A Bouquet of Barbed Wire, page 26
She howled. Lucky? She would never be lucky again in a million years. She said something to this effect quite inaudibly through the howls and one of them leaned in the window, looking concerned.
‘Are you all right?’
She nodded, miserably untruthful.
‘You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?’
‘No.’ Not much.
‘Because if there’s anything we can do—’
‘No.’ Just arrest me, please. A nice quiet cell would be lovely. ‘Thank you.’ It was good to know someone cared, even officially.
‘Where were you making for?’
‘Nowhere. I was just … driving.’
‘Well, you can drive on. Only not so fast this time, all right? Goodnight.’
She watched them go. She was quite exhausted and wanted to stay parked for ever. Pulling herself together briefly, she drove slowly to the next exit road and soon found a quiet layby where she could rest. Promising herself just ten minutes, she curled up uncomfortably in the passenger seat, imagining Geoff at the wheel, and fell asleep.
* * *
He was very angry. As soon as she walked in the door anxiety gave way to relief and relief to rage. Then coldness. She had seen it once or twice at the office, but always directed towards other people.
‘I suppose you have an explanation.’
The sight of anyone so ready for a scene always unnerved her. She went limp, as if the energy he had summoned up had been drained out of her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
She had prepared her lies in the car, with miserable efficiency, after the first shock of discovering the time had worn off but left her thoroughly awake.
‘I’m very sorry. Barbara’s husband went out and she wanted me to stay till he got back.’ She had heard or read somewhere that it was best to keep lies simple and short. But she hated the act of lying, and hated the necessity even more.
‘It’s ten to two.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’ She wondered how many times he wanted her to say it.
He poured himself a drink. She looked at the bottle and thought he must have had quite a few already. ‘And you couldn’t even phone?’
‘I told you, she’s not on the phone.’
‘Don’t they have call-boxes where she lives?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, monotonously. ‘I couldn’t leave her. She gets frightened on her own with the children at night. And anyway—’ the lies were beginning to stick in her throat—‘I didn’t think.’
‘No. That’s obvious.’ He drank his drink, glaring at her. ‘It never occurred to you I might be worried. Christ—’ and he suddenly let fly, ‘I thought you’d had an accident, I thought you were dead, I didn’t know what to think. You stay out half the night and you don’t let me know, what the hell am I expected to think?’
‘But you knew where I was.’
‘Did I? You might have been anywhere.’
‘I told you—’
‘Yes. I know what you told me.’
They were both silent. She made a final effort. ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry and I’ve explained. I didn’t mean to worry you. What more can I say?’ She was shaking inside.
He said, tight and hard, ‘It just isn’t good enough, Sarah.’
Everything suddenly broke loose. ‘No, it bloody well isn’t. For Christ’s sake, I haven’t left you for a minute in weeks and I go out one night and you make a big scene about the time. The hell with the time. It’s my time, not yours. It’s not office hours and you’re not married to me and I’m not your daughter either—’ She stopped. The look on his face was enough. ‘And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’ She felt very tired but relieved, as if they had suddenly reached the end of a journey. She walked past him to pour herself a drink and he grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her. She said quite calmly, ‘No, I’m not Prue. She likes that, I don’t. You save it for her.’
His hand fell away. ‘I don’t think you know what you’re saying.’
She went on and poured the drink. She was amazed at her own calm. ‘Yes, I know what I’m saying. I’ve just never dared say it before. You’re in love with Prue. Not me, or your wife, just Prue. You can’t bear her being married, you can’t bear her being pregnant. You don’t want me as a person, you just want someone to take your mind off her. But nobody can because you’re obsessed with her. As long as she lives you’ll be thinking about her and wanting her back. You’re going to ruin her life. What chance has her marriage got with you breathing down her neck all the time? Or your marriage, for that matter. Or my future. I can’t sit around being a second-rate substitute for Prue all the time.’
