Wedding Girl (26 page)

Òh come on,' said Harry. `You've got to admire the girl's chutzpah! It takes a lot of guts to walk up the aisle knowing you've got a husband out there just waiting to trip you up.'

`That's one way of looking at it,' said James.

`But not your way.'

`No.' James shook his head. `The way I see it, Milly's thoughtlessness has caused a lot of trouble and distress to a lot of people. Frankly, I'm ashamed to think she's my daughter.'

`Give the girl a break!V

`Then give Simon a break!' retorted James. `He's the innocent one, remember. He's the wronged one.'

'He's a high-handed, moralistic little dictator. Life has to go a certain way, otherwise he's not interested.'

Harry took a slug of beer. `He's had it far too easy for far too long, that's his trouble.'

`You know, I'd say just the opposite,' said James. Ìt can't be easy, walking in your shadow. I'm not sure I'd be able to do it myself.'

Harry shrugged silently. For a while neither of them spoke. Harry took a large gulp of beer, paused for a second, then looked up.

`How about Isobel?' he said casually. `How's she reacted to all of this?'

Às usual,' said James. `Gave very little away.' He drained his glass. `Poor old Isobel's got enough on her plate as it is.'

`Work problems?' Harry leaned forward.

`Not just work.'

`Something else, then? Is she in some kind of trouble?' A flicker of a smile passed over James's face.

`You've hit the nail on the head,' he said.

`What do you mean?'

James stared into his empty beer glass.

Ì don't suppose it's any great secret,' he said after a pause, and looked at Harry's frowning face. `She's pregnant.'

`Pregnant?' A look of utter shock came over Harry's face. 'Isobel's pregnant?'

Ì know,' said James. Ì can't quite believe it myself.'

Àre you sure about this?' said Harry. His hand gripped his beer glass tightly. `Could it be a mistake?'

James smiled at him, touched by his concern.

`Don't worry,' he said. `She'll be OK.'

`Has she spoken to you about it?'

`She's keeping her cards pretty close to her chest,' said James. `We don't even know who the father is.'

Àh,' said Harry, and finished his beer.

Àll we can do is support her in whatever decision she makes.'

`Decision?' Harry looked up.

`Whether to keep the baby or ... not.' James shrugged awkwardly and looked away. A strange expression passed over Harry's face.

Òh, I see,' he said slowly. Ì see. Of course that would be an option.' He closed his eyes. `Stupid of me.'

`What?'

`Nothing,' said Harry, opening his eyes again. `Nothing.'

Ànyway,' said James. Ìt isn't your problem.' He looked at Harry's empty glass. `Let me get you another.'

`No,' said Harry. `Let me get you one.'

`But you've already '

`Please, James,' said Harry. He sounded suddenly dejected, James thought. Almost sad. `Please, James.

Let me.'

Isobel had walked as far as the Garden for the Blind. Now she sat on an iron bench, watching the fountain trickle endlessly into the little pond and trying to think calmly. Inside her mind, like a circular film, she saw Harry's expression as she'd left him; heard his voice again and again. The continuous repetition should, she thought, have dulled the pain inside her, should have left her numb and free to analyse her situation logically. But the pain would not be dulled; her mind would not still itself. She felt physically torn apart.

They had met for the first time only a few months before, at the party to celebrate Simon and Milly's engagement. As they'd shaken hands, a startled recognition had passed between them; both their voices had trembled slightly, and, like mirror images, they had each turned away quickly to talk to other people. But Harry's eyes had been on her every time she turned, and she had felt her entire body responding to his attention. The next week, they had met surreptitiously for dinner. He had smuggled her back into the house; the next morning, from his bedroom window, she had seen Milly in the drive waving goodbye to Simon. The month after that they had travelled to Paris on separate planes. Each encounter had been exquisite; a fleeting, hidden gem of experience. They had decided to tell no one; to keep things light and casual. Two adults enjoying themselves, nothing more.

But now nothing could be light; nothing could be casual. There was no longer any neutral. Whichever way she turned, she would be taking an action with huge consequences. One tiny, unwitnessed biological event meant that, whatever she chose to do, neither of their lives would be the same again.

