Drowning Rose (33 page)

‘All right,’ I said, trying to get the evening back on track. ‘Fine. I’ll wait until I do know him and
then
I’ll be judgemental.’

Gabriel didn’t look amused. I thought I might tell him that it was only with him that I appeared so critical. There was something about his unreserved enthusiasm that made me want to counter by being negative. It was one of our little ying and yang things, I suppose.

‘As I said, the man’s actually quite shy.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes, really.’

A silence followed. I looked down at the rug, counting the embroidered flowers. I got to thirty-three before Gabriel spoke.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to snap.’

I smiled at him. ‘It’s all right.’ And my smile grew bigger. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

He laughed softly.

‘What?’ I said.

Gabriel shook his head.

‘What?’ I said again, coming over all coquettish, looking up at him sideways, giving a little shrug.

‘Oh, it’s just something Jacob said.’

I sat up straight on the sofa and put my feet back down on the floor. ‘Jacob?’

Gabriel nodded, and still chuckling he started telling me a seemingly endless story involving a geriatric patient, the man’s son, a motorcycle helmet and a very angry staff nurse. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I watched his face as he talked and gesticulated. He was very beautiful. Not many men could be said to be beautiful but Gabriel really was. My mother had made me angry by saying he looked like a male model when she first met him but in the end she had to admit that he had character as well. I realised that Gabriel had finished his story and was looking at me expectantly.

I laughed, assuming the ending of the story had been as amusing as the beginning was supposed to be.

‘You think that’s funny?’ Gabriel looked puzzled. ‘I think it’s terrifying. If it hadn’t been for the staff nurse God knows what might have happened.’

‘Did I laugh? Sorry. I do sometimes when something’s really sad or terrifying. Don’t you remember?’

‘No, not really. Anyway.’

I waited but nothing followed. I was growing desperate. Here I was, all set to make the most of life, grab it, hold it, kiss it, remove all its clothes and jump into bed with it, yet nothing was going my way.

‘Don’t waste any more of your life, Eliza,’ I heard Uncle Ian’s voice. ‘Be a candle not a black hole.’ That wasn’t much to ask, was it? No, but could I do that one little thing for him? No, it appeared I could not.

Gabriel sat back against the cushions. ‘As I said, Jacob and I have been seeing quite a bit of each other lately. We’re both involved in a study on bone density. The holy grail, of course, is to encourage bone regrowth rather than just halting the decline and we’ve had really very good results.’

‘I think Uncle Ian might be suffering from osteoporosis,’ I said. ‘People don’t always realise that it can happen to men as well as to women. You do, of course. It’s your job, knowing those kinds of things but generally I don’t think people are aware of it.’

Gabriel listened politely before asking, ‘And how is he doing apart from that?’

I looked away, feeling tearful all of a sudden. ‘Not so good. When I left yesterday I suddenly had this overwhelming feeling that I wouldn’t see him again. At least not in this life. I don’t know what it was exactly but he seemed to grow smaller even in those last few minutes, as if he were disappearing already.’ I shook myself and cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be morbid. Katarina mentioned an operation but . . .’ I shrugged.

‘Surgery on the elderly is fraught with risk; that’s the problem. In fact that was exactly what Jacob and I were talking about just now.’

‘Gabriel.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we please stop talking about Jacob Bauer?’

Gabriel frowned. Then he shrugged. ‘Sure. What do you
want
to talk about?’

I swallowed an urge to say, ‘Me,’ and got up instead. ‘Why don’t we have some dinner?’

On the way to the dining room I checked myself in the hall mirror. I thought I looked like someone dressed for the funeral of a distant relative, suitably glum while not all in black and upstaging the real mourners.

I served the food and sat down. I wanted to be light and cheery, gay, in the old-fashioned Nancy Mitford sense. I wanted to be a woman as light as air in a light as air frock, a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other, throwing back my face and laughing. Then, when I was old I would tell our grandchildren, ‘Oh daalings, we were so frightfully gay, Grandpa Gabriel and I.’

I tried to think of something of interest to say. Something uncontentious. ‘You know Mrs Turnbull who lived next to us at number five? Well, she died last week.’ And I threw back my head and laughed, so frightfully frightfully gaily.

‘Are you all right, Eliza? Forgive me for saying so but you’ve been rather odd all evening.’

I drained the red wine, hoping that following the two glasses of white, it might render me unconscious. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired, perhaps.’

‘This is very good.’ Gabriel raised his fork on which was speared a piece of lamb.

I forgot the green beans,’ I said, getting up from my chair. ‘I’ll go and put them on now. They only take a minute.’

‘Really, don’t bother. There are vegetables in the casserole. And we’ve got the delicious bread. Really, this is lovely.’

So I sat back down again. ‘Uncle Ian gave me several of his mother’s notebooks,’ I told him. ‘They’re filled with stories: fairy tales, myths. He wants me to illustrate them. I never liked the man she used for the published volumes. His work was very seventies brown and orange and almost Stalinist in its lines. You know, the prince sticks his chin out and raises his sword to the skies. And the trolls look rather evil, which I think is wrong. Ugly, yes, cross, yes, but misunderstood I’d always say, rather than evil.’

‘Maybe you should do it,’ Gabriel said.

‘Do what?’

‘The new illustrations.’

‘I’m too rusty. My technique’s not up to it.’

‘Don’t be defeatist.’

‘I’m not. I’m realistic.’ But then I remembered Uncle Ian and I said, ‘Though I could go back and do some evening classes.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Gabriel said.

I beamed at him.

Silence fell.

After a while I asked, ‘So how have you been?’

‘Fine. Busy busy busy.’

