After the Fall (12 page)

‘Your dad wants to go home now,’ she said, and I nodded. Dad had never stopped adoring his ex-wife with a quiet passion. It was the one bit of irrationality he’d ever displayed. ‘I’ll go with him,’ said Flora. ‘Could Sacha stop at his house tonight? She’s asked to, and she’ll be a tonic. Smiley girl.’

I looked at Dad’s old friend, with her wispy hair and the faintest suggestion of a widow’s hump. She
was
a widow, in fact. ‘Yes, please. She’s got a toothbrush in his bathroom cupboard.’

As soon as Flora moved away, a pair of my parents’ ex-neighbours accosted me. The wife clawed at my arm while her husband regarded me with drooping bloodhound eyes. Ex-neighbours, from before Mum and Dad became ex-spouses. I couldn’t remember their name. Bromham? Brigham?

‘So sorry. So sorry,’ whispered Mrs Ex. ‘Cynthia was one of the best. Such glamour. Such poise. Razor-sharp mind.’

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I lied. ‘Sandwich?’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ murmured Mr Ex.

‘Life goes on, Martha,’ said Mrs Ex. And then she added four utterly chilling words. And I do mean chilling. ‘She lives in you.’

The horrifying image of my mother living in me froze the blood in my veins. Abandoning politeness, I reeled past them and into the hall. The door swung shut behind me, deadening the hubbub. I stood for a moment, clutching my tray and breathing hard. There was a payphone in the narrow hall, and an old-fashioned smell of painted radiators and slightly mouldy telephone books. Hardly any natural light, just feeble, dusty stuff creeping through the stained glass of an outside door.

I wanted refuge from that sombre crowd, all looking sideways at me and idly wondering whether I’d killed her on purpose. They’d go back to their own lives, soon. They could watch telly, feed the cat, talk about the lovely funeral and how dignified Vincent had been. But I wasn’t alone. A sprawling male figure slumped on a chair by the phone, invading the space, spoiling the sanctuary; I had a vague impression of dark, rampaging hair. He raised his head, and I found myself staring into a pair of uncannily vivid eyes—cobalt blue, under heavy brows. They weren’t quite focused, but they were mesmeric.

‘No,’ he said loudly. The voice was unmistakeably slurred, but I didn’t mind. Helpless inebriation was much more fitting than wordless hand clasping. ‘I don’t want a focking sandwich.’

And those were Kit’s first words to me. Our eyes met over a focking sandwich.

I lowered my tray to the floor. ‘Go on, take a couple. Mop up the alcohol.’ ‘Disgraceful behaviour. I’m drunk at a funeral, and it isn’t even my own.’ He looked thirty or so, just a little older than me. The striking eyes were spaced wide apart in a pale, shield-shaped face. An overcoat and scarf hung over one arm. ‘Did you know her?’ he asked.

‘No. No, I’m just a waitress.’ I closed my own eyes for a moment. Couldn’t shut it out, though. Death isn’t shut-outable.

He hiccupped. ‘Waitress.’ Dimly, I wondered about the engaging lilt of his accent. It wasn’t strong, but I’ve an ear for these things. Ireland. West coast, maybe. ‘Me neither. I’ve spoken to Mrs Cynthia Vale . . . actually, I could count the number of times on this hand. I don’t think she liked me.’

‘So are you one of these funeral junkies? Did you come for the free booze?’

‘You’re a funny kind of waitress,’ he said mildly. ‘No, not a funeral junkie. I’m flying the flag. My uncle is great mates with Vinnie, but he’s in Madeira.’

‘Well. You’re the only one who’s bothered to get drunk for her.’

He smiled. ‘You know, I saw you and your little girl in church. You were following the coffin with your sister. The three of you look very alike, but none of you resemble Mrs Vale very much at all.’ His eyes were alight with humour, and I found myself smiling back.

‘Thank you,’ I said fervently. ‘That’s the most comforting thing anyone’s said to me all day. Where are you from?’

‘Shepherd’s Bush.’

‘No you’re not. Sorry, but you just aren’t.’

‘Okay, Sherlock. County Kerry.’

‘Hmm.’ I sat down on the floor beside my tray, stretching my legs across the corridor. ‘So what brought you to Shepherd’s Bush?’

