Exposure (52 page)

All her life, Rosalind had stifled her sensuality. It had always disturbed and secretly amused her that, had it been socially acceptable, she would probably have liked to squish her fingers into the lovely rolls that spilt over her friend Jocelyn's belt; she would probably have liked to rub her cheek on Julian's little scratchy beard, or to have sunk her face deep into Elise's thick, straw blonde hair, which gave off a scent of blossom when she tossed it and laughed. Most of all, though, she would have liked to go back up to bed with her husband sometimes on a Sunday morning and make love slowly and simply and gently, the way they once had, looking right into his eyes, sharing the breath from his beautiful mouth.

Regularly, over the papers and the orange juice, she would catch his eye and wonder if he was thinking the same thing—until he gave her one of his devastating pecks on the cheek, and she knew he was not. There was nothing more isolating than one of those kisses of Alistair's—they were bland and utterly passionless, they were literally boring her to death. And so, instead of a giggling return to the warm sheets, she would watch him go off alone to his study and in turn she would get on with the garden and the roast. She had become quite famous among their friends for her exquisite Sunday lunches: wine, meat, rich sauces, creamy puddings and honeyed liqueurs—every flavour in mouthwatering communion.

She finished the Cognac and stood in the doorway of the drawing room with her finger on the light switch. A great deal had happened in that room in the last twenty years. The important conversations had all taken place there—when Sophie got expelled from Scunthorne, or when, bizarrely, Luke got caught stealing another boy's tennis shorts when he had perfectly good ones of his own. She had been glad to have Alistair at every time of family crisis. Very often she couldn't help crying, but he always spoke so reasonably and thought so clearly. Most impressively, he had always understood and remembered everything the doctors said about Sophie and the anorexia and depression. It was in this room that they had quietly discussed their daughter, Alistair imploring her to be rational, laying out the brochures for the different clinics on the coffee-table.

Suddenly, Rosalind felt frightened they had done some things wrong, been very unimaginative. And why had she not insisted that Alistair come to a few more of Luke's rugby matches? She would never forgive herself for that.

With increasing fatigue, she thought of all the other events the room had witnessed. All those dinner parties, all those barristers and judges and their polite enquiries about the children, whose names they had plainly forgotten, each of them just sticking it out until they could talk to the other men, really. And, invariably, as the women talked alone over coffee, the room had heard how they had all been to the same places on holiday or for curtain material or party canapés at one time or another. It was interesting how, during these conversations, they had continued to smile at their coffee cups, a little tensely perhaps, as if
their
lives were arranged with some kind of insider knowledge, as if only
they
knew the best florists or the best piano teacher. Of course, in reality, all their lives were the same.

Had this made the other women uncomfortable? She thought about the triumphant faces and decided it had not. It had not particularly bothered her until the children went away to school and at once she had felt terribly lonely. Alistair had worked so hard and they never spent any time together as other couples undoubtedly did. It was not that she had ever wanted to be 'adored' and covered with sparkly baubles or to go on crazy trips to Antigua or Jamaica, as her sister and her various husbands had—that was not her dream at all. But she would have liked to put a few things in a bag and gone off to stay in a bed-and-breakfast in the countryside, visited a few pretty churches with Alistair telling her about the history. They could have gone for a country walk hand in hand, smelt the smoke and rain and grass and had a pub lunch, a lovely glass of wine under an apple tree.

But Alistair had
always
been working because their life was so unbelievably expensive. Once, disgusted by the bill for the silk wall hangings—on top of the school fees and the rented villa in Tuscany—she had asked him how dustmen or taxi drivers managed to support a family. He had laughed at her and had stroked her hair and not even bothered to reply. The trouble was, he loved things to be done in such an old-fashioned English way—just as her parents had done them, really, and she had always wanted to please him. He was so happy, so excited when she produced a huge Sunday roast for twelve people, just like those she had eaten every single weekend as a child.

