Kitabı oku: «The Man I Fell In Love With», sayfa 3
‘Daisy has invited herself round for a drink later,’ I explained. I reached the study door and threw it open, so that the bright light filled the hall. Leo smiled.
‘It could never be a single drink with Daisy. Don’t let her lead you astray.’
‘I can’t afford to let her lead me astray.’
Leo let that go with a soft sigh. Even without a mortgage on this house, it had been hard to divide the wage from Leo’s university job between two households. I had no independent income: the research work I did for Leo’s academic studies filled much of my day and left no time for paid employment. I worked for love – of the subject, as much as of him. I had started off by supporting Leo’s obsession with Alice Hornby’s novels, but had soon come to share it, and I couldn’t give up the work now, however awkward it might be. We had spent years writing the new biography, with the prime intention of spreading the word about how brilliant Alice was. Now the stakes were raised: we needed the book to be a financial success too.
The study was exactly as it had always been: one large desk in the centre of the room, with chairs on either side, one for Leo and one for me. A battered sofa filled one wall, stuffed bookcases the others. I had hated this room growing up; my mother had used it to store all my father’s belongings, giving me false hope for years that she had known he was coming back. As soon as Leo and I moved in, I had hired a skip and thrown away everything that had been his or theirs. Now it was my favourite room in the house.
Leo sat in his chair and set up his laptop. We had a couple of hours to work before the children arrived home.
‘Is everything ready for the launch?’ he asked. The biography was being published in a couple of weeks, and the publishers were marking the launch with a party at the Manchester Central Library.
‘Yes. Here’s a first draft of your speech.’ I pushed a sheaf of paper across the desk. I always wrote Leo’s speeches for him. He was brilliant when giving a university lecture, but his style didn’t suit a public event so well. ‘I’ve arranged for Claire to look after you on the night, so she’ll make sure you’re in the right place and give you a nudge when it’s time to give your speech.’
‘Claire?’ Leo looked up from the paper.
‘From the publishing company. You’ve met her before. Luscious red hair and 1940s curves …’
Leo still looked blank. It had been a comfort in the past, his complete indifference to other women. Little had I known.
‘But why do I need Claire? You normally do that.’
‘I won’t be there.’
‘Why not? Is there something on at school? We arranged this months ago.’
That was exactly the point. We had arranged it months ago, at a time when I, at least, thought we were contentedly married. For a professor, he could be incredibly dense.
‘I’ve attended in the past as your wife. You have a new one now. A new partner, that is.’ I picked up a paperclip and started untwisting it. ‘Clark will be going with you, won’t he?’
‘He’ll be there. I need you too.’ Leo eased the paperclip from my fingers. ‘You deserve to be there. This book would never have been written without you. It’s as much yours as mine.’
The front cover told a different story: it only bore his name, just as the annotated novels had done when they were published. I hadn’t minded before – or not much. We were a team, and he was the public face of it. So why did a tiny niggle of resentment rise and stick in my throat now?
‘Okay, I’ll come. And the party at Foxwood Farm too?’
‘Of course. That was your idea. You must be there. Will I need a speech for that?’
‘No. I’ll pick a short passage for you to read from the biography. Lindsay, who’s organising the event, wants it to be an informal celebration of all things Lancastrian: literature, music, food, drink. The press will be there, as she’s hoping to drum up more business as a party and events venue. Hopefully we’ll have some un-Lancastrian weather, so we can use the courtyard outside as well as the main barn.’
Leo fought but failed to hide a grimace. It had taken a great deal of persusasion to convince him to support the event at Foxwood Farm, even though it was on the outskirts of the village; I hoped he wasn’t thinking of backing out now he would have to travel up from Manchester. He didn’t enjoy the brazen commerce of launching a book, and preferred to focus his attention on the academic side, leaving me and my lower sensitivities to deal with the business elements. Luckily I loved the promotion aspect, but I was going to have to work even harder this time.
‘After the official launch, I’m going to tour around local independent bookshops to see if any are interested in stocking it, or even holding an event with you, a signing or something like that.’
Leo pulled his face again.
‘Will they want an academic book?’
‘Don’t call it that. We agreed we weren’t going to market it as an academic book. It will appeal to the general public too. That’s why we worked so hard on getting the tone right.’
It’s why I had worked so hard on the tone, ignoring Leo’s flights of academia: having read too many turgid biographies during my degree, I was determined that Leo’s wouldn’t be one of them. And we’d got it right, I was sure of it: Alice Hornby, the quiet gentleman’s daughter who had written passionate novels of love and desire from the secrecy of her bedroom, had come to life in our book, strolling through the paragraphs, her voice echoing with every turn of the page and her scent lingering above the words. It was a romance as much as a biography, designed to make readers fall in love with Alice as Leo and I had done.
