The Way Back Home (21 page)

The New and the Now. Those words had been Jette’s mantra and here was Oriana standing in her kitchen, embracing them for all their permutations. She had a meal to prepare and Jette’s culinary skills to channel and, just then, Oriana felt suddenly so safe that she soared.

Thank you, Jette, for your home within my home – now, as much as then. For the example you set and the love you gave. I’ve thought of you often. I am sorry.

‘Need any help?’ Malachy was back. Jeans and a Ramones T-shirt and the moccasin slippers, his hair a little damp.

Oriana handed Malachy a replenished glass of wine. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘Everything is under control.’

Penne with aubergine, roasted peppers, garlic, lemon juice and one finely chopped, red-hot bird’s-eye chilli. As she checked the sauce, she found herself wondering if Malachy would be wearing his eyepatch were she not here. She wasn’t ready to confront the alternative and she wasn’t ready to ask him.

‘It smells great,’ he said, peering over her shoulder and into the pan.

‘Thank you,’ Oriana said, ducking away to search unnecessarily in the utensils pot because she couldn’t breathe with Malachy so close.

‘OK – so I am going to pop in on Robin now,’ he said.

Oriana stopped her rifling.

‘I look in on him most days,’ Malachy explained to the back of the statue that she’d become. ‘For his pills. And oxtail soup.’

The sauce was making a sound similar to bubbling volcanic mud.

‘Does he know you’re here?’ Malachy asked.

‘No.’

‘That’s fine,’ Malachy said. ‘I won’t be long.’ And just before he left, he laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘I understand.’

And Oriana knew that he did.

Malachy ate fast. Her father’s undeniable proximity had curdled with the scent of the cooking and quite taken away Oriana’s appetite, but she forked single penne slowly into her mouth to be sociable. Malachy was already helping himself to seconds.

‘What do you usually eat?’ Oriana asked him. ‘When you’re on your own. Just manky cheese?’

He shrugged. ‘Mostly I just grab something on my way home and eat it on my lap as I drive.’

‘Like what?’

‘Sandwich?’

‘For your
tea
?’

‘Sausage roll?’ Malachy said. ‘Sometimes I pop into Sainsbury’s and buy a hot rotisserie chicken.’

‘And you eat that in your
car
? As you drive?’

Of course he didn’t. But he was amused that Oriana was so appalled at the concept. He was happy to find how naturally it came to take advantage of her gullibility. He always used to do this for his own amusement and, despite her protestations, she always loved it, they both knew that. ‘It comes in a useful polystyrene box,’ he teased her. ‘Sometimes I go for noodles, though. Those come in a cardboard container. It’s only fractionally messier.’ He looked at her. She appeared horrified. ‘Finger food,’ he shrugged. ‘Saves on washing-up. This is the first time I’ve used cutlery in ages.’

‘Malachy,’ she said and she shook her head. She wanted to ask him, why aren’t you married? Why don’t you have someone here for you? Why are you all alone at Windward eating from boxes with your fingers? How long has it been thus?

‘Oriana,’ he said. ‘I’m joking.’

She thought, you could always bloody do that. Tease me, wind me up to the point of roaring frustration but then always placate me and make me laugh.

‘Are you vegetarian still?’

‘God, no,’ she said.

‘My mum worried about you when you were – she said alfalfa was for livestock.’

Oriana laughed. ‘I remember that! She said something about lettuce being for rabbits. And you said I was practising to be a Bunny Girl and your mum cuffed you and I had no idea why.’

‘I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that,’ said Malachy.

‘I’ve been remembering so much,’ said Oriana quietly. ‘Things I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten.’

‘I told them,’ Malachy said. ‘That I’d seen you. That you look so well. That you’ve changed so little.’

Oriana looked at her plate.

‘They were pleased that I’d told them,’ he said, putting his hand gently over hers. ‘Honestly.’

‘Do they come over?’ Would she ever feel able to see them again?

‘Most Christmases,’ Malachy said. ‘But they always stay at Fischers – Baslow Hall – these days.’

They’d finished eating; Malachy’s bowl scraped clean, Oriana’s still half full.

She looked at her watch.

‘Half past nine!’

Much at the same time as Malachy, she sensed Jed was unlikely to turn up that night.

