You (31 page)

‘I – yes. I am about to be again.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Cecilia.

‘Yes I – We are pleased.’

She prodded him further with questions designed at some subconscious level to reveal the limited nature of his existence, or to prove to herself how well she had once known this man, as though possessing him finally after the event, and then discarding him. Is there always this with old lovers? she wondered. This accounting and mental placing of each other, this pleasure and partisan adherence to the present, to one’s current love?

‘I see I’m unimpressive to you,’ he said eventually, his mouth set in a faintly ironic line.

She lifted her face, hesitating. ‘Do you want to be impressive?’ she said.

‘I’d like that very much,’ he said. ‘But primarily I just want . . . peace.’ He breathed slowly. ‘Resolution if you like.’ He looked strained.

She exhaled through her mouth.

‘Peace?’ she said, her lips barely moving. ‘Resolution? How – how is that possible?’

‘It is possible,’ he said. ‘The nature of my friendship with you –’

‘ “Friendship”! For God’s – It was never that.’

‘I was about to correct that,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘My relationship – my ill-advised – with you. It was not something I’m proud of. I mean, I’m proud of you, Cecilia. Of your work, of what you’ve – become. Look at you . . . But we have progressed. We have different lives.’

‘Our affair affected lives.’

‘It was folly on both our parts, almost exclusively mine. But life continues. I’m pleased to see that you have had children.’

‘It affected –’

‘We have survived. Flourished even,’ he said, nodding somewhat awkwardly at her.

She struggled for composure. ‘So it’s all good, dried and dusted, then?’

He hesitated. He made a movement with his mouth as if about to speak. ‘There doesn’t seem much more to add,’ he said eventually.

‘You’re like my mother,’ she said.

He paused. ‘I regret the past. I wish it could be forgotten now.’ He glanced at her. He caught her eye, seemingly appealing to her. He looked weary. ‘It was regrettable, but there were no – major ramifications,’ he said. He shifted in his seat. ‘Well there were of course. Emotionally. I do see that. I’m very sorry that I hurt you. But –’

‘You kept your job, your wife, your nice little existence, you mean? You have no idea, do you?’ she said, anger straining her voice. She began to feel the unsteadiness of her heartbeat.

‘What –’

‘What it did to me. It – it did my head in. I couldn’t cope with it at all. You left me. You simply abandoned me. In these gardens. You let me be dropped . . . you barely spoke to me again. After – after our last conversation.’

‘I understood it was a mutual decision,’ he said carefully.

‘I had no choice! Absolutely no choice. You never dealt with it. You just let me go.’

‘I –’ he said, slight alarm crossing his eyes. He bowed his head.

‘Believe me, it fucked up my life in many ways,’ she said. ‘What do you think – ? I was seventeen and eighteen, my mind profoundly disturbed by – by you, you and me. I threw away the chance of Oxford –’

‘I know,’ he said. He bowed his head again. ‘That was regrettable.’

‘It was,’ she said, trying to speak evenly. ‘It was. The least of my problems. A knock to my pride. That was all. What do you think you were doing?’

‘I ask myself that. I often have. I think the answer is – I – I was attached to you.’

‘I was
obsessed
with you,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘I didn’t know –’

‘You have to be so careful with teenage – young – minds. It’s a monstrous time of turmoil anyway . . .’

‘I see that. I do see that.’

‘That dangerous vulnerability.’

‘You’re right. You’re right. I was blind to some of that. Of course. I had thought I was doing my best in unwise circumstances.’

‘I think you were. I think you were in a way,’ she said, pausing. ‘But what madness –’

‘We are here. We have decent lives,’ he said.

‘
We
have “decent” lives but –’ Colour flooded her face. She began to breathe rapidly. ‘You, you let me leave like that – here,
here
, in the gardens! I was lost. What do you think I was going to do with that? You never said anything – not one valedictory thing, any word of regret. Explanation. You said you couldn’t leave your wife –
of course
you couldn’t, wouldn’t; I could see that later – but then that was it. You never sought me again. You let me leave school saying nothing further about it. For God’s sake, we didn’t even use contraception! What
were
we – you – thinking of? I knew nothing, nothing! I was the most naïve silly old-fashioned teenager you could imagine.’ She glanced at the table.

‘I should have tied it up,’ he said, his mouth set. He met her eye. ‘I didn’t know what to say. What to do. I’m so sorry. I missed you more than I’d ever imagined – after, after you’d left school and we were out of contact.’ A flicker of awareness crossed his face. He looked briefly to one side. ‘. . . Contraception?’ he said.

‘I’m going,’ said Cecilia. She pushed her plate away and stood up. She was forced to shuffle sideways along a bench to reach the end of the table. The wood banged into her hips. She almost tripped.

‘No. Stop,’ he said.

She grabbed her bag, shook her head, her throat tight with a lump that stopped her speaking.

‘Contra – Are you saying? Surely nothing – ?’

‘I’m going now,’ said Cecilia, and she walked quickly out of the French doors into the garden. It came to her with a dazzle of greenery and light. The new grass was bright. Birds seemed to line the branches. They thickened the sky.

‘Stop!’ he said, coming after her. ‘You must stop, Cecilia.’

‘Leave me now,’ she said, walking on, talking without turning round to him. Warmth hit her cheeks.

‘Is there something – I should know?’ he said, catching up with her. His breath was cool and fast on her shoulder. His voice, the movement of his hair, seemed to boom, amplified, right beside her. She jerked away from him.

She said nothing, her heart racing. A larch soared above her. Rooks were deafening in her ears.

‘Cecilia. You have made me worried now. Was there some – unfortunate result?’

