Текст книги "Lost Girls"
Автор книги: Celina Grace
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Chapter Eight
Matt reminded me about the call to the solicitor’s office as he kissed me goodbye. The sun had barely risen and I moved about the kitchen in a fog. I didn’t think I’d drunk that much last night, but I felt badly hungover, my head aching and my mouth parched. Outside, a drizzling rain made the air look grey and dirty. I pulled my dressing gown more tightly about me as I made coffee, wincing as I raised my head to look for the cafetiere.
“Got a headache?” asked Matt.
“No,” I said. “I just slept badly.”
“Right.” He was pulling on his tweed jacket. “So you won’t forget?”
“Forget what?” I said. I pushed my hair away from my face, yawning.
“The solicitor, darling, you remember? You said you’d ring Mr. Fenwick to see what he wanted? God, Maudie–”
“Alright,” I said, grumpily. “I don’t see what the hurry is.”
Matt gave me a cold look. “It’s not a question of hurry, Maudie, it’s just that it’s something that has to be sorted out. There’s the estate, and the property and all sorts of things.” He pulled on his black leather gloves. “I’ve asked you three times to do it. You don’t know how bloody tired I get of nagging you about it.”
“So don’t, then,” I said. “I said I’d do it.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask you three times,” said Matt. “You’re a grown woman. Christ, if my students were as slow to get things done as you are–”
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll do it today. Satisfied?”
“Yes,” he said stiffly. He picked his briefcase and turned away.
I heard the front door slam and watched for him as he walked out of the front door and came into my line of vision, stationed as I was at the kitchen window. I hoped he would look up so I could wave, perhaps pull a silly face, but he didn’t. The rain was coming down harder now – I could see it darkening the shoulders of his jacket.
I felt a twinge of guilt. How easy it was for me to take things easy, whereas poor Matt had to trudge off to work at that second-rate college every day. But he loved his job. He always said that teaching was one of the most rewarding things one could do. I remembered he was still waiting to find out whether he’d have a permanent place on the faculty. I hadn’t asked him about it; I hadn’t been encouraging or sympathetic. I finished my coffee and marched to the bathroom, determined to call Mr. Fenwick as soon as I was dressed.
As I washed my hair, I thought again about our future. Perhaps if I’d had to earn my own living I would have been an entirely different person. I’d be quicker, tougher, smarter. As it was, I often felt as if I were drifting through life, acknowledging this but not really wanting to change it. I mean, no one really likes work, do they? Unless it’s their vocation – as I’d always seen Matt’s teaching. I blushed to think of that now; it seemed so patronising. Perhaps he would rather live my lifestyle – my easy, comfortable lifestyle – getting up when I wanted, reading books and watching TV, walking, swimming, visiting museums and art galleries, shopping, eating out, going to bars, seeing friends. What sort of person wouldn’t like that? I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped from the shower, resolute. Today I would do something, something concrete, something I could report back to Matt.
I telephoned Mr. Fenwick’s office and spoke to him directly. I was still slightly hazy about what Matt wanted me to ask but, after the preliminaries, I made a tentative enquiry about the transferral of funds.
“We’re still waiting for a few bits and pieces to be tied up,” he said. “But it won’t be a long before we’re able to transfer the money. A matter of weeks, if that. Are you short of funds, Maudie? Because I’m sure the trust can advance you something if it’s needed.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said, pinching a fold of my jeans between my fingers as I spoke. I’d never really given much thought to how the money in my account ended up there. It was just there, always, endlessly replicating. I pictured a cash point machine, and behind the screen, a treasure-filled cavern, glinting with jewels and glittering golden coins. “I just – it was just I wanted to make sure everything was – was going smoothly.” Now I sounded like I didn’t think Mr. Fenwick knew his job. “I’m sure it is but – it’s just a big responsibility and I just wasn’t sure what I’m supposed to be doing–”
Mr. Fenwick soothed me. “Maudie, my dear, please don’t distress yourself. Dealing with the outcome of a will can be a very upsetting time, despite the obvious financial... advantages, shall we say, that it brings your way. I’m sure Angus knew that you would be sensible in dealing with things. I’m sure he knew you would be reliable and not, well, get carried away.”
I almost laughed. How little he knew me. And it made me realise that Angus must have lied about me or perhaps just evaded the truth. It was grimly funny, in a way. I muttered something appropriate in a response.
“That reminds me,” said Mr. Fenwick. “I know Angus was keen for you to get involved with the board. Had you thought about that at all? I know it’s early days, but–”
“The board?” I said, interrupting him.
