This Is All (66 page)

‘But would you like to live with me?’ Edward said.

‘I don’t know.’

Lie. I did know. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to displease him by telling him. Which is a difference between a relationship with an older man and with someone more your own age. I wouldn’t have lied to Will as I lied to Edward that
day. You feel you need to please an older man all the time, and feel less sure of yourself because he has more authority and knows more than you do – two of the reasons why you took up with him in the first place.

Which is something else I learned from my time with Edward: the moment you lie to a lover is the moment the love between you begins to crumble. Every lie is a brick removed from the wall of your love. Every time you remove one the wall is weaker, and soon you’ll remove one that seems unimportant and the wall will collapse and that’ll be the end of it and maybe of you too.

Edward said, ‘Is that because we haven’t tried it? Haven’t lived together for long enough for you to know? I could fix that. I could arrange for us to go somewhere for a month or more even. We could try it out. Would you like that? Would that help?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lie again. The answer was No.

‘What then? Tell me. I’ll do anything to help you decide.’

‘Thanks, Edward. But …’ I was stumbling on my way to being honest, like he’d stumbled on the slippy pebbles, and I felt as foolish as he’d looked.

‘But what?’

I said, head down, talking to the sand between my knees, ‘You’re married.’

‘I’ll get a divorce.’

‘So that we can get married?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t want to get married. Not yet. I’m not ready.’

‘Then we’ll live together till you are ready.’

‘What if I never am?’

‘Then we’ll go on living together without getting married. I don’t mind. All I mind about is being with you.’

‘You’d divorce your wife just to have me?’

‘Yes. And there’s no
just
about it. Because I’m in love with you. You’re necessary to me.’

‘Really? How d’you know?’

‘Experience.’

‘When you married your wife—’

‘Valerie.’

‘– were you in love with her?’

‘Yes. Or I thought I was.’

‘Thought …?’

‘By comparison. It’s different with you. How can I put it? There’s more of it. More love. And it goes deeper.’

We talked about Edward and his wife, how they met, why they married, how things were between them now. But I’m not going to repeat it. It’s nothing to do with you and me, and I’d feel I was betraying a confidence if I told you. Enough to say he wasn’t happy, I felt sorry for him, and began to understand why he thought he was in love with me. I don’t think he was; he was infatuated, and looking for someone who admired him and needed him. It’s the story of quite a few middle-aged men, you’ll discover.

‘So,’ I said (to pick up the story from where it’s mine again and not Edward’s), ‘you’re saying you made a mistake marrying your wife?’

‘No, I’m not saying that. It was right then.’

‘And I’m right now?’

‘If you want to put it that way.’

‘If we lived together, how do you know someone else won’t come along after a while who’ll be more right than I am? And then you’d leave me to live with her, wouldn’t you?’

‘I suppose, if I’m honest, I can’t say that won’t happen. But I don’t think it will.’

‘And someone else might come along who is more right for me.’

‘Yes, that’s possible.’

‘Isn’t it a bit of a risk, then? I mean, for both of us.’

‘Everything that matters is a risk. Marriage, your job, having children, your health, crossing the street, flying in a plane, even the food you eat. Life is a risk.’

‘But some risks can be avoided, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Some can.’

‘And then you have a choice. Like whether to live with someone or not and whether to get married or not.’

‘Correct. Though if you choose against, you might be rejecting something that would make your life better. So there’s a risk even in choosing to avoid a risk. Look, Cordelia, I’m sorry if the way I’ve been behaving lately has put you off. You’ve changed recently. Been less … close. Is that why? You were as keen on me as I am on you, weren’t you? Are you still?’

I couldn’t answer.

After glancing at me and waiting for a reply, he went on, ‘Love, being in love, isn’t a constant thing. It doesn’t always flow at the same strength. It’s not always like a river in flood. It’s more like the sea. It has tides, it ebbs and flows. The thing is, when love is real, whether it’s ebbing or flowing, it’s always there, it never goes away. And that’s the only proof you can have that it
is
real, and not just an infatuation or a crush or a passing fancy.’

‘Doesn’t that mean you have to wait for long enough to be sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how long is long enough?’

‘I don’t know. There’s no rule. Every case is different.’

