A Hidden Life (32 page)

Lou took a sip of wine. First this scene, and then later, the death of the boy's mother. How had her grandfather, her gentle, mild, rather strict and solemn grandad, thought up a scene like that? It wasn't a bit like him in real life. Well, she supposed that this was what made a good novelist: the ability to inhabit different people. Writers had to imagine themselves in the same position as their characters. Had to put themselves in the same situations however horrible those were. It would have been a bit easier for Grandad than for some others because after all, he'd spent time in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp. He'd have had to do less research than most, but the force of the scene was striking. Perhaps Constance resented the fact that he lived so much inside his own head. Maybe that was one of the things that led to the difficult relationship he had with her. Maybe if he'd been able to talk to his wife about how awful things had been in the camp, he wouldn't have needed to write the novel. Lou smiled when she imagined how Constance would have greeted a description of life as it was lived in the camp:

Oh, darling, how absolutely ghastly! But for goodness' sake, do we really have to dwell on such hideous things? That was all a very long time ago, I'm happy to say, and there's nothing about our lives now which could possibly be reminding you of all this. I think you ought to go and play golf or something. It doesn't do to wallow in such things, does it? I've got nothing against you writing a book, darling, but who's going to want to read about horrors like that? Why don't you try a nice comedy? Or a detective story? People love detective stories, don't they?

She'd have tried to put him off, and when he persisted she'd have lost interest in the whole writing thing and that would have been that. Another thought occurred to Lou. He'd read parts of the book out to her when she was very young, as though he knew she'd be the one who'd appreciate it. He'd never read aloud to Matt. Lou knew that because her father had told her so.

‘You're honoured,' he'd told her. ‘Maybe he knows that you're the one person who'd enjoy
Blind Moon.'

And she knew she was privileged. She was called after John Barrington's mother and it was clear from
Blind Moon,
even though it was a novel, that the love Peter has for his mother was something John himself must have felt. You couldn't invent such a thing. Grandad had loved his mother. That much was clear.

She got up from the sofa and went to fetch her screenplay. Annette's death, the moment when Peter sees Dulcie for what she really is, the moment when he understands everything: that was the scene that had to be right. That had to work.

‘This is jolly nice,' Matt said, allowing himself to relax against the cushions. Ellie's small basement flat was decorated in a style he thought of as Bohemian: lots of cushions, covered in satin and velvet, too many pictures on the walls for his taste, not terribly clean and more than a little untidy, but welcoming. Piles of magazines, a few books, not too many ornaments and a rather splendid set of brocade curtains which had seen better days but still managed to make a good impression. Vaguely orange, he thought, making a mental note of the colour to tell Phyl and then wondered in almost the same moment whether he'd been right not to tell her the truth about where he
was. Whatever the case, it was too late now. He'd already given her that Neil Freeman story. He'd have to work out something to say about their meeting –
to lend verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.
The words from
The Mikado,
which he loved, came unbidden into his mind.

There was no real reason why he shouldn't have told Phyl that he'd come here. Justin was Ellie's son. He wanted to complain, let off steam, etc., so what more natural than to go and visit the chap's mother? He knew, though, that however he spun it, Phyl would be jealous. She'd always tried to hide them but her sentiments about his ex-wife emerged in all kinds of ways. Like the small, pursing movement of her mouth whenever Ellie's name was mentioned. She had no idea she was doing it, but Matt understood what it meant

‘Lots of my stuff is still in storage, darling,' said Ellie from the kitchen where she was making tea. The thing about ex-wives was odd, he thought and wondered whether other men shared his feelings. Perhaps it was a little like what happened to ducklings. Didn't they get imprinted with the first adult they saw? Bond with that particular duck and all march behind her in a line to the pond or wherever else she decided to lead them? Didn't babies fix on their mother in the same way? That's what must have happened to me, too, when it came to Ellie. I loved her so much that it's been hard to wipe away the … what could you call them? … the leftovers of that love. One of which was the desire he felt for her. He'd never stopped wanting her. She left me too soon, he thought. We hadn't been married long enough for me to tire of her in bed. He smiled. Would one ever tire of Ellie in bed? Ever get used to her? Take her for granted? All he knew was, after she left him, his whole body remembered her for years and it had taken some effort of will to blot her out of his mind while he was making love to Phyl, and he didn't always succeed either. This was a shameful secret and for a long time he'd felt terrible about it, but over the years the memories of Ellie had grown more and more faint and it was only from time to time that he recalled what things used to be like. And then she'd appeared at Constance's funeral and he'd started remembering all over again.

