It Had to Be You (21 page)

He reached out to touch her, to show a sign of affection, to show that he cared, but he didn’t dare. He knew how hollow she would think it.

Had she really had no inkling, on Sunday, no premonition about why he had failed in bed? I don’t fancy you any more. Couldn’t say that. I suddenly found, to my astonishment, that the prospect of making love to you was completely unappealing. Couldn’t say that.

There was so little that he could say.

‘I had no idea that this was going to happen,’ he said. ‘I’m as shocked as you are.’

‘Oh, big deal. Shocked, are you?’ she wailed. ‘Poor you. My heart goes out to you.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. Clearly, some of the things you’re accusing me of must have some truth in them, or this wouldn’t be happening, but I would never have set out to do this. And I actually never promised you anything.’

‘What bollocks. I accepted that you’d never leave Deborah. I didn’t want to be a marriage breaker. We neither of us thought she would ever die. She was the nearest thing I’ve ever come across to somebody being immortal. But when she did die, well, I think I had a right to assume …’

Her indignation tailed off into silence. She was sitting up straighter now, and her tears had almost stopped. James perched himself on the end of the chaise longue.

She turned to him and slapped him, just once, a stinging blow on the cheek.

‘I hate you,’ she said.

‘I actually don’t blame you.’

‘And please, please, don’t say that you sometimes hate yourself.’

He had just been going to.

‘I don’t hate you,’ she said in a much softer voice. ‘I wish I did, but I don’t. I love you, fuck it, and I probably always will.’

‘Oh, no. No. Please. I’d rather you hated me than that.’

‘Perhaps I’ll kill myself. I’d get some pleasure out of thinking how ashamed and guilty you’d feel.’

‘Please don’t do that.’

‘I won’t. I’m not brave enough.’

He reached out again and this time he did touch her on the shoulder, but he didn’t dare do any more than leave his hand there. She didn’t respond but she didn’t remove his hand.

‘You men and your consciences, oh, God, you’re a menace. If you have a conscience, for God’s sake why didn’t you stick to the straight and narrow. I wish I’d never met you.’ She paused. ‘That isn’t true. God, I wish it was.’ She turned and looked him straight in the face, and said, much more quietly, ‘I still can’t believe this conversation is happening.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ he said, ‘neither can I.’

‘The men I’ve not gone out with because of you. Damien from the flat upstairs. Padraig from Accounts. Gunter that I met in Ulm who was oh so charming and Continental and sophisticated and so good in bed.’

He felt a bit shocked at that. But what right had he got to feel shocked? Sometimes he hated himself. No!

‘We didn’t go to bed. I was just trying to shock you. And I succeeded. Though what right you’ve got to be shocked I do not know. We didn’t go to bed not because he didn’t want to but because I refused. What a stupid woman. I refused because I wanted to be faithful to you. I was never unfaithful, James.’

‘Well, nor was I.’

‘You went to bed with Deborah.’

‘She was my wife.’

‘And I thought it was women who were supposed to be illogical.’

She blew her nose fiercely, then stood up and went to the mirror.

‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘I look terrible.’

‘You couldn’t.’

‘Please.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So, Sunday was our last supper. No disciples except for Judas. Now just go, will you?’

She was standing by the window now, looking out on London with eyes that saw nothing. He walked towards her. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, hug her, even just run his hand along her arm. He wanted to console her, apologise silently, anything, something.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she growled, in a desperate low voice that chilled him to the marrow.

Airports always made James edgy, and Heathrow was the worst of them. It wasn’t just the possibility of terrorist attacks, though that was always there, just below the surface. It wasn’t just his own concerns, his worry over whether Max’s plane would be delayed. It certainly wasn’t the fear that the plane would crash, his brother was a statistician, after all, and he knew how unlikely a crash was, statistically. It was more that the air crackled with tension, with the fear of some, the bewilderment of others, the excitement of many, the joy of reunion, the sorrow of parting, the disobedience of trolleys, the weight of suitcases, the length of queues, the drabness of cafés, the blankness of officials, the constant appeals over the public address system for latecomers to join their flights so that you ended up worrying about people you would never meet, the capricious progress of time, so slow when you wanted it to move quickly, so fast when you wanted it to dawdle.