‘And you think we’ve been ebbing and flowing long enough to know?’

‘For me, yes.’

‘What about for me?’

‘Only you can answer that.’

‘I was told that the first stage of being in love – you know, the romantic zinging part – lasts from six months to thirty
months – two and a half years. Then it fades, and you either fall out of love, because you were only infatuated anyway, or you settle into love-love. Real love. D’you think that’s true?’

He laughed. ‘If it’s true, you still have plenty of time before you can be completely certain one way or the other. I can wait. In fact, it would be better if we did wait. You’ll be finished with school before the time is up and halfway through university if that’s what you decide to do next, or in a job. You’ll be fully grown up. And my kids will be old enough to understand what’s happening between us. Better all round.’

I didn’t say anything. There was no point in arguing. He’d always find a reason for doing whatever he wanted me to do.

After a moment he said, ‘Look, Cordelia. I’m only telling you how it is for me, making it as clear as I can, and asking you to accept me, lock, stock and barrel, no conditions.’

I couldn’t help feeling touched, even wanting to cry. What more could anyone offer?

I reached over and kissed him on the cheek and said, meaning it, ‘Thanks, Edward. You really are lovely.’

He returned the kiss and said, ‘You’ve nothing to thank me for. Love isn’t a gift, it’s a condition. It’s there or it’s not. It is what it is. It only exists because of the person you love. The loved person accepts it or rejects it. My love of you is a fact of my life. You take it or you refuse it. That’s your choice.’

Pause. Stuck.

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You could start by telling me what you feel about me.’

‘I don’t know. But I do think I’ve felt what you’re talking about.’

‘For me?’

Edward looked at me. A long waiting look. Wanting me to say. But I couldn’t. Because saying it would remake the spell from which I was trying to free myself. A spell I had to dispel.

Sitting there, huddled against the cold of a pre-spring day
on a mound of sand and flotsam piled up by the tides on the border between land and sea, I’d reached a crisis, a turning point, a nowhere-to-hide face-to-face confrontation with myself. At last I could no longer allow myself to lie, but I didn’t yet have the courage to speak the truth.

The silence of Cordelia.

Edward stood up, brushed himself off, straightened his mac, stared down at me and said, ‘William.’

He was right, but I couldn’t even nod.

‘William Blacklin,’ he said. ‘You felt like that about him. Yes? … Cordelia? …’ He bent down and kissed me on the top of my head. ‘A nod is as good as a wink.’

I nodded, once, just.

‘And you still do.’

One more nod.

‘But he’s gone. Isn’t yours any more.’

If I’d replied even with a nod I’d have burst into tears, and I was determined not to cry.

He turned and faced the sea. Took the couple of paces to the edge of the water.

‘You’ll spoil your shoes,’ I said.

‘To hell with my shoes,’ he said, deliberately allowing the next wave to cover them.

I stood up and went to him. Linked my arm through his. Stared, like him, at the horizon. Gulls swooped and cried above us.

Edward squeezed my arm with his.

‘I’ll just say this.’

I said, ‘No. No more. Please.’

‘Just one thing. If you live with me, you’ll always come first. Except for David and Linda of course.’

I smiled to myself. ‘Except for your children.’

‘You can divorce a wife. But there’s no divorce for fathers. Once you’re a father, you’re a father for life. And no matter what, your children have to come first. It’s natural.’

‘And once a mother always a mother.’

‘Of course.’

‘So what about your children? If I lived with you, what would happen to them?’

‘I don’t know. We’d work it out. I’d have to see them. Have them with me for at least part of the time.’

‘And me? I’m not ready to be married and I’m even less ready to be a mother. A stepmother least of all. You know what they say about stepmothers.’

‘That’s nothing but fairy tales. You’d be a wonderful mother, step or otherwise.’

I shivered.

‘You’re getting cold,’ he said.

But not from the weather. From his thoughts. The thought of Edward divorced, the thought of his children always coming first, and the thought of me as their stepmother. No no no.

‘Let’s go back to the hotel,’ he said, leading me by the hand.

It was over. I knew it was over. Left on the beach with the rest of the sea’s discarded flotsam.

