A Hopeless Romantic (38 page)

“Yes,” said Laura. Several responses to this rose to her lips: Yes, I know how touchy she is, you were always going on about it, and anyway, she’s pregnant, give her a break…. Yes, I know she’s an acquisitive little cow, but you’re the one who wouldn’t leave her, mate…. Do you actually think it’s appropriate to blithely be having this conversation with me?

But she said nothing. Getting up, she took his arm gently and steered him toward the door. “Thanks so much for coming round, Dan. And thanks for this.” She waved the check. She looked at him and smiled gently. “You really didn’t have to. I—”

“No sweat,” said Dan. “It’s the least I can do.” He bent and kissed her on the cheek, and she felt nothing, it was strange. Or strange that it wasn’t stranger.

“So—I’ll see you soon,” he said.

“Well,” said Laura, “probably not, I expect.”

“You’re right,” said Dan, nodding vigorously. “Yep. Uhm…where are we, then?”

“What?” said Laura. “You and me? We’re nowhere, Dan.”

“I know,” said Dan. “I just—well. I’m sorry, that’s all.” She inclined her head; he looked at her curiously. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” said Laura. “Quite tired, I’ve had a long day.”

“You—you’re different,” said Dan. “You seem different.” He was standing in the doorway, leaning against it with that old air of confidence she used to love so much.

“Am I?” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“More…grown-up,” said Dan, nodding. He looked at her soulfully. “Oh, Laura.”

“More over you,” said Laura. “That’s it. I promise.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Bye, Dan.”

Dan looked slightly startled, and then he smiled. “Yeah. Right. Bye, Laura. Good—good luck with everything.”

Amazing, thought Laura, as she closed the door quietly behind him and leaned against it, her hands flat against the cool painted wood. She was touched by the gesture. It was more than she’d expected of him. But that was Dan, she thought. It didn’t occur to him that it was at all weird for him to be chatting merrily away, signing checks for holidays, pressing himself just
slightly
too long against her as he said goodbye. That he couldn’t see that he hadn’t been in love with Laura at all; he just didn’t love his own girlfriend, and was looking for some way out, or some penance to pay for not wanting to be with her. Laura knew clearly now that it wasn’t that he should have been with her, Laura. No, he should just not be with Amy, and that was all there was to it. She didn’t feel relieved, or justified, or sorry for either of them. She didn’t know what she felt, other than a curious blankness about it all.

There was a strange, acidic smell coming down the hallway. In the kitchen, Yorky was hopping around in an agitated fashion, cutting up the coriander. He’d chopped it with such nervous energy that it was in tiny, tiny slivers, only millimeters long.

“Ah,” he said as he saw Laura watching him from the doorway. “Hello, old girl. Are you—are you okay? I started on the supper.”

“I’m fine,” said Laura. “Absolutely fine. He was sweet, actually.” She smiled.

“Oh, God,” said Yorky to himself.

“No, no,” Laura hastened to reassure him. “Nothing like that, I promise. He wanted to pay for his half of the money I lost, canceling our holiday.”

Even saying “our,” like there ever had been an “our” as in her and Dan, sounded weird. She opened a bottle of wine and collected the glasses. It was still light outside. As Yorky cooked some chicken, sloshing in a little wine, and sliced some crusty bread on the side, Laura set the table. She went to the window and threw it open, breathing in the evening air. Across the treetops, streets, houses, more houses, cars, big roads, shops. She looked north, to the horizon.

Somewhere, in a huge house a hundred miles away, was Nick. Sitting there eating supper by himself, in an empty room, a great rattling house stuffed with treasures and relics of the past. But nothing that was actually
his
, his own personal stuff, until he climbed those long winding stairs to his room at the top of the house, a room with a radio, his own clothes, some paperbacks, that bed—and another, very different view out the window over the treetops. Was he on his own? Was anyone with him? Did he have someone to talk to, like Charles? She stared out the window, willing herself to see more, if only for a second, before the picture left her mind.

“Ready?” came Yorky’s voice behind her. Laura spun around.

“Yep,” she said.

Yorky looked at her. “Sit down, and pour that wine,” he said. “You’ve had a lucky escape.” She looked confused, so he said, “Dan.”

“Oh,” said Laura. “God, yes. You know, it’s fine.”

They clinked glasses.

