Old Sins (27 page)

‘Oh goodness,’ said Eliza, dangerously bright, ‘Camilla North is the least of my worries. It’s nothing like that, Madeleine. Really. I just need to get away from it all. I feel like an outcast here. Can you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ said Madeleine, ‘yes I think I can.’

‘And besides,’ said Eliza, ‘you never know, I might even find
a job of my own to do. Who knows what Fate might have in store for me?’

Los Angeles, 1957–8

LEE WAS DISCUSSING
sex with Amy Meredith when she realized her period was late.

She had never been much in the habit of noting down dates; she had long given up serious hope of a baby. Unlike some of her friends she never had any bad cramps, so she didn’t have to plan around it – when it happened it happened, and that was all there was to it.

They were lying on the beach, she and Amy, one afternoon, not talking about anything in particular, and she was just debating for the hundredth time whether she should tell Amy about Hugo, it might help bring him a bit nearer, ease the loneliness and the growing hurt that he had only phoned twice briefly in the past four weeks (although he was coming down to stay in a fortnight), when Amy had said she mustn’t be back late because Bob was bringing a client home for dinner.

‘Dreadfully boring it’ll be too,’ she said, turning over on to her back and rearranging her hair on the towel, ‘the wife is coming as well, and it’ll be new drapes and the PTA right through to dessert. The only advantage is that Bob will probably get seriously drunk and then I’ll have a bit of peace tonight.’

Lee laughed. ‘Amy, is it really so bad?’

‘Well, it mightn’t be if it wasn’t quite so predictable. I mean, you say Dean doesn’t do it enough, but at least you have the luxury of being able to go straight to sleep from time to time.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Lee, ‘but then you see I sometimes want it so much I can’t get to sleep anyway. Maybe we should swap for a bit.’

‘I honestly just can’t imagine actually really wanting it,’ said Amy. ‘I mean, I don’t think I’m properly frigid, but all those
years of force feeding do put a girl off. The only time I get any peace at all is when I get the curse. He really doesn’t like that. How about Dean?’

Lee looked at her, and smiled, shaking her head, and then froze suddenly into absolute petrified stillness. She felt as if she was falling helplessly, sucked down into some fearsome vortex. She put out her hand on the sand to steady herself; the beach seemed to rock. She shut her eyes tightly for a minute and then opened them again; the sun looked harshly, whitely bright, the heat all of a sudden unbearable.

She looked at Amy, and a huge fist-sized lump grew in her throat; she tried to swallow, her mouth felt dust-dry.

‘Lee, for heaven’s sake, what is it? You look awful, terrible. Do you feel all right?’

‘Yes – no – that is, oh, shit, Amy, what have I done? What have I done? Amy, do you have a diary, here give it to me, quick, quick, oh Jesus, Amy, I feel . . .’

Her voice trailed away; she was feverishly counting, checking off weeks. She threw the diary on to the sand, looked at Amy, her cheeks flushed, her eyes big and scared.

‘Amy, I’m late. Really late. Nearly three weeks.’

‘Well, honey, isn’t that good news? Don’t look like that. You and Dean have always wanted a baby. What’s the panic? Anyway, it probably doesn’t mean a thing anyway. Do you have any other symptoms?’

Lee shook her head. ‘No, I feel perfectly normal.’

‘Well then. Calm down. When I was trying to have Cary I was late every other month for nearly a year, until it actually happened. But I honestly would have thought you’d be pleased. I mean it certainly doesn’t matter. It’s nothing to panic about. Christ, I thought you were going to die on me then.’

Lee managed a shaky smile. ‘So did I. It must have been the sun.’

‘Lee Wilburn, when did the sun ever give you the vapours?’ She looked at her friend sharply. ‘Is something worrying you, Lee? I mean, you know, something that you should tell me?’

Lee looked at her, and longed to tell her everything, and knew she never could. If nobody knew, then nothing could happen to her. If she kept quiet, she would be safe. Probably in any case Amy was right, and it was just nothing; and if it wasn’t,
if the unthinkable had happened, if she had to think it, then it was far far better nobody knew. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Amy, it was just that it was too much of a burden to lay on her, to ask her to carry. Besides, if she didn’t tell, anyone, anyone at all, then she could just make herself believe, make it true even, that the weekend with Hugo hadn’t happened, that the terrifying consequences of it couldn’t happen either.