‘I know you’ll do your best,’ Leo said. ‘If anyone can sell Alice, you can.’ He smiled, acknowledging our shared passion, but my response was half-hearted, too conscious that it was the only passion we now shared; in truth, the only passion we had shared for years. ‘But while you’re doing that, we need to start on our next project.’ His smile withered. ‘I’ve agreed to write that book I was asked to consider a few months ago – the one about Victorian writers. How society influenced them, and how they influenced society.’
‘But I thought you turned that down!’ He hadn’t been keen on the idea at all. The brief had been to include at least three chapters on the Brontës, which was like asking a Manchester United fan to spend a season promoting Manchester City.
‘I didn’t take it up. We were busy finishing Alice’s book at the time. Circumstances have changed now.’
‘You mean we need the money.’ There was no other explanation: it was literary prostitution, and it was devastating to see Leo caught up in it, even if part of me whispered that he had brought it on himself.
‘It would certainly help. From now on I will have to accept whatever I’m offered. If only we could find Alice’s lost novel! That would change all our fortunes.’ It was the enduring mystery of Alice Hornby: four books had been published, but a few surviving records had dropped tantalising hints that she may have worked on another, that no one had ever seen. Leo sighed. ‘But after all our years of searching, what are the chances of that?’
Chapter 5
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ Audrey said, as we hurried across St Peter’s Square as fast as our heels allowed. The party to celebrate the launch of Leo’s book was taking place in the newly refurbished Manchester Central Library. Although my invitation hadn’t mentioned a plus one, I invited Audrey anyway, to avoid that awful moment of turning up alone. Her comment felt more like a rallying cry than a real question, and I made no response other than a smile and a nod that could have meant anything. ‘I love the chance to dress up.’
She had certainly pulled out all the stops, brightening the usual grey Manchester evening with an electric-blue dress that would have made me look a frumpy Tory wife, but which Audrey carried off with panache. In contrast, my reliable grey dress – my equivalent of the little black dress, as black hair, Black name and black clothing made me feel like a pallbearer – seemed a predictably dull choice.
‘Chin up,’ Audrey said, linking her arm in mine. ‘Tonight is a celebration. This book is going to be a tremendous success. I couldn’t be prouder of both of you. I’ll need bubblegum on the soles of my shoes tonight to stop me floating to the ceiling with happiness.’ She laughed and drew me closer. ‘Keep an eye on me. What with the news about Ethan, no one will blame me if I get a little tipsy tonight, will they?’
‘Of course not.’ No one could ever blame Audrey for anything. She was universally loved. ‘What news about Ethan?’
‘Hasn’t Leo told you? Ethan has a job to do in London for two or three weeks – don’t ask me what, you know I haven’t a clue what he does – and then he’s going to take a sabbatical and come home for a few months. Isn’t that the best news? Both my boys with me again.’
It seemed heartless to prick her bubble by pointing out that technically Leo wasn’t with her anymore – or not as he had always been, living next door.
‘Why’s Ethan coming back?’ I asked. ‘Has he exhausted all the women in America now?’
‘Mary!’ Audrey’s glance of mock severity was probably deserved. Sometimes I was prone to forget that she was my mother-in-law, and not a friend. ‘Ethan isn’t like that. Deep down, he has the most wonderful, loyal soul.’ She dragged me up the steps and into the library. ‘Whatever gave you the idea that he played around?’
‘Leo used to tell me about Ethan’s girlfriends. It was a different name every time they spoke. Sometimes I wondered if Leo was actually jealous of Ethan’s single life …’ Audrey patted my hand. ‘When is he coming?’
‘Probably July, and you must help me persuade him to stay until Christmas. Wasn’t it fun to have him here last year?’
Christmas hadn’t been fun from where I was standing, but I suppose that wasn’t Ethan’s fault. I couldn’t see what use I would be in persuading him to stay, either, but luckily Audrey was distracted.
‘Isn’t this marvellous?’ she said, gazing around in obvious delight. ‘Is that the arts man off the television?’
I took a mental backseat and let Audrey rattle on as we made our way to the room where the launch was being held. I’d only been involved in the discussions at an early stage, so was eager to see how everything had been arranged, and I wasn’t disappointed. Alice Hornby dominated the room, just as she should. The one authenticated painting of her, a full-length image of her sitting at a desk, writing, had been blown up onto a canvas that filled one wall. Extracts from her novels and letters, in her own painstakingly neat handwriting, hung on vertical banners on each side of the room, and Leo’s book was displayed on a table in the centre. Behind the table, Leo and Clark stood side by side, arm brushing arm, chatting to a journalist I recognised from The Times.