“Yes, my dear,” he said. “The board of directors at Katherine College. Surely Angus mentioned it to you?”
“The board of directors?” I said, knowing how stupid I sounded but unable to stop myself.
“He was very keen to have you involved.”
I was silent for a moment, struggling for words. “Mr. – Mr. Fenwick – sorry, but I’m a bit thrown – Angus wanted me to be on the board at Katherine?”
“Yes, my dear,” he said, unfazed. “I know he meant to talk to you about it and I just assumed he’d done so. From your tone, it seems not. I’m sure I didn’t mean to upset you–”
“Oh – oh, you haven’t,” I stuttered, not wanting to upset him. “I was just – it just threw me a little, I had no idea. Angus didn’t mention it to me. Perhaps he was going to before he – before he–” I couldn’t bring myself to say died.
“Well, perhaps it’s something to think about?” said Mr. Fenwick. “Now that you know it’s what your father wanted?”
“Yes.”
“I would talk it over with Matthew, if I were you, Maudie,” he suggested. “I know that some of the directors are keen to meet with you when you’re ready.”
“Right,” I said, helplessly. “Yes, I – I will.”
“Jolly good, my dear.”
After he’d rung off, I sat for a moment on the sofa, staring across the room. I felt winded. Why had Angus wanted me to take over his role on the board? I put my hand up to my face, biting my nails. It just seemed such an unlikely thing for him to have done – to endow me with all that responsibility. For a moment, I couldn’t remember what we ever had talked about, when we were together. The weather? My health?
And now this. Was this Angus’s way of saying he – he forgave me? That he thought I was someone whose judgement could be relied on? Was he saying that he believed in me, finally, after everything? Or was it just his way of keeping me within his grasp?
*
“To us,” said Matt, clinking his champagne glass against mine.
“To us,” I said and sipped my drink. The bubbles tickled my nostrils. I felt just fine; happily tipsy but still coherent, buoyed by my successful day.
“What a good idea this was,” Matt was saying, “I’m amazed you got a table, though.”
“Angus had an account here,” I said.
Matt rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. Not that I’m complaining.”
The waiter came to refill our glasses with the last of the champagne. I waited for him to leave, took a deep breath and relayed to Matt the conversation I’d had with Mr. Fenwick, earlier.
“The board of directors?” said Matt.
I had to laugh. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“Well–” said Matt, doubtfully. “Well, I’m not sure what to say.”
“That was pretty much my response at the time.”
He put his glass back on the table.
“I’m sure – I mean, Angus wouldn’t have wanted you to do it if he thought you weren’t up to it,” he said.
“Up to it?” I said.
“Well, yes,” said Matt. “Come on, you know what I mean.”
“I know I’m not very clever–” I began.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re not an intellectual or anything, but that’s not what I meant at all.”
I looked down at my plate. “You mean, I might not be up to it – well, mentally.”
“Yes,” said Matt. He looked awkward. “Come on, darling, you know it doesn’t matter to me. You can’t help your past. But, well, that’s not to say you should be put under any more pressure. I’m not sure you could handle the responsibility of a role like that. I mean, it’s an executive position. You’d have all sorts of things to worry about.”
Inside my head I agreed with him, but the words still stung. Perversely, I wanted to disagree. I opened my mouth and shut it again.
“You don’t have to decide now, do you?” said Matt. “I mean, that’s the sort of decision you have to sleep on, surely? You don’t want to rush into anything.”
I nodded in agreement. He gave me a grin and squeezed my knee under the table.
“Let’s have some more champagne,” he said.
The waiter brought another bottle and poured us both full glasses. I watched the thin golden stream of champagne flow and froth in the glass. The waiter set the bottle back in the ice bucket and melted away.
“Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers,” said Matt. “We could drink to Angus. We haven’t done that yet, have we?”
“No,” I said. Suddenly I felt near tears. I swallowed hard.
Matt reached for my hand. “I know you’re finding things a bit hard, lately,” he said. “You’re putting a brave face on it – for me, which I really appreciate – but you don’t fool me. I can see that it’s really affecting you.”
His fingers were cold at the tips from grasping his champagne glass. I looked down at my plate, feeling something akin to panic. You don’t fool me. What else could he see through? Was I fooling anyone? Even myself?
“Thanks,” I said in a watery voice. The waiter, thank God, brought our main courses and broke the tension between us. We ate in silence for a little while. I was trying to think of a new topic of conversation.
Perhaps it was time I told him of my problems of the past few weeks. Perhaps I should tell him how I’d been feeling and about the strange sightings I’d had of the thin blonde woman. I took a decisive sip of champagne and made up my mind.