He had got there too early. He always did. The drive had been horrible, even though there had been little on the roads at that early hour. His head had felt as if a band had been tied round his forehead and just above his ears. His sleeping pill (the last but one) was still affecting him. He shouldn’t have been driving.

He’d gone to bed the moment he got home, suddenly revolted by the thought of drinking on his own, suddenly repelled by the possibility of alcohol. He’d felt utterly exhausted, but he’d known that without the pill he wouldn’t have slept a wink.

At twenty-five past six the arrivals board notified him that Max’s plane had landed. A brief thrill suffused his body. Soon he would see the reassuring bulk of his son, his splendid, beloved son.

But still there, beneath the thrill, was the throbbing tension of the airport, and beneath that tension were the more personal worries that afflicted him this sunny Wednesday morning. His fear of the funeral and of the eulogy that he had committed himself to make. His pride and fear over the speech that he would be making in a few hours’ time at the lunch to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of Globpack UK. He’d arranged for Max to attend. He didn’t know if this was a mistake, if Max would be interested. He was a little ashamed because he knew that he was motivated by pride, the pride he hoped he would be able to feel in his son, the pride that he hoped Max would feel in him when he saw how successful he was, how popular, what a good speech he was making. And beneath that slight shame was the deeper shame, his shame over Helen, his horrified replaying of the final scene last night. And lurking there, in the depths, was the ever-present thought of Charlotte, the agony of her loss in part assuaged but in part deepened by the knowledge that she was there, in South London, at the end of a phone line, so near and yet so far. And in those murky depths now, after yesterday, was the growing suspicion that a man he knew well had plunged a knife into the stomach of another man he knew well, last week of all weeks. Didn’t he have enough to respond to without having to think about that?

He stood there, among the crowds, surrounded by chauffeurs of private hire firms holding up boards with names on them that were probably misspelt. They couldn’t possibly deduce, from his appearance, what he was going through, and he wondered if, beneath their passive, bored exteriors similar maelstroms of fear, guilt and loss were whirling.

He tried to calm himself down by running through the speech that he would be making later that day. ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. What a great privilege it is to be able to talk to you on this great occasion, the fiftieth anniversary of Globpack UK.’ He was aware that his lips were moving, people would think he was slightly cracked, well, he was, so it really didn’t matter. ‘When I was asked what I did by people at cocktail parties …’ No. Not cocktail parties. Too period. Made him sound eighty years old. ‘When I was asked what I did by people at parties …’

It was no use. He couldn’t concentrate.

Where was he? Come on, Max.

James had wondered if Max, supremely practical Max, who was cool in a way that was distinctly uncool, would have come with hand luggage alone, and would have been through ages ago. Now he began to wonder if he had been detained, if his bag was at this very moment being searched, if they would find substances – he couldn’t articulate the word ‘drugs’ even in his thoughts – in his luggage. Maybe Max had changed in his months in Canada, got in with the wrong set, told him a load of lies in their phone conversations and in his emails. It was unlikely, but in his present state anything seemed possible to James. Maybe there’s something rotten in me, he thought, well, I know there is, but maybe that something rotten has infected Max as well as Charlotte. Maybe he would lose the Max he loved as he had seemed to lose the Charlotte he loved. Maybe Max would have a ring in his nose now and a tattoo visible on his chest, and a face pinched and poisoned by substances, maybe he’d be swaying slightly, perhaps just from drink, good Lord, he of all people could hardly blame his son if he’d turned to drink in the long Canadian winter, oh, where was he, look at that clock, it’s whizzing round, he should be here by now, he’s missed the plane, no, he’d have phoned, he can’t phone, he’s lying in a drunken stupor in a cubicle in a Gents in Montreal Airport, he’s yet another troubled young person in this troubled world. This is ridiculous, control yourself, man, get a grip.

