The House on Fortune Street (31 page)

When she’d told her that sleeping with Luke was convenient—“We can go to his flat right after work”—Dara’s lips had tightened in a way that made Abigail wish she’d kept quiet. Sex was about love as far, as Dara was concerned. She wanted Abigail to be in love; she wanted to be in love herself. In their late-night conversations she had talked about her boyfriend, Peter, with whom she’d broken up before coming to St. Andrews. “We weren’t really in love,” she had said as if this were an insurmountable problem. Abigail didn’t understand this complicated way of going about things—What about pleasure? What about being in the present?—but she did understand that her bringing boys back to her room so often upset Dara. “Everything’s easy for you,” Dara had said. “You just look at someone and they want you.” Abigail began to insist on going to their rooms instead.

wo of the hotels she’d applied to offered her a job for the summer and she was debating between them—one had better hours, the other a more expensive restaurant—when she received a letter on ivory-colored paper. It came from Alastair’s office; indeed it

came from Alastair.

Dear Abigail,

I have some surprising and, I trust, welcome news. One of my clients is eager to offer support to a young artist at an early stage of his or her career. This would consist of a very modest stipend, to be paid during the university summer vacation, and of free accommodation in a small flat in Edinburgh. Certain duties and conditions would pertain, none I think too onerous. After some discussion with the client, I have been authorized to offer you the

situation. Please get in touch at your earliest convenience to let me know if this appeals to you.

Kind regards,

Alastair

In a daze Abigail wandered out into the street. A light rain was falling and overhead the seagulls were crying. Heedless of both, with neither jacket nor umbrella, she made her way to the hall where she knew Dara was attending a lecture and sat waiting outside. Only Alastair’s dry prose suggested that there was any chance that this was real. As soon as Dara emerged, she drew her over to the window and handed her the letter. Dara read it and looked up with a smile.

“Brilliant,” she said. “You’ll be spending the summer in Edinburgh rather than slaving in a hotel.”

“But I’m not a young artist. Why would this happen?”

“Yes, you are. You’re an actress. I’ve heard Alastair talking about this kind of arrangement. He has wealthy clients who want to do good works but not go through an organization. Last year he got one of them to pay for art courses for a couple of Mum’s pupils. Let’s go and phone him.”

The stipend turned out to be a hundred pounds a month and the conditions were two: Abigail would use the money to study acting and she would refrain from having overnight guests at the flat.“My client is rather old-fashioned,” said Alastair. “Is this acceptable?”

“Yes, yes, of course. How do I thank this person, my benefactor?” The pompous, Victorian word seemed suddenly appropriate.

No thanks were necessary, Alastair declared. His client, Mr. MacPherson, was glad to provide assistance to such a deserving young person. Her only duty was to write him a letter at the end of the summer detail-ing how the money had fostered her art.

Abigail sat through her afternoon seminar in a daze. So this was what it was like to be lucky, to experience random, undeserved good fortune. But as the discussion rose and fell around her, one thought took firm shape. This event was not entirely random: Alastair barely knew who she was; it was Fiona who had given him the idea, who had made this happen. When the seminar ended, she went to find a phone.

“Oh, Abigail. Alastair told me about the summer grant. I’m glad he put your name forward. Did Dara manage to change her shift at the counseling center?”

“I can’t thank you enough,” said Abigail, putting all the emotion she could into the “you.”

Two boys were passing, talking loudly, and she didn’t quite catch Fiona’s reply—“It was nothing”? “It was nothing to do with me”?—but she didn’t like to ask. She said that Dara had changed her shift, and asked about the printmaking course. Fiona described the series she was doing based on a medieval tapestry. Then she had to go and make supper for Fergus. Abigail could feel herself smiling as she put down the phone. How typical that Fiona would not want to be thanked.

hundred pounds a month was not enough to live on, and both the store on Princes Street and the restaurant welcomed her back. Luke had a new girlfriend, but once or twice they got together

for old times’ sake; she didn’t have a moment to look for anyone else. On her rare evenings off she went round to Dara’s. She would sit at the kitchen table with Fiona and Dara, drinking wine, cooking, and talking. It didn’t matter the topic—bleaching one’s teeth, the neighbors’ greenhouse, a new film—what mattered was Fiona’s lively interest and concern, the way she remembered about the difficult customer, asked

what Abigail’s boss had said. Sometimes Fergus joined them, pretend-ing to study his maths book, smiling at their jokes. When Alastair came home the two of them would head off for a session on the computer.