‘Long story.’

‘Go on. I’ve got oodles of time. I’m
never
going back into that bar.’

He glanced at his watch, then slid off the chair and leaned his back against the opposite wall to mine. We pressed our four feet companionably together, like a pair of schoolkids at break time. He was wearing a dark suit and a sober silk tie, slightly loosened. His shoes were posh, black and polished; mine were cheap, grey and scuffed.

‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Since you’ve asked.’ His family had existed on the west coast of Ireland forever, it seemed, farming in the ancient hills. He was eighteen when his father died of a heart attack during a bracing dip in the Atlantic. As he was the only son, his mother and five sisters—he called them ‘the coven’—expected him to run the farm and save the family fortunes. But my new friend didn’t want to be a farmer. He dreaded living and dying in that community, the latest in a perennial stream, known only as his father’s son. So he ran away to art college in Dublin—where he picked up a wife— and then to London, where she promptly left him.

‘And in London I stayed,’ he finished. ‘And here I am.’

‘What happened to the farm?’

‘Coven made a go of it. They keep goats. They make cheese.’

‘Cheese?’

‘Organic goats’ cheese. Wins awards, you can buy it in Harrods. So there you go—diversify to survive. I’ve been gone nearly half my life, but whenever I visit they blather on at me. They can’t believe I’ll not come home in the end.’

I felt his shoes pressing against mine; I was intensely aware of the contact, as though my whole nervous system was centred in the soles of my feet.

‘I’m off in five minutes,’ he said, and I felt a tug of regret.

‘Not driving, I hope?’

‘No. I left my phone somewhere, so I called a taxi on this old-fashioned tellingbone. They’ll be here at half past.’

‘Oh.’

He didn’t move. ‘Coming with me?’

I felt my eyes prickling. ‘I can’t. I’ve got to stay here and do this . . . do this . . . all this funeral thing.’

With surprising swiftness, he was at my side. ‘But will you be all right?’

There was more caring in those six words than all the tragic clawing and don’t-know-what-to-say and your-mother-was-a-wonderful-woman-who-frigging-well-lives-in-you. I was so grateful. It tipped me over the edge.

‘I’ve got no mother,’ I sobbed in panic. ‘She was a bitch. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe I am. Not sure.’

‘I expect you both were.’

I pressed my nose into a tissue, gulping, dimly aware that my cheeks must be traffic-light red. ‘We started fighting when I was about . . . I dunno, a day old? She said she couldn’t believe I was hers. I disappointed her every step of the way. Everything was a battlefield. Piano—I didn’t practise; friends—she banned them; meals—I wouldn’t eat them. But none of it was for
me
. It was all about her status as an icon of bloody womanhood. I ditched my law degree and she didn’t speak to me for a year. When I was twenty-one I got pregnant.’

‘Did you marry the father?’

‘What father?’

‘Ah.’

‘I went to the hospital on her birthday last week. Couldn’t even get that right, could I? My daughter made a beautiful card, I baked a cake, thought she’d approve of that—kissed her and I had a strep throat. It finished her off.’

He drew my hair from my face, and I felt his fingers brush my ear. Vincent Vale chose that moment to appear in the doorway. He spent most of his life prowling around on soft-soled shoes, trying to catch people out. His gaze fell on me, the murdering baggage, sobbing all over a dark stranger.

‘Not here,’ he muttered, and disappeared the way he’d come.

‘Ambiguous,’ said Drunk Man. ‘Ambiguous, I call that. What’s not here? Who’s not here? He’s not, you’re not, I’m not?’ He lifted one of my curls and held it against his cheek. I could smell the starch in his shirt. A button had come adrift. I glimpsed pale skin beneath the cotton, and felt a strong urge to slide my fingers inside. I didn’t think he’d mind.

Shameless hussy!
Mum was enraged.
I’m not cold in my grave, and you’re
fantasising about—
From the street outside, a car horn.

‘Your taxi,’ I said reluctantly.

He rolled easily to his feet and reached down a hand to pull me up. His grip felt more powerful than I expected. For a flickering moment, I was afraid of him.

‘C’mon. They don’t need you at this funeral thing, Martha Norris. Got the name right?’