‘I don’t suppose it can be much fun coming home late to an empty flat after a hard day’s work and having to cook and . . .’

He looked down at his hands and then back at me. ‘Actually, I’m not coming back to an empty flat.’

‘You’re not.’ I swallowed hard. The odds on Gabriel having got a cat were low.

‘I’m seeing someone.’

‘Ah.’

‘She, Isobel, is a registrar at the hospital.’

‘Ah.’

‘She’s divorced, too. She’s got a little boy, Edward.’

‘Edward,’ I repeated. ‘Is it serious?’

‘We’re not living together yet, not officially, but they stay over most of the time. We’re looking to get a place together.’

Now he’d got over the hurdle of breaking his news to me he seemed unable to stop talking. They were hoping to find a house in this very neighbourhood as that would be the most convenient both for the hospital and for little Edward’s school. Edward was a real bright spark. Just like his mother. Who had this amazing energy and
joie de vivre
. In spite of the fact that her life had not been easy.

I had tried to keep a neutral to interested expression on my face while my heart lurched and twisted in my chest. In the end I couldn’t stop myself. ‘So she needed you,’ I said. ‘She needed rescuing.’

He frowned. ‘I can see where you’re going with this but you’re wrong. She’s very independent.’ His face softened. ‘Well, she’s had to be, poor little thing.’

‘Orphan, is she?’

He looked puzzled. ‘No.’ Then his brow cleared. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been banging on rather, haven’t I? It’s just, well, I’m happy. I’ve told Isobel, by the way, that you are and always will be very important to me. And she completely accepts that.’

Good old Isobel. In the midst of my misery and my anger I felt this tenderness towards him as he sat there, all excited and pink-cheeked and sparkly-eyed, and so utterly without any understanding.

‘In fact, she really wants to meet you.’ He relaxed in his chair. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you understand. Then you always were understanding.’ He put his hand out across the table and searched for mine.

‘Was I?’ I fished my right hand up from under the table where it had been scrunching my napkin into a little sweaty ball, and reached out to him. We held hands for a minute or so. Then I eased my hand out from his grip, but reluctantly. I had always loved the touch of his hands, that were warm and dry and a little bit rough. I stood up.

‘Pudding.’

He picked up his plate and was about to follow me but I told him to remain seated.

‘You’re a guest,’ I said.

‘You’ve been crying?’ he said as I returned. He stood up, taking the bowl of Eton Mess from my hands. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought we were OK. I thought we . . . I mean, it’s been three years.’ We stood there, looking helplessly at each other. Then I shrugged and turned away but he took a step towards me and hugged me close. I tensed up as I tried hard not to press up against him and my arms remained limp at my sides.

‘I really am so sorry,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t realise.’

I freed myself from his awkward embrace and like actors after hearing the word
Cut
, we simply assumed our places. Pushing the bowl towards him I said, ‘Don’t be sorry. As you say, it’s been three years.’ Then a little vial of poison burst inside me. ‘Anyway, Isobel needs you. Not to mention Little Edward.’

He gave me an uncertain look as he helped himself to the Eton Mess.

I smiled politely. ‘Of course, I myself I have gone and contracted leprosy, silly me, careless as ever, but you know how it is? One minute you’re fine, then the next your nose is falling off. Plus we’ve got this termite situation. You know termites, the little guys who chomp their way though large timber structures in the time it takes you or I to eat a spoonful of Eton Mess. They came across with a consignment of bananas apparently and then they were brought to me by Ocado. But it isn’t all bad. No, not at all. In fact they could turn out to save everyone a lot of trouble and expense now the council has applied to demolish every house in the square to make way for that much needed bypass.’ I gave him another quick smile. ‘But enough about me.’

Gabriel was staring at me. Now he put down his spoon and said. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Nothing. Only you speaking of poor Isobel reminded me of my own small troubles, that’s all.’

‘You’re being very silly.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Maybe I should go.’

‘Isobel waiting, is she?’

He got to his feet. ‘No, as it happens. She’s at her own place this week. Half-term.’

‘Well, sit down, then, and finish your pudding.’

I watched him clear his plate. He had always had a healthy appetite. After a few minutes I said, ‘You mustn’t worry, though. I exaggerated when I said my nose might fall off. Your extremities don’t actually just fall off when you’ve got leprosy. No, what actually happens is that you lose all feeling because of the damage to the nerve-endings so you simply don’t notice when you chop a finger off while cutting up the carrots or that your nose is being scorched while you bend down to stoke the fire. But as I hardly ever chop carrots, preferring to eat them raw and whole, and as I can never get a fire to take, I’m glad to say that I should be safe.’ I got up from the table. ‘Coffee?’

He sighed and shook his head. ‘I think I’m fine.’

‘I’ve got an espresso machine.’

Once he had gone I went into Ruth’s room and stripped the bed, taking the sheets back up with me to my own room. I didn’t wash or take my clothes off but just crawled into bed and lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling and pretending I was counting stars. After a while my eyes were too wet for me to see properly so I closed them and tried to go to sleep.

Thirty-six

The next evening, as I sat down to write my email to Uncle Ian, I found it hard to know what to say. Should I lie and tell him that the evening had been called off? Or lie and say that the evening had in fact been a roaring success and that Gabriel and I were back together? Or should I not mention the previous evening at all and hope he wouldn’t remember that I had asked Gabriel over in a fit of hopelessly hopeful excitement? The one option I couldn’t contemplate right then was telling him the truth; that once again I had failed to get my life back on track. ‘Be happy, Eliza,’ he’d said. Could I not at least do that for him?

The phone went. It was Ruth. She sounded odd. ‘Ruth, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t sound it.’

‘It’s probably the reception. I’m in the car. I’d like you to come over please.’