Keeping Secrets (21 page)

The restaurant was in a narrow street shaded by tall buildings; there were awnings up, and tables set out on the pavement beneath them; she sank gratefully into a chair and asked for a glass of mineral water. It came, chinking with ice and lemon, and she drank without stopping, watched over by a small fat waiter with brilliantined hair and a pink shirt.

‘My wife the same,' he told her when she had recovered. ‘She is also expecting a baby – very difficult, this heat, for the mamas.'

Hilda smiled. ‘I'll have another glass, please.' She picked up the menu, fanning herself, and watched the passers-by for Stephen, and his easy, unhurried walk; waiting for the sudden flip of her stomach which came, always, still, whenever she had been waiting and he at last appeared. And how many times have I sat waiting for him in all these years, she wondered, sipping at her second glass. I have been waiting for him ever since we met.

A little dish of olives in lemon and garlic was put in front of her, with a basket of bread. ‘Something to keep you going,' said the waiter paternally. ‘You are ready to order now? Or you wait for your husband?'

‘We'll order in a few minutes, I hope,' said Hilda, seeing that the other tables were filling up fast. ‘Thank you, that looks lovely.' She ate, looking along the street again, reflecting on how far apart her two lives were: to sit on a sunny afternoon outside a good restaurant, to be waited on, as if she were a woman of leisure, supported and secure – it was not what she had expected of her life, and nor, in truth, were her circumstances how they must appear to the waiter: a cherished wife, waiting for her husband. He would not imagine her to be living alone in an attic flat in the East End, a teacher in a rundown college, a woman who had deliberately decided to bring up a child alone.

Stephen was stepping off the pavement on the other side of the street, raising his hand to greet her in the gesture she thought she might carry with her for the rest of her days, which somehow expressed everything in him she had found attractive from the beginning: someone who knew how to conduct himself, who, like her father, like Tony, was thoughtful and unhurried, never extravagant or showy in his dealings with the world. Her father, too, would have raised his hand like that to her mother – I love you, I'm here – whereas her mother would have greeted by waving, calling, running across.

‘Hello, darling.'

‘Hello.' She smiled up at him as he bent to kiss her cheek, dropping a small portfolio on to a chair.

‘Have you been waiting long?'

‘All my life,' she said lightly. ‘That's what I was thinking.'

Stephen shook his head. ‘Never think,' he said, pulling out a chair. ‘Especially in hot weather. Have you ordered?'

‘Of course not. I didn't know what you wanted.'

‘After all these years?'

He reached across, taking her hand, and she said: ‘I'm sorry about last night, being so cross, I know you're very busy. It's just –'

‘I know. You were right. And, dear Hilda, your version of being cross is hardly most people's. It's one of the reasons I love you – you never get hysterical, or throw things.'

‘That's just what I was thinking about you,' she said. ‘More or less.' She stroked his hand, still very brown from Italy. ‘I do cry sometimes, though, don't I? I cried the last time we met.'

‘So you did. Never mind. Don't cry now, will you? Let's have some lunch, I'm starving.'

The small fat waiter, summoned, took an order for pasta and green salad, beaming upon Hilda as he went back inside.

‘How have you been?' she asked Stephen when they were eating. ‘You seem to be rushing back and forth all the time.'

He twisted a forkful of pasta. ‘Things are getting a bit difficult, with the mortgage rate going up again. We'd begun to think we – needed a new partner – now we seem to be running out of work. But, of course, what we do do has got to be first class; we really depend on word-of-mouth nowadays.' He took a mouthful of wine. ‘Even so, there are still people with money. You'd be surprised at the number of people with second homes in East Anglia. Don't make that face.'

‘You'd be surprised at the number of people in Hackney who'd give anything for a first home,' said Hilda.

‘Never mind, let's not get into that one now. I only want to know two things.' She hesitated, nervous.

‘This sounds ominous.'

‘No. Just – it
is
work, isn't it, that's keeping you away? I mean, at home … is everything all right?'

‘I think so,' said Stephen carefully, and then: ‘I don't think you should ever write to me there again.'

‘Oh, God. I'm sorry. I knew it was a mistake.'

‘It's all right, nothing's been said. But there's been an air of … disquiet. I wasn't going to tell you, but since you ask, things at home are not quite right, no.'