She began to feel calmer; that was it, she could see now, of course, how stupid, if she was – well, if there was a real reason for her period being so late, then it must surely be Dean who was responsible for it. She had been sleeping with him extremely regularly for years and years, just as regularly over the last few weeks, how silly to think there could be any other explanation. She lay back on the sand again, feeling her panic ebb away; then a new one started to rise, smaller but just as fierce. She hadn’t slept with Dean that much lately. He had been so tired, so worried about his job, drinking too much; night after night he had just gone straight to sleep, snoring loudly, leaving her lying beside him, thinking of Hugo, fantasizing. But once or twice – surely – yes, of course, at least once – well, that was enough. She could persuade Dean of anything, anything at all. Only – she shivered suddenly, remembering what Doctor Forsythe had said last time she had been to see him about her inability to conceive. ‘Time it very carefully, Lee. It’s no use just leaving it all to Mother Nature. She’s not always too reliable. Be sure you make love right bang in the middle of your cycle. Every one of the three or four days. And take your temperature to check it. That’s very important.’

She had made a lot of that to Dean, she remembered; ironically seeing it as a surefire way of getting sex now and again. He had taken it very seriously, too; and it had become something of a habit with him, even though it hadn’t worked, every month he would ask her to make sure to tell him when the time was, to take her temperature, so that they could be quite sure, say, ‘Come on honey, baby-making time, we have to keep trying, he’ll be along sooner or later.’ And this month, he hadn’t; he had said he was sorry, he was too tired, too distracted, maybe next time; and then he had felt bad about it, apologized to her a few days later. He would remember that; Lee shut her eyes again, feeling suddenly sick. She sat up,
smiling shakily at Amy. ‘Sorry about that. I can’t think what came over me. Let’s get back anyway. It’s late, and you have dinner to cook.’

‘Now are you sure you’re all right?’ said Amy solicitously, as she dropped Lee off at her house. ‘You look a little pale. Honestly, Lee, I tell you, I would just love it if you were pregnant. Now you go in and put your feet up and have a drink of milk. I’ll call you in the morning.’

Lee didn’t have a drink of milk. She poured herself a large gin. Over the next few days she drank a lot of large gins. She had heard it could help. She followed all the other old wives’ advice too; she took endless unbearably hot baths; she bought a skipping rope and did five hundred jumps a day; she jumped down the stairs. She even went to a drugstore down at Venice, where they wouldn’t know her, and spun them some cock and bull story about her period being a few days late, and she wanted to hurry it along because she was going on vacation. The pharmacist gave her a funny look and sold her some pills for twenty dollars which she had to take every day for three days; all they did was make her feel violently ill and throw up all over the back yard.

Dean was mercifully away for a few days; she moped about the house avoiding everybody, even Amy. Especially Amy.

Every hour on the hour she went hopefully into the toilet; her pants remained stubbornly white. She dreamt twice her period had started; awaking, she shot out of bed, joyfully convinced it was true and then crawled back in again, shivering with disappointment and fear. She made bargains with God: If I’m not pregnant, I’ll never speak to Hugo again, give up beer, keep the house clean and tidy.

She became superstitious: if there are any melons left in the market by five o’clock, if those lights change to green by the time I get there, it’ll start. It didn’t.

At the weekend Dean came home, tired, depressed; sales were not good. Desperate for her alibi, she tried to force him to make love to her, and failed utterly.

‘Honey, I’m tired, just leave me alone, will you. I need to sleep.’

She turned over on her pillow and wept.

In the middle of the following week she began to be sick. She was sick not just in the morning, but three or four times a day; she seemed to spend her entire life these days in the lavatory. Her breasts were sore; her head ached.

‘There’s no doubt you’re pregnant,’ said Amy, who had taken to dropping by every morning to check on her and cheer her up. ‘I know it’s hell, but it’s such good news too. And you’ll feel great in a little while. Now listen, you have to start on extra vitamins, right away, and cut out the booze, of course, just orange juice; lots of fruit, and for goodness’ sake you will cut out any medication, won’t you, stop taking all those aspirin you’re so fond of. They’re dreadfully toxic. And you should take bran every morning too, pregnancy is terribly constipating. And lots of rest. Have you told Dean yet?’

‘No,’ said Lee listlessly.