Harry didn't want a baby. He'd made that perfectly clear to her. If she went ahead and had the child, she would be on her own. She would lose Harry. She would lose her freedom. She would be forced to rely on the help of her mother. Life would become an unbearable round of drudgery and coffee mornings and mindnumbing baby babble.

If, on the other hand, she got rid of the baby . . .

A slow pain rose through Isobel's chest. Who was she kidding? What was this so-called choice? Yes, she had a choice. Every modern woman had a choice. But the truth was, she had no choice. She was enslaved to herself to the maternal emotions which she'd never known she possessed; to the tiny self growing within her; to the primal, overpowering desire for life.

Rupert sat on a bench in the National Portrait Gallery, staring at a picture of Philip II of Spain. It was a good two hours since Martin had said goodbye, clasping Rupert's hand and exhorting him to call whenever he felt like it. Since then, Rupert had wandered mindlessly, not noticing where he was going, not noticing the crowds of shoppers and tourists who kept bumping into him; unaware of anything except his own thoughts. From time to time he had stopped at a public phone and dialled Milly's number. But each time the line had been busy, and a secret relief had crept through him. He didn't want to share Allan's death with anyone else. Not yet.

The letter was still in his briefcase, unopened. He hadn't yet dared to read it. He had been too afraid both that it wouldn't live up to his expectations and that it would. But now, under Philip's stern, uncompromising stare, he reached down, fumbled with the clasps of his briefcase and brought the envelope out. A stab of grief hit him as, again, he saw his name written in Allan's handwriting. This was the last communication that would ever exist between them. Part of him wanted to bury the letter unopened; keep Allan's last words unread and unsullied. But even as the thought passed through his mind, his shaking hands were ripping at the paper, and he was pulling out the thick, creamy sheets, each covered on one side only with a black, even script.

Dear Rupert,

Fear not. Fear not, said the angel. I'm not writing to you just so that you'll feel bad. At least not consciously. Not much.

In truth, I'm not sure why I'm writing at all. Will you ever read this letter? Probably not. Probably you've forgotten who I am; probably you're happily married with triplets. My occasional fantasy is that any moment you'll appear through the door and sweep me into your arms while all the other terminally ill patients cheer and bang their walking sticks. In reality, this letter will probably end up, like so many other once-meaningful pieces of the world's fabric, in a garbage truck, to be recycled into somebody's breakfast. I rather like that idea. Allan flakes. With added optimism and a tinge of bitterness.

And yet I keep writing as though I'm sure that one day you'll trace a path back towards me and read these words. Perhaps you will, perhaps you won't. Has my addled mind got it wrong? Have I elevated what we had to a significance it doesn't deserve? The proportions of my life have been curtailed so dramatically, I know my view of events has become somewhat skewed. And yet against all the odds-I keep writing. The truth is, Rupert, I cannot leave this country, let alone this world, without somewhere recording a farewell to you.

When I close my eyes and think of you, it's as you were at Oxford-though you must have changed since then. Five years on, who and what is Rupert? I have my own ideas, but am unwilling to reveal them. I don't want to be the asshole who thought he knew you better than you know yourself. That was my mistake at Oxford. I confused anger with insight. I mistook my own desires for yours. What right did I have to be angry with you? Life is afar more complicated picture than either of us realized back then.

What I hope is that you're happy. What I fear is that if you're reading this letter you're probably not.

Happy people don't trawl through the past looking for answers. What is the answer? I don't know.

Perhaps we would have been happy if we'd stayed together. Perhaps life would have been sweet. But you can't count on it.

As it turns out, what we had might have been as good as it was ever going to get. So we broke up. But at least one of us had a choice about that, even if it wasn't me. If we'd left it until now, neither of us would have had a choice. Breaking up is one thing; dying is something else. Frankly, I'm not sure I could cope with both at once. It's going to take me long enough to get over my death as it is.

But I promised myself I wouldn't talk about dying. That's not what this is about. This isn't a guilt letter.

It's a love letter. just that. I still love you, Rupert. I still miss you. That's really all I wanted to say. I still love you. I still miss you. If I don't see you again then . . . I guess that's just life. But somehow I'm hoping I will.

