The Valentine's Card (25 page)

‘Afraid?’ Maude’s neck lengthened at the word as she muted the television. She made barely a dent in her nest of sofa cushions. ‘Why afraid, dear?’

‘I haven’t been around much this week.’

‘Good!’ Maude laughed at Orla’s dismay. ‘Now, now, no gurning. You know I cherish your company but truly, I’d need a heart of stone to begrudge you your new romance.’

Orla stepped into the room, coat on, scarf wrapped, already halfway to Marek’s in her mind. ‘You sure you’ll be all right?’

‘I’m not a china doll.’ Maude turned up the television again.

‘Why don’t you nip out somewhere? A bit of fresh air would do you—’

‘What would do me good is for you to stop wittering on.’ The look Maude gave Orla was blank, her hyacinth eyes cool. ‘
Shoo
,’ she added deliberately.

Worrying about Maude, fretting that the woman never seemed to get out these days, consumed Orla for the whole of her tube journey.

It was impossible,
however, to brood with her bare bottom hard up against a kitchen cabinet and Marek inside her. A white bowl, a spiral of artful ridges, crashed to the floor. Neither noticed.

‘I love you,’ said Marek afterwards, as they stood clinging together, like survivors of a shipwreck. He pulled back far enough to see her eyes. His were weary and happy. ‘I really do, Orla. I love you.’

Orla opened her mouth but found herself silenced by his finger on her lips.

‘You don’t have to answer,’ he whispered, and kissed her unhurriedly. ‘I just had to say it.’

‘The students will have a field day if I go in wearing the same clothes tomorrow.’ The mews was still and grave in the dark, its merry trellises grey. Orla hopped from foot to foot. ‘Go indoors, Rabbit, you’ll catch your death.’

‘I’m fine.’ Marek shivered in a tee and boxers, arms folded, shoulders hunched. ‘Bring a change of clothes next time. Promise? This feels like an excuse to run away.’

‘Why would I want to?’ Orla leaned in to him, bent her head back, offered him her lips, an offer he took. ‘I love your bed hair.’

‘Christ.’ Marek put a self-conscious hand to his Keith Richards pompadour.

‘I like you ruffled. I like knowing it was me who got you that way.’

They kissed again, swaying.

Orla knew her fringe
was in her eyes, her mascara had bled Rorschach blots on to her cheeks, her nose was cherry red. She was suffused with feelings of gratitude towards Marek for loving her, just when she felt her most unworthy, her most discarded.

But, thought Orla, how could the enchantment last? For enchantment it must be. Orla was a reserve. Sim had known her inside out, thoroughly road-tested her and concluded,
Nah
.

A metallic purr announced the taxi rounding the corner of the mews.

‘Text me when you get inside your flat.’ Marek made a guttural noise in his throat. ‘You should have stopped me having that third glass. I could have driven you.’

‘The cabbie doesn’t look like a murderer to me, Marek.’

‘They’re the worst ones.’ He leaned in and gave the driver Maude’s address. ‘Do you have cash?’ he asked Orla, straightening up, patting his top and underwear as if there might be a stray tenner lurking somewhere.

‘Yes, yes, stop fussing and get back to bed. I’ll text you. Goodnight.’

She saw him decide not to say it again as he kissed her chastely on the forehead and waved her off, but as the taxi jolted over the cobbles before joining the smoother, fleeter road, Orla knew he loved her.

The cab stopped at the lights. She imagined Marek picking his barefoot way back to the rectangle of light stretching from his open front door, like a beachcomber hopping across hot sand. She leaned forward and tapped on the glass dividing her from the driver.

‘Actually, change of plan,’ she said, and named a road in Primrose Hill.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘It’s about time,
don’t you think? My mum’ll take Jack for a couple of days. Is this line funny? You sound as if you’re in the middle of the street.’

‘I’m having problems with this phone.’

‘Speak up! Why are you whispering? Nice if I could rely on Himself to look after his own son but he’s needed at the office yada yada yada.’

‘He’s a big high-up important bloke, Ju. Look, can we do this tomorrow? I’m a bit frazzled and—’

‘I can hardly hear you. So, which weekend is good for you? I want to come on a weekend so I get full value out of you. Don’t worry, I won’t kip at yours. I’ll treat myself to a hotel. You can come and jump on the bed, pillage the mini-bar. I’ll take you somewhere fabulous for din-dins. For me, next weekend is
perfect
for all sorts of reasons.’