“Matt.”
“Hmm?” he said, intent on his plate.
I took a deep breath. “Some strange things have been happening to me.” I never normally said things like this to anyone; I wanted to be thought of as sane, calm, normal. I attempted a light laugh. “I’ve been seeing – well, some odd things...”
I looked up, away from Matt’s face, my eyes drawn across the room by something, some movement or flicker of light. I felt as if I were plummeting floorwards, out of control in a runaway lift. The sounds of the restaurant faded away; the chime of cutlery on crockery and the hum of the other diners’ voices were sucked from me as if into a vacuum. The blonde woman was standing not ten feet from me. Our eyes met. She had the same frozen expression that she had worn the last time I’d seen her, concentrated emotion pouring from her eyes. I gasped. My champagne flute went flying, struck by my hand that flew out in an instinctive warding-off gesture. At the musical smash of glass, the woman wheeled around, her long black coat flaring out like a funereal flag. She walked quickly away and I heard the bang of the restaurant door as it slammed shut behind her.
I acted without thinking. I stood up and my chair fell backwards. I saw Matt’s face change, and then I was past him, running through the restaurant, slipping through the tables, my only goal to find the woman, to hunt her down until she told me what she wanted. I ran past the astonished maitre d’ and neatly sidestepped a couple that were just coming through the door. Then I was out in the street, the icy night air a shock of cold against my hot face. I paused for a second, looking left and right for my quarry. Way off down the street I caught sight of a gleam of blonde hair as she walked beneath a streetlight. She was moving at fast pace, her high heels ringing against the concrete of the pavement. I took a deep breath and ran after her.
I was almost hit by a car as I crossed West Street but I took no notice of the screech of brakes or the volley of obscenities. My whole being was concentrated on that distant halo of hair. I pounded down the street. Soon I was out of breath and holding my side. I passed hordes of people. Some of them shouted after me in derision or encouragement.
As I got within twenty yards of her, she looked round. Perhaps the thudding of my heart was audible. She looked at me – our eyes met – and, incredibly, I saw fear. She was scared of me. Her face contracted and she began to run herself, her coat flaring out behind her as she ran away from me.
“What do you want?” I shouted, voice raw in the icy night. The woman didn’t flinch; she never looked back. As I ran, I saw her turn the corner of a street, out of my view. Ten seconds later, I was there myself, bent double, gasping. I looked along the street, expecting to see a fleeing figure. Nothing. She was gone. I slowed and stopped, one hand pressed to my side, pulling in air in great, noisy gasps. Nothing. I felt a great surge of anger and frustration, strong enough to blur my vision with tears. I dug my fingernails into my thighs. Nothing. I balled my hand into a fist and hit my leg, hard on the thigh, once, twice. Fuck.
“What the hell were you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
I slipped back into my chair, my face throbbing. I tried smiling but it didn’t come out properly.
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, it had better be bloody worth it.” Matt’s eyebrows were low, his mouth turned down at the corners. I reached for my drink, remembered I’d smashed the glass on the floor and withdrew my hand. My fingers were trembling.
Matt’s voice was icy. “Maudie–”
I sighed. The waiter came up with another champagne flute. I wondered whether he’d mention my sudden flight from the restaurant and my sheepish return. Of course he didn’t; he’d been too well trained.
“Matt–”
“Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
I picked up my new glass and took a sip. Now my breathing had returning to normal, I was beginning to feel foolish. The shot of adrenaline that had propelled me down the street was ebbing away and in its place was only embarrassment. I had ruined our night out. I made up my mind not to make things worse.
“I’m sorry, darling,” I said, managing a real smile at last. I even laughed a little. “I just thought I saw someone I knew go past the restaurant. Someone from where I used to work.”
Matt looked unconvinced. “Who?”
“Katy,” I said, improvising wildly. “Actually, I still have a book of hers and I suddenly remembered that and thought I might just catch her and explain...” My voice trailed off into silence.
Matt made a sound of disbelief. “Sometimes I think you do it on purpose,” he said. I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw, almost hidden by his dark stubble.
I shook my head. “No, that’s not–”
Matt withdrew his hand and picked up his fork. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s leave it.”
“I’ll get dinner,” I said on impulse, hoping that would help.
“Thanks,” said Matt, grimly. He kept his eyes on his plate.
I nodded again and we sat in silence, until the waiter came with the bill for me to pay.
Chapter Nine
"You look fine," said Matt. "Stop fidgeting."
Immediately I put my hand back on my lap, having just reached for the windscreen visor mirror.
"I'm not."
