The Valentine's Card (26 page)

The en suite was pitch black. Fear made Orla’s body weightless. A quote popped, unbidden, into her head, from
Much Ado about Nothing
. Benedick, Beatrice’s lover and adversary, had boasted, ‘
it is certain I am loved of all ladies’
.

If Sim had lived, he’d have
been perfect casting for Benedick. He was loved of all ladies, and the last two of them were arranged neatly opposite each other now, just about to merge, before flying apart for good.

Without warning, the clouds grumbled and Beatrice Gardens was drenched. Orla staggered under the rain, her hair plastered to her forehead in an instant, her nose dripping, the back of her neck wet.

She left the garden and stood in the street, watching the one window still lit in Anthea’s house. Inside her gloves her fingers were numb. This wasn’t the clean rain of Tobercree, that floated leaf boats down the lane: this was hard-assed London rain, swilling fag ends along the gutters.

A church bell, muffled by the downpour, tolled glumly.

Move!

Orla couldn’t cross the road: it was as wide as the Serengeti.

Move!

Sim’s last two loves were metres apart. One was indoors, pampered, warm, bath-fresh and sweet smelling, about to lie down beneath a jade bedcover; the other was out in the dark, blinded by rain, cheated out of her paltry legacy.

Move!

Orla’s obstinate feet wouldn’t obey.

The light in the upstairs window died.

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘Every cloud has a silver
lining, even a cloud that involves a ceiling falling on the heads of charming young people,’ said Maude. ‘I’m rather sorry you’re back in your classroom tomorrow. I shall miss you at elevenses.’ She placed a plate of toast slathered in honey on the shop coffee table. ‘There. Eat it while it’s hot. I heard you sneak in at all hours. Out carousing with your Polish hussar again?’ Living vicariously through Orla had lit Maude from within: she was like a geriatric super-model –
because I’m seventy-four and worth it.

‘Yeah,’ said Orla. It wasn’t entirely a lie. But, like so many of her recent exchanges with the people closest to her, neither was it true. She watched Maude tootle around her little empire, nibbling toast and tucking a book in here, turning one the right way up there. When Maude touched her books she was communing with a vast breadth of human experience, yet she couldn’t sense the turmoil going on just feet from her where Orla sat, eating toast, gazing out of the window.

It had foundered, the simple plan:
cyberstalk Anthea – discover a time when she’s alone – approach her to inform her that I know about affair with my man – take the journal – read it – collapse in heap – recover – live happily ever after – (with Marek
?)

A barrier of her own making had kept her in the rain at Beatrice Gardens until after 2 a.m. The gulf between herself and Sim’s lover had opened up like a ravine that yawned, unbreachable, in the short space between the parked cars and Anthea’s gate.

As each minute
ticked by, it had seemed increasingly unlikely to Orla that she could ever confront Anthea. She had no voice, just a squeak of fear and unhappiness. She would cry, she knew, and say the wrong thing – a string of wrong things. She couldn’t compete with Anthea’s power.

Anthea held all the cards. Anthea had been the one Sim loved when he died.

At some point, watching a darkened house had become too absurd even for Orla’s new state of mind and she’d trudged home, ignoring taxis’ flirty orange lights, to climb into bed just as the night gave way to dawn.

‘He seems awfully keen.’ Maude sat on the arm of the sofa, all the better to fish. ‘As does a certain young lady not a million miles from me.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Bogna’s never seen him like this. Said he’s had plenty of girlfriends but nobody special. Not until you.’ Maude stood and walked behind the sofa to slot a slender volume between two leviathans. ‘Accord ing to her, you’ve brought him back to life.’ She frowned at a Marian Keyes in among the foreign titles. ‘He’s certainly repaid the compliment.’ She leaned over the back of the sofa to say into Orla’s ear, ‘It’s rude to ignore little old ladies who are trying to make conversation.’

Orla laid her head back on the sofa, and regarded an upside-down Maude, glad of her, sorry to be shutting her out. ‘He told me he loves me.’

Maude clapped her hands together. ‘Of course he loves you! He has taste.’ Bending into Orla’s hair, she murmured, ‘I know you’re not as whole as you appear, dear. I know better than to trust this miraculous recovery. Remember I’m here.’

Startled by Maude’s clairvoyance,
Orla tensed. She stood and watched Maude drift away, humming, swaying her barely there hips under her voluminous skirt.