I helped myself to a glass and winced as the dry champagne settled on my tongue. It would have been Prosecco in my day: Leo knew I preferred it. And as I downed half the glass, determined not to read any significance into the replacement, Clark caught my eye, smiled, and nudged Leo. Leo looked over at us, raised his hand in greeting, and carried on his conversation. That hand may as well have slapped me across the cheek.
‘Let’s mingle,’ Audrey said, tugging my arm again. If she carried on like this I would be covered in bruises by the end of the night: external ones, to match the internal ones. ‘Who do we think looks most approachable? What about the group by the window?’
She kept this up for the next half hour, as we toured round the guests, singing the praises of Leo, Alice, and the book. Leo and Clark were circling the room in the opposite direction, but before our paths could cross, Claire from the publishing company tapped her glass for attention, and after a gushing introduction, Leo delivered his speech. He carried it off brilliantly, his lovely mellifluous voice caressing each of the words I had written for him. Everyone laughed, sighed, and nodded at the right moments, and I was about to lead the applause when Leo fiddled with his glasses, a sure sign of his discomfort.
‘I can’t let the moment pass by without acknowledging the contribution of one special person,’ he said. This wasn’t in the speech. Was he going to declare his devotion to Clark, in front of all these people? In front of me?
Audrey and I were lurking at the back of the room. Even so, Leo found me through the crowd of smartly dressed people. He smiled, and I knew that I shouldn’t have doubted him.
‘There is nothing in life so satisfying as a shared passion,’ he said. Audrey took hold of my hand, clearly having less faith in Leo than I had. ‘This book would not be the success it is without the encouragement of my wonderful helpmeet, Mary Black. Mary, this book is dedicated to you, with eternal thanks.’
The second that followed seemed to stretch for hours, as no one knew quite how to react. Audrey saved the moment.
‘How marvellous!’ she cried, and raised her champagne glass. ‘To Mary Black!’
As the applause died down, Leo made his way towards us and Audrey melted away into the crowd.
‘You changed the speech,’ I said.
‘I only added the words that you were too modest to write.’
Too discreet, not modest: we never publicly acknowledged how large a contribution I made to Leo’s work. ‘Encouragement’ wasn’t the word I would have chosen.
‘Tonight seems to have gone well,’ I said. ‘Everyone I spoke to loves the book. There should be some glowing reviews at the weekend.’
‘I’m told there will be half a page in The Times. We’ll convert the nation to Alice lovers yet!’
‘And hopefully make some money in the process,’ I added, wishing that I didn’t always have to be the practical one, keeping a firm grip on the strings of his balloon, stopping him getting carried away with academic enthusiasm. It was the job I had done for years, never questioning our roles. I wondered what it would be like to have someone anchoring my strings, letting me fly high.
‘Mum’s enjoying herself, isn’t she?’
‘You know she loves seeing your success. And she’s thrilled about Ethan coming back.’
‘How do you know about that?’ Leo’s voice was unexpectedly sharp. ‘Has he contacted you?’
‘No, why would he? Audrey told me earlier. She’s hoping he’ll stay until Christmas.’
‘Christmas? No, he won’t last so long. He was made to be the single man about New York. You should come round for dinner,’ he said, unexpectedly changing the subject. ‘Clark is an excellent cook.’
‘Tonight? I had a snack earlier with the children.’
‘No, not tonight. Come round properly, for a dinner party. Clark,’ Leo said. I hadn’t noticed Clark creep up, and forced myself to smile. ‘Tell Mary that we’d love to have her over for a dinner party.’
‘Of course we would.’ Clark’s smile was undoubtedly genuine. It was infuriatingly impossible to dislike him. ‘Nothing formal. Supper with a few friends. Why don’t you two fix a date and I’ll see who else is free?’
‘Marvellous,’ I said, hiding my true feelings behind Audrey’s favourite word again. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
It wasn’t entirely a lie. I was curious to see Leo’s new home. The children had stayed over, but there was only so much information I could pump out of them. And I supposed I should be grateful now for any opportunity for a night out. An invitation from my ex-husband and his gay lover might be the best offer I had all year. It hit me, as the smartly dressed people swirled around me, the exotic cocktail of perfumes wafted past my nose, and excited chatter swept by my ears, that this might be my farewell performance on this stage. I had always been invited to these events as Leo’s wife. Where did that leave me now?
