A Place for Us (13 page)

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Véronique had said immediately. When Cat had tried to explain, she’d shrugged her shoulders in horror. “Why are you still there? Leave, for God’s sake, Catherine! This man is . . . he’s killing you slowly. What if you have children with him?”

A tear had run slowly down Cat’s cheek. She brushed it away.

“I know,” she said. “I had a miscarriage six months ago. He was glad. I was too, after a while, and now . . .” She started crying, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, rocking forward and backward, uncaring of who might see her.

After a while she said, “Sometimes I wish he’d hit me. To prove it. Maybe I deserve it.”

Véronique had leaned back as if she’d been hit herself, and there was a silence.

She didn’t leave him that day, nor that week; but once the words were out, it became something tangible. The look on Véronique’s face—complete bewilderment, pity, a tiny flicker of disdain was the closest Cat could come to describing it—was almost a wake-up call: the two of them had once been so close, not just in temperament but in stages of life.

When it was all over Cat could see how lucky she had been. She had got out before he’d sucked her further in. She had nothing else, and so much water had flowed under the bridge, the many bridges, that she could not now, ever, ring up her grandmother and explain. Martha, who had been so proud of Cat, who had raised her to be like herself, not like her mother.

The last time Cat had seen Martha was before Christmas a year ago, when she came over for lunch and to do some Christmas shopping and “to see you, darling, because I feel I don’t know anything about your life now.”

They met in Abbesses and ate
confit de canard
in a dark red bistro with views over the city. It was very different this time. There was so much Cat couldn’t tell her grandmother now. Something huge had happened to her, and somewhere along the way that had meant cutting everyone else out to try to cope with it.

Cat said as little about herself as she could. They walked around the shops in a desultory way, time dragging, until the hour abruptly came for Martha to leave if she was to make her train, and then she was gone. But Cat couldn’t help but keep with her the gloved hand on her arm. The whisper in her ear: “We’re always here when you need us, darling. Never forget that.”

Then the desire to blurt it all out had nearly overwhelmed Cat. To sob on her grandmother’s shoulder, tell her about Olivier, about Luke, Madame Poulain, about how she had nothing, how she sometimes missed lunch, how she had taken two pieces of bread off the table in the bistro for later. How she was doing everything wrong and couldn’t just change one thing, needed to start again completely to have any hope of unpicking the tangled threads of her life.

But at the fatal moment Martha had gently, for a split second, looked away, then at her watch, and—

“I must go, darling. Are you sure you’re all right? Tell me, you will always tell me, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes.” She had kissed her grandmother again, saw the tiny chink of light closing. “Please don’t worry about me. How can anyone be unhappy, living here?”

The scudding December clouds, the twinkling fairy lights golden in the gathering gloom, the soaring towers of Notre-Dame, the honk of the
bateau
-mouche
below as Cat watched Martha hurrying toward the Métro . . . She turned for home, alone again, knowing that something had changed. Too much time had passed. She could never really go back. This was her life, whether she had chosen it or not.

•   •   •

The following afternoon, Cat opened the door of the Bar Georges, just off the rue de Charonne. Despite her misgivings about returning, she liked the eleventh; real Parisians lived there, families—it reminded her of a happier time in her life. She checked her watch, always making sure she wouldn’t be late for Luke. Forty minutes. Twenty minutes here, twenty to get back.

She waved hello to Didier, the owner, and took a seat at the bar.

“
Ça va, Catherine?”
Didier was polishing coffee cups
,
and expressed no surprise at seeing her after three years.
“
Un café?”

“
Non, merci
.” Cat spoke in French. “Didier, I had an e-mail from Olivier yesterday. He said you have an envelope for me.”

Didier nodded. “Yes.” He carried on polishing the cups.

“Well . . . can I have it?” Cat said, trying not to sound impatient.

“He’s pretty sad, Catherine,” said Didier. “You have been very cold.”

Cat closed her eyes very slowly. “Huh-uh,” she said. She nodded.
Don’t get cross.
She pictured herself rolling up into a tiny ball like a wood louse, no part of herself visible or vulnerable.
Think of what you have to do.

Didier reached under the cold white marble bar. He produced a square brown envelope. Cat stared at it; it was thick. “This is it?” she said, but she knew the answer. Her name was on the front, the handwriting she knew so well.

“Yes.”

“So, you saw him?” Cat asked.

“I was down in Marseilles for the jazz festival. He asked me if I could help. I was glad to.” Didier slid the envelope across to her.