Hilda was silent, running through imaginary scenes. At last she said: ‘I don't know, now, if I can ask you my next question, but I have to. Will you be able to be with me, do you think, when the baby comes?'

Stephen put down his fork and sighed. ‘I'll try,' he said. ‘That's all I can say. Tell me again when you're due.'

‘August the sixth,' said Hilda. She had carried the date before her, lit up like a motorway signpost, for so long, that it seemed quite extraordinary that Stephen could not remember it.

‘That's … five weeks, isn't it?' He took out his diary, and carefully pencilled in a ring. ‘I shall do everything in my power to have a week-long series of meetings in London,' he said, putting the diary back in his pocket. ‘But you – we – must have a contingency plan, mustn't we? First babies are notoriously late. Or early. Or otherwise problematic. Suppose I can't be here, what then?'

‘What then?' echoed Hilda bleakly, and thought suddenly: I need my mother. Father would have come, and waited, and brought flowers, but my mother could have been with me, and held my hand. Who else is going to look after me?

‘Alice?' asked Stephen, and she shook her head.

‘Absolutely not. She's too busy, and anyway … I don't know; she isn't pleased about this baby. I find it rather hypocritical. Still –' She looked away from him, along the narrow street, in deep shadow, and less crowded now. People were going back to work. ‘Don't worry,' she said, as much to herself as to Stephen. ‘I'll manage. Just – if you don't hear from me, you will telephone, won't you?'

‘Of course I will, of course. And I'll come the minute I can.'

‘Thanks,' she said, as if he were going to try to make it to a party. ‘I suppose this is another thing I should have thought of. Never mind.' Two schoolboys were coming along the street, and she seemed to recognise them from the party on the zebra crossing: one a stocky, mouse-haired lad, the other taller, suntanned, with straight dark hair and an easy, swinging stride. He wore a loosely knotted tie and carried a cotton jacket over his shoulder. As they drew near, Hilda thought vaguely that he was very good-looking; also, that she had seen that walk before.

‘Stephen,' she said, disbelieving. ‘You see that boy …'

He turned, glancing along the street, and the boy stopped, laughed, and waved.

‘My God,' said Hilda, and Stephen said quickly, ‘It's all right,' and pushed back his chair and got up, smiling, as the boys reached them.

‘Hi, Dad.' The tall dark boy pushed back flopping hair and grinned.

‘Well, well, what on earth are you doing here?' Stephen turned to Hilda. ‘This is my son, Jonathan. Jon, this is a client of mine, Hilda King.'

The boy nodded, and shook hands. ‘How do you do.' Another easy person to meet.

‘How do you do,' said Hilda distantly.

‘You remember Mike, Dad,' said Jonathan, gesturing to his friend, and Stephen nodded. ‘Of course. How are you, Mike?'

‘Fine, thanks.' Watching them all, Hilda thought: Stephen could be in personnel, or politics, just as well as an architect; he gives the impression he can handle anything, no wonder he has so many clients. And now, apparently, I am one of them. There came into her mind the image of Tony, also able to put anyone at ease, and with it the small, treacherous thought: but Tony is genuine with people, I know he is. Perhaps with Stephen it's all an act, a means to an end. It makes life easier for him.

He was gesturing towards the two other chairs. ‘Are you going to join us? We were just finishing …'

‘No, it's all right, we've got to meet the others in a minute.' Jonathan shook his head. ‘You're hopeless, Dad, didn't you remember I was coming down? I told you at the weekend.'

‘So you did.' Stephen ran long fingers through greying hair. ‘I'm obviously on the way out. Tell me again?'

‘End-of-term cultural expedition to the BM? Looking at nineteenth-century manuscripts?'

‘Now, how could I forget that? And how are you getting home again?'

‘On the train,' said Jonathan patiently. ‘You said you weren't sure if you'd be down here or not, so we didn't make any arrangements …'

‘Well, let's make one now,' said Stephen smoothly. ‘I'm coming home after this anyway. I'll meet you at the studio, okay? D'you want a lift, Mike, or will you be going back with the others?'

‘Well, I …' The stocky boy, clearly less used to social negotiation, rubbed his forehead, looking hot.

