Going Home (5 page)

‘Hello, Lizzy,’ he repeated.

It had been such a long time since I’d seen him properly that I’d forgotten little things about him – the tiny scar next to his mouth, the hollow at the base of his neck. How dark his eyes were. I’d tried to remember all this so many times since he’d left, tried so hard to picture what it would be like to have him standing in front of me, and now that he was I almost wanted to laugh with the strange, strange shock of it all.

‘Sparkling conversationalists, aren’t we?’ he said, gazing into my eyes. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘When did you get back?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘From where?’ Of course I knew the answer to this but I wanted to sound as if his movements weren’t of the slightest interest to me.

‘Still New York.’

‘Going well, is it?’

‘Yes, thanks. I’ve seen your uncle Mike a couple of times.’

‘Good,’ I said briskly. ‘Well, give my love to—’

‘So, you’ve met your new aunt,’ said David. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books, isn’t it?’

‘What did you think?’

‘I think she’s nice.’

‘Yes, well,’ I said, glad we were keeping the conversation afloat, ‘I’m not sure about her, but she likes
Some Like It Hot
, so she can’t be all bad.’

There was an awkward silence.
Some Like It Hot
was the film we had watched on the night before David left me. Sheesh, it’s a long story, I’ll get to it later.

Tumbleweeds rolled casually by and a church bell tolled mournfully (no, it really did, we were outside the church) David frowned and stared at the gravelled path. People were drifting away – I think. Suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t involve talking about us.

‘How’s Miles? And your mum?’ I asked eventually.

‘Mum’s good, been working hard. Miles is fine, working hard too.’

All the rest of the Eliots were accountants, which I imagined must make for captivating exchanges around the family hearth.

‘They’re over there,’ he said, pointing towards the lychgate. Miles raised his hand in a gesture of greeting. I looked to where my family was standing, staring at us intently, making no attempt to pretend they were thinking solemn thoughts at my uncle’s graveside. Rosalie even waved at David.

Suddenly the spell was broken and I remembered that he’d left me at Heathrow last year on a beautiful spring day, promising to phone every day, to write letters, emails, texts, telegrams, poems, essays and doctorate papers about how much he loved me. I never considered that we might break up. I remembered how his lips felt when he kissed me.

But as I looked at the man who had kissed me with those lips, I remembered he was also the man who, before the first month of our separation was over, had slept with someone else, then dumped me by email. Turns out it’s not such a long story after all. Breezy, be breezier than a sea breeze, I told myself as a wave of enormous sadness washed over me. ‘Well, glad to hear all’s well.’ I wrapped my scarf round my neck. ‘Happy Christmas, David.’ I allowed myself one last glance at him as I turned away. A fat wood-pigeon was cooing loudly in the yew trees skirting the churchyard.

Abruptly, David reached out and grabbed my arm. ‘Tell Mike I’ll be in touch. How is he?’

‘Oh, you know, happy, successful, just closed a big deal, got married – so in quite a bad way, all in all,’ I said, with a feeble attempt at sarcasm.

‘I mean it. Tell him I’ll give him a call. There’s something I want to ask him.’ I felt the warmth of his hand on my arm. He looked at me intently and I could feel his breath on my cheek. ‘Don’t hate me, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘It’s not worth it any more.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ I whispered. ‘Let me go. I don’t want to see you again.’

He released me at once, then caught hold of my hand. ‘I’m sorry. I just – I want to tell you something. I want you to know—’

‘No, David,’ I said. My face flamed. ‘I don’t want to do this again.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘I talked to Miles about it yesterday and I’ve never understood why you wouldn’t give me another chance.’

‘What?’ I said. My throat seemed to be closing up.

‘I made a mistake, but…Come on, Lizzy, isn’t it time you stopped being Miss High and Mighty about it?’

‘How
dare
you?’

‘You
always
do this!’ David said, raising his voice. He swallowed hard, trying to bring himself under control. ‘It’s always
you
who’s the one who’s hurt, who has to be at the centre of attention. Did you ever think about how it affected me? I just hoped you weren’t as selfish as I thought you were. But you were. And you still are.’

Tears welled in my eyes, just as Kate and Alice Eliot appeared beside us. They greeted each other, in unison, as we glared at each other. ‘Well,
I
want to know something too,’ I said. ‘I want to know how you pulled Lisa in the first place. How soon was it after I’d gone? Or did you fix up a time to meet up for a quick fuck while I was still in the room?’ David’s mother looked totally shocked and she and Kate huddled together like the humble servants in
Dangerous Liaisons
, watching with trepidation from the sidelines.