Cat didn’t know whether to open it in front of Didier or not, though her hands were shaking. In the end, she stood up and, clutching the envelope, waved it in front of him. “
Merci, Didier. Au revoir
.”

“You don’t care how he is?”

She stopped and turned. “Olivier?” She wanted to laugh. “Um—yes, of course. Does he care? About us?”

“Of course he cares,” Didier said, looking faintly disgusted. “How can you say that?”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

“You are the one who left him.”

Cat stood perfectly still. “I was pregnant,” she said.

“Yes, and—”

She cut across him. “He nearly broke me.” She said it very quietly, so quietly she wondered if Didier would hear. “He would have done the same to—to Luke.”

“He loved that boy. Like he loved that dog, and you—”

Cat shook her head. “No, this is wrong, you are wrong,” she said. Already she was terrified that Olivier was here somewhere, that he’d demand to see Luke, that he’d follow her home like before, that this was a trap. “He chose his name. I let him call him after his stupid dog, don’t you see how crazy that was? Don’t you see I’d have done anything to keep the peace? To stop him. . . .” And it didn’t matter now, it didn’t matter at all; but when she thought of any of it, it made her remember how low she had been. She had to leave. She had to get out of here, get back to her son now. She waved the envelope. “
Au revoir
.”

“
C’est pour Luke,
”
she heard him call as she banged the door behind her, stepping out onto the narrow street.

Fingers fumbling, Cat pulled open the sticky glue, tearing into the thick paper. She felt ridiculous, desperate as she was, standing on the street unable to wait until she got home. Her hands touched something smooth, not crinkly and rough as she’d expected. She pulled out . . . a piece of cardboard. Thick, corrugated, plump cardboard, with a heart drawn on it in a wobbling line of Biro, arrows shooting out of it, dripping with blood.

Underneath he’d written:

YOU DID THIS. I HOPE YOU ARE HAPPY.

Her first reaction was to laugh. How pathetic. Then anger gripped her, anger that he could yank her around like this, like a dog on a lead. She could hear him laughing at her now. She looked up and around, as if expecting to see his dark face leering out at her from an upstairs window. He’d always loved “practical” jokes, tricking people. He was laughing at her stupidity, at how she thought she was free but she wasn’t, because she’d still drop everything to collect a package from him.

She was like a dog, like a whipped dog; that’s what he’d called her the day after Luke had run away, out into the street, never to be seen again. The old Luke. “You’re my dog now,” he’d said, and he’d gripped her by the throat and pushed bread into her mouth until she’d gagged and managed to break free.

Cat threw the cardboard into the gutter.

The voices in her head, calling out for her to do something stupid, go back to Didier and scream at him that his friend was a beast, that he had made her like this, that he had ruined any chance he had with his son, were rising again. With a supreme effort of self-control, she ignored them. She scuffed her shoes on the dirty streets, feeling with every scrape on the ground that she was somehow wiping Olivier from her feet. When she reached the Métro, she banged open the plastic ticket barrier and walked downstairs onto the platform, hugged herself, pulling the thin cardigan around herself so no one else could see she was shaking.

•   •   •

After all that, she was early. She knew where she’d find them, just before the Pont Marie in the little Jardin Albert Schweitzer. As she approached, Simone, the mother of Luke’s friend François, looked up from her magazine.

“
Bonjour, Catherine.
”

Cat nodded, smiling. “
Merci beaucoup, Simone.
”

Simone smiled a little stiffly. She was one of the many people to whom Cat owed a huge debt, one she would never be able to repay.
Using up their goodwill when Madame Poulain’s was exhausted. Relying on the kindness of strangers, people to whom she could never fully explain her situation.

“Maman!” She looked up at the sound of his voice, the thudding steps, the feeling of hurtling toward happiness that was always, always the best part of her day. “Mum, Mum, Maman!”

He threw himself into her arms, her little Luke. His thick dark hair, his hard little body, his babbling chat, his sweet, high-pitched voice, caught between English and French all the time, as she was.

He was hers, all hers. And he was all that mattered.

“Maman, Josef eat a snail last week! He eat a snail!”

She wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could, brushed her lips on his forehead. “Ate.”

“Ate. Can we have pasta for tea?”