Maude would save her. Maude would say the one pithy thing that would keep Orla from her shameful internet scavenger hunts and her battles with self-worth in Primrose Hill; kind, clever Maude’s clarity would nail Orla’s folly so that it could never be taken seriously again. Maude would save Orla from herself.

‘Maude, listen,’ she began.

‘Customer!’ trilled Maude, looking over Orla’s shoulder. ‘Good morning George,’ she said, her voice sprightly as a lark’s.

‘May I have a word?’ George turned a tweed cap over and over in hands that were as gnarled, Orla noticed, as tree roots.

‘Of course. Is there a problem?’ Maude’s brow lowered as she approached him.

It was hard to harbour bad thoughts about George; he was old and gentle and mad about Maude. His timing, however, was regrettable. Orla’s secret buttoned itself back up.

‘Not at all.’ George dropped his voice – a pleasing voice, genteel with a slight crack that earthed it and reminded the listener that beneath the carefully pressed clothes George was a man. ‘Maude, I promised myself that today would be the day I finally told you something.’

‘Yes?’ Maude was encouraging, but Orla caught the shift in tone, as if the old lady’s toes were pointing away, ready to carry her off.

‘I enjoy visiting this shop. You
should be very proud of it.’

Go George!
Orla bit her lip, willing him on.

‘I
am
proud of it. Thank you.’

‘But really I come here to see you.’

George’s gulp was audible, and hopefully camouflaged Orla’s gasp.

‘Do you?’ Maude was carefully non-committal, in waiting mode.

‘Yes. As I’m sure you must know. I would like to get to know you better, but I don’t flatter myself the sentiment is returned.’

Don’t be cool, Maudie!
begged Orla, head down, crunching her toast
very quietly
.

‘Do flatter yourself, George,’ said Maude firmly, and Orla could picture the glint in her blue eye.

‘That
is
good news!’ George forgot to keep his voice intimate, so Orla didn’t have to strain as he said, in the manner of one proclaiming good news, ‘In that case, Maude, please do me the honour of coming out to dinner with me. Tonight!’ he added, speeding on the confidence she’d given him.

‘Why not let me cook for you?’

Celebrations on hold, Orla knew that George wasn’t versed in Maude-speak and might not recognise the question mark as rhetorical.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Just get your glad rags on and allow me to show you off.’

‘I’m a very good cook.’

George, read the signs.

‘I have no doubt of that, Maude. But I want to—’

‘You want to boss me about.’

Clang.
There it was, the change
of mood that Orla and Bogna and even Sheraz dreaded. George had provoked the one bum note in Maude’s shimmering range.

‘No, no, no.’ George sounded as baffled as Orla had been when she’d first ridden Maude’s switcheroo. ‘Not at all. But a nice restaurant, of
your
choice, wouldn’t that be a delightful way to spend an evening?’

‘No. It would not.’

Garlanded with icicles, Maude’s announcement had no response and Orla risked a peep at the couple. George had stopped kneading his cap. In fact, he’d given up all movement, standing like a statue.

‘Perhaps I should …’ George motioned at the door with his cap.

‘Perhaps you should,’ agreed Maude. After the bell’s hollow laugh she headed for the back of the shop, saying over her shoulder, ‘I don’t want to hear a word, not one word, about that ever again.’

Maude roughly pushed apart the beaded curtain and lingered in the back room for the rest of the morning. And Orla went upstairs, to seek out her iPad and her laptop.

‘Is it your dream, to be a teacher?’ Perhaps it was because English was Marek’s second language that he could say stuff like that without it seeming pompous. Or perhaps it was because he spoke as if he’d weighed the words and found just the right amount. He was naked, unconcerned about it, sitting up in Orla’s bed and eating grapes. They popped and died between his teeth.

‘Dream? Don’t know about that.’

Why was she
denying it?

‘It’s one of the most important jobs in the world,’ said Marek, perfectly serious. ‘When you have very little, education is riches. You’re responsible for little minds, Orla. Well, not so little minds in your present job. But you’ll go back to little minds one day.’

That was insightful. Until he’d said it, Orla hadn’t quite realised it herself, but yes, she would return to the bizarre world of interfacing with seven-year-olds. If he could see that, perhaps he could see other things. Orla stood and pulled her dressing gown tighter around her: she didn’t care to be transparent this morning, not when she’d risen early to trawl Sleb Snap while he was still asleep.

