The Other Half of My Heart (31 page)

At the door, Fran turns.

‘I know you might not come to the ball, but can I tell Roddy that Aurora was wrong about the toddler, and that you're not married?'

The answer is simple, and complicated. Bettina's past and future wait, breathless, for her to speak.

‘Yes,' she says, ‘tell him.'

‘Fran Flood came by today,' Bettina says to Rufus later. ‘Aurora told her about seeing us. They have a ball every year and she brought me an invitation.'

‘That was good of her. She must have thought a lot of you.'

‘Yes, I think she did, then.' Bettina adds to herself: before she saw how I broke.

Rufus smiles. He really does have the most beautiful teeth, straight and white. Kate has them too. ‘I'd better get my tux cleaned.'

‘Oh, I hadn't decided about going.' A technical truth. Bettina makes it sound casual, but she's thought of little else.

The Bettina of the last fifteen years wishes she had ripped the invitation in two and put it in the bin before Rufus arrived. The Bettina she is striving to be sees no reason why she shouldn't go. It's not going to do any more harm, she reasons, and maybe it will help her. Fast on the heels of that thought comes another, audacious in speed and content, a thoroughbred of a thought: maybe she deserves help.

‘Why wouldn't we go?' Rufus laughs an uneasy laugh. ‘You're not ashamed of me, are you?'

‘No, I'm not.' And Bettina knows that she isn't; but she is ashamed of herself, for her life that has run through the channels where the earth is softest, while Roddy has, it seems, gone fearlessly forward.

‘Shall I book us a room at the hotel,' she asks, ‘then you can have a drink.'

‘You want me to drive us there?'

‘Yes. It's only carsickness.'

‘If you're sure.'

‘I'm sure.' Bettina forces her hands to be still in her lap as she says the words.

‘I love that you trust me, Bettina. Thank you.'

‘Don't thank me. You have nothing to thank me for.'

Rufus makes the face that means: I know that your mother just died, so I'm letting that pass, but we both know that it's not true. He gets up, going to retrieve his laptop cable from his briefcase, which he left by the door when he arrived. He touches her shoulder as he walks behind where she is sitting, and pretends that she doesn't flinch. Bettina decides that this isn't the evening to explain about seeing Roddy again. They are both tired, after all.

Bettina has one dress that she thinks might be suitable for a ball. She had it made during her third year in France, and it's long and she thinks it's beautiful. She asks Rufus if he'll tell her what he thinks of it, because she doesn't know how much it will have dated, how it might date her, or whether she might be too old for it. So one night, before dinner, she goes into the bedroom and puts it on. There isn't a full-length mirror in the flat, so she can't see all of herself, but she can feel that it still fits – if anything, it's a little too big around the bust – and she looks down at herself and remembers how the sea-green of the silk catches the light. It's a strapless shift, the bodice lightly boned and the skirt flaring softly at the hips, so that she can walk and move as comfortably as she once did in jodhpurs. Putting it on again feels better than she imagined.

‘What do you think?' she asks Rufus, stepping through the doorway: but she can see the answer in his face.

‘You have exquisite taste,' he says. ‘It's beautiful.'

‘I lost the wrap to go with it.'

‘It's a lot easier to match a wrap to a dress than it is to find a perfect dress in the first place.'

‘It's not too dated?' She doesn't want to be flattered: she wants to be reassured.

‘It's not too anything,' Rufus says, ‘honestly. You asked me to tell you what I think, Bettina, and I think you look beautiful in it. It isn't dated, or too young for you. Really.'

‘Thank you,' she says. When he uses her name it always sounds like a reprimand, somehow. ‘I have some black satin ballerina pumps, somewhere.' She adds, ‘I can't wear heels.'

‘Perfect,' Rufus says, again. The next night he brings a black silk wrap, plain and soft and fine, which is exactly what the dress needs, as well as being exactly what Bettina needs to feel comfortable in the dress.

The day of the ball dawns warm and soft around the edges. On the drive towards Missingham, Bettina forces herself to open her eyes and look as the familiar countryside approaches. She keeps her head still, her eyes on the rise of the road in front. Rufus is quiet, and there's music – Rachmaninov, she thinks he said – which she is starting to like.

