The House on Fortune Street (22 page)

cooking. She described her housemates—a journalist, an accountant, and a graphic designer—trying to make them sound interesting. In fact the house had proved a minor disappointment, providing neither close friends nor a larger social world. Edward said that sounded like a good arrangement. His own flat, near Kennington, had been chosen solely because it was on the top floor; he didn’t have to worry that he was torturing his neighbors every time he practiced.

In the restaurant they ordered pad Thai and curry. Edward reminisced about a trip to Thailand with a girlfriend who was studying Eastern music; one day they had visited a temple in a village. “The whole of the inner courtyard was a mass of yellow flowers. Half a dozen children were watering them.”

“It sounds beautiful,” said Dara. She recognized with pleasure a familiar milestone on the road to romance: the discussion of previous relationships. She contributed Ian, her halfhearted boyfriend of two years ago, and their trip to Amsterdam. For her the highlight had been visiting the Van Gogh Museum.

“Did you see the field with the crows?” said Edward. “I love the way the wheat and the birds and the sky are all in motion.” He had lived in Amsterdam for six months, helping a friend start a recording studio.

Suddenly it was late, nearly midnight, and he had to hurry to catch the tube. “Let’s do this again,” he said. He kissed her on the mouth, but decorously.

Bicycling home through the dark streets, Dara pictured them living together in the top-floor flat, making trips to Paris and Amsterdam; perhaps she might even take music lessons. Stop it, she thought. She did like him, but so what? Forget Pavarotti. She had learned, early and often, that her feelings had little effect on the world. All that fuss about the tree in the forest, watched or unwatched, was mere wishful thinking. If a passionately concerned participant made no difference, why on earth should a detached observer?

n the days that followed she continued to oscillate

between idyllic daydreams and precautionary disasters. Meanwhile at the center Joyce remained rigidly aloof. My cause is righteous, her posture signaled as she made a cup of tea, walked down the corridor, used the photocopier. As for Halley, she was unfailingly cheerful and even more colorfully dressed than usual. The general opinion was that Joyce had misunderstood one of Halley’s offhand comments. At an ad hoc meeting the other counselors decided that Frank would offer to take over Joyce’s addiction group in exchange for her doing his shift at reception. “She’s too angry,” said Frank. “We can’t expose our clients to that.”

But the clients seemed to sense the turmoil anyway. For Dara the actual counseling had always been the most rewarding part of her job, the part where she felt most confident and competent. She knew how to put people at ease, how to mirror back their emotions, how to help them identify and resolve their rage and shame. Now client after client was hostile, cagey, rude, ungrateful. “What do you know about it?” demanded one woman, after half a dozen friendly sessions. The rest of the staff reported similar experiences. Some worm of discontent had wound its way into the core of the organization.

Only Claire Frazer, the woman she had described to Abigail, appeared immune. She phoned Dara to say how helpful her survivors’ group was. “I used to feel so alone, but two of the women have had terrible battles with their families. They know what it’s like to have a person you love do something awful, then deny it and call you a liar.”

“How are the panic attacks?”

“Better. I still have them but not as often, and now that Ben knows they’re not about him, he can cope. Thanks to you, we’re managing.”

Which hopefully, thought Dara, was code for making love.

Still basking in Claire’s thanks, she went to meet her next client, who

was in fact one of Frank’s; he had an appointment with the chiroprac-tor. “Millie is a handful,” he had warned, and as soon as Dara saw the sixteen-year-old slouched in the waiting room, her blue skirt barely reaching her thighs, her red T-shirt embossed with a diamond heart tight across her chest, she knew he wasn’t exaggerating. Millie had gone to the police with a torn dress and a lurid story about her virginity and her mother’s boyfriend. The subsequent lab report had shown evidence of two partners.

“Where’s the poof?” Millie said when Dara introduced herself.

“If you mean Frank, he had a doctor’s appointment. He passed your file on to me.”

Dara stepped back, holding the door open. After a few seconds Millie stood up and followed. In the meeting room she flung herself down in a chair and gave the box of Kleenex on the nearby table a contemptu-ous shove. Dara asked her to repeat whatever she regarded as essential from the last meeting.

“I don’t regard nothing as essential.” “So how are you doing?”

“My mum won’t speak to me, Larry’s moved out, and everything’s a drag. They want me to shut up and not make a fuss. But I’ve been raped. I know my rights.”