We walked along the prom, neither of us saying anything. I wanted to let go of Edward’s hand but didn’t want to disappoint him. The fatal desire to please. The salt from the air was sticky on my lips. I felt sick.

Back in our room, I undressed straight away and stood under a hot shower for ages. Edward wanted to join me but I said no, not just now.

When I came out he was working on his laptop, sending emails. I looked at him, his straight handsome back, his strong neat round head with its close-cropped black hair, his ears as neat as the rest of him, and saw through him as if I were x-raying his mind.

I thought, It isn’t really his children who come first, it’s his work. That’s really what he lives for. The rest of us,
his wife, his children, me too, we’re only attachments.

I dressed in clean clothes, brushed my wet hair and put on a beanie, stuffed my things into my backpack and placed it by the door, and paused for a moment.

Edward was still working, unaware of anything I’d done, his elegant agile fingers tapping away. His power of concentration was one of the qualities that had always impressed me; I’d even found it erotic; and when he turned it on me with complete attention I couldn’t resist him. Now, suddenly, it irritated me. Little C whinged; Big C fumed. How could he ignore me, how could he be so calm, how could he sit there
tapping
at such an important time and after such a morning?

I opened the door and pushed my bag into the corridor with my foot. Still he didn’t turn to see what I was doing.

‘Edward,’ I said.

‘Yes?’ Still tap-tapping away.

‘I’m going out. I need to get something.’

‘Okay.’

Tap tap.

‘Edward?’

‘Yes?’

‘
Thanks
.’

Now he did stop and turned to look at me, but fish-eyed, his mind still on his work, and smiled and said, ‘Trust me, sweetheart. It’ll be all right. Promise. See you in a minute. I’d come with you but—’

‘No, don’t bother.’

‘I need to get this off. When you get back we’ll talk again.’ Returning to his laptop. ‘And do some laughing together.’ Tap tap.

‘No problem,’ I said – a phrase I hated and never used.

Tap tap.

I closed the door behind me, picked up my bag and hurried to the lift.

In the lobby, I wrote a note on hotel paper.

Sorry, Edward. I can’t do it. I’d always have to come first. And anyway I’m not in love with you. You’ve been so good to me. I am grateful. But I can’t go on. Cordelia
.

I sealed the note in an envelope, and gave it to the head porter with a persuasive tip, asking him to take it up to Edward in exactly half an hour. (Between them, Dad and Edward had taught me well.)

As soon as the train left the station with no sign of Edward, I felt such relief that I started to laugh till I began to hiccup and laugh at the same time and couldn’t stop. People were giving me worried looks. I stumbled to the toilet and locked myself in.

When the fit was over and I’d returned to my seat, another fit took over. Depression.

I’d behaved badly, I knew it, and disliked myself for it. But if I’d stayed, Edward would have talked me into going on with our affair and to staying with him on any terms, and I’d have given in to please him. And that would have been a lie and I couldn’t do it. I’d made a mistake and the only thing to do was not to go on making it.

But I also knew I needed help to get over the crisis, because I didn’t know what to do next and how to end it properly. And I knew there was only one person who’d understand and not judge me too harshly.

21

I called Julie the minute I got home. As soon as she spoke I knew something was wrong. Very weary. Very down. I asked if I could see her. She said she’d rather I didn’t, she wasn’t too well. Nothing serious. But she wouldn’t say what. Had she been to the doctor? There was no need, she would be all
right in a day or two, all she needed was some rest. Couldn’t I do anything? Well, yes, there was one thing. She’d run out of cornflakes and ginger ale. Would I buy some and drop them off? The back door was on the latch, I should leave the stuff on the kitchen table. I said I’d do that but didn’t say I’d leave without seeing her. (Ill and she wanted
cornflakes
and
ginger ale
?)

Is it a sign of love that news of someone being ill or in trouble drives your own worries from your mind? Because that’s how it was for me then. All I could think of was attending to Julie. She’d always been the one helping me. Now I could help her. They say it’s better to give than to receive. When love is the reason, to give is to receive. I wondered, as I raced off to the shops on my bike, whether I’d have felt the same if Edward were ill, and knew for sure I wouldn’t. And Will? No question: the ends of the earth.