“Tell me what’s happening with Becky,” said Laura, switching tack. “So, she hasn’t replied to any of your texts yet?”

“Right,” said Yorky.

“Have you seen her on the stairs or anything?” Laura asked.

“Nooo,” said Yorky. “Not since she left my place early on Sunday morning. Oohoo.”

“You said she fell asleep on the sofa and nothing happened,” Laura reminded him.

“Er,” said Yorky, deflated. “Er, yeah.”

“So,” said Laura encouragingly, “what have you done about it?’

“I’ve taken action,” said Yorky, looking pleased. “I thought, okay, perhaps she didn’t get any of the texts. So I’m on my way back from school today, and I think, I’ll go round to where she works. You know that little gift shop in West Hampstead?”

“Oh, God,” said Laura.

“Yes, absolutely,” said Yorky, unheeding. “I get there, it’s about six-ish. I can see her clearing up and stuff. And when she comes out, I say, ‘Hi, Becky, how are you, okay?’ And—God, I don’t understand girls, I really don’t.”

“Why?” said Laura.

“She pretends she hasn’t seen me, and runs back into the shop! And I follow her and say, ‘Hey, look, I only wanted to make sure you got my text messages. And, by the way, do you want to go out next week?’ And she said she was really busy, but she’d think about it and let me know. I feel confident, though. Strangely confident.”

“How come?” Laura asked, trying not to grin.

“Er…” said Yorky. “Not sure, really.”

“So…” Laura said after a pause. “When are you seeing her again, then?”

They both cracked up, and then Yorky said, “Seriously, Laura. I’m really proud of you. Norfolk did you a power of good. You’re so much better off without him, you know. I’m not just saying that. It’s the truth. And…” He looked slightly embarrassed. “I don’t want to sound pervy, but you look amazing at the moment.”

“Really?” said Laura.

“Whatever it is, you look—er, very nice. Really well. And you know, you’re better now. Time for a fresh start, eh?”

“Yep,” said Laura. “Fresh start.”

“Got your eye on anyone, then?” Yorky said, helping himself to the chicken and avoiding her gaze.

It was as if someone had asked her if she were an ironing board, or if she liked drinking raw meth—a completely outlandish, freakish question. “God, no,” Laura said. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” Yorky said, chuckling. “Don’t look so amazed! You’ve always got someone you’re mad about, haven’t you? Come on, Lara. Who is it?”

Can’t you see? she wanted to say to Yorky, just as she had with Rachel earlier that day. Can’t you see I’ve changed, that everything’s different?

“No one, honestly,” she said after a bit. She pulled the bottle toward her.

Yorky waved his wineglass at her and nodded, in an ancient-sage sort of way. “You should get back out there, Laura. Get over him, get under someone else, you know. You’re the best, Loz, so don’t leave it too long before you fall in love again, okay?”

She said nothing, but smiled. Yorky raised his glass. “All better now. To fresh starts, eh?”

“Fresh starts,” Laura echoed, knowing he was right.

Yorky was right, it
was
a fresh start. And she wasn’t going to screw it up again. She was at work an hour early the next day.

“It’s lovely to see you again,” said Rachel, who was waiting for her as she walked through the door. She handed her a bunch of tulips.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Laura. “That’s so sweet of you.” She kissed her. “Thank you, Rachel.” She bent down, put her bag on the floor, and switched on the computer.

Shana waved at her across the large table they shared. She was eating a doughnut, and after a minute she said, “You okay?”

“Fine, you?”

“Yeah. Good to see you again, Laura.”

“Thanks.”

The phone rang, and Shana grinned at her and picked it up.

“Come into my office when you’ve sorted yourself out,” said Rachel. “We’ll talk about what you’re going to be working on next. This major fund-raising drive’s about to take off, and I want you to work on it.”

“Thanks,” said Laura. She tapped Rachel’s arm as she turned to leave. “I mean it. Thanks.”

“Don’t let me down,” said Rachel quietly. “That’s all I ask, Laura love. Show me you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Trust me,” Laura said. “I mean it—I have.”

