Fog Heart (3 page)

Becky didn't like her father, it seemed, but then she said that he chipped in on her rent – otherwise she'd have to share a flat and she'd tried that and it was bloody awful. So she had her own place, and when she asked Oliver where he was staying in town he knew that he could fuck her if he wanted.

‘With some friends,' he said. ‘It's handy, I come and go as I please. But…' And that was enough to imply in some way that he couldn't take her there.

No problem. They shared a taxi back into the West End, and along the way Becky asked him if he wanted to come in for coffee or a nightcap. Well, yes, that would be nice. She wasn't pretty in the obvious ways but there was something attractive about her. How she moved, her height, the angular gawkiness that she fought mightily to overcome – as if she still didn't know quite what to do with her body. Oliver did.

So he found himself in a small but tidy flat at the back end of Maida Vale, sipping plonk. One sip was enough. And they were stretched out together on a rather hard sofa, Becky with her head resting on Oliver's chest. When he found her breasts, he stroked them lightly. ‘So, what's the trouble with your dad?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Why do you hate him?'

‘What makes you think I do?'

‘I don't know. Do you?'

‘I don't much care for him, put it that way.'

‘What did he do to you?'

‘What didn't he? I mean, it wasn't sexual, but…'

‘He beat you, then.'

‘Not exactly, no.'

‘What else is there?'

‘He – oh God, never mind. It's embarrassing.'

‘That's all right. You can tell me.'

‘I don't want to…'

But she did, and the drink in her helped.

‘It's not your fault, love.'

‘I used to think it was.'

‘Never. It's never a child's fault.'

‘He used to give me enemas,' she blurted out, with rather too much high drama in her voice. ‘All the time, and not just when I was little. When I got older, he still kept at it.'

Oliver willed himself to be still, otherwise he'd erupt in laughter. Enemas! ‘You think that wasn't sexual?'

‘It was a health thing with him.'

‘Sugar coating, with a little kink inside.'

‘Could be. But at least he didn't make me wear one of those bloody macs. That would've been flat-out perv.'

‘When did it stop?'

‘When I turned thirteen. I stopped it.'

‘Thirteen.'

‘He was serious about health, a real fanatic. And still is. Like, you should chew everything fifty times.'

‘Fletcherism.'

‘And posture. That was another thing. It used to drive me crazy, trying to stand and sit and walk what he called the right way. Which was impossible.'

‘The Alexander technique.' Small wonder Becky still had a hard time carrying her body around.

‘Did you go through all this rubbish too?'

‘No, but I've heard of it.'

‘Bastard. Don't know why I still love him.'

He couldn't see her face, but he touched her cheek just near the eye and felt a bit of moisture.

‘Tell him how you feel about it. Let him have it full bore. It'd do you a world of good. Clear the air.'

‘Very American, I suppose.'

‘Charterhouse, actually. I learned the hard way too.'

She shook her head. ‘He'd never speak to me again.'

‘You'd feel a lot better.'

‘I feel better now,' she said, squirming happily beneath his touch. ‘You're very nice. And comfy.'

They thrashed around on the sofa for a while, staggered into her small bedroom and fell together onto the bed. They lost some of their clothes in the process, made love quickly and furiously, and then they cuddled and kissed gently, resting.

A little later, Oliver explored her body at a more leisurely pace, administering nip-and-peck kisses to her nipples, belly and thighs. Such long legs, such a long flat tummy. She had rather small breasts, but they were high and firm, still girlish.

Oliver licked her. She didn't know what to do with him, and her awkwardness was beginning to tell. Never mind, darling, some women never learn head – even long after they've become addicted to getting it. English women especially, or so it seemed. Maybe that was why Oliver had married a Yank. Becky began to cry. She held him there, wouldn't let him move. Or stop.

Eventually her hands slipped away and she seemed to sag into herself, dazed. Oliver rolled her over and took her from behind. Slow, gentle, sweet. He wet his fingertip and rimmed her with it tentatively. A long deep moan. A little more, and he could feel the moan in her body now, as strong and resonant as a cello chord from Bach. Yes, Daddy. Becky seemed to fly straight from orgasm into sleep.