In August the Edinburgh Festival started. Abigail had been hearing about this phenomenon for months but she had had no notion of the scope and scale. The city was transformed. Wherever she looked there were actors, performers, artists, musicians. She slept only three or four hours a night and spent the rest of her time either performing or advertising their show by doing impromptu scenes on the Royal Mile. She walked around in a minuscule skirt and high-heeled boots with a martini shaker, offering thimble-sized portions to passersby. She loved the uncertainty of no one being quite sure whether she was acting or making martinis as a public service.

Dara meanwhile was employed in a summer program for what she called nonattenders: girls and boys who one day simply refused to go to school and, despite their parents’ pleas and threats, went on refusing.

“But what do they think will happen to them?” said Abigail. The whole idea made her furious.

“They’re not thinking about the future. They’re trying to make the present bearable. Maybe they’ve had a hard time with bullying. Sometimes they just want attention. Most of them are middle-class kids with busy parents. Suddenly they discover that by not going to school they can get their parents to focus on them.”

She persuaded Abigail and the rest of the Drama Society to come and do a workshop for the nonattenders. “It’ll be good publicity,” she said, “and the program will pay for them to come to one of your matinees.”

The workshop was a huge success, and at the end of the afternoon Abigail found herself standing on the stage, making an impromptu speech.“I want to tell you,” she said, “about what happened to me.” She described how for nearly a year she hadn’t been able to go to school, and how that had made her feel that all the doors were closing. “I left home

and worked at a supermarket to pay my rent so that I could attend school and I’m glad I did because now I’m here, talking to you.”

At the back of the room Dara began to clap; other people joined in. Abigail stood there, smiling and bewildered. She was used to applause when she acted but not for her true self.

he last night of the show Abigail noticed a man in the second row of the audience. He was middle-aged and not particularly good-looking but he watched the stage with unusual intensity and, she soon realized, watched her. Might he be a reviewer for a major newspaper, or a talent scout? Superstitiously she didn’t mention his presence to anyone else. When the play ended, he rose to his feet, applauding loudly. Abigail could feel his eyes on her as she bowed. A few minutes later she emerged from the dressing room to find him still sitting among the empty seats. He stood up, smiling, and moved toward her with outstretched hand. For a moment she was radiant with

possibility.

“I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Dara’s father, Cameron MacLeod.

You were terrific.”

“Oh,” said Abigail stupidly. Here was the subject of so many late-night conversations, so much speculation: an ordinary, rather slen-der man in a navy blue sweater and black trousers. She pulled herself together and gave him one of her best smiles. “Thank you. And thanks for coming tonight. It’s nice to meet you.” To see what would happen, she held his hand a little too long.

Cameron’s expression didn’t change. He explained that he’d come up from London just for the weekend; he and Dara had gone to a pho-tography show that afternoon.

She introduced him to the rest of the cast, including the gorgeous

Antonio, who also flirted to no effect. Cameron praised everyone. Then with a wave of the hand, he was gone. The next day she phoned Dara and thanked her for sending him to the play. “He seemed nice.”

“Nice?” said Dara.

Abigail could hear the disappointment in her voice but what else could she offer. That she’d thought he was somebody important? That he hadn’t responded to either her or Antonio? “He was very compli-mentary about the play,” she said.

“That’s the main thing.”

“I’m sorry, Dara. We only spoke for a minute and everyone was mill-ing around.”