At the memory of her sad self standing on the pavement scrabbling to open an envelope that wasn’t full of money but a patronizing pawn in Olivier’s little game, suddenly Cat felt something lifting up and away, and floating out over the road, out to the Seine, away with the churning river. Something that made her feel free. She said good-bye to Simone, and she and Luke crossed the road toward the bridge that would take them back across to the island. She clutched Luke’s hand, so tightly that he shook her arm.

Everything was getting better. She saw it now. It could be good again, one day. She kissed his hand. It was a victory of sorts, for someone who’d had the fight knocked out of her a while ago.

T
HAT EVENING,
C
AT
crept quietly out of the
chambre de bonne
and downstairs to the kitchen. Madame Poulain was out playing bridge, as she was every Tuesday evening; it was the one time of the week Cat had to herself. Free from the little room she shared with her son, sweltering in summer, freezing in winter; free from Madame Poulain’s vermouth-soaked ramblings; free from the back-aching work when she had to stay late at the market. Sometimes she watched boxed sets that Henri lent her—she was very into
Game of Thrones
at the moment—but it was strange, watching episode after episode of
Spiral
or
The Wire
on your own. Usually she read. She made herself an omelet and salad and ate in a daze, staring out the window at the dark of the Seine and the glistening lights of the Left Bank. Not really thinking; just letting her whirling brain slow down a little.

Then she curled up in the big armchair with a glass of wine and a green Penguin paperback she’d been given by one of the booksellers on the riverbank, a nice old chap she said good morning to whenever she crossed the bridge. More and more she found herself drawn to the novels of her childhood, the books that filled the upstairs shelves at Winterfold: Edmund Crispin, Georgette Heyer, Mary Stewart.

Cat was utterly absorbed when the phone rang, and she looked at the screen with annoyance: Henri was always ringing to check up on his mother.

But no.
Appel international.
International call.

“Allô?”

A hesitant voice down the line: “Cat? Oh, hello, Cat!”

Cat paused, her wineglass halfway to her mouth. No one ever called
her on Madame Poulain’s landline.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Lucy. Oh good. Your mobile was switched off. I didn’t even know if this number would work. I’m sorry, are you in the middle of something?”

Lucy’s voice, the same as always: how could she not have recognized it straight away? Cat put the book down and said cautiously, “No, it’s lovely to hear from you. How—how are you?”

“Good, good. Thanks.” Lucy hesitated. “I think I’m living round the corner from BO Bee Man, though. That was partly why I rang, actually.”

“No way.”

“Way. He’s got the T-shirt and everything.”

Incredulous, and yet wanting to believe it true more than anything, Cat asked, “Is it black and yellow?”

“Sure is.”

BO Bee Man was a regular fixture of their seaside holidays in Dorset. He appeared on the beach at midday, clad always in black jogging bottoms, a black baseball cap, a black and yellow bumblebee-style T-shirt, and big black specs. He was about three hundred fifty pounds and walked very slowly up and down the promenade. Lucy once claimed she’d seen him weeing on a chained-up dog, but Cat never believed this. Lucy was a bit of a fantasist.

Cat snuggled tighter into the chair. “That is so random. Where do you see him?”

“On the way into work. He’s got massive foam headphones. He listens to Bon Jovi and Guns N’ Roses at full blast.”

At that, Cat couldn’t help but laugh, the tightness in her throat releasing just a little. “Please,
please
take a photo of him,” she said. “You have to.”

“I’ll try to catch him unawares. He usually walks past while I’m going down the Kingsland Road.”

“Dalston? What on earth are you doing round there, Luce?”

“Well, I live there,” Lucy said. “It’s lovely.”

“Get away. Dalston was like murder row when I lived in London.”

“How long have you been away?” Lucy said, sounding cross. “Eight years? Dalston’s like . . . it’s the new Hoxton.”

“Don’t I feel stupid,” Cat said mildly.

There was a pause.

“Listen,” Lucy said, sounding embarrassed, “I won’t keep you. I just
wanted to know if you’re coming back for Gran’s thing next month.”

“Um—I hope so.” Cat hesitated.

“Oh.”

Cat could hear the disappointment in Lucy’s voice, and she knew how much it must have meant for her to ring, and how much she missed her, and she said, “I’m coming, yeah. Absolutely. I just need to book my ticket and—sort out a few things.”

“Oh, right!” She sounded so pleased, and Cat felt the warmth of being wanted, loved even, running through her veins. “That’s so great.”

“Thanks!” Cat said, almost gratefully. Then she added curiously, “Um, what was that strange stuff on the invite about, do you know?”

