Two Loves (17 page)

‘I suppose I have. Yes. It would be sweet to think of him calling round late one night when he'd had too much to drink, and being unable to get in. Sweet.'

‘But what if he rang the bell? After trying a few times?'

Ingrid thought about this. ‘Oh, I'd let him in, I suppose. So it wasn't all that much use, was it? Changing the locks, I mean.'

‘But perhaps it symbolised something. I remember my mother saying that she'd felt much easier and freer in her mind after throwing her wedding ring away. Getting her divorce through wasn't nearly as liberating, she said.'

‘Ben didn't give me a ring to throw away. No ring of any sort. Nor any promises. And I always knew he had another girlfriend too – someone he'd known at school, I think. Whenever he went home to see his parents, he always came back very dejected. I think she might have been married.'

Ingrid sighed again. ‘You see, I can't stop thinking about him. Before Ben, my self-esteem was in quite a healthy state. It hasn't just shrunk, it's shrivelled up. Even at the very beginning of our relationship he could never bring himself to say anything affectionate. The first time he came back here and we had sex, the only thing that really seemed to please him was the size of my bed. He liked the bathroom too. Said it was very sexy. Sometimes I think he only wanted to move in with me because of my big bed and my sexy bathroom.' Ingrid laughed, but the effort seemed to hurt her. ‘It would be just too humiliating to have him back now,' she said. And after a while, ‘But I probably would. Oh, let's talk about something else, for God's sake!'

‘Erica. Let's talk about Erica. Did you like her? How would you feel about writing her autobiography? Did you feel sympathetic towards her?'

‘Of course I did – another who loved and lost. But I think she'd much prefer to work with Ben. She thought he was really something, I could tell that. She's the sort of woman who'll still be flirting with handsome young men on her deathbed.'

‘If you'd like the job, I'm sure I could arrange it with her.'

‘Ben wouldn't give it up without a struggle. Once he knew the project was on again, he'd be back, you can be sure of that. Reminding her of the bargain they'd made, of the work he'd already done, of his achievements as a journalist. He stood to make a lot of money from that job.'

‘You told me you didn't know how much money was involved.'

‘He didn't tell me what his share was going to be, but I think he said Erica was likely to make something like eighty or a hundred grand after the paper had taken extracts, which they'd promised to do. And I presume his share wouldn't be less than ten, fifteen per cent. I'm only guessing.'

‘Something like ten thousand quid then. For two to three months' work – Erica mentioned two to three months. Wouldn't that be something to think about?'

‘Supermodels get a thousand a day.'

‘But they're eighteen and anorexic.'

Ingrid looked doleful. ‘Do you think we've learnt anything since we were eighteen? Anything worthwhile? What are your achievements since you were eighteen?'

‘Plain cooking; very plain cooking. Sewing patches on jeans. Hey, let's talk about Ben again.'

*   *   *

After a rather surprising lunch – coffee, slimming rolls which tasted like building material but were probably quite nourishing, and dried apricots – Ingrid took Rosamund to an agency she knew in Islington High Street. The woman behind the room-sized desk; chalk-white face, flame-coloured hair, black dresslet, didn't inspire confidence, especially when she begged them to call her Buzz, but immediately and rather proudly produced a one-roomed flat with bathroom on the landing, available for short-term let, for almost exactly twice the huge sum of money Rosamund had managed to get together.

‘I'll need to think about it,' she said.

‘Of course,' Buzz murmured with a very tiny smile. ‘We want you to be happy, happy, happy.'

‘Don't even bother to think about it,' Ingrid said when they got outside and could breathe again. ‘You pay half my rent for a week plus my airfare to Italy and you can have my flat and I can have a holiday.'

‘Wonderful,' Rosamund said. ‘That will mean I'll still have some money left for the rest of my life. How soon can you go?'

‘Will tomorrow morning be soon enough? My sheets are clean on this week and by great good fortune my food cupboard is completely cleared out except for a big jar of pearl barley which you're welcome to dip into. In a week you'll get everything sorted out and I'll come back completely cured of Ben with possibly a passionate new boyfriend who'll promise faithfully to ring me but won't.'