Yours always

Allan

Some time later, a young teacher arrived at the door of the gallery, surrounded by her swarming class of cheerful children. They had intended to spend the afternoon sketching the portrait of Elizabeth I. But as she saw the young man sitting in the middle of the room, she swiftly turned the children round and shepherded them towards another painting.

Rupert, lost in silent tears, didn't even see them.

Harry arrived back that afternoon to find Simon's car parked in its usual place outside the house. He went straight up to Simon's room and knocked. When there was no answer, he pushed the door open slightly. The first thing he saw was Simon's morning suit, still hanging up on the door of the wardrobe.

In the wastepaper basket was a copy of the wedding invitation. Harry winced, and pushed the door shut again. He paused for a moment, then retraced his steps down the stairs and along the corridor to the leisure complex.

The swimming pool was gleaming with underwater lighting, music was softly playing, but no one was swimming. In the far corner, the steam room door was misted up. Without pausing, Harry strode to the steam room and opened the door. Simon looked up, his face reddened and vulnerable with surprise.

`Dad?' he said, peering through the thick steam. `What are you Ì need to talk to you,' said Harry, sitting down on the moulded plastic bench opposite Simon. Ì need to apologize.'

Àpologize?' said Simon in disbelief.

Ì shouldn't have yelled at you this morning. I'm sorry.'

Òh,' said Simon, looking away. `Well. It doesn't matter.'

Ìt does matter,' said Harry. `You've had a big shock. And I should have understood that. I'm your father.'

Ì know you are,' said Simon without moving. Harry gazed at him steadily for a moment.

`Do you wish I weren't?'

Simon said nothing.

Ì wouldn't blame you,' said Harry. `Some fucking father I've been.' Simon shifted awkwardly on his seat.

`You ,

`Don't feel you have to be polite,' interrupted Harry. Ì know I screwed up with you. For sixteen years you never see me, then suddenly bam! I'm in your face all the time. No wonder things have been a bit tricky. If we were a married couple, we'd be divorced by now. Sorry,' he added after a pause. 'Sensitive subject.'

Ìt's OK.' Simon turned and gave him an unwilling grin, then, for the first time, registered his father's appearance. `Dad, you know you're meant to take your clothes off?'

'That's for a steam bath,' said Harry. Ì came in here for a conversation.' He frowned. 'OK, so I've said my piece. Now you're supposed to tell me I've been a wonderful father, and I can rest easy.

There was a long pause.

Ì just wish . . .' began Simon at last, then stopped.

`What?'

Ì just wish I didn't always feel like a failure,' said Simon in a rush. Èverything I do goes wrong. And you . . . By the time you were my age, you were a millionaire!'

`No I wasn't.'

Ìt said in your biography ...'

`That piece of shit. Simon, by the time I was your age, I owed a million. Fortunately, I found a way of paying it back.'

Ànd I didn't,' said Simon bitterly. Ì went bust.'

'OK,' said Harry, `so you went bust. But at least you never sold out. At least you never came crying to me to bail you out. You stayed independent. Fiercely independent. And I'm proud of you for that.' He paused. Ì'm even proud you gave me back the keys to that flat. Pissed off but proud.'

There was a long pause, punctuated only by the two of them breathing in the steamy air, and the odd spatter as a shower of warm drops fell to the floor.

Ànd if you have a go at working things out with Milly,' continued Harry slowly, ìnstead of walking away-then I'll be even prouder. Because that's something I never did. And I should have done.'

There was silence for a while. Harry leaned back, stretched his legs out and winced. Ì have to say,' he said, `this is not a nice experience. My underpants are sticking to my skin.'

Ì told you,' said Simon.

Ì know you did.' Harry looked at him through the steam. `So, are you going to give Milly another chance?' Simon exhaled sharply.

Òf course I am. If she'll give me another chance.' He shook his head. Ì don't know what I was thinking of last night. I was stupid. I was unfair. I was just a ...' He broke off. Ì tried calling her this afternoon.'

Ànd?'

`She must have gone out with Esme.'

Èsme?' said Harry.

`Her godmother, Esme Ormerod.'

Harry looked up with raised eyebrows.

`That's Milly's godmother? Esme Ormerod?'