Matt glanced over at me and smiled. "I don't know why you're so nervous. It's only a little gathering. A get-together to celebrate Bob’s book. That’s all."
"I'm not nervous."
"So why do you keep fidgeting?"
We were driving through an area of South London I didn’t recognise, somewhere beyond the borders of Brixton.
We drove in silence.
“What’s Bob’s book about?” I finally asked.
Matt breathed out sharply through his nose. “Semiotics.”
“Oh,” I said. I opened my mouth to say something of what I knew about semiotics, realised it was nothing, and shut it again.
“I’m surprised you don’t write a book,” I said, after a moment. “Why don’t you?”
Matt gave me a pained glance. “Because, Maudie...” he began and then sighed and didn’t say any more.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
“Oh, just leave it, for God’s sake. We’re here now, anyway.”
I’d been feeling anger, rather than anxiety, but at this announcement my heart rate leapt up a notch. I wasn’t very good with crowds of strangers. I’d managed to sink a couple of glasses of wine before we left the flat but it wasn’t enough; I could still feel everything. I needed more to drink. I needed numbness.
“Maudie, there’s nothing to worry about,” said Matt, taking pity on me. “They’re all perfectly nice, normal people. They won’t eat you.”
“I know,” I said. Anxiety made my voice shriller than normal. I sounded ridiculous.
“You’ll be fine.”
The author, Bob, was throwing the party, along with his wife Carla. This much I’d managed to ascertain from Matt but as to the dress code, the number of people there and other such vital pieces of information, I’d drawn a complete blank. I’d ended up wearing my red silk dress and my new heels, but was it too much? Too formal? Would everyone be laughing at me behind my back? I found myself clenching my fists.
The woman who opened the door was short and dumpy. She wore the sort of glasses you saw on actresses playing secretaries in films from the 1950s, jeans and a black shirt. No jewellery. I began to feel a slow sinking feeling. I was completely overdressed.
“Matt!” she said. She smiled at me. “I’m Carla and you must be Maudie. It’s so nice to meet you finally. Do come in.”
We followed her into the narrow hallway. I could smell cigarette smoke and dog. The place was a mess; comfortable and homely, but a mess all the same. I thought about keeping my coat on but knew I’d never get away with it.
“What a gorgeous dress!” said Carla. “Come through and meet everyone.” She must have realised how nervous I was. “It’s alright, we don’t bite!”
I should have been grateful for her understanding but I felt like punching her. I put on a weak smile and followed Matt. I was soon swallowed up in what seemed to be a crowd of about fifty people; all in their forties and fifties, all dressed in jeans and shirts and casual shoes. I stood out like a beacon. I quickly lost track of people’s names and inter-relationships. I was too busy fixing the smile on my face and trying to hold onto Matt’s hand.
They were all what Matt had said they were – kind, nice people. It wasn’t their fault that I found their topics of conversation by turns incomprehensible or boring. There was a lot of talk about teaching, about living a middle-class life in London, a little about various current topics of news. I didn’t say much, really; I didn’t feel there was much I could contribute.
I was introduced to Bob, who looked like Merlin and wore a tweed jacket even more decrepit than Matt’s. I managed to say “Well done on the book,” which drew from him extravagant thanks.
The one thing I could do was drink. In my defence, the wine was flowing freely and my glass was constantly being refilled, so it wasn’t as if I actually set out to get drunk, but I did. My trips to the downstairs loo became ever more wobbly. I started to join in conversations with comments that I thought were witty and hilarious. At first people responded, but as my voice became louder and more slurred, their smiles began to be a little more fixed and their glances at Matt became ever more frequent. I’d stopped waiting for my glass to be filled by our hosts and simply helped myself from the big fridge in the messy kitchen. Carla kept bringing round little plates of food; rough, handmade canapés, and bowls of crisps and bits of cheese, and I had a few handfuls, but after a while I didn’t feel so hungry any more.
I have a vague recollection of being in the hallway and watching Carla's glasses winking in the light from the ceiling. She seemed to have three pairs of glasses, on three heads and I tried to focus on one by shutting one eye and squinting. Matt was saying something and I knew I had to say something too, but nothing was coming out properly; all I could manage was a garbled mess of words. There was the shock of cold air outside the door and the dreadful, inexorable feeling of vomit travelling upwards towards my mouth. I didn't make it to the street; I was sick on the pathway. I was too drunk to feel any shame – my overriding sensation was one of relief. I vomited again by the car and again by the side of the road after Matt pulled over. I could feel his hands gripping me about the waist as I heaved and choked. Then there was nothing but a few scraps of tattered memory left in my head and a merciful, inky blackness that saw me through to the next morning.