‘I can’t possibly come with you,’ I said, as we made our way outside and up to the waiting car. ‘This is my mother’s funeral. I’ve got to behave decently.’

He smiled confidently down at me, shrugging into his overcoat, and I felt my insides lurch. ‘Come with me,’ he said quietly.

The meter was ticking, the driver bored. ‘Going to the station, mate?’

‘Focus, will you?’ I insisted. ‘Where to?’

He dropped his forehead to touch mine. ‘You tell me. I love a magical mystery tour.’ Then he disappeared into the dark interior of the taxi.

Don’t even think about it
, howled Mum.
This is my funeral!

I hesitated, turning back to Vincent’s pub. People were leaving in little groups; they chatted and rummaged for keys, and cars were queuing to get out of the car park. I wasn’t needed. If I let this man go, I might never see him again.

That’s when I made the decision that changed my life. I gave the driver a local address. My own address. Then I ran around to the other side, threw myself onto the seat beside a perfect stranger, and slammed the door.

‘Will you get drunk for me, at my funeral?’ I asked, as the white car pulled away from the kerb.

I woke to the peaceful pitter-patter of rain on the window, and an odd relief that I’d buried my mother and could get on with my life. Ivory light was seeping around the curtains, and there was a wild-haired, unshaven stranger sprawled under my duvet. He lay on his front, one arm flung around my waist, a muscle twitching in the sandpaper cheek.

Carefully, I extricated myself and grabbed my kimono. Then I tiptoed across our scattered clothes—they were strewn all the way down the stairs— and into the kitchen. My visitor’s jacket was lying by the door; I remembered tugging it off as soon as we crossed the threshold. Shameless hussy. Muffin hopped out of her bed, padded over to collect her quota of adoration and asked to be let into the garden. While the kettle boiled, I phoned Dad.

‘Sacha’s still in bed.’ He sounded dazed. ‘Fast asleep, like a little princess.’

‘How are you doing, Dad?’

‘Awful,’ he said. ‘I feel awful.’

It was his honesty that would save him, I thought. His willingness to admit weakness was his greatest strength. That was more than control or courage or stiff upper lips. ‘How about you?’ he asked.

‘Um . . .’ I recalled the lust and laughter of last night, and felt my cheeks flame. ‘Not bad. Shall I come over?’

‘No rush, love. Flora’s here already. A kitten pitched up on my doorstep in the night; a black, bedraggled scrap of a thing.’

‘Cute! You’re keeping him, then?’

‘Oh yes, I think so. Flora’s named him Bernard. I’m going to plonk him on Sacha’s pillow in a minute and see the look on her face!’

I hung up the phone, made a plunger of coffee and took it upstairs. As I sat near the man in my bed, he nuzzled his jaw into the pillow with a flutter of outrageous eyelashes. I trailed my fingertips across the muscles of his back. Last night he’d carried me up the last few stairs, both of us laughing, and his strength had come as a surprise because I’d had him down as the arty, elegant type—slightly dissolute, perhaps. I couldn’t imagine him setting foot in a gym.

‘You’re still here,’ I said. ‘Why are you still here?’

The cobalt eyes opened. Then he smiled as though he’d known me forever, and I was bowled over by a wave of desire. It left me short of breath.

‘Shouldn’t I be here?’ he asked, rolling onto an elbow and resting his cheek on one hand.

‘Who are you, really?’

‘Christopher McNamara,’ he said, holding out his free hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Yes, I know your name. I may be a slapper, but I don’t sleep with men whose names I don’t know.’

‘Non-smoker, thirty, good sense of humour.’

‘Single?’

‘Divorced. Told you that last night. Married two years—we were insanely young—divorced for seven. No kids. No baggage . . . and since then, just Lucinda and Zara and Bella and—’

‘Shut up. Solvent?’

‘Excessively.’

‘Sane?’

‘You tell me, Ms Bossy Occupational Therapist. Hey, d’you wear a uniform? Apron, cap, little stripy skirt?’

I leaned closer to slap his arm, and he caught my hand. ‘Single, solvent and sane,’ he murmured, pulling me closer. ‘And stunning.’

‘Hmm.’ That was true enough. ‘So what’s the catch?’

He never told me. I found out for myself.