She switched off the lamps and noticed the moonlight pooling on the wood floor, glinting on the club fender, curving softly over the vase on the mantelpiece. The drawing room never felt empty—it gave you the feeling that your children were hiding behind the curtains, shaking with laughter, or that one of them was crying piteously under the writing desk. It was always crowded with family—like every room in the house.

As she walked upstairs and along the corridor towards her bedroom, she could hear Luke watching TV and tapping away on his computer. She had stopped hoping he was working now when she heard the tapping going on. She wondered if he had actually been sacked. She was going to have to talk to him. He went out until God only knew when every night. He drank—you could smell it under the door from his room—and he had polished off almost a bottle at supper.

What was going on in his mind? She felt such a deep sympathy for Luke that sometimes it was as if she was him. She felt all of Alistair's little slights to him—particularly the way he never remembered exactly what Luke did for a living, so that Luke got into a terrible muddle and started boasting about his salary in a truly disgraceful way. But Alistair knew this, surely, and if he had thought about it for a moment, he might have seen that each one of these slights was like a razor nick to Luke, like death by a thousand cuts.

She went into her room and closed the door.

 

Luke stayed in front of his computer, drifting out of sleep into a DVD, then back into sleep, and then into a computer game until six thirty. Then he put on a sweater and went out—straight across the lawn—to the annexe for his beer with Goran. It was cool and misty and a little darker than usual. There was a smell of wet leaves in the air. He knocked on the door. It was Mila that answered. 'Hello, Luke,' she said. She had obviously been crying. 'Goran says we want be alone for talk. I am sorry.'

'Oh. Is everything...?'

She looked away.

'No, that's fine. Just give him this, then,' Luke said, handing her the bottle of beer he always brought for Goran. Mila closed her eyes as she accepted it. She seemed agonized. 'I am very sorry, Luke,' she said softly, as if she was trying to speak out of earshot.

Luke was mystified.

'That's OK, Mila,' he said. 'I'll—you know—I'll see you tomorrow or something.'

She nodded, but both of them knew that the routine had now been broken for good.

After his rest, Alistair had left Ivy with the lovely Meals on Wheels girl and the much-anticipated shepherd's pie, and pears with custard. He kissed her fondly, thanked the girl, whose name was Rebecca, for looking after her so well, and walked back to his old home. His leg was very painful now, but it was not a long journey. After all, his father had lived two streets along all Alistair's life.

Ivy had told him that the visiting times at Rosewood Lodge were between nine thirty and twelve, two thirty and six. When he woke up in his mother's old bed the next morning, he decided to visit Geoff in the afternoon. He wanted to think a little first, he told himself. He needed to work out what to say.

But, as the morning progressed, he realized that the scene was impossible to imagine. He heard the words 'Geoff, Ivy told me,' or 'Geoff, I've come because I know,' and then he was struck by what seemed like a deeply inappropriate amusement. He laughed out loud a couple of times and, imagining he was hysterical, took himself out into the garden for some fresh air.

At around one, he went out to the local shop and bought some crisps, chocolate and a microwaveable sausage roll, which he hoped did not absolutely insist on being microwaved. He ate this peculiar meal without tasting it at all and then he spent the early part of the afternoon attempting to read a history of the Ottoman Empire. He had brought it with him out of a long habit of making sure he always had something to read and he smiled sardonically as it occurred to him that this had proved an effective way of preventing all personal reflection.

The book had been given to him some years ago, rather unexpectedly, by Luke as a Christmas present. The shaky biro inscription said, 'Dear Dad, I hope I've got this right. I think this was what you said you would have studied if you hadn't been a barrister. Anyway, it's a very good book by all accounts. Happy Christmas, from Luke.' He was not conscious of having mentioned to Luke his interest in the Ottoman Empire. He would hardly have discussed something like that with his son. Perhaps Sophie had told him.

The book had turned out to be by one of Alistair's Oxford contemporaries. He distinctly remembered a rather plump, scathing man, and a defining argument, during one of Philip's tea-parties, about who would 'be a darling' and go and get some more butter for the crumpets. They had decided to draw straws, but Henry Downing had refused to take part, saying he had been invited for tea and it was all very bad manners and Philip, as host, ought to go himself. Alistair could also remember seeing Henry waiting around, trying to corner the dons after their lectures with one of those elaborate questions that are really designed to showcase the scope of the enquirer's mind.