‘I managed to persuade you, didn’t I?’ David said, eyes glittering with rage.

‘That’s true.’ I could have hit him. ‘But you certainly punished me for it, didn’t you?’

David was white with fury. I’d never seen him look like that at me or anyone else. He swallowed, took a step back, and said, in a much calmer voice, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I know I was wrong, but you were too. And since you’ll probably never understand what you did, perhaps it’s best we leave it at that. Bye, Lizzy.’

‘You always have to have the last word, don’t you?’ I couldn’t put my gloves on, my hands were shaking so badly. ‘I know you better than you think. Goodbye, David.’ (Please note this shows
I
, in fact, had the last word.)

As I walked towards Tony’s grave I could feel David’s eyes on my back, and had to cling to Kate’s arm to stop myself running back and either stabbing him with a nearby icicle or throwing myself into his arms. I couldn’t help it. I’d tried to stop feeling this way for nine months but suddenly
the gates were open again and I felt totally miserable but incredibly happy because I’d seen him again.

I shook my head involuntarily and murmured, ‘No’ and Kate put her arm round me. ‘You are bonkers, aren’t you, darling? Never mind, we’re going home soon and you don’t have to see him ever again.’

‘I know,’ I said quietly. ‘But I want to.’ We were almost at Tony’s grave. ‘Was it ever like this with you two, Kate?’

Kate set her jaw in a firm line. ‘Erm – no.’ She bit her lip. ‘We were never apart from the moment we met.’ She smiled at the memory of the husband she had married when she was a slip of a girl and whom she had had every right to expect would be around for the rest of her life, not taken away from her when she wasn’t even thirty and had a small child.

I was horrified by my selfishness. ‘I’m so sorry, Kate,’ I said. ‘Forget about it – stupid David Eliot and his stupid bloody gorgeous eyes.’

She looked at me, perplexed, and kissed my cheek. ‘You
are
bonkers, you know.’

‘Conditions at base camp, the forty-eighth day after settling here by the graveside, are poor,’ intoned Tom. ‘Tom Walter had a simple wish, merely to visit his father’s grave. But he was to be plunged into a horrifyingly tedious wait that no modern Briton should be expected to endure. In freezing temperatures, he was forced to watch as his cousin flew into a strop with a tall dark stranger from her past and screamed obscenities in a way that brings shame not only on herself but also on her family and friends. Are Britain’s young women binge-drinking? Are they descending into a spiral of drink and drugs hell? Are they—’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Kate. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’

Since we were really only there to pay our respects and she was the one who’d brought the flowers, none of us was
quite sure what to do next. There was a silence. Eventually Mike touched the headstone. ‘We miss you, old man. Happy Christmas.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ we murmured softly. Each year on Christmas morning, Mum and Kate unpick the wreath of holly, ivy and mistletoe that hangs over the front door at Keeper House, and make it into a bunch of greenery to lay on Uncle Tony’s grave. Now Kate picked it up from the grass where she’d left it and put it on the grave. ‘Happy Christmas, Tony,’ she whispered. Mike put his arm round her and kissed her hair. Tom’s head was bowed and his lips were moving, as if he was praying. Neither of us remembered his father – when Tony died, Tom was a barely toddling two-year-old – but the loss had affected us badly. I slid my arm through his, and we walked away from the grave.

The wind was biting cold and cut into our skin, but the sight of the house across the field, its windows glittering in the winter sun, was calming. Mum, Dad and Rosalie walked together, chatting quietly, while Mike strode along behind them, his arm round Kate, who occasionally laughed at him. Chin, Tom, Jess and I brought up the rear.

‘So, David Eliot, Lizzy,’ said Chin, and I could tell she was trying to take Tom’s mind off Uncle Tony’s grave.

‘Yes?’ I answered.

‘What were you talking about? It looked from where we were standing as if the two of you were about to fight.’

‘We almost did,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten how…’ passionate he was, I wanted to say, but that sounded so corny ‘…worked up he got about things. Weirdo. Idiot. Jeez.’

‘I don’t understand him,’ said Jess. ‘Why’s he so cross with you? He’s the one who slept with your friend, for God’s sake.’

‘I know!’

‘He broke your heart. You didn’t go out of the flat for a week and you wore those pyjama bottoms through in the
bum,’ Tom chimed in. ‘He really has got a nerve, acting like you dumped him.’