‘A week of destiny,' Rosamund said. ‘I feel faint.' And I feel totally inadequate, she thought. I dressed in a hurry this morning, my skirt feels too long and my shirt is faded and not really my colour. Everyone else here looks much younger and more dashing than I do. Why didn't I at least wash my hair last night instead of drinking too much with Dora? I've even got a touch of indigestion and my nose is probably as pink as a rabbit's.

‘Do I look all right?' she asked Ingrid as she left her, but was afraid to wait for a reply.
The fair Rosamunda,
she thought, with a smile that was almost a grimace.

She got to Eversley Place where Daniel lived by five o'clock. It was a warm afternoon, the sun golden in a mild blue sky. The street was rundown, many of the houses having boarded-up windows, but they had once been rather grand flat-fronted early Victorian residences. She imagined prosperous families living in them; several children and a servant or two, she imagined small boys bowling hoops along the pavements and little girls with Kate Greenaway dresses.

She realised that she was thinking of anything rather than the prospect immediately facing her. All the same, the light was mysterious, almost an evening light though it was still afternoon. The light of a dream, Rosamund thought, and I'll soon be waking from it. She dreaded what she would find, dreaded seeing Daniel as he might be.

*   *   *

Someone eventually answered the door – a young girl, blonde, slightly dishevelled, a small, pale face.

‘I'm a friend of Daniel Hawkins. May I see him?'

The girl smiled. ‘You're Rosamund, aren't you? We've been expecting you. Caroline told us you would come.'

‘How is he?'

A moment's hesitation. ‘He's upstairs. Follow me. I'm Marie, by the way. I'm with Edmund. It was Edmund who saw Caroline the other day.'

Rosamund followed the girl up the dusty uncarpeted stairs to the top floor. She knocked on one of the doors which had once been painted a brave shade of deep red, but was now blistered and shabby.

‘Yes. Come in.' It was Daniel's voice.

‘I'll leave you,' the girl said and went back downstairs, her tread light as a child's.

Rosamund opened the door.

Daniel looked, not just thin as she'd thought the last time they'd met, but painfully thin, almost skeletal. She felt she could pick him up and carry him away. ‘Rosamund,' he said, spreading out his arms for her. ‘They said you'd come.' He held her tightly. She could feel his heart beating very fast.

They moved to the bed and lay there together, neither saying anything. The room had an unhealthy air though the window was slightly open. After a while Rosamund wondered whether he'd fallen asleep.

‘I've come for you,' she said at last, her voice trembling a little. ‘Will you come away with me?'

There was a long silence. ‘I can't, Rosamunda. I've started on the bloody Methadone again and I go to therapy as well to try to keep sane. It's hell but I've done almost two days. I only started on it again because someone said you'd tracked me down.'

‘Does it get easier? It must get easier, surely.'

‘No. I've done it so many times, the so-called cure, but I've always given up on it after a while.'

‘I've borrowed a flat in Islington, only two stops away by tube. You could still go to your therapy.'

‘You can stay here with me.'

‘I will if that's what you want. But if you come to my friend's flat, wouldn't that be a new start?'

‘I've had too many new starts. I'm better off here where everybody knows how hard it is. How bloody impossible it is.' He looked into her eyes and stroked her hair. ‘Rosie, I'm sorry. I should have told you, but I couldn't. You looked so happy.'

‘I was happy, blissfully happy. But I was very unhappy the next day.'

‘I honestly meant to turn up the next day, I meant to tell you then. But it got to me – what I was losing – and I stayed here instead, getting high. Don't think you can save me, Rosie, because you can't.'

‘I know I can't. I know I can't do anything but be with you.'

‘And how long can you be with me? How long can you stay here? You've got your own life to lead. You've got a little boy, haven't you? You can't really stay with me, can you?'

Rosamund felt her determination falter. ‘I'll stay with you for week or two anyway. Have you been to therapy today?'