Of course, Professor Downing, as he was now, had been a huge academic success and the book on the Ottoman Empire was probably his life's great achievement. Alistair weighed it in his hand. Suddenly the cruelty and utter senselessness of this gesture struck him and he put the book down.

 

A local cab driver rang the bell at four and Alistair gave him the address of Rosewood Grange. 'Oh, yes, I know Rosewood,' the driver said. 'Visiting, are you?'

'Yes, I am.'

They got into the car.

'Your old mum, is it? Your dad?'

'My father,' Alistair told him.

The man calmly accepted this incredible information and flicked his indicator switch.

It was only a five-minute drive. Rosewood Grange was an ivy-softened modern building at the end of a short avenue of trees. Outside, in the small parking area, there were a good twelve or fifteen cars belonging to staff and relatives. As they pulled in, two little children came running out of the front door, straight into the path of the car. Fortunately they were driving slowly enough to stop. A frantic mother grabbed the children's sleeves and halted them. She mouthed, 'Sorry,' through the windscreen and the children looked ashamed.

Youthful energy curbed just a little too long, Alistair thought. They could hardly be blamed for finding Grandma or Grandpa slow and boring. He watched them getting into their family car. He could remember being five or six, running like that for no reason at all, merely to expend energy, to express life.

In front of the main entrance, there was a stretch of neat lawn. An implied route, from the bottom to the top, had been marked out on the grass by stepping-stones to the last few metres of the tarmac drive, over a paved forecourt and inside the main entrance. On the forecourt, which was bordered by two perfectly symmetrical beds of bright flowers, were parked three rather ghostly-looking wheelchairs for transportation of residents to and from their relatives' cars.

It was by no means a beautiful place in which to end your days, but it was not merely functional either. The overall effect implied that the designer's heart was in the right place, but that there had not been enough money for anything but the most basic ornamentation.

Alistair paid the cab driver and went up the forecourt, which had a slope, rather than steps, and through the open door into the reception area. He was greeted by a beaming young man, whose name, Dave Pelham, was written on a badge on his chest. 'Hello, sir, can I help in any way at all?'

Alistair explained he had come to see one of the residents, a Geoff Gilbert. As he said the name, the momentousness of what was about to happen thumped into his heart like a fist.

'I see,' the man said, narrowing his eyes. 'We've not seen you before, have we? We mostly just get dear old Ivy coming for Geoff.'

'Actually, Mrs Gilbert said she'd call and leave my name with you,' Alistair said.

'Ah, did she? Right.' The efficient young man flicked through a notebook. His nails were polished and he turned the pages delicately, occasionally licking his fingertips. 'Oh, yes. Here we are. Are you Alistair Langford, then?'

'That's me,' Alistair said, smiling, amazed once again by his exterior calm. He really was an incredible actor.

'That's fine, then.' The young man called out to a passing nurse, 'Um, Julia, would you mind taking this gentleman, Mr
Langford,
to see Geoff Gilbert?'

'Not a problem at all,' she said. 'How d'you do? I'm Julia.'

Alistair attempted to say hello but found that his mouth was too dry to speak. He managed to nod and they set off.

The interior of Rosewood Grange also maintained the designer's stand against the institutional look, but somehow less successfully than the exterior. Perhaps it was merely the presence of so much medical equipment, or perhaps it was the residents themselves, whom Alistair glimpsed through doorways as he passed, seeing them slumped in chairs with TVs playing softly in the background.

They walked down a long corridor. 'Geoff doesn't get many visits,' Julia said. 'His wife comes regularly, though.'

'Yes,' Alistair said.

'She's sharp as anything, isn't she? It's Ivy, isn't it?'

'Yes, Ivy.'

'I thought that was it. Lovely woman. She's not here so often now, but you can't blame her—she's no spring chicken herself.'