I had trained myself to harden my heart against David after he’d sent me that email and since the terrible, short phone call when we’d decided to split up. I couldn’t think about him without sadness, so I tried not to think about him at all. Early on I used to dream about him every night, tortuously realistic dreams where none of it had happened, then wake up and cry because it wasn’t my real life. Then grit my teeth and get ready for work.

I’d just have to do that again now – forget how lovely he was, and how he had seemed generally perfect to me in the departments of height, looks, taste in things like films and TV and, finally, sex. I nodded at Tom, with tears in my eyes, cursing my selfishness and wishing I hadn’t seen David today of all days.

Then I remembered something I’d learned on a slightly dubious self-motivational course at work which is that whether or not you have a good day is mainly up to you. So, I would enjoy the rest of Christmas and not let this ruin it. I tugged some ivy off a tree next to the path. The leaves were green, glossy and thick. I twisted them into a little crown and put it on Tom’s head as we walked. ‘I hate men – except you, of course, Thomas.’

‘Thank you, Elizabeth.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Good grief, what
is
he doing?’

We were still a little way from the house, and as we caught up with the others we could see a smallish figure emerging from the front gate, trousers and hair flapping in the wind. It was Gibbo, and as we got nearer it became apparent he was carrying a tray loaded with glasses of champagne. ‘Happy Christmas, people!’ we heard him cry, as he came towards us. ‘Hurry up, it’s good stuff here and I don’t want to drop the tray.’

‘You crazy man,’ Chin shouted. ‘Put some proper shoes on! I can’t believe you’re wearing those horrible old flip-flops!’

‘Love me, love my thongs, woman,’ Gibbo said, as we reached him.

‘I think you might be a contender for the title of Greatest Living Australian, Gibbo,’ said Mike, as he took a glass. ‘Chin, I love your boyfriend, in an American, warm and fuzzy way.’

‘Me too,’ said Rosalie. ‘You’re a class act, Gibbo.’

‘Thanks, Rozzer.’ Gibbo handed her a flute. ‘Here you go – take one, Suze.’ I don’t think anyone’s called my mother ‘Suze’ since she was about fourteen. ‘Get stuck in, everyone. Lunch is totally under control – you don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ve been a bit experimental too, Suze, hope you don’t mind.’

I love Gibbo.

As we entered the house there was a warm reassuring smell of something good happening in the kitchen, and Mum breathed a sigh of relief. Despite her passion for experimentation, she’s still a megalomaniac when it comes to culinary matters. There was a brief but tense stand-off over ownership of the oven gloves (the kitchen equivalent of the remote control), but Gibbo emerged victorious and proceeded unchecked towards the Aga. Mum leaned against the doorframe, looking pale.

‘Come on, Suzy, finish off your champagne,’ said Kate, bustling in behind her. ‘Gibbo, do you need a hand?’

‘No, everything’s under control,’ said Gibbo. ‘No worries, go and relax.’

‘But I can’t!’ wailed my mother, grinding her teeth. ‘You’ve disenfranchised me. What shall I do?’

‘I can’t believe you’re a doctor and you’re allowed to be so irrational, Suze.’

‘You’re quite right,’ said my father, appearing behind me. ‘Come on, darling, you can be
my
helper. We’re going to hand out the presents in a minute.’

‘Do I get to wear the hat?’ asked Mum hopefully. ‘I’ll do it if I can wear the hat.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Dad, patting her shoulder like he used to pat our ancient Labrador, Jockey, towards the end when he was old and confused.

We always open our presents after church on Christmas morning, and Dad is always Santa, with Tom as his helper. Long ago our grandmother knitted Dad and Tom bright red bobble hats to wear as they were giving out the presents. Dad’s still has a white pompom, but Tom’s fell off ages ago, and they’re both rather lopsided and uneven because she was quite short-sighted when she made them.

I followed my parents into the sitting room, where Mike was on his knees lighting the fire, and watched my father trying to wedge Tom’s hat on Mum’s head. I wondered where its owner was. Tom was the only person I’d ever really talked to about David, and I wanted a debrief with him now.

‘Are you OK, darling?’ Mum asked.

‘Yep, thanks, Mum,’ I said. She snatched the better Santa hat away from Dad. ‘We should have realised David would be there, I’m sorry.’

I was outraged that they’d known David was back and had said nothing about it, but I merely smiled. ‘Mum, it’s fine. He didn’t kidnap and torture me, we split up. I can cope with seeing him for a few minutes each year, you know.’

‘Did—’ Mum began, but Dad tapped her shoulder and solemnly removed the Santa hat from her grasp.