Being in the car makes Bettina feel as though she's an arrow shot from a bow, sucked forward on a course she can't change. She doesn't like the feeling. But then again, she doesn't like anything much, at the moment.

Seeing Fran was like having a visit from her young self, the Tina who was growing in confidence and learning to love and starting to wonder and hope that what was happening with Roddy could be real, and true, and lasting. That Tina wouldn't think much of the half-life her older self was living now. Even the baking of bread feels like a failing. Bettina has chosen a life that means she is awake when others sleep, that she can work in silence, and the only hands that matter are her own.

And this feeling is bound in with the fact that she still hasn't told Rufus that Roddy came to the funeral. She's been waiting for the right moment, knowing that such a thing does not exist. Rufus has been coaxing details of her past out of her, and he's done it with genuine interest and concern, nodding at things she's said as though he's an archaeologist just given another piece of a skeleton that helps him make sense of a whole. Of course, he thinks he's dealing with someone from her past, not someone who's written right through her. She wonders if he'd be quite so forensic if he knew how much time she spent wondering what Roddy might have said if she hadn't been wearing her mother's wedding ring.

As if to confirm this, Rufus says, ‘I've brought some sketches, for our house. I thought we might have time to look at them tomorrow, as we'll have the morning together.'

‘Our house?' Bettina says. She and Rufus have talked about the house that he's planning to build. Bettina has lived in a lot of places, so she has lots to say about buildings, about space and light and practicality. It's becoming a joint project, but to Bettina it's just an extension of what they did when Rufus advised her on the bakery and café. So she repeats his words not with warmth, or excitement; she says them with surprise mixed with panic. And even allowing for the fact that they're in the car, so he's not looking at her but concentrating on the road – it's one hell of a bend on the way down into Missingham – he knows with a plunge of his heart that he's misjudged this whole situation. He says ‘our house' in his mind and heart, but always ‘my house' when he's talking to Bettina.

‘I mean “my house”,' he says. ‘I suppose it feels like our project, that's all.' He half laughs. ‘Don't worry. I'm not going to ask you to move in.'

And Bettina, who doesn't believe him but cannot think how to say so, says nothing. She thinks about pointing out the place where the accident happened, but this feels too private for Rufus to know and anyway, her throat has seized. The church and the graveyard flow in and out of view, and then they've arrived.

‘You look lovely,' Rufus says, later. They're standing side by side looking at themselves in the mirror in their hotel room. They've got ready in a hurry, because Bettina had stayed to help Angie to clear up and, perhaps, to avoid the necessity of giving Rufus a guided tour of Missingham. But Bettina is prepared to concede that she does look good, in a grown-up, elegant sort of a way. Rufus is as immaculate as ever, and his eyes are shining as he looks at her via the mirror's reflection. He's been quiet since they arrived, although to be fair there hasn't been much of a chance for conversation, between taking turns in the bathroom and the general working-round-each-other of two people used to getting ready on their own.

‘I should have bought you something,' Bettina says, as she strokes the soft stole, which she suspects is, along with the dress, probably the single most expensive item of clothing she's ever possessed. Rufus makes noises about the recession but she's seen the receipt for his new shoes. ‘I'm a hopeless—' but she stops – there still isn't a word she can find for their relationship. And anyway, what she should be saying is: I'm a terrible person because my instincts were right, and even before Roddy rode in I knew I'd never love you. Yet I'm standing here letting you think that I might.

Rufus and Bettina walk up the hill, quiet among the pairs and trios of excited partygoers around them. They don't arrive late, but the marquee is already noisy and a little too hot. A string quartet plays near the entrance. There's champagne for them as they wait to be greeted by the Floods.

‘Nice place,' Rufus says.