He was white and silent. Finally he said, ‘I’ve never heard such disgusting, ridiculous rubbish in my life. I love my daughter, I want the best for her, and that’s all. You can’t mean what you’re saying.’
Sarah sat down heavily. ‘But it’s true. Oh, why can’t you admit it? It might be easier if you could. Easier to bear or easier to cure, I don’t know. But we can’t go on telling lies like this and pretending all the time. That way nothing works—it can’t. Oh, why can’t you see it?’
He said, tight-lipped, ‘I’ll leave in the morning. Or would you rather I leave tonight?’
She shook her head, smiling, wanting to cry. ‘But it’s your flat. I should be the one to leave.’
‘No, it’s yours. I got it for you.’
‘But I can’t pay the rent.’ She started to cry. ‘You got Prue a flat too, didn’t you? Can she pay the rent or do you help her as well? Oh, why do you want us all to be so beholden? How can anything work if we all have to keep saying thank you?’
‘But you don’t,’ he said. ‘That’s not what I want.’
Sarah said, ‘If you want to be loved just let people go. Then they’ll love you. Just let them be free.’
‘Really? Do you guarantee it? And how free do you want to be?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Just … not a prisoner.’
‘And you’re a prisoner here?’
‘No. Yes. Well, it’s just … claustrophobic somehow. I’m not me anymore, I’m just part of the scenery. I’m beginning not to exist. One day I’ll go to the mirror and there won’t be any reflection.’
He was startled. ‘What? Why do you say that? It’s horrible.’
‘I know. It’s a nightmare I used to have. I wanted to tell you about it but you never gave me the chance. You were always talking about Prue.’
‘That’s not fair,’ he said. ‘You could have told me anything.’
‘Not really. At least I didn’t feel I could. There was always so much on your mind. Oh, I thought because you were older you could help me. But you never let me ask.’ She blew her nose loudly on a tissue.
There was a long silence. Then he said, ‘Someone rang up for you tonight.’
She froze. ‘Who?’
‘A man. He said, “Sarah, I’m back.” When I spoke he got very confused, asked the number and said sorry, it was wrong, he’d made a mistake, and hung up. Who was he?’
‘I don’t know.’ Why were lies so automatic?’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Just a boy I used to know.’
‘Used to, or still do?’
She said desperately, ‘He went abroad—’
‘Were you sleeping with him? Well, were you?’
‘Yes. Oh, why not? What does it matter?’
‘Were you in love with him?’
‘I don’t know. No. Oh, why all these questions?’
He said, ‘Look, Sarah. No one has ever loved me. I thought Cassie did but it turns out she cared far more about some crazy artist. My mother I never got through to. And Prue … well, you’ve said your piece about her.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. Maybe you’re right. I can’t tell. But all the people I’ve loved have … evaded me somehow. I’ve disappointed them all, I haven’t been … enough. I thought you were the one real thing in my life. Are you saying I’ve let you down too?’
‘No. I’m just saying … well, I had a life before I met you, that’s all.’
‘And you want to hang on to it. So if I asked you to marry me you’d say no. Is that it?’
‘You mean you want a divorce?’ Shock.
‘I want a new life, Sarah. That’s all. Is that so bad?’
She said, appalled, ‘But how can you? You haven’t let go of the old one.’
45
SHE SNEAKED out to meet Geoff at lunch-time, feeling guilty and furtive. Even the phone call had been difficult to organise with Manson in the next office. She was a little late and Geoff was already in the restaurant. He got up to greet her and settle her into her seat.
‘I ordered you a drink,’ he said. ‘You look as if you need one.’
‘Oh God, do I look a mess? It’s been a bit of a rush.’ She sank down and sipped gin and tonic gratefully.
‘No, you look marvellous as usual. Just a bit harrassed, that’s all.’ He held her hand under the table and the waiter pretended not to notice. ‘Look, no names, no packdrill, but I’m sorry I rang at the wrong time last night. Was it all right?’