“Of course you have rights,” Dara said. “It is a little more complicated, though, since the lab report.”

The girl exploded out of her chair. “You’re not my fucking mother.” “No, I’m not. And no one is making you talk to me. If coming here

is helpful, that’s great. If it isn’t, you’re free to go.” Usually this speech had a calming effect, reminding clients that, unlike almost every other aspect of their lives, sitting in this comfortable room, talking to a sym-pathetic listener, was their choice.

“Christ,” said Millie. She seized the arms of Dara’s chair and leaned so close that Dara could see the dark pinpricks left by plucked hairs

beside her eyebrows. “You’re the kind of stuck-up bitch who doesn’t know her twat from a hole in the wall. Free to do this, free to do that. You don’t have a clue what my life is like.”

“So tell me”—Dara tried not to edge back—“if you want to.”

“If you want to,” Millie repeated mockingly. “You should fucking hear yourself.”

It was what Dara had been trained to say, what she believed, but suddenly the words struck her in the way they struck Millie: empty and fatuous. And then Millie reached out and grabbed her left breast. “The trouble with you is you’re not getting any.”

She gave a brisk squeeze, let go, and sauntered out of the room.

For a few seconds Dara was completely undone. Even while her body recoiled from Millie’s behavior, her mind was agreeing with the girl’s brash assessment of her situation. She was thirty years old and, since university, she had never, even for a few months, had a relationship that seemed likely to lead to what she most wanted: a partner and a family. And she had no idea why. She was modestly pretty, kind, intelligent, loyal, and gainfully employed. Day after day she saw women who were plain, bad-tempered, dull, in debt, and yet had accomplished this thing that eluded her. Before she moved to London she had gone to see a counselor, hoping to discover some obstacle in herself that was keeping her single. After two sessions the woman had urged her to get out more. “Join a church,” she had said. “Or get involved in a sport: football, or squash. You can’t expect life to hand you everything on a plate.” Dara had not gone back.

A knock interrupted her misery. Had Mille returned? Before she could do more than hide her handkerchief, Halley appeared. “I met a girl—” she started to say, and hurried across the room. “Are you okay?” She bent to take Dara’s hands. “What happened?”

Dara blinked several times; Halley’s clasp was warm and steady. Presently she managed to explain that Millie was really Frank’s client.“I

said something that upset her and she stormed out. I should have gone after her but I just needed a minute to pull myself together.”

“No harm done. I showed her the door. If she rings for another appointment, let’s transfer her to me. That girl’s out of control.” She gave Dara a final pat and stood up.“We must get together soon. It’s ages since we’ve had a chat.”

“I’d like that.” Eager for Halley’s company but not her attention, Dara asked how she was.

“I’ve been better. Thank you for asking. One of the odd things about this brouhaha is that no one says anything. Some days I come in and I want to shout. It’s so bloody English, no one mentioning the elephant in the room.”

“People don’t know what to say,” said Dara. “And you’re not very forthcoming.”

“Of course.” Halley flicked back her braids. “I want concerned sympathy, but on my own terms.”

“Aren’t you angry? All this fuss Joyce is causing in the midst of your trying to get a new job.”

Halley pressed her lips together and her eyes darkened. She looked, as she hardly ever did, Dara thought, sad. “The job is the least of my worries,” she said. “I’ll get it, or I won’t. In the meantime there’s Joyce, the grief, the bad vibes. I’ve spent six years making this place and now I’m smashing it to bits as hard as I can.”

In her vivid scarlet dress Halley seemed to droop. Dara reached to embrace her. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This will get sorted out soon.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Halley. “But thanks.”

he shrill of Millie’s voice, the touch of her hand receded,

but Dara was left with the fear that her longings were visible, even

to a self-centered teenager. She redoubled her efforts to pretend that all was well. This was another kind of magical thinking she had learned was common. When she wasn’t keeping ill fortune at bay by imagining crises, she was doing her best to attract good fortune by pretending it was already present. The following week, as she bicycled over to have supper with Abigail—Sean was in Oxford—she resolved on no account to mention Millie; Abigail’s sympathy would only bring back the painful encounter. Instead, once they were settled, each with a glass of wine, at opposite ends of the sofa, she described the feud at the center. Abigail, who had met Halley and knew about Joyce, was the ideal audience.