“I know. It’s stupid to think you’d have an amazing insight in sixty seconds. I keep hoping that someday I’ll understand what made him leave us.”

“You will. Now you’ve left home you’ll get to know each other in a different way, as equals.”

“I don’t want to be his equal. I want to be his daughter.” “At least he stays in touch, at least he sends money.”

Then it was Dara’s turn to apologize. “You’re right. Lots of parents behave worse than him,” she said. “Far, far worse.”

hat autumn Dara started seeing Kevin, a third-year politics student whom she had met at a meeting about proposed renovations to the halls of residence. “He’s a union steward,” she reported. “He thinks students should have a say in whatever plans the university adopts. After all, we’re the ones who use the buildings.” For several days after the meeting she mentioned Kevin frequently; that Thursday she didn’t show up to study for their tutorial. The following morning Abi-

gail found a note under her door.

Sorry about last night. Ran into Kevin. xox Dara.

When Abigail finally met him she was startled to discover that the fount of all happiness and wisdom was a rather stolid young man with muscular forearms and untidy hair. The three of them went out for a drink. Conversation was already faltering when Abigail confused the deputy prime minister with the treasurer and Kevin said something savage about ill-informed citizens, and where did she think the grants for her precious theater came from.

“I know more about the working classes than you ever will,” Abigail said. She downed her beer and left.

Later Dara made excuses for him but Abigail didn’t care about Kevin, or what he thought of her. What she cared about was the way Dara had disappeared into the relationship. She was seldom in her room; she forgot arrangements or changed them at the last moment. And when they did spend time together she talked endlessly about Kevin. Abigail was at first puzzled, then hurt. In the course of their friendship she had slept with many more people than Dara, but she had never once changed their plans to meet a lover.

uring their last summer as students, Kevin graduated and moved to London. Dara went with him and got a job in a holiday program for under-twelves. Abigail returned to Edinburgh and stayed in the flat. She had still not met Mr. MacPherson, her mysterious benefactor, but at the end of each visit, she wrote him a heartfelt letter and, at Fiona’s suggestion, left a bottle of wine. In Dara’s absence, she continued to go round to the house most weeks. Fiona was teaching her to cook. Her own mother, although capable of producing elaborate feasts, had barely taught her to use a toaster. Now Abigail enjoyed the measuring and slicing, the stirring and blending, and the way in which,

amid such mundane activities, conversation occurred. She and Fiona talked at length about Dara—neither of them cared for Kevin—and about Abigail’s parents. I had such a boring, stable childhood, said Fiona. In spite of Abigail’s veiled questions she never mentioned her first husband.

One evening Abigail’s knock at the door was answered by Alastair. She guessed, seeing his suit, that he was newly back from the office, but he greeted her warmly. “Come in. What a pretty dress.”

Inside he explained that Fiona wasn’t back yet and Fergus was at the cinema. He hung up his jacket and, without consulting Abigail, opened a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. In the living room she sat in the chair by the window while he settled himself on the sofa. As they exchanged news of Dara, he meticulously rolled up his shirtsleeves, first one, then the other, each fold exact. Abigail watched, amused by his fastidiousness. Suddenly aware of her scrutiny, he looked up with a smile. “What happened to your young man?” he said.

“Which one?”

“The one at the restaurant.”

“Luke. That was ages ago. He’s going out with the pastry chef. She makes the most delicious éclairs.”

“Don’t you ever fall in love?” Satisfied with his sleeves, he leaned back, his youthful eyes fixed on her.

“Not yet.” She had used the word once or twice but only out of politeness, when somebody said it to her and the pause grew embar-rassingly long. Now, to avoid Alastair’s gaze, she drank her wine and looked out of the window. The houses across the street were ablaze in the evening sun.

“When I was your age,” he said, “I was in love with a friend of my mother’s. Rosalind played the flute and had a little black dog she carried around in her bicycle basket. I was tongue-tied every time I saw her. Later I settled for more earthly delights, but I still sometimes think