‘Not for me, I’m afraid. I’m away.’

‘Away? Where? You never said. Oh, is it Marek? Is he whisking you away?’

‘No, it’s a college trip, to … Whitstable.’

‘Weekend after?’

‘Um, no, I’m looking after Maude.’

‘In what way?’

‘She’s not well, and she’s having a little operation.’

‘What sort of operation?’

‘A little one, on
her, um …’

‘You can just say you don’t want me, you know.’

‘Calm down, missus. I’m just busy, that’s all.’

‘Too busy for me? You’re never too busy for me. Or you never
were
. I need to talk to you, Orla.’

‘Juno, let’s please sort this out tomorrow. I have to go. We’ll sort a date. I miss you too, you know.’

‘Do you?’

‘I do. Good—’

Orla cut herself short as the porch light came on in the house next door. Ending the call, she ducked, hoping that her black outfit would be swallowed up by the dark hump of the hedge. A
trat-trat-trat
of claws conjured up a small dog preceding its owner out into the tiny, bin-filled rectangle that London estate agents describe, straight-faced, as a front garden.

Leaning further into her hide, Orla’s soft cheek encountered a hard sprig and she stifled her
Ow.

‘Poo-poo for Mummy!’ A stage whisper floated from an invisible figure in the porch. ‘Poo-poo! Come
on
! It’s freezing. Poo-poo for Mummy!’

Shrinking, eyes squeezed shut, Orla froze in case the brittle hedge’s indignant crackling gave her away. Too late, she cursed herself for not conjuring up a cover story. If Mummy’s poo-poo was not forthcoming and the woman looked her way, Orla had no valid reason to be standing in the hedge of a vacant house. Police might be called. At the very least the woman would jump out of her skin.

Thankfully the dog’s ablutions were swift and Orla was soon alone again, focused once more on number forty-nine, the house exactly opposite. Beatrice Gardens was leeched of colour in the weak light of the street lamps and Orla was cold, her gloves not up to a December night.

She could be in
Marek’s bed right now.

They always (already they had an ‘always’) began the night entwined, before each would sleepily loosen their limbs until they were companionably side by side. As morning crept across the room, so they’d curl back in to each other. She would wake up smelling him, feeling the softness of his hair and the slumbering vitality of his body.

This is what you’ve brought me to. You and your bloody journal
. Talking to Sim was no longer a symptom of missing him. To miss Sim would be so wildly inappropriate that some remorselessly logical department of her heart had simply closed the relevant section down.

This was about claiming what was rightfully hers. This was about justice, and answers, and peace of mind. Tonight was the culmination of her virtual vigil, the reason she’d stashed away each clue, each crumb.

Twitter had alerted her to Anthea’s unusual plans.

Crikey! Quiet night in on my own! I must be losing my touch! LOL;) x

Orla had already divined Anthea’s address, helped by the carelessly un-blurred house number and the clue embedded in the quote about living in a street named after an award-winning role. Orla’s archive of Anthea facts – useless in any other situation – had thrown up the Olivier for
Much Ado about Nothing
, a play that Orla had studied at school. She’d had a soft spot for the firebrand heroine and now, all these years later, had punched the air when a street map of Primrose Hill had thrown up Beatrice Gardens.

And now Orla was there,
and could stride across the road, ring the doorbell and light the blue touch paper with a calm,
I know about you and Sim
.

She’d do it by midnight. Orla had promised herself this when she’d alighted from the taxi and stood, irresolute, in the middle of the road. She had imagined storming up the steps, but the house was so tall – and so broad, and so complacently expensive – that it had cowed her and she had retreated to the handily sited empty property to regroup.

Excavating a spyhole in the dusty hedge was easy. The house behind her was for sale following what looked like a speedy renovation of white paint and stripped boards that had run out of steam or cash before it reached the jungly front garden. Through the untidy gap, Orla could see number forty-nine perfectly.