‘Well he must have the brains of an ox not to have worked it out for himself. I suppose he’s got a lot on his mind. Do tell him, honey, he’ll be so pleased, and he can look after you, help a bit. This place looks terrible, Lee, even by your standards. When did you last clean that sink?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said Lee.

‘It shows. Well look, let me do it for you. And then I’m going to take you for a walk to the beach. You look as if you could do with some fresh air.’

Lee did as she was told. She didn’t have the strength to do anything else. She had just finished a prolonged bout of throwing up when Hugo phoned. She crawled over to the couch and sat there, trying to sound normal, as he chatted away about New York, and how much he had enjoyed his last trip, and was it still all right for the following weekend?

Torn between a longing to see him and a strong desire to tell him to fuck off, she sat silent; she knew what he was doing, the bastard, he was leaving all his options open, maintaining contact with her while making it perfectly plain he only wanted their relationship to continue on the most superficial level, that next time at least he wanted to be sure Dean was there as well, lest she might start to think he was taking things too seriously. She suddenly felt violently sick again.

‘I have to go now,’ she said and put the phone down, rushing
to the bathroom, vomiting again and again, and then she sat there, on the floor, resting her head tiredly on the toilet, hot tears trickling down her cheeks, hating him, longing for him, wishing most fervently that she could die.

The phone rang again. It was Hugo.

‘Lee, are you all right? You sound awful.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said lightly, ‘just a bit of a cold, that’s all.’

‘So is next weekend all right?’

‘What?’

‘Lee, are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Hugo, I’m all right.’

‘Good. Then can I come next weekend?’

‘Oh, yes, sure. Sorry. That’ll be nice.’

They arrived together, he and Dean; she had made a huge effort, tidied up, made up her face, drunk lots of glucose water to help with the vomiting.

‘You look wonderful, honey,’ said Dean, hugging her, ‘doesn’t she, Hugo?’

‘Marvellous,’ said Hugo, but his eyes went sharply over her, and she was afraid he must guess.

Later, Dean went to bed early; she tried to make an excuse to follow, but Hugo put out a hand and caught hers.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said harshly, ‘nothing at all. Why don’t you just leave me completely alone, Hugo, instead of nearly. It would be much easier for you, I would have thought.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said gently, ‘I couldn’t imagine not seeing you any more. It’s difficult, that’s all. And a little bit dangerous. You must understand.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I understand all right. Good night. Hugo. You’re in your usual room.’

She got just a tiny bit of satisfaction from the expression on his face. He didn’t look merely hurt; he looked worried as well.

She woke up early and shot into the lavatory; the glucose water had failed her. Wandering miserably into the living room a few minutes later, sipping a glass of water, she found Hugo, standing by the patio windows.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’

‘You’re not well, are you?’

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you.’

‘You don’t seem well.’ He crossed to the couch, sat down, patted the seat next to him. ‘Come here. Come on. Darling, please. Don’t be so hostile. What is it? Aren’t we to be friends any more?’

Lee turned to look at him, and there was all human knowledge and experience in that look: humour, love, scorn, despair; then she sighed and said simply, ‘I’m pregnant.’

Hugo was quite quite silent for a moment; then he looked at her intently, searching, exploring her face, her eyes.

He took her hand.

‘And is it mine? It’s mine, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ said Lee, ‘no, no it isn’t. It’s not yours, it’s Dean’s.’ She pulled her hand away, and she felt the tears hot behind her eyes. Dear God, she thought, don’t let me cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

‘Lee,’ said Hugo, ‘Lee, look at me.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t. I can’t. Leave me alone. The baby is Dean’s.’

‘But you said . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter what I said. Obviously I was wrong. This baby is Dean’s. I know it is. I know.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Oh, Hugo, stop it. I can count, that’s how I know.’

‘I see.’

She watched him; trying to analyse what she really wanted, what she really felt. She had so longed to see him again, that was why she had allowed him to come, but she couldn’t imagine why. She had thought that perhaps in some miraculous way he would be able to help, make her feel better, but she had been wrong. There was no way he could help her, and he was making her feel worse. They could hardly disappear into the Californian sunset together. And she had to stick to her plan, of not admitting even to herself that the baby’s father might be anybody but Dean. In time, she knew, she could make herself believe it. Sometimes, already, she managed to persuade herself that it was just possible. One word, one hint to Hugo, and she was lost.