‘Here you are, darling. Now,' Ellie began pouring the tea, ‘tell me all the gossip about Justin.' She was wearing a sort of kimono affair,
which looked silky and was printed all over with bright pink flowers against dark green foliage. As she handed him the cup, she leaned towards him and the front of the robe gaped a little, allowing him a glimpse of cream lace that edged a bra which seemed to be having trouble containing her breasts. She sat up again, decorum restored. She said, ‘What's he done now?'

Matt told her about Eremount and the spa and the enormous amount of money and Ellie listened in silence, giving him her full attention. When he'd finished, he took a sip of his tea, which had grown quite luke-warm while he'd been talking and waited for her to sympathize.

‘I think,' she said finally, ‘that you're making a bit of a mountain out of a molehill.'

‘What?' Matt could scarcely believe it. ‘D'you mean you're on his side? I'm … I'm amazed at you, Ellie. Surely you must see—'

‘Calm down, darling. It's you who's having trouble seeing, you know. This is none of your business. Justin owns the house and okay, it was a shock when we heard what Constance had decided to do with her property, but we've all got over that now, haven't we? Come to terms with it.'

‘But that was my home, dammit.'

‘Don't be so ridiculous, Matt. It hasn't been your home for years. What do you care if middle-aged ladies want to lie all over it and immerse themselves in five kinds of warm water on the premises? Put it out of your mind.'

‘It's not fair!' As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how childish he sounded. Ellie laughed. She said, ‘Never mind. Come here …' She patted the sofa and Matt went to sit beside her. It would have looked ungallant to do otherwise. As soon as he was within reach, Ellie put an arm around him and pulled him closer.

‘I'll cheer you up, darling,' she said, and before he knew it, before he could move away and do something to prevent it – did he want to prevent it? Not really, oh, God, no, he didn't, he wanted it, yes, it was something he'd been thinking of, obsessing about for days. Weeks – she had her mouth on his and his lips were opening under hers and it was like a tune you thought you'd forgotten but then realized you
remembered … every note of it. He groaned and started to pull away but Ellie had one hand in his hair, holding his head so that he couldn't move. She stopped kissing him briefly and said, ‘Come to bed with me. Now.'

‘I can't, Ellie, it's mad. We've got to stop this. Now. Stop it at once.'

‘We don't have to stop at all. Think about it, Matt. You want to. I can tell you do.'

‘I've got to go, Ellie …' he murmured.

‘Don't go. Stay with me. For a bit. Please.'

‘I can't. You know I can't.'

‘But you want to. Say you do. You do, don't you?'

He sat up, suddenly afraid, the erection that he'd been trying to hide disappearing in a moment. Fear of discovery, of Phyl learning about this, had suddenly put all desire to flight. ‘No, I don't, Ellie … I can't, don't you understand? I can't do this to Phyl.'

‘Seems to me,' she said, ‘that you're halfway to doing it already.'

‘I'm not, Ellie. It must be … I was feeling … well, it was a weak moment. I just …'

‘Okay, darling. I won't rock the boat. But you'll be back. I know you will. You'll remember and you won't be able to stay away.' She laughed. ‘I might blackmail you into coming back. I might say: Come back or I'll tell Phyl.'

‘What will you tell her? Nothing's happened.'

Ellie shrugged. ‘I think I've got enough to make you uncomfortable. You came here rather than going straight home when you were feeling upset. That's something.'

‘No, it's not. Justin is your son. That's why I came to see you. You needed to know what he was up to.'

‘You could have told me that in a phone call, couldn't you?'

‘Well, yes, but …'

Ellie smiled. ‘You were looking for comfort. From me. Not from her.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Ellie, stop it. It was a kiss. Nothing more. Let's forget about it. Okay?'

