The Lemon Grove (18 page)

‘When are we eating, then? Want me to start chopping peppers and stuff?’

Eating. Eat, eat – it’s all he thinks about. Jenn doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. She hears him sighing again, impatient this time. He plods through and sinks into the sofa, a huge, solid plop as though he’s simply fallen
backwards into the seat. The television snaps into life. The roar of a crowd. Horns being blown. More wine being poured.

She just wants to be near him, just for a moment. She goes into his bedroom, sees the beaten-up jeans slung across the pine chair and touches their frayed hem lightly, with her fingertips. She picks up his iPad, willing it to flicker to life, but it’s locked. She wonders, briefly, why he didn’t tell Emma about the Godrich interview. Perhaps it was exactly as she said: it didn’t come off. He confided in her, though. She wishes she’d never mentioned it to Greg – but who else could she talk to, about him? She lies on his bed; wraps her arms around his pillow. The smell of stale linen rises up around her, and with it, him. She can taste the sweet-sour tang of his skin. She eases a hand down inside her knickers. Bites on the pillow. Rubs and rocks against herself until she comes. She lies there in a miserable, pitiful sweat. She can hear the crowd going wild downstairs, drums banging, hands clapping rhythmically. She can hear the excitement building in the commentator’s voice. Greg lets out a long wail that indicates whichever team he’s rooting for came close to scoring.

In a few hours he’ll be back, under the roof. Her heart buoys at the thought of it. Tomorrow she’ll formulate a plan. She didn’t get to see him at all today; Greg insisted that she come with them to the hospital. Nathan, without any hint of an apology or explanation, announced he was staying back to read his book. He’d caught her eyes as he was saying it but there was no way she could have wriggled out of this one; Greg asked her to drive. Although he’d never say so, he’s shaken from yesterday’s near-thing with the van. And anyway, that’s where she
should
have been; at the hospital, with their daughter. Not with him.

But tomorrow – tomorrow they will be together. Nathan has mentioned that his mother collects hand-painted tiles and perhaps she can pretend she’s driving him up to that ceramics shop in Fornalutx. Emma won’t want to trek up there. Not glamorous enough. They stopped off at the little village last year, cute and wanting to be arty, but there was nothing much of interest there for the young. No way would Emma want to tag along; it’d just be Jenn and him. She’d drive him up to that mountain bar on the road to Lluc. How he’d love it up there – the view would blow his mind! The glittering sea down below. The brutal ravine. They’d hold hands and gaze down beyond that terrifying drop, watch the waves smash the rocks. What was that Bjork song about the cliffs? No matter – there’d be no lecture
from Greg about the scale and pace of the shifting coastline or any of the usual stuff he’d bore on about; no whining from Emma that her coke is flat or that the mosquitoes are targeting her, and only her. It would be just the two of them. And she could see him now, his eyes misting over at the beauty of it all. He would see it and he’d feel it. He wouldn’t need to say a thing, because she’d know.

Greg shouts up to her, trying to sound amenable.

‘Jenn? I’ll put the pasta on, shall I?’

She’s not fooled. She knows what he means. She swings a leg to the side of the bed.

‘Two ticks.’

Her toe hooks onto something as she stands, dragging it from under the bed. For a second the garment is suspended on the end of her big toe but, as she bends to retrieve it, it drops to the floor. Her chest crashes in on itself as she reaches down to scoop the thing up. Her first thought is that the maid has not cleaned the villa properly after its previous occupants; no way does this item belong to her daughter. It is lacy and black and has little red bows around the hem. The gossamer across the crotch is virtually transparent and, all over it, there’s the
pearlescent smear of semen. She feels sick, sickened. Struck with grief.

‘I’ll do linguine tonight, then, shall I? Jenn?’

She moves out of the bedroom and tries to find a voice.

‘Lovely. Can you make a start on it?’ She can hear the quaver; the keening as she shouts down to her husband. ‘I just need to jump in the shower.’

He doesn’t answer. Seconds later, the cupboards start to open and slam shut; there’s the clang of pans.

She locks herself in the bathroom and strips and stands in front of the mirror and stares at herself with a hatred she hasn’t felt since her acne years. The way her strap lines dig into her comfortable shoulders; her unruly pubic hair; her striated breasts – full enough but old, useless; that vein in her calf, starting to become raised and prominent; her stout arms, thick from all those years of lifting old folk in and out of their baths; their beds. Dark crescents beneath her eyes; lines all around them, like knife-cuts. The tips of her hair bleached dirty red by the pool’s chlorine. An old woman, yes; she is old. Such a cruel trick of nature, she thinks, to age her body faster than it has aged her mind. She lifts her breasts with both hands and sucks in her stomach; she turns round and inspects her buttocks, bending slightly to tighten up the pits and dimples.