Standing there in that crowded airport, people charging around on all sides of him, James felt more alone than he had ever done in his life. No Deborah, no Helen, no Jane, Charlotte only accessible through Chuck, now he was losing Max. Something had happened. Come on. Materialise through that door. Oh, God, look at all those people, pushing their absurdly laden trolleys. Tired, weary, frightened, confused, happy, excited, ugly, pretty, united only by their Maxlessness.

Where are you?

He had definitely missed the plane. There was no doubt of that now.

And then there he was, as solid as ever, as solid as a tree, his lumberjack son, his pride and joy. Immediately all his doubts seemed ridiculous. They hugged, long and hard. Max’s body felt as firm as … yes, an oak. He had filled out. He was tough. He was the most treelike man James had ever met. It was impossible to imagine any career for him, except in forestry.

The words they spoke to each other were the words of cliché. So sad the reason, yet so wonderful to see you. But the feeling of paternal and filial affection that passed between them, that was no cliché, that was rare.

The phone was ringing as they entered the house, and there was no reason to think that he shouldn’t answer it.

‘I hate you. I hate you.’

He recoiled. Max heard Helen’s loud, screeching, ugly voice, looked at him questioningly, worried, amazed. There were no screeching, ugly voices in his young world.

He signalled to Max to go, to go upstairs. ‘Your old room,’ he muttered. Max gave him another questioning look, James gave a pathetic shrug as if he didn’t understand who was ringing, Max left the room, and all the while Helen was screeching, and it was he, James, who had done this, he who had reduced a lovely thirty-five-year-old woman to a child in a tantrum.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said wearily, ‘I didn’t hear any of that, we’ve just got back from the airport.’

‘We?’

‘Max and me.’

‘Oh, the wonderful Max. Such a lovely son to his dad. Such a bore to his dad’s friends. Max this, Max that, Max the other.’

‘I am not that sort of father, Helen, and you are doing yourself no favours with this approach.’

‘Oh, belt up, you pompous bastard.’

‘I see no point in continuing this conversation.’

‘Listening, is he, on the other phone, your precious wonder?’

‘He isn’t that sort of person.’

But maybe he is?

‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Helen, and I can really say no more. There’s no point in this call.’

‘There is. I thought it only fair to warn you.’

‘Warn me? Of what?’

‘That I’m coming to the service tomorrow.’

His heart sank.

‘Helen!’

‘When the vicar gets to that bit where he asks if there are any objections, I’m going to object.’

‘Helen! That’s weddings. You can’t object at a funeral. It’s a done deal.’

There was a brief silence, and then her tone changed abruptly.

‘Oh, God, sorry, you’ll think I’ve lost my mind. I haven’t slept.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I suppose you slept like a log.’

‘Only with the aid of a sleeping pill. I was very upset too.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘Because I had to. You can’t feign love.’ That was, almost, I don’t love you any more. But she was forcing him to say it. The silly bi— no, he couldn’t think of her as that, she wasn’t, oh, God, he was horrified to hear her like this.

But she was calmer now.

‘There’s no point in talking, is there?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry I was hysterical.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘I am coming tomorrow, though.’

‘Oh, Helen.’

‘I am. And I’m going to make a scene.’ A hysterical edge was returning to her voice. ‘I’m going to tell them all what a bastard you are. Fucking wonderful James Hollinghurst, the polystyrene prince. I’m going to show them the truth.’

‘Well, OK, I can’t stop you, if you want to. It won’t do you any good.’

‘No, but it’ll do you harm. And I’ll feel good.’

‘I doubt it, afterwards.’

‘Oh, you know everything, don’t you?’

‘I know almost nothing. But I do know this. If it’s guilt I’m feeling, as you think, your behaviour won’t half rid me of that. In fact, it’ll make me really glad I’ve left you, because I’ll know what you’re really like. Right now, Helen, this phone call, I don’t think this is what you’re really like. But I promise you, if you do come and make a scene, I promise you, I will never forgive you, and what’s worse, you will never forgive yourself.’