‘He'll come with us, Dad, for Gawd's sake,' said Jonathan. ‘Okay, we'll see you there. About four? Thanks.' He nodded politely to Hilda, with an expression which bore no hint of speculation. ‘Nice meeting you. Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.'

‘All right, chaps, see you later.' Stephen sat down again, and gestured to the waiter, who was flicking at crumbs on the next table, just cleared, with a pale pink napkin. ‘Two coffees, please.'

Hilda had not drunk coffee for months, but felt unable to remind him of this or, indeed, to say anything at all. The waiter disappeared inside again, and Stephen drew a long breath.

‘Phew.'

She looked at him steadily. ‘Did you really forget?'

‘I really did. I knew there was something: Bedford Square this morning, British Museum nearby, but … I must have a loose connection these days.' He rubbed his face. ‘Don't look so appalled. Now do you believe me when I say things aren't easy? When I'm in Norfolk I'm worrying about you; when I'm here I feel guilty I'm not there. Meanwhile, James is hoping to save the day by taking on a bloody great office development near the zoo …'

Hilda burst out laughing.

‘It's not funny.'

‘Two cappuccinos.' The waiter set down little white cups, and a bowl of sugared almonds.

‘Thank you,' said Stephen. ‘And the bill, please.'

‘I didn't mean to laugh,' said Hilda. ‘It must be the tension. Or relief. Or something … My God, he won't say anything, will he?'

‘There's nothing for him to say; he meets people all the time – Miriam's customers in the shop, my clients visiting the studio …'

‘Goodness,' said Hilda, no longer feeling like laughing. ‘What very busy lives you all lead, to be sure.' She thought of Stephen and nice-mannered Jonathan and his friend, meeting up in a couple of hours, driving home together to Miriam and a cool country house, and herself, catching the 73 back to Hackney, Anya and the cats, and her hot, empty rooms upstairs, and felt a lump come into her throat which she could not swallow away.

‘And so.' The waiter put down the bill with a flourish, and Stephen took out his wallet. ‘Thank you.' He gave the waiter a credit card which to Hilda seemed suddenly to say everything: something obtained too easily, to be paid for later, with charges. By whom? She turned away, blowing her nose, as Stephen signed, and thanked again, and put away the bill, leaving a tip.

‘Hilda?'

‘What?'

‘Look at me.'

She looked, giving him a weak smile. ‘He's very nice, Jonathan. Lovely.'

‘So are you,' said Stephen. He stroked her cheek. ‘I'm so sorry – you were wonderful.' He smiled ruefully. ‘My best client.'

‘
You
were wonderful,' said Hilda. ‘I don't know how you did it. I suppose you've got to go now.'

‘Not quite yet. Shall we go for a walk? Now it's cooler?'

‘Yes.'

They pushed back their chairs and got up, nodding to the waiter.

‘You bring the baby for lunch one day?'

They did not answer, and went down the street with their arms round each other, walking slowly, as if they were an ordinary couple, with all the time in the world to be together.

As always on Fridays, the road out of London was clogged with traffic; Stephen and the boys sat sweating in a half-mile queue up to the roundabout at Epping. The windows were wound right down, but let in only still, baking air; every few minutes they inched forward, past long lines of suburban houses where curtains were drawn against the heat and parasols from motorway garages stood on parched grass.

‘God, Dad,' said Jonathan, ‘this is worse than Italy. Couldn't you have brought something to drink?'

‘Sorry.' Stephen turned to look at him, his school shirt open, hair sticking to wet forehead. ‘I got a bit rushed – we'll stop the minute we see a shop.'

‘There aren't any shops along here.'

‘Well, a garage, then.' He glanced in the mirror. ‘You okay, Mike?'

‘Yes, thanks.' The other boy made Jonathan look cool and collected; his face was red, his manner awkward. ‘I just feel a bit sick, that's all.'

‘Oh, dear.' Stephen changed gears and moved forward again. ‘You'll be all right once we get going, get some fresh air in.'

Mike did not answer; Stephen felt obscurely guilty. He had said goodbye to Hilda at the last minute, among the crowds on Tottenham Court Road, leaving her to wait in the sun for a 73, while he leapt on to a 24, taking him through to Camden, reaching the studio, well after four, finding the boys hanging about in the street outside, looking hot and disgruntled.