I felt depressed. Both my parents had loved David, and neither of them understood why we split up, because I didn’t tell them. I think Mum had thought we’d have an emotional reunion by the gravestones. Well, yet again I was going to have to disappoint her. I went back towards the kitchen, looking for Tom. As I passed the study I saw a movement
out of the corner of my eye and peered through the gap between the door and the frame, where the wood had warped. Rosalie was sitting at my father’s desk, still in her coat, with an open box file, scribbling notes furiously on a pad.

What was she doing? Why was she in there? I turned to go upstairs, and Mike was standing behind me. I jumped, and heard rustling in the study. ‘What are you doing there?’ he asked. ‘You look like you’re in a world of your own.’

‘N-nothing,’ I stammered. ‘Is Tom in there?’ I gestured towards the study.

His eyes flicked to the door. ‘No, that’s Rosalie. Hey, did you find the Sellotape? We were looking for some earlier and I’ve got one last present to wrap. Ah! Hello, gorgeous, any luck?’

‘Yes, here it is!’ said Rosalie, emerging from the study, holding a dispenser. ‘Hey, Lizzy, how are you?’ She slid an arm round Mike. ‘Shall I run upstairs and do that last one?’

I couldn’t tell if she’d worked out I’d seen her. Or if Mike knew I’d seen her, or if he even knew what she was doing, going through Dad’s stuff.

‘A wife and a present-wrapper, rolled into one. What more could a chap ask for?’ Mike dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

‘I’m going upstairs to get Tom,’ I announced in a loud, peculiarly am-dram way. ‘See you later.’ I stomped upstairs thinking the world was going mad.

On the landing I paused to look out of the leaded window across the valley. What was David doing now? Was he with Alice and Miles, having a drink and opening presents? Was he pacing the floors, dashing tears from his eyes because of his stupid behaviour and thwarted love for me, like the Marquis of Vidal in
Devil’s Cub
?

Ha. I gave a mirthless laugh, like a world-weary torch singer. I knocked on Tom’s door. There was no answer, so I opened it slowly and looked in. Tom was lying on his bed,
staring into space. ‘Tom, darling,’ I said, and sat down next to him. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Go away,’ he said dully. The old iron bedstead creaked beneath us. ‘I don’t feel well.’

‘Is it your dad?’ I said, putting my arm round his bony shoulders.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, shrugging me off.

‘Well, it’s Christmas Day and all that. It must be sad.’

Tom turned back to look at me without expression. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But…’ I didn’t want to sound stupid. ‘We visit his grave every year, why are you so upset this time?’

‘I just am, that’s all. It’s different this year.’

‘But why?’

‘I’ve been thinking about something you said in the car yesterday. And about Mike and stuff.’

‘Oh, God, what?’ I said, alarmed that something I’d said and couldn’t remember should send Tom into a decline.

‘Nothing, just about us all in general. It’s not a big deal, and it’s none of your business. Go away and stop being so nosy.’

Downstairs I heard Mum shout, ‘Change of plan! Lunch is ready! Presents afterwards!’ followed by the dull clang of the bell. I didn’t know what to say. Tom is more than a cousin to me: he’s like my brother – but I often feel I don’t know him very well. I went to his birthday party last year, in a wine bar in the City, and I knew lots of his friends but he seemed…different. More relaxed, happier. And I suppose sometimes the people who know you best are the ones you want to run away from most.

I stroked his arm again. ‘Tom, whatever it is, I want to help. You know that, don’t you?’

There was no answer so I got up and opened the door. Then Tom said, in a muffled voice, ‘I’ll see you downstairs, Lizzy. Thanks.’

‘And the glory, the glory of the Lord…’ boomed the CD player, as I went downstairs. I could hear Dad sharpening the carving knife in time to
The Messiah
and rushed into the dining room. The table was set, the fire burned in the grate, and the smell of Christmas lunch was drifting through the kitchen door. Mum and Kate were giggling: in a few short hours Gibbo had twisted them round his little finger, and I could see why. If I’d caught
him
rifling through Dad’s desk I’d have told him to take what he wanted.

One by one we sat down and the dishes came forth from the kitchen. Slices of stuffing, sausage and chestnut, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts, and a huge platter of roast potatoes. And finally, with a flourish, in came Mum with the turkey. I sat on my hands to stop myself picking at anything.

Tom appeared at last, a grim expression on his face, and proceeded to down a glass of red wine.

As Dad finally sat down, we raised our glasses and said, ‘Happy Christmas.’