‘Oh, bollocks.’

She rang off, leaving him with a feeling of shame that he had won that last verbal round by so wide a margin.

He went upstairs. Max had almost finished unpacking. They looked at each other. For a moment neither spoke. Then Max asked, ‘What was that all about?’

‘In a minute. In a minute, Max. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving. The food on the plane was pap.’

‘English breakfast?’

‘Fantastic.’

‘I’m quite proud of myself,’ said James as they went down the stairs. ‘Even with all that’s been going on, I remembered to get things in, after I’d seen the vicar yesterday, in case you wanted a good old English breakfast.’

Max’s unanswered question, What was that all about?, hung in the air over the bacon, eggs, sausage, black pudding, mushrooms and baked beans. It was still barely half-past nine. It had been a long, long morning.

When the breakfast was finished, James cleared away the things and returned to the kitchen table.

‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ he said. ‘Then I’ll begin.’

The man who only yesterday had collected his white linen suit from the dry cleaners where, he hoped, they had removed all trace of his visit to the hotel near Diss, was eager that the business over the lost wedding ring could be sorted out quickly. He was keen to see some of the sights of Belfast. Over the years all the tales of violence and trouble had led him to picture the city as a sad and dangerous place, but he knew that this was no longer so, if it had ever been. He had pictured Afghanistan as a land so torn by conflict that no civilised life could survive, until he had discovered that they had quite a successful cricket team, and he had realised how distorted his picture must have been. He was sure it would be like that with Belfast.

‘Yes, sir? How can I help you this fine morning?’

The man behind the counter looked eminently suited to this drab office with its bare little room, its counter with reinforced glass, and, beyond the counter, its pigeonholes that stretched from floor to ceiling, almost all of them holding dead letters. His face was pale, as if he hadn’t been allowed out to see the sun for several years. His drab pale clothes seemed covered in dust. He matched this dusty little place at the end of the postal road, this undertakers’ parlour for lost letters and dead packages. He looked like a lost soul.

‘I … um …’ He just had to hope that the man was more a man of the world than he looked. ‘I … um … a few days ago I did a rather stupid thing.’

‘Which of us cannot say that he has done the same?’

‘Um … yes.’ He had the feeling that he was in a very foreign country. ‘Quite. I invited a lady out to lunch in a hotel. I booked a double room in the hope that the meeting might lead to more than lunch.’

‘I catch your drift, sir. I can see which way this is going.’

‘Good. Good. Thank you. But … um … since the lady was married … I am not, my wife died a few years ago …’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘Thank you … I gave a false address.’

‘You’re not the first, sir, and you won’t be the last.’

‘Thank you. Anyway, I had on my wedding ring, and I suddenly thought it … I don’t know …’

‘Tactless.’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘No need to look surprised, sir. We are not all ignorant peasants over the water, whatever your jokes may say.’

‘Oh, no, please, I wasn’t thinking that. Clearly not. And I don’t make such jokes, let me assure you.’

‘You wouldn’t of course, sir.’

‘The ring is extremely valuable to me. It’s the most cherished gift my beloved wife ever gave me. You’ll realise how excited and anxious I must have been to have forgotten it. Maybe you can understand that I feel guilty about my carelessness. I need it back.’

‘Well, now, I’ll have a look for it, sir. So what was the address you gave?’

Oh, God.

‘Lake View, 69 Pond Street, Poole.’

‘One might have thought that the hotel would have been alerted by the watery overkill.’

‘There are a lot of foreign workers on hotel reception desks in England.’

‘We live in a restless world, sir. Everyone thinks the grass is greener the other side of the rainbow. Listen to me philosophising. It’s this place, sir. This office. This job. I feel sometimes as if I’m at the end of everything. Well, I’ll have a look for your little package, sir.’