She steps back, smashed by the thought of Emma’s skimpy black knickers; his residue. She feels sick all over again, and it’s not just the one solitary betrayal. Jenn has bought Emma’s underwear since she started secondary school. Jenn understood the wiles and politicking of the changing room – or so she’d let herself think. She’d always opted for neutral colours – white, peach, navy blue; usually the kind of knowingly twee panties and matching cotton bras that hint at their owners’ innocence, and their compliance in the postponement of womanhood. So it hurts enough as it is, to know that Emma, given the chance, had sneered at them. Even worse, though, is the crushing realisation that, directly or indirectly, Nathan himself has selected those sluttish sex-panties. Either he’d been there when she bought them, or he’d told her what he liked. Did he really get a kick out of trussing his women up like hookers? And if so, what does he make of Jenn’s choice of underwear? Her white cotton briefs and wireless brassieres? She turns back to face the mirror full on, and cackles at her own stupidity. For fuck’s sake, Jenn! A boy. A ripe and beautiful man-boy. Who were you trying to fool?

She runs a bath. Digs out Greg’s razor and slots a brand new cartridge in. She smarts at how petty, how angry
he would be if he knew she was using one of his precious blades. She submerges herself and, instead of trimming carefully around her bikini line, she takes the whole thing off. She doesn’t bother to rinse it. Just slots it back in Greg’s washbag.

18

At first, she thinks he is laughing. She has ferried out the pan of scallop linguini, and gone back into the kitchen for the cheese. She knew Greg would approve: the hard, fresh, local mountain cheese he’d bought himself at the market, shaved with an apple peeler, just how he likes it. The light is dropping quickly and there is a smell of burning wood coming up from the beach. A wind kicking up. She hears the stifled hiccough of his laughter; or is it the catch of sobbing? Is he upstairs? It comes again, a smothered squeal. She looks out of the window and sees nothing, only the candle on the table he’s laid. She’s about to turn back to the pasta, and it’s the faintest movement, a juddering rise and fall that catches her eye. Greg is out there, slumped forward in his chair, his chin vibrating off his chest as he sobs. She edges out of the
patio door but stays by the steps, unsure what to do. Greg’s shoulders lurch up and down, as he tries to stem his crying. He is gripping his wine glass; drops of Rioja splash over him with each new spasm. She goes to him.

‘Greg …’

His crying is like a bird pecking at wet bark, relentless yet strangely muffled. He lifts his face to meet hers for a brief moment, but shamed at her seeing him like this, he turns his head right round and away, so he’s looking out at the falling sun, big and rusty now, blazing on the edge of the world. He seems to compose himself, but then his shoulders start to tremble again, the anguish building the more he tries to hold it down. She takes a step towards him, but somehow she can’t see it through. The sight of his big, solid frame, crumpled, reduced to this, is alien to her. And along with the compassion, there’s fear. Does he suspect? All that talk before – your daughter’s boyfriend – does he
know
? She is winded all over again by the folly, the madness of all of this. She despises what she is, what she’s doing … She squats down next to him, takes his hand and kisses it gently.

‘Greg. Honey …’

She is looking up at him, but he won’t meet her eyes. He can’t look at her. He stares at the flickering candle; watches the flame dance back and forth on the tuft of yellow wick. He sips on his wine and places the glass on
the table, rotating the neck of it between two fingers. The dark red liquid swirls round and round.

‘Tell me what it is, baby,’ she asks, feebly, and puts her hand on his wrist. He looks at her hand for a long moment, like he’s viewing it for the first time. He fingers her wedding ring. A needle of fear splits her. She knows, now, what is coming. However he frames it, however much she wants to purge, she will not confess. Deny, deny, deny. It’s coming. He draws up his chest, blows out through his cheeks. Her heart thumps wildly in her ears. She can feel her airways tightening up. In her head she tries to visualise her inhaler – her iron lung. He turns his body round to her. He can only look at her for so long before he’s forced to turn away as if fearful of breaking down. He takes a sip of wine. Steels himself.

‘I know what they mean now when they say your life flashes before you. There is no better way of describing it. It was there, right in front of me, all those memories that would make the final cut if …’ He stifles a snuffle; pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eyes shut, then opens them again. ‘It was there and then, in a flash, gone.’

‘The van thing? Yesterday?’

He nods.

‘I thought we were …’ He is still focusing on the candle. Its flame is beginning to lick flickering shadows
across the table in the dimming light. He looks up at her, suddenly. ‘See, I always told myself that if you really wanted a child of your own that badly, then you would have said. You would have pushed. But I know now that you wouldn’t, would you? You didn’t. Because you’ve never pushed me on anything. It’s not in your nature. And it’s too late and I’m so sorry.’

He gets up and walks to the edge of the terrace, places two hands on the wooden railing. She follows and stands next to him. The sun has faded out to a weak pink slit, now. In the twilight the lemon trees, their leaves absorbed by the dulling light, look like skeletal sentinels. She grips his wrists.

‘You’re in shock, Greg. How stupid of me! How fucking stupid …’

She can barely control the relief that is pissing through her. He doesn’t know at all. She holds his face in both hands; makes him look at her. ‘How did I not pick up on that? The not being able to drive the car, the way you’ve been since yesterday …’ She can’t disguise her glee. She’ll forgive him anything.
Anything
.