Two storeys over a basement, broad steps up to a handsome front door, Anthea’s house was as well presented as its owner. Repointed bricks sat as straight and correct as a computer-generated image, yet the property had all the character of its vintage. Early Edwardian, confident and wide, semi-detached from a less groomed twin, it had cost, according to Zoopla, a figure well north of what Orla expected to earn in her lifetime.

The hall light shone through the fanlight above the door. The sitting room curtains were closed, but not pulled quite together, allowing an uneven slither of warm lamplight to escape.

Anthea was in there. Possibly
on the moss green sofa Orla had admired online, possibly on the rug brought back from filming in Peru. Maybe Anthea was reading the journal, a book she only figured in towards the end. At will, she could flick through the intimate ins and outs of the early days of Sim and Orla, or she could skip to the finale and its car crash of lies.

It was almost midnight. Orla restrained her thoughts, keeping them from scurrying sideways. She must be strong and certain: right, after all, was on her side.

The soft swish of traffic circling Regents Park was like distant surf. Orla yawned. She’d assumed folk stayed up all night in these boho media byways. Only a handful of upper windows were still lit on the street, and apart from number forty-nine, one sole ground floor window attested to hardy types still up and watching a flickering television.

In Tobercree, the Cassidys regarded early nights as lily-livered giving in. There was always another round of tea to be drunk, another topic for in-depth discussion, another family member to lightly roast.
Lightweights
, thought Orla, as a light died in a loft to her left.

Eyes trained on Ant’s front door, Orla pictured Sim skipping up those steps, a beribboned champagne bottle in his paw. He’d fit right in. She could practically hear the confident tune he’d bash out on the brass lion’s paw knocker. The heavy lantern hanging in the porch, the bay trees flanking the door, the antique boot scraper on the caustic tiles, all these House Beautiful accoutrements would combine with Sim to create a visual medley of poshness.

When he’d visited Ma, bounding up to her hacienda-style bungalow, sidestepping the miniature concrete donkey with its panniers of geraniums, he’d taken great sarcastic delight in the doorbell that played ‘Waltzing Matilda’. All the curtains in the cul-de-sac would twitch, and Her Next Door would brazenly emerge to get a look at ‘the senator’s boy’.

Home yet?

If she ignored his text, Marek would call. Orla’s finger dithered over the letters on her phone before she barked at herself to get on with it. After tonight there’d be no need to lie.

Just got in. Goodnight. xxx

Orla downgraded
lie
to
fib
. Standing this side of an untruth, she saw how it shape-shifted. Presumably Sim had played similar games with the dimensions of his own lies.

She shied away from an
estimate of how many times he’d misled her and she’d cheerfully accepted it, jolly and innocent, a mug.

Goodnight, Orla. And I meant it. I love you. X

Had Sim blanched when the lie worked and the other party carried on loving? Marek’s simple message should have turned her heart over with happiness but instead it made her feel like a cur.

Across the road, the slit of light from Anthea’s sitting room died. Seconds later, the hall went black. Anthea was climbing the stairs, the stairs carpeted with seagrass. Orla stiffened. This was it. She had to strike before Anthea retired. She felt as if a great pressure was pushing down on her head, pounding her into the hard earth like a tent peg.

The light in what
must be Anthea’s en suite snapped on: Orla could see marble walls above the louvre half shutters. The glass misted up. The lady of the house was running a bath, or a shower. No point, thought Orla, giddy with the reprieve, in knocking on the front door while Anthea was naked and wet. Let her finish. And then, then Orla would have no option but to end this peculiar duet.

There she was! The bedroom, at the front of the house, was sketchily visible in the leaking light from the en suite. Anthea stood in front of the windows, arms up like an angel to pull the heavy curtains which Orla knew were a deep Cadbury’s purple. Anthea looked out into the dead street, looked straight at the house opposite, looked, or so it seemed, at Orla.

With one jerk, the curtains closed and the silhouette disappeared.

Five minutes to Orla’s self-imposed deadline. After, she could delete the careful biography she’d amassed with all the loving care of a number one fan and stay up all night reading Sim’s candid words after years of being spoonfed the careful compliments in his cards.

Prepared for the grenades hidden in the last few pages, Orla also hoped that earlier entries would prove that she
had
known the real Sim back then. That he
did
like chocolate chip ice-cream; that he
had
loved her once.