“Not sure.” There was a small silence. Cat wished there were a button she could press, to take her straight into the groove she and Lucy had once had, the easiness that seemed to pick up where they’d left off every time: holidays, bank holidays, Christmas. Clare, Lucy’s mother, was often away, and then Bill took Lucy to stay at Winterfold. Every summer there was Dorset as well, a cottage of an old friend of their grandparents on Studland Bay. They had so much fun, that was the thing. They were both only children and, though there were a few years between them, they loved being together, were more like sisters than cousins for a while. Lucy, bold and imaginative, invented the plays they put on and the songs they sang. Cat could make anything, headdresses for a story about Greek gods, bushy leafy tails for
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
, and the one time when she really got in trouble: the summer of Cutting Up Her Mother’s Dresses for Dolls’ Clothes.

Martha had been furious—alarmingly, frighteningly furious—when she came into Cat and Lucy’s room just after the school holidays had begun and found them crouched over Daisy’s frocks, fixing pieces of fabric together with David’s huge industrial-size stapler. Cat had never seen her grandmother upset like that. The lines of her grandmother’s sculpted, delicate features were drawn into a rictus of rage: nostrils flared, thin eyebrows arched, teeth bared, like a hissing, angry cat.

“This was her room. She left those dresses for you, Cat. When she left. You remember?”

“Course I don’t remember. I was a month old.”

“Don’t be cheeky.” She’d thought her grandmother might slap her. “She left them for
you
, she said they weren’t to be shared with anyone
else, and she certainly didn’t mean for you to ruin them. How—how
could
you?” Martha had picked up the curved scraps of useless fabric in handfuls, letting them fall through her fingers. “The only things, the
only
things she gave you, she wanted to be yours, and you’ve ruined them. I can’t—no, I can’t.”

Glassy pools of tears wobbled in her cold eyes, and she had turned and walked out.

Cat had had to stay in her room for the rest of the day and night, alone, while Lucy slept in her father’s room on the floor. The long Laura Ashley seventies floral robes like a medieval princess might wear, the demure violet velvet sheath, the white lace confirmation dress, the printed silk sundresses, all in little pieces, were taken away and Cat never saw them again. The holidays passed as they always did, in a constant carousel of silly voices, funny dances, hidden treasure, songs they changed the lyrics to and sang over and over.

But something changed then too. The result of the episode with the ruined dresses was that Cat never really talked to her grandmother about her mum anymore.

After a pause, Lucy said, “If I’m totally honest? Things are a bit weird down there. That invitation’s only part of it.”

Fear clawed at Cat’s stomach as she said, “I thought it sounded a bit odd. The way it was worded.”

Lucy paused. “Well, Gran must have something to tell us all, mustn’t she?”

“Is she okay?”

“I think she is. I mean, she’s going to be eighty.” Lucy drew in her breath. “I think Southpaw’s a bit crook these days.”

“Really? How? What’s wrong? What’s he . . .” But the words died in her mouth.
Come home and see for yourself.

“It’s not about him, really.”

“What’s it about?” Cat said. She tried to keep her tone level, but she thought she might be shaking. She couldn’t tell. She was scared, though. Lucy was like the gate back into Winterfold, into a world Cat had to keep shut out.

Lucy took a deep, ragged breath. “Oh, Cat, I don’t know. The more I think about it all . . . maybe I shouldn’t say.”

She sounded miserable, and Cat felt a rush of sympathy for her.

“Hey, Luce,” she said. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want.”

“It’s about my dad. Dad and Karen. I’m worried about him. Well, about her, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s going on.” Lucy clicked her tongue. “I think—I heard her on the phone, last time I was down. Talking to someone. She’s having an affair, I’m sure.”

“Oh, no, Luce.” Cat put down her drink. “Really? Could it have been your dad?”

“Dad was in the bath. Singing along to
The Gondoliers
. And I know it wasn’t him. You could just . . . tell.” Lucy’s voice grew distant. “She sounded really excited. Happy. She hasn’t sounded like that for ages. . . . Oh, poor Dad. I knew she’d do him wrong,” Lucy said angrily. “I bloody knew it, the moment I met her.”

“I liked Karen,” Cat said. “Can’t you—talk to her? Maybe you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Do you have any idea who it might be?”

“No,” said Lucy. “I thought it might be this guy Rick at work; she’s always going on about him.”

“Who is he?”