‘Yes, it is,' Bettina replies. The Flood farm feels both exactly the same and entirely different. The serenity and solidness of the farmhouse are the same as they ever were, but there's a new indoor riding school behind it. The wooden gates have gone and metal ones with keypads and codes have replaced them. The smell and sound from the yard is like a mother's heartbeat. Here is the place where Bettina meets herself again. Her legs feel weak. She doesn't know whether she wants to sit down, or run away. She remembers Fran telling her that she was one of the family. She has run away once and all that running turned out simply to be a long loop back to the place where it all began.

‘Tina,' says Fran when they get to the front of the reception line, ‘Tina. I'm so glad you're here.'

‘Yes' is all Tina can manage.

Fred says nothing at first; but rather than the genteel peck on the cheek that he's giving to the other women in the line, he wraps his arms around Tina, suddenly, so that, unprepared, she is standing with her arms pressed to her sides as he holds her. His beard is sharp and warm against her cheek. She hears Fran and Rufus introducing themselves to each other: and then Fred says, ‘Welcome home,' his words low and gruff and full of heart, and she's released. She steps away, and sees Roddy waiting, the third in the welcoming line.

‘We didn't know whether you'd come,' he says.

‘I didn't know,' Tina says. Oh, for more words, for better words, or the time and space to think of them, say them.

A peck on the cheek to a man in a wheelchair isn't the easiest thing Tina has ever done, all the more so because, as their bodies move closer, Tina's body remembers what Roddy's body can do to it. The shock of the memory wobbles her, so that Roddy needs to steady her, his hand running up her forearm as she lurches forward, not so much kissing his cheek as pushing her face against his face, which is smooth – she knows it must be less than an hour since he shaved. Her lips stop at the side of his ear, so if there was a secret for him, she could whisper it. She straightens up. He holds on to her left hand, and his thumb rubs across the base of her third finger where she had been wearing her mother's ring the last time he saw her.

‘Sorry,' she says.

‘Don't be sorry,' he says, ‘Tina.' She's sure he says her name that way on purpose, almost a whisper; she knows that he would say it exactly that way if they were pressed together in the dark and he wanted to know if she was awake or not. She wonders if he's doing it on purpose. A look into his eyes, serious and still, tells her that he is. Roddy's eyes are telling her that the reins are ready for her, if she wants to take them. Something in her stiffens, locks, preparing for the jolt and the forward swing.

‘I'm Rufus Micklethwaite,' Rufus says, extending his right hand while sliding his left arm around Tina's waist, ‘hello.'

‘Roddy Flood,' Roddy says, ‘pleased to meet you.'

And then they've been moved on by the next people in line. They make their way into what is not so much a marquee as a room, with chandeliers and a solid floor, and the sides rolled up to let the summer air move through. Rufus looks around for people he knows. Bettina looks, by turns, at Rufus's tie and her own blunt fingernails, at the tips of her shoes and the champagne in her glass. Every now and then, she takes a discreet look around the marquee to see who, if anyone, she recognizes. The Fieldens are out in force. She sees Edward and Arabella, Aurora and at least one of her sisters, tall men who might be their husbands, children of different heights but all with the same dark hair. They have formed an enclave at the far end of the marquee. Tina thinks she should be able to keep out of their way.

Rufus's excitement at being here is palpable. He scans the marquee too, but for a different reason: all he needs is someone to recognize him to make it a perfect occasion. Well, that and Bettina being less preoccupied. Still, it must be a big thing for her, to come back here. And he can see how strongly she is tied, still, to the Floods – he of all people can recognize unfinished business when he sees it.

He looks at her. She's looking at a group at the other end of the marquee. He looks at Roddy. He's still glad-handing, but whenever there's a break his eyes come to rest on Tina, and he has the look of a man who cannot believe what he is seeing. She's not looking at him, at least, and Rufus is relieved, until he sees how deliberately she is keeping her eyes away, as though a look will burn her. He moves to face Bettina, knowing that in doing so he will block her line of sight.

‘Stables convert so well,' he says, ‘they're so solidly built to start with.'

Bettina rouses herself to say, ‘I don't think the Floods will be converting theirs any time soon.'

‘True,' Rufus says, ‘but barns are the same, perfect dimensions for living. I often wonder what the people who built stables and barns would think of them being used as homes.'