She felt a great rush of affection for him, for looking the same and being so uncomplicated. ‘Yes, it was. Well, no, actually it wasn’t, but nothing to do with you, not your fault. I’m just sorry I was out.’
‘Out?’ he said, surprised. ‘I thought you were probably in bed.’
‘Oh no, no.’ She surprised herself with her own vehemence and remembered at the same moment that she had something else to confess. ‘I was out in the car. Geoff—’
‘Yes, now d’you think I could borrow the keys? I’m only here for a week and I’d like to get around a bit.’
‘Oh, Geoff.’ She heard herself almost wailing. ‘You’re not back to stay.’
‘No, I told you. I’ve got to be there for six weeks. But something cropped up and I had to come over so I thought, Not bad, I’ll see my girl and see my car, and all on expenses.’
The waiters hovered. Geoff began to say, ‘We’re not ready—’ but Sarah shook her head and ordered steak and salad in a rush. Geoff did the same, made a brisk decision on the wine, and leaned towards her rather anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, Geoff.’ She wondered if he had any idea how pleased she was to see him. ‘No, I’m not all right. I must talk to you.’
‘Talk away.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘But you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, you know that.’
‘Oh yes, I know. You’re lovely. Well, first of all, they pinched me for speeding last night. That’s where I was when you rang. I went for a … sort of burn up, I suppose, on the M4, and they caught me. Oh, it’s all right, the car’s fine, I didn’t have an accident or anything—’
‘I should think not,’ he said quite calmly. ‘I’d never have lent it to you if I’d thought you’d be careless. What were you doing when they got you?’
She flushed. ‘Oh, about ninety-five. It was silly, I’m sorry, but I just wanted to get away.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘What, from him?’
‘Yes. (Oh, I do wish I smoked.) Oh Geoff, I’ve got myself in such a mess. I don’t know how it happened, it’s sort of crept up on me. Oh dear.’ She finished her drink with a despairing gulp and thought, If it wasn’t so serious it would be really funny.
‘Now, just a minute. Keep it simple and start at the beginning. We’ll soon get it straight.’
Oh, you’re nice, she thought. I like you. I didn’t know you were so strong.
He said, ‘Is this the same chap who was around when I left?’ She nodded. ‘Is it your flat or his?’
‘I don’t know.’
His expression was comic. ‘But you must… Oh, I see. You’re living together. After all you said about never—’
‘I didn’t mean to. He’s my boss. Oh, please don’t be shocked—’
‘Shocked?’ he said. ‘Me?’
She heaved a great sigh. ‘Oh, when it started I thought it was just an affair, you know, and his wife was away … oh, I don’t know what made me begin … And then she came back and we had nowhere to meet and he … just took this flat, just for me, and I pay some of the rent, as much as I can—’
‘That sounds like you.’
‘Yes, only I hate not being able to pay it all, I just don’t feel right. Then … oh, it all got so awful, his daughter found out and she told his wife, and there was a scene and the daughter’s husband beat her up so she ended up in hospital, and she’s pregnant, and he left his wife and moved in with me.’
She paused for breath. The waiters brought food and wine while she watched Geoff absorbing the story. When they were alone again he grinned and said, ‘Well, I don’t know, it’s not safe to leave you for a minute, is it?’
She began to cry with relief. ‘Oh, Geoff, I’m so glad you’ve come back.’
‘Hey, what’s all this? You’ll ruin your lunch. Come on, eat it, don’t wash it.’
‘I can’t eat.’
‘Yes, you can. It’s easy. Just cut a bit off and put it in your mouth. Your teeth will do the rest.’
She began to laugh, choked, blew her nose. ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’
‘No more than I am. I’ve only been gone three weeks and already there’s a girl in Frankfurt who thinks I’m going to marry her.’ He paused. ‘But I’m not. Now tell me how I got into that one.’