‘More wine?’ He tipped his head. ‘You can stay, you know. Your stuff is already here. Jed will come at some point and you’ll be on your way to Sheffield.’ They looked at each other. ‘But you can stay tonight – if you like.’

How to answer? A simple thank-you would do. Why was it so difficult? She found no assistance in the swirls of the wooded tabletop. There was no meaning to be gleaned from the configuration of her leftover pasta. Malachy’s expression, as straightforward as it was also unreadable, was nevertheless benign. You can stay tonight – if you like.

‘If you’re sure that’s OK.’ She’d previously told Cat she’d be staying. But that was before Jed’s place became Malachy’s home.

‘I’ll clear up,’ said Malachy and he stood and collected the plates and it was all decided. Nothing was a problem. Everything was fine. Stay the night – nice and simple. Don’t drive home in the dark. Have another glass of wine.

‘I’ll help.’

‘You cooked,’ he laughed. ‘You get to go through and sit down.’ He gave her the wineglasses and the bottle while he ran a sinkful of hot water.

In the ballroom Oriana considered where to sit. There were so many options. The vintage Eames lounger, surely now something to look at, not use. How she’d loved cosying into that chair when she’d been young; the scent of leather, the luxuriousness of it. She gave it a squeeze as if it was Orlando’s arm. Lovely man. She could recall him sitting there, smoking a pipe, wryly contemplating the general careening of Windward children that regularly took place in the ballroom.

The window was still open and the room was cold enough so she went and closed it. She caught her reflection in the windowpane. For hours she’d been on the inside, looking out, and suddenly she saw herself as she’d be seen – Oriana Taylor, aged thirty-four, shoulder-length hair, jeans, Converse trainers, American football-team top. She observed how she was; standing there, absolutely there, right in the middle of the Bedwells’ ballroom. It was the strangest concept. I. Am. Here. And yet, she could just as easily have been teleported back through the decades as fast-forwarded to the present, because there was a blurring of the distinction between the Oriana of today and of way back then.

She curled into the massive old sofa. She felt surprisingly at ease. The wine had undoubtedly helped but actually it had more to do with Malachy. Whereas Jed would have been bouncing off the walls, twirling her about, saying mad things, filling every moment with energy and exuberance, Malachy was simply washing up. After all that had happened, all the time that had passed, the things that had been done, the things that had never been said, he had very simply welcomed her home.

* * *

Really, he could leave everything to drain, that’s what he normally did. Malachy looked at the tottering pile, soapsuds making a slow slither like melting snow. But he took a tea towel and started to dry anyway, making the process unnecessarily methodical and thorough. Then he decided he’d put everything away. And then he looked around and wondered where else he could wipe. And then he had to acknowledge that this had nothing to do with new-found house-pride and everything to do with feeling suddenly shy of the girl in the ballroom. He stood in the kitchen and listened. There was only silence. He thought, has she gone out of the window? He thought, has she left? Have I lost her before Jed comes to take her away again?

‘Malachy?’

But she was still here. And, as he went through to the ballroom, he noticed her bags were no longer in the hallway.

He wasn’t entirely sure where to sit either. Oriana appeared to be partially absorbed into one end of the vast sofa. If he sat at the other end, they’d be like figurines at opposite ends of a mantelpiece, formally placed and somehow disconnected. Instead, he chose his father’s lounger, close enough to be in reaching distance of her.

‘I wasn’t sure if it was just for show these days,’ Oriana said of the chair.

‘Charles Eames would turn in his grave – chairs are functional.’

‘It’s a design classic.’

‘It’s a chair.’

‘It’s an heirloom!’

‘
It’s. A. Chair
.’

She laughed and he grinned. Her phone buzzed through Cat’s response to her hasty text. ‘Poor Cat’s been having kittens wondering if I’m OK.’ She glanced at the message.

WTF! Malachy not Jed? SHEFFERS?! FFS! OMG!

‘When’s her kitten due?’

‘Six weeks or so.’

‘Here’s to Cat,’ said Malachy, raising his glass. ‘I liked Cat.’

‘You fancied Pip.’

‘I did not,’ Malachy said.

‘You did so!’

‘I snogged Fen when I was about fourteen. Bet you didn’t know that.’