One thing: Oliver could never sleep in situations like that. He would lie there afterwards, eyes open or shut, awake. Thinking it was all kind of stupid, though he didn't know why or how, just that it felt that way. Wondering if she would fall in love with him – but, then, they all did. They wanted him to stay for ever or they wanted to follow him back to America. Stay, and stay as tender and frank and understanding and loving as you were, as you really really are. And eat me eat me eat me every night.

Oliver turned his head and stared at her in the grey light. Hair mussed, she did look pretty. Yes, darling, you have a right to some kind of a life, something approximating happiness, all of the usual milestones and millstones. A career, marriage, a house and kids. Click the menu, and make sure you get your full share. Some day, soon perhaps, you'll even get to bury the old bastard in some dreary Midlands plot. Sell his house and all his things, and never visit his grave.

He wanted to wake her and tell her. Becky, Rebecca, my dear child, Something-Something. It will be all right. You
are
good, you
are
pretty. You
see?
It
is
worthwhile. In a way. Somehow. I believe. I do. And so … And so …

Enemas, for God's sake. How on earth had he managed to keep a straight face? A triumph, really.

She had such a lovely long neck. Such an exquisite throat. Slender, elegant. There was some kind of powerful erotic magic in it, irresistible. Don't forget the people at the party, don't forget the taxi driver. There are a million important factors to consider in the tiniest of moves.

Oliver slipped his fingers around her throat and he squeezed with great gentleness, so as not to wake her.

Such a feeling. Something to think about. Again.

Because, Christ – it would be so easy.

2

The movie did nothing for her, but it was probably her own fault. Carrie had been distracted all day. Taking in the film had been a sudden impulse, and action thrillers could usually be relied on to erase two hours painlessly from your life. But it didn't work this time.

Distracted – and vaguely unsettled. That was the problem. A loss of concentration in the middle of her discussion with the Wellers about redesigning their kitchen. That blank spot while she examined an assortment of Italian tile samples. But it had been a busy day, so a brief lapse was perhaps understandable, and it was not as if anyone else had noticed.

But there had also been that moment yesterday evening when Carrie had been sorting through her underwear to make up a load of laundry, when a tremendous sense of sadness welled up within her. She had no idea how long she'd stood at the hamper, close to tears. Over nothing. Why had it happened to her?

As soon as she got back to the apartment, Carrie called her mother in Pensacola. Nothing much new there. A ziti dinner for the church, a book and bake sale for the local library.

‘Are you all right, dear?'

‘Yeah, just kind of – I don't know.'

‘That would be the blahs.'

Carrie smiled. ‘I guess so. Oliver's away.'

A cluck. ‘Where now?'

‘London and Munich.'

‘He's going to turn into Willy Loman on you.'

Carrie laughed. She felt a little better after she hung up, but the mood didn't last. She took a long hot bath, had a glass of Cointreau with a single cube of ice in it, and skimmed a couple of articles in
Vanity Fair
without noticing what they were about. Later, she sat for a while on the edge of the empty tub, her naked body still moist, strands of wet hair dangling in front of her face, thinking, The blahs?

She put on a white terrycloth robe and went into the living room, bare feet slapping on the parquet in the hallway. She put some quiet jazz on the stereo. Carrie loved their apartment, a co-op in the Dalmas Building on West 73rd, just far enough away from the noise where Broadway crossed Amsterdam.

She and Oliver had put a lot of time, money and labour into the place. They had stripped and completely redecorated it, but it was worth the effort. Decorating was her talent, her career. The apartment her home. New York her city.

Was it Oliver, some uncertainty about her husband? True, he had seemed a little out of sorts before leaving on this trip, but he was always moody, she was used to that and knew how to handle it. He spent too much time fretting over his numerous business involvements, none of which he really cared about that much. She often thought he would be better off to settle on a single area of activity, something that totally absorbed him and brought out the best in him. He was a man of talent and keen business sense, an intelligent man.