“The nerve of her,” she exclaimed when Dara revealed that Joyce had tried to persuade her too to bring a complaint against Halley.

“I said something she misconstrued and now she simply won’t hear my explanation. She’s determined to hold on to the wrong end of the stick.”

Without answering, Abigail stood up and began to prowl the room, straightening a book here, rotating a plant there. She was wearing baggy white trousers and a dark blue pullover, the sleeves rolled up to reveal cream-colored streaks on her forearms. “Joyce must have a crush on Halley,” she said, bending to snap a dead frond off a fern. “It’s the only thing that makes sense of how contrary this is.”

“Maybe,” said Dara doubtfully.“There is a rumor that she and Halley had a fling, but ages ago.”

“So who’s in charge when it comes to complaints?”

“The borough liaison officer. She seems pleasant enough.”

“Phone her,” said Abigail decisively. “At least you can explain that you’ve no axe to grind. Now come and watch me cook and tell me about your love life.”

At the kitchen table Dara confided the details of her three dates with Edward. “We always have a good time. Then he disappears and I never know if I’ll hear from him again.”

“I remember that stage with Sean.” Abigail stirred the risotto. “What made it faintly bearable was that we both knew Tyler.”

“But Edward and I don’t have any mutual friends.”

“You could make some,” said Abigail. “You could invite him to your house. That way he’d be in your world. And having a bedroom nearby might help. Sean and I would still be groping each other like teenagers if I hadn’t brought him here and fed him gin and tonics.”

This was a new version of his insatiable passion, thought Dara. Duti-fully she asked how he was. Was he settling down to life in London?

“I think so. We’re painting the top bedroom, making it into a study for him. I want him to feel that this really is his home.”

“Nice color.” Dara pointed to the streaks.

Abigail glanced carelessly at her arm and added mushrooms to the rice. It wasn’t easy, she said, after the months of drama, adjusting to daily life. Suddenly they had time for stupid arguments about recy-cling, and money. She hadn’t realized that Sean was quite so broke. And her tenant was planning to give notice. “If you hear of anyone who’s looking for a place, do let me know.”

“But”—Dara clutched her glass—“this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” For nearly a year she had listened to Abigail strategize, with bound-less optimism, about her campaign to conquer Sean. On the one occasion when she had asked if he was worth so much trouble, Abigail had stared in amazement. “You don’t understand,” she had said solemnly, “I’ve never felt this way before. Nor has Sean.” And Dara had glimpsed that she was in the presence of something extraordinary. Now the possibility that true love had triumphed, only to be proved as mutable as any other emotion, seemed, like Joyce’s fury, Millie’s lunge, to call into

doubt all that she was aiming for with Edward.

Perhaps Abigail didn’t notice her dismay, or perhaps, in the midst of grinding pepper, she didn’t hear the question. “Did I tell you that it

looks as if the play is going ahead?” she said. She spooned risotto onto plates and began to talk about her fledgling theater company.

ara followed Abigail’s advice to the letter. She invited

Edward over to the house when Glen, the journalist, was cooking. The meal went well, everyone joking about Glen’s stir-fry—was it slightly better, or slightly worse, than the last one?—and gossiping about their eccentric neighbors. Afterward her housemates drifted off to watch TV or make phone calls. Dara led Edward to the living room and kept refilling their glasses until he put his hand on her thigh and suggested they go upstairs. In her room she closed the door and turned on the bedside light. She had given him a tour of the house when he first arrived and he had admired her room with its blue and apricot walls and many pictures, mostly by her, some by her mother. Now she stood there, not knowing what to do with her eyes or her hands or her feet, not wanting to sit on the bed, which sent one kind of message, or to choose a chair, which sent another. She was staring at the pictures, trying to think of something to say, when he stepped across the room, gazed down at her for a few seconds, and kissed her.

From then on it was all haste and confusion. He undid a few buttons on her blouse and left her to manage the rest while he wres-tled with his own clothes. She undressed quickly, eager to be hidden between the sheets. Edward, clumsy with his underwear, took a few seconds longer. Then he was beside her, the whole shocking length of him, and they were clinging to each other. It seemed to Dara that they were struggling to surmount some huge barrier—the barrier between not being and being lovers—and they must do whatever was neces-sary to get over it. There was one more fierce kiss, the awkwardness