As I glanced around the room, searching for Audrey, my eyes were drawn to all the things I had ignored before: the reassuring touch on the small of a back; the secret smile exchanged across the expanse of the room; the speculative wink received with an encouraging blush. My radar was on high alert: I sensed relationships at every stage in all corners of the room. And I had never felt so alone in all my life.
‘Did Dad say anything last night?’ Ava asked the next morning, as she waved a piece of toast around, never quite bringing it within biting distance of her mouth.
‘Yes. He gave a speech about Alice Hornby. It went well.’
Ava tutted, rolled her eyes, and dropped the toast onto her plate.
‘I don’t mean about that,’ she said, fourteen years of accumulated disgust throbbing in every word. ‘Did he mention the sleepover?’
‘What sleepover?’ My own toast fell to my plate. I wasn’t going to like it, whatever it was; I knew by the way Ava was flicking her mousey hair in an artificially nonchalant way. She might look like a Black, but her character had been cut from the same cloth as mine. I glanced at Jonas, but he had his earphones in, and gave a shrug that either meant he hadn’t heard, or didn’t want to get involved. He resembled me, but his temperament was entirely Leo. It was hard to say which of them had the better deal.
‘I thought I’d invite a few friends for a sleepover, probably on the Bank Holiday weekend. Chloe can come,’ Ava said, knowing that I wouldn’t disapprove of Daisy’s daughter, and instantly making me worry who else she might want to invite. Surely not boys, at fourteen? My heart thudded at the very idea.
‘That’s great!’ I said, smiling too brightly in my relief that it was nothing worse than a sleepover. ‘We can rent a film and I’ll make popcorn and pizza …’
‘No need for that.’ Ava had twisted her hair so tightly round her finger that when she let go, it stayed in a ringlet. ‘We won’t be here. We’re going to Dad’s.’
‘Dad’s?’
‘Yeah, Clark said it would be okay.’
‘Clark?’
‘It’s his flat too. They have two spare bedrooms.’
So our one spare bedroom was no longer enough. My eyes flicked around the kitchen, taking in the relics of a family breakfast: toast crumbs on the worktop; a sticky trail of honey leading from the jar to the sink where the knife had been dumped; a couple of stray cornflakes on the floor; a puddle of milk on the table. And that was only as far as I could see: if I turned around, I would spot the pile of abandoned shoes, the coats and blazers thrown over the furniture, and the school books in a muddled heap, and not in school bags as I had requested last night. Of course Clark’s flat would be preferable to this. But I loved it here, whatever state it was in. My happiest memories were here, papered on the walls and blooming in the garden: memories of my father, before my mother drove him away, and memories of Leo and the children, before I had driven him away. One throwaway remark from Ava had prodded all my bruises: that was life with teenagers. I was a parent, not a human being: I wasn’t allowed to feel.
‘It’s a long way for everyone to go,’ I said, foolishly believing this was an innocuous remark. But that was another reality of living with teenagers: no remark was unarguable.
‘No, it’s not. If you drive us, it will only be an hour. And at least there’s something to do there.’
‘At Clark’s? What can you do that you can’t do here?’
‘We can go shopping, obviously.’
‘Shopping? With Dad?’
‘On our own. We don’t want Dad. He’s got less fashion sense than you. We don’t want to go to Marks & Spencer or somewhere like that.’
I discreetly felt the back of my top, making sure the M&S label was tucked down. It was rare that I had the advantage over Leo, especially where Ava was concerned. But then I stopped the thought, shame prickling across my chest. It wasn’t a competition. How could I be so disloyal as to feel a flicker of pleasure that for once I wasn’t the most embarrassing parent?
I stood up and began the usual morning routine of nagging and chivvying, in the vain hope that we might leave the house on time. Jonas chucked a few things in his rucksack, picked up an apple, ran his hands through his hair and was ready. Ten minutes later, Ava was still upstairs, titivating as my mother would have said. I bellowed up the stairs, sounding too much like Mum for comfort.
Ava stomped down after the third bellow. Her black eyeliner was so thick it looked like she’d applied it with a permanent marker pen, but I knew better than to start that discussion when we were pushed for time.
‘I’ve not finished my hair!’ Ava grumbled, standing a few stairs up from the bottom so that she could glower down at me more effectively. ‘Look at it!’ She grabbed a chunk and waved it in my direction. ‘I haven’t straightened this side. The kink is still there. I’m going to look hideous all day and it’s all your fault!’