And she had. For the next month, work became her obsession. She loved throwing herself into it, proving to Rachel that she’d changed. And she started walking everywhere. There were fresh flowers in the flat each week, and Laura’s room was always tidy, her clothes sorted and hanging neatly, freshly ironed. She remembered birthdays; she cooked a meal for Yorky and Becky (which he could pass off as his own); she organized a picnic for Hilary to celebrate her promotion at the museum where she worked, and helped Jo paint her bathroom while Chris was away. She couldn’t undo the way she’d behaved in the past, she knew that; but there was a grain of comfort from realizing, as she looked around at her friends, that she was back in her old life, in some small way.

For the short rest of the summer, Laura felt the zeal of someone on New Year’s Day, trying to suppress their deep depression about it being cold and dark and having to go back to work by distracting themselves with a new keep-fit regimen, some bulbs in a window box, learning to cook, taking tap lessons—anything rather than give in to it. This was her life; she knew it and recognized it for what it was. At last she felt she was being a proactive, organized, serene person. The feeling of emotional isolation, of being able to look back at her life, her mistakes, and feel nothing, or virtually nothing, continued. And if she occasionally had to bite her lip when an involuntary memory of those brief few days flew back to her—walking down a leafy country lane, sitting on the beach at nighttime, creeping through the great hall, lying quietly holding hands with him in bed looking at him, or his face when she said she was leaving—well, she simply told herself to add it to the box, the box of memories of the past.

chapter thirty-six

E
arly in September came the return of the prodigal son. Simon Foster arrived home from Peru, where he had acclimatized to the altitude, learned to speak Quechuan, grown an impressive beard, and bought or made a selection of brightly colored, simply woven garments that hung, Guevara-like, about his person. What does someone having acquired all these skills and possessions do with such a trove? Move back in with his parents in Harrow, of course. He arrived back on a damp Saturday afternoon, and Angela phoned, delirious with excitement, to ask Laura—and Yorky, too, of course—round for Sunday lunch.

Though she couldn’t wait to see her brother again, Laura had to admit she was kind of reluctant to go to her parents’. She hadn’t seen them since she got back from Norfolk. It wasn’t that she was avoiding them; it was more that she…she’d been busy. She knew they wondered what had happened with her and Nick. Her mother called fairly often, wanting to “chat,” and Laura always managed to steer her off the subject. She felt awful, since she knew her mum must be bursting with curiosity, if nothing else; but she just couldn’t talk about it, and she knew Angela would never ask directly. Angela wasn’t the only one Laura was trying to avoid, little though she liked to admit it.

There was Mary. She felt guilty about her, too—she hadn’t seen her for weeks, either. But Laura pushed that to the back of her mind, along with everything else. The trouble was, she was working very hard these days, and not that she was in a lovelorn frame of mind, she told herself. It was all very well, going round to Mary’s and listening while her grandmother told her about the time she and Xan stayed in a palazzo in Venice and met Nancy Mitford, or how they had visited a maharajah in Jaipur and been woken by the sound of fighting tigers; yes, that was all very interesting, romantic, fascinating, when you were younger and not concerned with other things. Now, she just didn’t have the time. A voice in her head was telling her that was rubbish, that she could talk to Mary about anything, always had done. No. But Laura consoled herself with the thought she’d call her. Soon.

The third member of the trilogy Laura was holding at arm’s length was Jo, and Jo had gone on her trip of a lifetime with Chris to Australia (Yorky and Laura referred to it as Their Trip Before They Get Pregnant). It was a fortnight since they’d left. Laura felt guilty about Jo, too, but a slight sense of relief that she was out of the country for a while, because Jo knew something was up, and Laura knew Jo knew something was up, and this gave her some breathing space. Laura wasn’t worried—it wasn’t a secret, after all. She just wanted control, she wanted to keep a lid on it all. Maybe that way it would just go away. Jo, Mary, her mother—she loved them all, but while they were capable of concern, she wanted to keep them at bay. Just for a while.

“I know what it’ll be like,” said Laura gloomily as she and Yorky walked up Heathcote Road toward her parents’ house. “Me sitting there like a spare part, or tidying away, being a good daughter, while Mum has kittens because Simon’s back and you’re there, too.”

“Well, so she should,” said Yorky reasonably, though slightly smugly. He was secure in his knowledge of Mrs. Foster’s deep and lasting affection for her children’s oldest friend. “He’s been away for nearly four months now, Laura. Remember those two weeks when you didn’t hear from him? She thought he was dead.”