‘If you say so.'

‘I do say so. And I'm late now, so I ought to go.'

They stood up and walked together to the front door. ‘Kiss me goodbye at least,' Ellie said, leaning towards him. She brought her lips together into a pout that was meant to be seductive. Matt kissed her as briefly as possible and stepped out of the flat, closing the door behind him, slightly queasy with a mixture of relief and regret.

Once he was safely in the car, he looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. What had he done? Nothing. Not really. Just a kiss. A sudden closeness to Ellie after years and years of being with Phyl. The stirring in his flesh could be put down to a sudden rediscovery of someone who'd been imprinted upon him, duckling-fashion, years and years ago. It didn't really mean anything. But those breasts, creamy under the silk folds of the kimono … He shook his head. Not going to think about that. He turned his mind deliberately to Justin in an effort to replace a vague sense of yearning and desire with the irritation he'd been feeling when he arrived at Portland Place.

‘Dyke. Lezzer. That kind of thing.' Nessa was sitting at her dressing table, smoothing moisturizer over her face. Mickey was lying on the chaise longue, already dressed and ready for the day's work. ‘If I don't make a secret of our relationship, that's what he'll say. Those are the terms he thinks of you in, Mickey, and this isn't going to make things better. It'll make them worse. So really, I'd rather not make any – well, I'd rather …'

‘You'd rather keep it a secret is what you mean. You like what we do in bed well enough but you're not brave enough to confess it. Having your cake and eating it is a speciality with you, Nessa, you know that?'

‘I'm not having my cake and eating it, I'm simply protecting Tamsin and making sure that her father doesn't start a whole lot of nonsense about custody. I know you think of Gareth as easily led and a bit thick, but he's got strong views about this, funnily enough. He'd say I wasn't a fit mother. Something. And I simply couldn't bear to lose Tamsin.'

‘And a divorce judge would take his side? Who on earth could look at you and say you were an unfit mother?'

‘Honestly, Mickey, don't be naive. A judge who shared Gareth's
prejudices, and I promise you there are plenty of those about. Gareth'd make out that we were constantly having orgies, that Tamsin would be in mortal danger of turning into a lesbian herself. Shared custody would go out of the window. I might even lose the house. I'm not prepared to do it, Mickey, and if you loved me, you'd understand.'

‘I do understand. I just don't like it, that's all. Bottom line is: you're ashamed. You must be.'

Nessa went on applying her make-up. She leaned into the mirror and widened her eyes, ready for mascara. They'd spent the night together in Nessa's house because Tamsin was with her father, and everything would have been perfect were it not for this bloody row they'd managed to begin having almost before they'd got out of bed. She didn't say anything and after a while, Mickey got up.

‘I'm going down to make some breakfast. I'll see you down there. We'd better get a move on if we're going into work today.'

She didn't quite slam the door behind her, but she almost did. Nessa felt the waves of her annoyance in the air, like an invisible vibration. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Mickey was right. Nessa could admit it to herself, though she wouldn't ever say it to anyone else. There was a part of her (okay, not a very big part, but still) which
did
think there was something strange about the whole affair. A smidgen of shame was lodged somewhere deep in her brain and she was struggling to rid herself of it, because she loved Mickey so much and because the sex was amazing.

Even the thought of it made her blush. How many gatherings of women had she been to where the subject of discussion had been so-and-so running off with another woman, my dear. No lesbian tendencies ever before as far as anyone knew and now look at her! Running off and leaving her husband and young children for another woman! Well! We'd never be able to do a thing like that – unthinkable. Unimaginable. We've never had the slightest desire to kiss a woman, much less get up to all the sorts of things they did get up to … What
did
they get up to? Did anyone have any experience? And oddly enough, no one did, ever. Not a single woman of Nessa's acquaintance had ever piped up with stories of her lesbian past, much less details of ‘what went on'. There were rumours about dildos and appliances and sexual aids but no one knew anything for sure. Or said
they didn't. Perhaps there were others like her in those groups: in love with a woman and not brave enough to say anything.