Their marriage was sound. Oliver was attentive, he actually listened, and Carrie knew that a man who listened was a gem to be treasured. They made love regularly, and the sex was still good. They talked. They cared for each other. And …
And what more can you ask?
But enumerating the pluses didn't help.

Carrie poured more Cointreau and added another ice cube. She went upstairs to the master suite and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to think what she was there for, what she should do. Put on a nightgown? Pyjamas? Just panties? Instead, she chose grey jeans, white socks, sneakers and a purple Lakers sweatshirt.

Oliver was gone five or six times a year, a week or two each trip, and that was not great. But when he was around, which was most of the time, he was around all day and at home every night. They would meet for lunch, or in the evening for dinner out. He used the second bedroom as an office. So times like this, times when she was alone, were usually not a problem for her.

Something in the bedroom behind her, she thought. A sound of movement. Holding the sturdy glass like a rock to throw, she went slowly to the open door. The light was still on. The room was the same, bathrobe draped over a chair. Empty. Windows shut and locked. Nothing. The closet – just clothes. Dressing area and bathroom, both fine. Nothing. See? Carrie turned the light off and closed the door as she left the bedroom.

She went downstairs again. Now the quiet mellow jazz was no longer enough for her. Kiri singing Legrand? Ute doing Dietrich and Piaf? But she was not in the mood for any music. She put on the AM and scanned until she came across a late ballgame from the west coast. The subdued drone of the crowd in the background was somehow comforting, while the play-by-play didn't even register. She left it there for a while, until she realized that she might not be able to hear anything else
within
the apartment. Not that there
was
anything else to hear. But Carrie turned off the tuner and sat in silence.

The kitchen. She didn't think she'd heard a sound. Coming from there. The brush of one pant leg against the other? Rustle of fabric in the air? Sometimes the only thing worse than being alone is not being alone. But the kitchen was empty. She took the bowl of tapioca ambrosia from the fridge and ate it – there wasn't much left – standing by the breakfast nook.

She heard Tommy, the resident Irish handyman, bounding down the stairs on the other side of the kitchen wall, his trademark heavy-footed thump trailing away. Probably just solved one more minor mechanical problem for another helpless soul.

Carrie sat down and slid across to the darkened back corner of the nook. It was funny, in a way. They had often joked about it. Her father had waited decades for a plum posting, London or Paris or Rome, and when it came it only lasted one year and three months. A case of cold politics reaching down below the rank of ambassador. Poor man. Australia next.

But that year and a bit happened to come along shortly after Carrie had graduated from Bard. She had nothing definite planned and wasn't even sure what she wanted to do with her modest BA, so she flew off to London with her parents. Took one course at the North London Poly. Met people, both the diplomatic crowd and others. Fell in love with European styles and fashions – a huge new development in her life, since she'd never paid any attention to that kind of thing before. Much too frivolous. Carrie still read books, of course, but the old Eng. Lit. outlook was starting to give way to different and more practical interests.

She blossomed in London. Or at least she liked to think she did. Girl to woman. Finding a sense of direction. Carrie began to look at rooms, to see how they were put together and arranged, and what people did with them. She learned how to see a room, as it could be not merely as it was. Towards the end of that year Xavier Rocher took her on as an unpaid assistant. It was a great opportunity to learn, and she did. After two months, he gave her a small wage. She was in the business.

By then it was known that Daddy was on the way out of town. By then Carrie had met Oliver at a do at the Groucho. His band had recently broken up so he was not in the best of form. They clicked, however. He was irresistible, tremendously attractive, witty, polished, considerate, fun – dear God, how she had fallen for him. She was never quite sure why he wanted her, out of all the women who were available to him, but he did. Daddy and her mother both liked Oliver, and when they left Carrie stayed on in London. Worked with Xavier, lived with Oliver. London was their playground, and it was great. Everything.