‘No, don’t.’ Marek pulled at the cord of her wrap and it opened. He moved and tugged her to him, so that his arms were on her skin beneath the dressing gown. His head nuzzled her stomach.

Orla put her hands in his hair: she felt invested with power as if she’d tamed a lion and made it come to her. She was tearful, unexpectedly. A great surge of tangled emotions rose in her. She wanted to speak but she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Anybody who has ever kept a secret would recognise the ‘stoppered up’ sensation that kept her mute.

‘Christmas.’ Marek let go, flopping back on to the bed, arms over his head. ‘What are we doing?’

Letting her hair fall over her face as she reknotted her dressing gown cord, Orla said archly, ‘
We?
’

‘Yes, hard-to-get bloody Irish,
we
. I know. I’ll cook a traditional English turkey for you and Maude. And Bogna. Unfortunately. Here. Yes?’

‘Yes please.’ Orla
felt a jigsaw piece click into its place.

‘And let’s plan New Year’s Eve too,’ said Marek, patting the bedclothes beside him. He patted harder when she ignored him. ‘Come here, woman.’

Woman came there, settling her face into his chest. ‘I’m not a fan of New Year,’ she said. ‘It’s maudlin.’

‘I’ve never been to Trafalgar Square at New Year,’ mused Marek, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Always looks crazy on TV.’

‘Oh Jaysus, Trafalgar Square!’ Orla shuddered. ‘Imagine it. Surrounded by drunks, freezing cold, everybody roaring, and then a schlep home in the small hours.’

‘In short, something you’d never dream of doing?’

‘No siree.’

‘But it kind of excites you?’

‘Sort of. In a
thank Gawd I’ll never have to do that
way.’

‘That’s decided, then. We’ll kiss at midnight in Trafalgar Square.’

‘No way, Rabbit!’

‘It’s perfect. A new experience for both of us to kick off the new year.
Our
new year. I’ll do this to you at midnight.’ His pout found her lips and flirted with them a little.

‘If you do that,’ whispered Orla, ‘I’ll have to do
this
.’ Marek’s eyes widened. ‘And in the middle of Trafalgar Square, that’ll get us arrested.’

Marek moved on top of her. ‘Worth it, though.’

*

Abena was out of breath. Her face, peeping around the classroom door, glowed with excitement. ‘It is a man for you!’ she gasped, euphoric. ‘He is handsome!’ she added throatily, her face promptly disappearing.

Glad to escape the smell of fresh
paint in their patched-up room, Orla gathered together her books and pads, aware that her cachet among her students had just rocketed. She tugged on her coat, glad that Marek had turned up, as if he knew she needed him.

An urge had been tugging at her hem all afternoon, like a precocious child. There was no need to go to Beatrice Gardens now that Orla had proved she couldn’t follow through and liberate the journal, but her subconscious disagreed. Orla was struggling to resist a pull she didn’t understand, the pull to stand and watch Anthea’s house, even if Anthea wasn’t in it.

And now here was Marek, saving her from herself.

A pack of students clustered around Abena. They straightened up and attempted to act normal as Orla’s heels rang on the tiles of the entrance hall. Abena pointed through the door marked ADMIN where a man lounged on an office chair, watching her approach. He stood, pulled at his lapel, shrugged his shoulders into position.

‘Hello you.’ Orla’s greeting stood firmly in the featureless no-man’s-land between friendly and unfriendly.

‘Time for a coffee?’

‘Sure.’ Orla threw a disapproving look at Abena’s gang, but the kissy noises only got louder, following her and Reece out of the building.

*

At a table of a family-run Italian café which took its coffee seriously and sprinkled oregano on the all-day breakfast, Orla defrosted slightly.

‘You and I had a deal,’ said Reece, sad and disapproving. ‘Still mates, we said. Keep in touch, we said. But you never pick up my calls. And you never get back to me.’

‘I’ve been
busy.’ Orla waited a moment, sipped her coffee. It was hot and thick and strident. ‘I’m seeing somebody.’

‘Marek? It’s …’ Reece cast about for language that would be acceptable to her. ‘It’s going somewhere, then?’

‘It might. It’s good. He’s nice.’ Marek would smile, she hoped, at such understatement. Marek knew how she felt about him … didn’t he?

‘That’s so good.’ Reece smiled indulgently. ‘You deserve it.’