“Her boss. And she said something about giving him HR problems with his work . . . how she didn’t want him to get into trouble because of her. In this awful flirty voice. Yuck. It probably is him, you know . . . he’s a creep. But—oh, I don’t know.” She gave a big swallowing sound. “Just . . . I don’t know what to do. And I feel as though if I could just talk to Dad, gently explain it . . .”

“Sometimes there isn’t anything you can do, Luce,” Cat said. “You’ve always worried too much about your dad. He’ll be fine.”

It was the truth and, as so often with the truth spoken aloud, it hung in the air like a sign written by a skywriter. They were both silent.

“You’re right,” Lucy muttered. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ring you up and pour my guts out to you, you know, Cat. I just wanted to ask if you were coming back. And, you know, say hi and everything. How’s . . .” She hesitated. “How’s life?”

“It’s good. How’s things with you?”

“All right. I can’t complain.” Lucy sounded flat. “It’s fine. I’m lucky to have a job, I keep telling myself that. And, yeah. You know. Flat has mice and my flatmate’s cat won’t catch them. Love life’s a disaster.
Except for this guy who’s just started at the pub, you’d love him, I’ve already got a huge crush on him.” Lucy talked when she was nervous, Cat knew.

“He works at a pub in Dalston? Is he a hipster? Moustache? Weird rolled-up trousers?”

“No, Cat! The Oak, in Winter Stoke! Joe, he’s the new chef. He’s won a Michelin star before. He’s gorgeous. And . . . shy. So shy you can’t get him to say a word. He’s got these dark blue eyes, and they look at you like—”

Cat interrupted. “The Oak? The grottiest pub in the world? Why’s he working there?”

“It’s been completely done up. It’s sad, though; no one’s going there. I’ve told Joe I’ll get Jereboam Tugendhat to review it. He’s the food critic at the
Daily News
and he’s got a crush on me. Or rather, he’s an old perv who likes taking young women out to lunch. I said I’d go with him in early December, that’s the next slot he’s got free. If he starts wrestling with my jeans, I’ll have Dad on speed dial and he can come and duff him up.”

Cat smiled, though she couldn’t imagine her lovely uncle Bill dashing into a pub and punching someone’s lights out. “Are you going to ask Joe out?”

Lucy gave a shout of embarrassment. “Not likely! He’d never go for me. I mean, he’s really nice to me and all, but he’s very sad. He misses his son. He’s got a son. He doesn’t say much either, that’s the trouble. Anyway, enough of him, I’ll keep you posted. Maybe I
should
ask him out . . . don’t know. So, how are things with you, Cat?” she said, not drawing breath. “I wish I’d called you sooner. It’s been too long. You know—”

“Oh,” Cat said hastily, “thanks. Things are good.” She knew how to deflect. Give just enough information away so they didn’t think to ask about the important things she kept secret. “It’s still really warm. I love it here this time of year, fewer tourists, and Madame Poulain is better when the summer’s over.”

“You and that crazy old woman, it’s so funny. I never understand it.”

“Oh, I like to keep myself mysterious, Luce. I’m really a spy.”

“Ha! That’s funny. . . . Actually, it is funny you should say that. ’Cause I do want to ask you something for an article.”

“So you’re writing stuff for them, then? That’s great.”

“Just this, so far. I have to actually produce something first.” Lucy
stopped. “Maybe it can wait till you’re back next month. You’re busy.”

Cat took another sip of wine. “No, go on. I’m not doing anything.”

“Well . . . okay. I want to ask you about your mum.”

Cat said, “What about my mum?”

There was a silence, and she could hear Lucy, who never had an unexpressed thought, working out what to say next. “Don’t know if the phone’s the best way to do it.”

She’s still so young,
Cat thought to herself.
How can she be only three and a bit years younger than me? I feel like an old, old woman.

“I’m writing an article about Daisy and—oh, hold on, that’s my other phone.” There was a muffled rustling sound, and Cat stared intently at the wall opposite, squeezing her toes and blinking as if she expected something else to happen, as if the saying of her mother’s name might invoke some spirit. She put her hand on her breastbone.
Come on,
she said to herself, exhaling through the pain of it, the stress of the long day, of the constant battle to keep body and soul together, for herself, for Luke. But she couldn’t think about her son now, no. She couldn’t think about how much she feared she was simply repeating the mistakes of the past, that she was her mother, that she had become that person, just as Daisy had predicted.

“Are you still there?” Lucy’s voice hissed. “That was Irene. God, she’s annoying. My flatmate, she’s got this cat and—”