‘
Result?
’ she cried. He was beside her, touching her shoulder. She shook him off roughly. His hand returned to her shoulder. She turned round abruptly and hit his upper arm. ‘Result?’ she said and she laughed. ‘A human, a human, a daughter. She was not
an unfortunate result
.’

He opened his mouth. He held his upper arm.

‘A –’ he said, his mouth still open. He paused. ‘A baby?’

‘Yes. A baby. That’s it, isn’t it? A baby.’

Birds soared above her. They seemed to climb, evaporate beyond sight.

He was silent. He gaped. His mouth closed. It opened again.

‘A baby,’ she said. Her voice rose. It was laughably simple to say it. ‘A baby.
My
baby.’

‘Oh God. No. No.’

‘You selfish cunt.’

‘I – you – have a child? A girl?’ He took her arm. ‘Are you saying I’ve got a
daughter
? Are you sure? Where?’ he said roughly.

She gazed at him with hostility. An expression of denial, of panic, seemed to pass over his face.

‘Who is she? When? Where? Cecilia. Good God.’ He was white. His voice was congested. He cleared his throat with a form of growl. ‘Why on earth haven’t you told me this?’

He stood there. He looked at her. He was a silent statue in his unchanged place in the sun.

He rotated his head. He said nothing. He looked at the ground.

He’s going to leave
, thought Cecilia in disbelief. This is what he wants. His undisturbed life. He is going to leave.

‘Go on then. Go home. Go home. Go home to your marking and Elisabeth.’

‘I can’t believe it.’ His expression was entirely impenetrable. He was silent.

‘Goodbye,’ she said. She began to walk.

He grabbed her upper arm. She pulled away. ‘My God, Cecilia.’

‘Yes. I’m going now.’

‘No! No you’re not. This is awful, terrible. A
daughter
, you said? A girl.’

She nodded, her mouth slack. There was a shout from across the garden. Crows cried. There was silence.

‘Good God, a girl,’ he said. He ran his hands down his cheeks. He looked gaunt. He buried his face in his palms. ‘We had a daughter?’

Cecilia nodded again, her face crumpling at the sight of him.

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cecilia.

‘You don’t – how?’

She shook her head. She was crying.

‘She – she –’

‘She’s alive?’

She gazed at a peacock without seeing it. She turned to him through her tears. ‘I think so. I –’

‘Was she adopted?’

He was crying.

She nodded. She turned from him and covered her face with her hands.

‘No. Come here,’ he said, and he held her and she heard him cry as he stroked her shoulder with rhythmic movements so firm they almost hurt.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he said at last, gently. She heard the effort of his breathing.

She shook her head.

‘I just can’t understand why you didn’t tell me. Good God. You needed to
tell
me this,’ he said in a groan. ‘How many years ago? So many years ago.’

‘I couldn’t –’

‘You couldn’t, could you?’ he said into her ear at the same time, holding her head and then pressing it to his mouth, the wetness of his face on her scalp.

She shook her head.

‘I thought you wouldn’t care,’ she said.

He gazed at her.

‘. . . You wouldn’t want to know,’ she said.

‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘I’d have loved a daughter more than anything else in this world.’

She nodded.

‘You should have told me,’ he said more forcefully.

She nodded, silently.

‘Has she gone? When – ? Oh, it’s – she’s grown up. It’s almost twenty-five years. Oh my God, Cecilia. What you . . . Cecilia. You should have told me. What an uptight fucking fool. Me – I mean me. I let you go.’

‘I had no choice,’ said Cecilia. She could barely open her mouth.

‘Perhaps you didn’t.’

She cried into his neck.

‘And you were pregnant. Good God. What did I expect? Oh, Cecilia.’

He kissed the top of her head. ‘Poor sweet – Poor Cecilia. Do you know – where? Where she went?’

Cecilia shook her head. She looked up at him, straight into his eyes, as though she could find sanity there.

‘What’s – her name?’

She shook her head again, still looking into his eyes.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he said.

Her shoulders sagged. Sobs shook her body.

‘Isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It is.’

‘No no no,’ he said, stroking her. ‘It’s my fault. It’s – youth’s. You are so obstinate, courageous – But you should have told me. You should have. Oh my God. What a waste, a tragedy.’

‘I thought you wouldn’t care,’ she said again. Her body felt drained and supple, as though it were not her own.

‘I do care,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said in a small voice.

‘What – whatever I can do to help. It’s too late, isn’t it? What can I do?’

Cecilia paused. ‘Understand,’ she said.

He nodded.

‘You can understand my – sorrow. Regret.’ She shrugged, exhaling with a small hopeless laugh. ‘It’s – you know, it’s too late to find her. You can help me just –’ She raised her hands in the air. ‘Celebrate her. Mourn her.’ She rested her head against a tree and saliva rose to her mouth.

‘I will,’ he said.

Twenty-three

March

‘You’re pale,’ said Romy when Cecilia collected her from her sculpture society.

Bracken-scented air flew in from outside. Cecilia glanced at Romy, taking in the long and still ungainly limbs. She was destined to be taller than she was, she saw. She looked like a camping kind of girl: a far more wholesome and restrained teenager than Izzie.

‘You’re really pale,’ said Romy.

‘Oh,’ said Cecilia abstractedly. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, darling. Thanks.’

‘Have you been crying?’

‘No,’ said Cecilia.

Romy turned and Cecilia saw the smile on her lips reflected in the passenger window.

‘What did you do? Did you actually do some sculpture?’ she asked.

‘Oh,’ said Romy. ‘I – we. Not yet. She – Ms Dahl – showed us different materials and we just began to work, to choose I mean, one of them.’