the desk. He is the picture of a village GP: sparse white hair, tweed jacket. He has been treating Wickhams for ever. ‘Migraines haven’t come back?’

‘No,’ I say, as I always do. ‘Not since I was a teenager.’

‘Lucky you.’ He clicks a button and the prescription prints itself out.
But he’s planted a seed in my head.

‘I have been smelling things.’

‘Smelling things?’

‘Like cologne, or a flower. I’ve smelled it a couple of times now. Quinn couldn’t smell it. It was really strong for about two or three minutes, and then it completely disappeared.’

He narrows his eyes through his glasses. ‘That is odd. No headache associated?’

‘No.’

‘How often did you say it’s happening?’

‘Just twice, I think. Both times I was outside and it was really strong. I thought it was flowers, but then I thought it must be perfume. I even followed a woman because I thought she was wearing it. And then it disappeared.’

‘Did you have auras with your previous migraines?’

‘I don’t think so. I didn’t smell anything when I used to have headaches.’

‘But visuals? Colours, shapes, anything like
that?’

‘No.’

‘Well,’ he says, frowning, ‘it’s probably nothing, but we should check a few things out. My guess is that this phantom odour could be linked to your previous migraines, but just to be on the safe side, I’m going to refer you to a neurologist for a specialist opinion.’