‘It’s your compulsive charm.’ She began to eat, anything to be busy, to cover up the shock he had given her. (But we were never in love. Why do I feel like this?)
‘Sarah.’ Serious voice. ‘Come back with me. I mean it. I could use a good secretary, in more ways than one. If you’re in a mess, if you’re not happy, just cut the job and the flat, and get out. Come to Frankfurt. I can wangle it all on expenses.’
‘For three weeks?’ she said doubtfully, tempted.
‘Why not? Call it a working holiday. It’ll be fun, Sarah, try it. If you’re not in love with this chap …’
‘Oh, I’m not.’ It was out: she inspected the words with appalled relief. ‘But I thought I was. I really did.’ She shivered.
‘Well, we all make mistakes.’
‘Geoff, why should you rescue me like this?’
‘Why not? We’re old friends.’
‘Yes, we are, aren’t we?’ The words warmed her.
‘So old friends must stick together. After all, we do have an E type in common.’
‘Yes.’
He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve missed you, Sarah. I really have.’
‘I’ve missed you too. But that doesn’t mean—’
‘It means what it says. We’ve missed each other. That’s all. But it’s a start.’
‘Yes.’
‘Look, we’re not big on commitment, either of us. We’re not loyal, we’re not exclusive. Maybe we’re scared. But let’s not knock what we have. I like you more than any girl I’ve ever known. I even trust you with my car. What more do you want?’
‘What more indeed?’ She was smiling.
The waiter, hovering, seized his chance. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Geoff said decisively. ‘Everything’s fine.’
46
SHE CLIMBED a spiral of pain. When it was more than she could encompass, like drowning because you could not swallow enough, she blacked out. Coming to, there was a blissful moment of relief, of no-pain that felt like well-being, before it sliced into her again and screwed her up, making her twist into its own pattern. Mixed with it were dreams like memories of dreams, textures and sounds and emotions all mixed, so that she did not know where or when she was. But of who she was, she was quite certain. She said her own name aloud. ‘Prue. I’m Prue,’ and the knowledge comforted her. It seemed that she must hang on to it, because it was too late to tell anyone else. She thought, vaguely, that she was dying, and there was the satisfaction of being right, mixed with bitterness, when she thought, more precisely, how much there was that she had not had time to do. She had not thought so clearly before in terms of her own contribution to the world, and even now it was not specific: she felt that she could contribute more remarkably by simply being herself, than by positive action. She remembered herself as a child, on the swing in her parents’ garden, and again as an adult in the south of France, brown and oily and close to the earth. She saw herself playing netball at school, cutting her knee on a walk, at table eating stew and saying, ‘More please.’ The tears that came in her eyes were for her own remembered self far more than for the pain. The pain, although it was taking her over, was irrelevant. She saw her own existence as something separate: Prue, free and young, walking apart from the pain. She knew she was valuable; yet she felt she had never been valued, except by herself. The images she saw of Prue were like clips from an old film, so that she thought, That was me, that was my life. How unfinished, and how beautiful. No one had ever really appreciated it. They did not know the infinitely complex, messy texture she had tried to create. The Prue-person roamed about, through the past and the present, calm and gleaming, and capable of anything. And yet she knew she would not survive to do it, any of it; she would not make a mark of any kind. I am dying, she thought, of over-ambition, no matter what they put on the certificate; and my baby, too. She wanted to think that the child would go on, would continue the Prue-person in disguise, surreptitiously, under another name, but the fantasy lacked conviction. She stared upwards, over the huge curve of the child, saying goodbye to it, just in case there was nothing beyond; and when Gavin came in and rushed to her, appalled, she saw him but she could not speak his name.
47
‘WELL? HAVE you told him?’ Geoff’s voice was crisp as ever but intensified by the phone. She had jumped, when it rang, almost literally out of her skin, as the saying had it, so great was the shock of breaking such an extreme silence. She felt uneasy in her skin, in any case, as if it did not adequately cover her: she felt her nerves were exposed.