‘Yes, but it doesn't do any good. Fucking useless, in fact. Talk, talk, talk. Motivation for the future. All the great things we're going to do when we're clean. That sort of thing. Nobody believes any of it. It's all useless.'

‘What are the other people like?'

‘They're just people, good and bad. Of course the public thinks we're all crooks. Takes a lot of money, so we're all crooks, simple as that.'

‘So how did you get money?'

‘In the past, by selling things. Everything I possessed, in fact – my paintings, my paints, my furniture, my clothes. And all for next to nothing. These days I play the violin in various places, but I never make enough. That's why I've got to give it up.'

Daniel suddenly became restless and turned from her.

‘What's the matter? Are you in pain now?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is there anything I can do?'

‘No.' He rocked back and forth, doubled up with pain.

Rosamund caught sight of herself in a mirror; her face sharpened by anxiety, her eyes full of hurt and shock. She felt completely out of her depth. ‘I'm just going to find a lavatory,' she told him. He didn't answer her, didn't look up at her, only went on rocking, sweat pouring from his face.

She found a lavatory, but so wretchedly dirty that she couldn't sit and cry there as she'd intended. She couldn't go back to Daniel either, at least not immediately, so she went downstairs hoping to find Marie, the girl who'd let her in and taken her to Daniel's room. She'd seemed kind. Perhaps she could give her some information, help, advice, courage. She certainly needed courage.

She knocked on several doors, but no one answered. There were people inside, she felt sure, but perhaps locked up in their own private griefs. She went from door to door feeling helpless and wishing she was somewhere else.

At last she found Marie alone in a small, cluttered but fairly pleasant sitting room whose French windows were open to a strip of untended garden full of discarded mattresses, pieces of carpet and a large old-fashioned pram; scarcely a blade of grass.

‘Don't break your heart,' Marie said. ‘He's a super bloke and you must take him as you find him.'

‘But can't I help him in any way?'

‘Visit him. That's about all you can do. That may help him. Or of course it may not.'

‘But he doesn't seem to care that I'm with him.'

‘Of course he doesn't. He's going through hell, that's why. He's sick and in pain. Don't you know how it is? Don't you understand?'

They were both silent for a few moments. ‘Would you like to see my baby?' Marie said then.

To Rosamund's surprise she was taken out to the old pram in the garden. ‘Here he is. Three weeks old. Theodore.'

He was tiny, with a tiny wizened face.

‘Theodore. He's lovely.' Rosamund could hardly believe that Marie was old enough to be responsible for a baby. ‘Do you have everything you need for him?' she asked.

‘Are you a social worker?'

‘No. But I've got a little boy myself and I've still got masses of baby clothes.'

‘My mum brings me things. She comes to see him twice a week.'

‘Oh, good. Tell me, does Daniel's mum visit him?'

‘I didn't know he had a mum. You're the first one who's visited Daniel since Annie went back to America.'

‘His girlfriend?'

‘Yes. Annie something. She was all right, but I don't think he ever hears from her.'

They stood looking at the sleeping baby for another few minutes. ‘I'm pretty well clean myself,' Marie said. ‘Anyway, I'm off smack. But you see, I wasn't on it for long so it was easier.'

‘How old are you?'

She looked Rosamund up and down as though deciding what to tell her. ‘Are you a social worker?' she asked again.

Rosamund declined to answer her. ‘I need to get some things from the corner shop,' she said instead. ‘Will you be here to let me in again in about half an hour?'

‘Sure. By the way, I could do with some Pampers if you've got the cash.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Food. Cigarettes. Aspirin. Toilet paper. Whatever you can afford, basically.'

‘Fine.'

‘
Are
you a social worker?'

‘I'm not sure.'

*   *   *

Rosamund didn't feel up to spending the night in Eversley Place. She wouldn't mind, might even enjoy, buying stocks of food and other necessities whenever called upon to do so, but cleaning stairs and lavatories she wasn't prepared for. And though her standards were not of the highest, she wasn't prepared either for grime and dirt and no hot water for baths. ‘I can only do what I can,' she told herself. ‘It's wise to know one's limitations.'