Ava and her kink were legendary in our house: no one else saw it, but it caused her endless angst. And of course it was my fault, even though my hair was ruler straight, and if Ava did have a kink, it undoubtedly came from her Black genes; everything had been my fault since the day Leo moved out, and most of the time before that. The next stage in the familiar tirade was to blame me that she had inherited Leo’s mousey colouring, rather than my Celtic black hair and green eyes. Sure enough, Ava opened her mouth to begin the argument, but I bit my tongue, and whisked her and Jonas out of the house without another word.
It was no surprise that by the time we turned up at Broadholme, there were only a couple of minutes left before registration.
‘We were never late when Dad brought us,’ Ava pointed out. That was too much. Leo had done nothing but drive the car, oblivious to everything I had done to get the children from their beds to the car door. But before I could retaliate, Jonas patted my arm.
‘Chill, Mum,’ he said. ‘We’re here now.’
I nodded in response to these wise teenage words, and to make up for my near grumpiness, I used my pass to enter the teachers’ car park: the pass was a perk of being on the PTA, although we were only meant to use it when we attended meetings. While the children took forever to gather their stuff, I loitered in the disabled space, engine running like a furtive getaway driver. Three loud knocks shook my window. I pressed the button to open it.
‘Mrs Black, you know I should give you detention for abusing your PTA pass.’ Owen Ferguson peered in at my open window, a warm smile making a joke of his words. ‘I hope you have an excellent excuse.’
‘Can I blame the dog? That’s the traditional excuse, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Whose homework has Dotty eaten?’ Owen smiled across at Jonas, who shrugged, and at Ava in the back, who flushed pink and avoided eye contact. ‘I’d love to hear how missing homework can explain your presence in the teachers’ car park.’
I laughed. ‘Okay, you’ve rumbled me. Dotty is innocent. We were running late, that’s all. There’s no hope of escaping that detention, is there?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Perhaps we could discuss it over an after-school drink?’
An after-school drink? What on earth did that mean? An instant coffee in the staff room with a borrowed mug, or a proper drink in the pub in the evening? Did he mean just the two of us? Alone? A date? I’d never been on a date in my life. The moment stretched. Embarrassment stole over Owen’s face. Jonas and Ava were staring at me; I didn’t need to see them to know that. The ghost of Leo hovered over my shoulder. Owen’s head was framed in the rectangle of the window, gentleness and kindness engraved on every feature. How could I be anxious about anyone who reminded me so much of Leo?
‘A drink sounds great,’ I said. ‘Let me know when you’re free.’
Owen looked surprised, but then smiled with more pleasure than my agreement could possibly deserve.
‘I will do.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Come on, you two, time for registration.’
He wandered off, but despite his warning, there was no movement from within my car.
‘Mum!’ I turned to see Ava’s wide-eyed, stricken face. ‘What are you doing? You can’t go for a drink with Mr Ferguson.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s a teacher!’ Ava said this with the expression and tone of voice that might have been justified if she was outing Owen as a cannibal. But I could still feel the warm glow from his smile, making me defiant.
‘So what? I’m pretty sure he’s a man as well.’
‘Urgh, that’s just gross.’
‘What is?’
‘You and Mr Ferguson … kissing.’
‘We’re not kissing.’ Of course, I immediately started thinking about kissing. Could I kiss Owen? His lips were plumper than Leo’s. Would that feel odd? The whole idea of kissing other lips seemed odd. I had never expected to do it, had never wanted to do it, except once, in one mad, extraordinary moment … Heat rushed across my skin. ‘Let’s see how the drink goes first.’
Jonas pulled out one earphone, and grinned.
‘Go on, Mum,’ he said. ‘He’ll be lucky to have you.’
Ava reached across from the back seat and punched him on the shoulder.
‘Shut up. It’s embarrassing. She’s too old for all that.’
‘I’m only thirty-eight.’
‘Exactly!’
‘Dad’s forty-two.’
‘But he’s not going out with one of my teachers! What will my friends say? It will be so embarrassing. I can’t believe you’re doing this to us. You’re so selfish.’
Ava got out of the car, slammed the door, and stomped off without saying goodbye. Jonas loitered, passenger door open.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, gazing at me with eyes that were just like mine, only without the bags and wrinkles. ‘You deserve some fun. She’ll get used to it.’
I didn’t believe either statement, but leaned across the handbrake and kissed his cheek. He submitted before pulling away and strolling into school. I waited in the car park until he was out of sight, grateful that while I had lost so much, I still had my lovely, peace-keeping boy.