I looked round at all of us and thought what a pickle we were in, even though we appeared to be a normal happy family enjoying Christmas. I wondered what Georgy, Ash and my other friends were doing. Were they as confused by their own family Christmas as I was? Whoever had said that each family was barking insane in its own way was right. Just look at the evidence:

I’m sure our ancestors were all scavenging peasantry because I’ve never known anyone like my family when it comes to attacking a meal with gusto. Silence reigned as we ploughed through the mountains of food in front of us, with only Rosalie making an attempt at conversation.

‘These are beautiful, Suzy,’ she’d say, picking at a crumb of roast potato.

‘Mmm,’ my mother would answer, as her nearest and dearest guzzled, pausing only to open another bottle of wine. conversation broke out. I must say we were rather knocking back the wine but as they say, Christmas comes but once a year, and it is the season to be merry. It was probably nearing teatime but, just as at weddings, where one has nothing to eat for hours and then lunch at 6pm, we’d lost all sense of time.

After the pudding and mince pies, we had toasts where – yes! – we all propose toasts. When we were younger we found the adults desperately tedious by this stage: they were clearly drunk, found the oddest things hilarious, and would hug us, breathing fume-laden declarations of affection into our faces.

‘Lizzy goes first,’ said Chin, giving me a shove.

‘I’d like to toast Mr and Mrs Franks, and Tommy the dog,’ I said, getting up and downing the rest of my wine.

‘Hurray!’ said the others, except Gibbo and Rosalie.

‘They live in the village in Norfolk where we go on holidays. They’re gorgeous,’ said Chin. ‘You’ll meet them there this summer. It’s wonderful.’

Gibbo and Rosalie, bound together by fear of the unknown and the solidarity of the outsider, shot each other a look of trepidation.

‘Jess, you next!’ Tom yelled, prodding her in the thigh.

‘I want to toast Mr and Mrs Franks too,’ said Jess, determinedly.

‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘That was my idea. Think of someone else.’

‘I miss them,’ said Jess, her lower lip wobbling. Jess cries more easily than anyone I know, especially after wine.

‘Me too,’ said Chin, gazing into her glass. ‘I hope Mr Franks’s hip is OK.’

‘My turn,’ said Mike, standing up straight and holding his glass high in the air. ‘To…to Mr and Mrs Franks and Tommy the dog.’

We all fell about laughing, except Jess. ‘Mike! Be serious.’ She glared at him.

‘I stand by my toast,’ said Mike. ‘I send waves of love and vibes of massage to them, especially Mr Franks and his hip.’

‘Oh, Mike,’ said Jess, ‘don’t take the p-piss. You are mean.’

‘Sorry, darling,’ said Mike. ‘I change my toast. To my lovely new wife.’

‘To Mike’s lovely new wife,’ we all chorused. Rosalie beamed up at him.

Mum got up next. ‘I would like to toast Kate,’ she said quietly. ‘It was thirty-three years ago this week that Tony met her and we always remember him today, but I want Kate to know we all…Anyway, we do. To Kate.’

‘To Kate,’ we echoed, and Kate looked embarrassed and buried her face in her glass.

Mike opened another bottle as Dad stood up. ‘To the district council and their planning department,’ he said darkly, and drained his glass.

Jess and I rolled our eyes. Dad is always embroiled in some dispute over the field next to our little orchard, which is owned by the local council. They’re always threatening to chop down the trees opposite the house, or remove the lovely old hedgerow that flanks it and similarly stupid things.

‘The district council,’ came the weary reply.

It was Tom’s turn. He stood up slowly and surveyed the room. I noticed then, with a sense of unease, that he had a red wine smile: the corners of his mouth were stained with Sainsbury’s Cabernet Sauvignon. ‘The time has come…’ he began, and stopped. He swayed a little, and fell backwards into his seat. We all roared with laughter and raised our glasses to him. Somehow he got up again. ‘The time has come,’ he repeated, glazed eyes sweeping the room. ‘I want to tell you all something. I want to be honest with you.’

Kate looked alarmed. ‘What is it, darling?’ she asked, balling her napkin in one hand.

Tom waved his arm in a grandiloquent gesture. ‘You all think you know me, yes? You don’. None of you. Why don’t we tell the truth here? I’m not Tom.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Rosalie whispered, horrified, to Mike. He shushed her.

‘I’m not the Tom you think I am, that Tom,’ said Tom, and licked his lips. ‘None of us tells the truth. Listen to me. Please.’

And this time we did.

‘I want to tell you all. You should know now. Listen, happy Christmas. But you should know, I can’t lie any more to you.’

‘Tom,’ I said, as the cold light of realisation broke over me and I suddenly saw what he’d been going on about. ‘Tom, tell us.’