‘Of course I did,’ said Oriana. She raised her glass. ‘Anyway, here’s to Ben – he’s the tomCat.’ As she took a sip of wine, she wondered about something. She looked at Malachy quizzically.

‘Do
you
have children, Malachy?’ It was quite possible.

He smiled into his glass. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you?’

She shook her head.

‘Been married?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘You?’

‘No.’

It was so bizarrely plausible that both might have had children, might have married. Time had not stood still, after all.

‘Girlfriend?’ she asked.

‘No – not right now.’ He thought about it. While he didn’t mind Oriana asking and while he was happy to answer, how much did he actually want to know in return? ‘You?’ he said, after a pause.

‘
Girl
friend?’ she said, with mock surprise.

‘Bloke – you idiot.’

She shook her head but, he noticed, not without reddening a little.

‘Is that why you came back?’

‘What – to find a bloke?’

He looked at her levelly. ‘To get away from one?’

She thought, how does he know? And she thought, because Malachy knows me. She thought, and I changed country. Like I did once before.

But then she realized something. While she was sitting right there, with Malachy, she knew that she hadn’t left the United States because Casey had left her. She’d left because she’d always known that at some point she would be destined to return here. Whether she wanted to or not, whether she admitted it or not, whether she liked the place or professed to hate it, ultimately Windward had pulled her back at a time when she was free and open to return. She’d had no idea that she’d find Malachy there. And now she was here, with him. Privately, she thanked all the stars on that spangled banner she’d been waving for the last sixteen years.

It struck her how Casey was a fraction of the man that Malachy was. That the feelings she’d had for him were risible against the depth of love she felt for Malachy. She was caught – not wanting to waste time talking about Casey, but wanting only to be honest with Malachy. When she’d confided in Cat, digging up the details was like gutting a fish. It was messy, unpleasant. This evening that she’d had so far with Malachy, the night that stretched ahead – why would she actively sully it? Why not ensure that every moment – and they were passing fast, it was already gone eleven – was filled with goodness, not detritus?

‘His name’s Casey,’ she told him. ‘He was married. It went on way too long. I regret it.’

To Malachy, it seemed to make sense. He thought about how to respond. ‘Were you in love?’

‘I liked to think so at the time,’ she said. ‘I’m very clear that I was deluded.’

He considered it. ‘Idiot woman.’

‘I know.’ She winced.

‘Idiot woman.’ The repetition was underscored with kindness.

Oriana looked up from her lap. ‘I’m sorry.’

He didn’t understand.

‘I’m sorry that I haven’t come back with wholesome adventures to recount.’

‘I’m just glad you’re OK,’ Malachy said. ‘Sometimes, adventures are overrated.’

‘Aye to that,’ said Oriana and she leant forward and touched her glass against his.

Into the small hours they talked. They shared and swapped and informed and listened. There was so much to say, so much to learn; so many years to account for. Sometimes, they simply fell silent and just sat, holding empty wineglasses and each other’s gaze, fleeting smiles underscored with long-term tenderness and desire. They talked about themselves and questioned each other, sensitively, impudently. They discussed random things; Tories and Republicans, the rules of American football, whatever happened to Judd Nelson, whatever happened to everyone who’d ever lived at Windward. Do you remember? Yes, I remember. Impossible to forget.

It was very late. Oriana shivered and Malachy passed her the navy pullover she’d seen earlier. She put it on. It smelt good. They sat a while longer, not ready to relinquish each other’s company for something as sensible as sleep. Malachy stifled a yawn and rubbed his forehead, slipping his fingers under the ribbon of his patch, a swift swipe right under it. Oriana was consumed by a surging need to go to him, to offer her cool fingers for the purpose, to heal what had been hurt. If it was possible, she was more desperate now than she’d ever been, just to try to make it all a little bit better.

‘Malachy?’

He looked at her. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘It’s just –’ Her voice cracked. ‘Are you –’

‘It’s OK, Oriana,’ he said. ‘Let’s not.’

It was the first time that entire evening that it was suddenly glaringly noticeable that he wore an eyepatch, that he was blind and disfigured behind it. Earlier that evening, when she’d first seen him, what had struck her most was that Malachy simply hadn’t been Jed. She hadn’t noticed his altered looks at all.

‘It’s just.’ She tried again. ‘I don’t even know. No one would tell me. And then I was gone.’