Death would have been a merciful release compared to the effort and horror of having to wake up, get up, of dealing with the torment of having to face Matt again. What I could remember of the evening made me want to curl into a ball and scream into the pillow, except I couldn't have made that sort of level of noise without my head exploding, so I merely lay in a foetal position with my face in my hands. I moaned quietly to myself until that hurt too much and then I just lay there.
The door to the bedroom opened and I froze. How could I deal with this? Would it be best to be sobbingly remorseful or should I try to joke it off? I hadn’t lost control like that in front of Matt for a long time.
"I thought you might need a coffee," said Matt.
I tried to gauge his tone but my head hurt too much. I took a deep breath and hauled myself into a sitting position. My head thumped painfully.
"Thanks," I said. I took the mug from him, not daring to look up.
"How are you feeling?"
Was he being sarcastic? I risked a glance. He looked fairly neutral.
"Not too bad," I muttered. "Bit of a headache."
"I'm not surprised."
I thought I'd be able to make a joke of it but I felt so bad, in all ways, that the tears suddenly welled up. I started to cry.
"Oh Matt," I wailed. "I'm sorry. I made such an idiot of myself. I'm so sorry."
He didn't say anything. He didn't make a move towards me. But he didn't turn on his heel and leave. I started stammering out excuses, promises, anything to make him react in the way that I wanted.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry – I don't know how I could have made such a fool of myself." I flung myself back down on the pillows and pushed my wet face against the cool cotton surface of the pillowcase. "I'm sorry."
Still he said nothing.
"I'm sorry, sometimes I just can't cope with things and I know it's not a solution, but I find things really hard sometimes. You know I've been ill and sometimes it just comes back and I can't do anything about it."
Silence still from Matt. I cried a little bit louder. "I'm sorry. It's just – sometimes things are so hard." I wiped my hand under my running nose. “I’m still grieving. I’ve just lost my father.”
I heard him sigh and then the creak of the bed and the dip to the mattress as he sat down beside me. "Maudie..."
I wriggled round to look at him. A small part of me was aghast at presenting my tear and snot-soaked face to him, but if it would get me off the hook, it needed to be done.
"I'm sorry," I said, sniffing.
"I just don't get why you needed to get that drunk," he said. "Did you mean to? Honestly, Maudie, it was a stupid thing to do. Completely childish. You're not a teenager anymore."
"I know,” I said, eyes downcast. "It's just-”
"Just what?"
"Oh, nothing," I said. My voice caught again. "I just – sometimes, it's just too much."
"What is?"
I lay back down again, staring into the white cotton of the pillowcase. "Everything. Angus and Jessica and – everything."
Matt was quiet for a moment. I heard him draw in a breath. "You can't blame every bit of bad behaviour on what's gone wrong in your life, Maudie," he said. "Sooner or later you have to take responsibility for yourself."
I said nothing. I could feel anger and self-pity sweeping over me in a giant, poisonous rage.
There was a short silence. Then Matt got up off the bed. "I think I'll let you sleep it off," he said. "Then later you can ring Bob and Carla and apologise. Yes, Maudie-" I made a sound of protest. ”That's only fair."
I pushed my face into the pillow, hating him, myself, the world. I heard the door close gently behind him.
Later that evening, when I was lying on the couch and feeling marginally more human – although no less terminally wretched – Matt came back from wherever he’d been. I sat up and tried to smile. He didn’t say anything and he didn’t kiss me. I felt my heart sink. He went to the kitchen and I could hear the clink of bottles.
When I heard him walking towards me, I turned my head. He was holding out a glass of what looked like murky tomato juice.
“Here you go,” he said. “Have a hair of the dog. I think you’ve suffered enough.”
Immediately, I felt ten times better. I reached for the glass and took a sip. He’d made it strong; for a second I felt myself gag as the burn of the vodka hit my poor, abused stomach.
“Thanks,” I said. “I phoned Bob and grovelled.”
“Good,” said Matt. “Well done. I’m sure it’s nothing he’s not seen before; he teaches freshers, for God’s sake.”
I laughed a little, weakly. “Thanks for the drink.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Idiot.”
I laughed again and relaxed back against him as he sat down next to me. I smiled up at him and kissed him. The vodka was making me feel almost normal again. He tightened his arm around my shoulders.
“I shouldn’t have been so hard on you,” he said. “You’ve been through a lot lately, it’s understandable you’re going to react in some way. “
“Thanks,” I said. I snuggled myself more firmly into his arms.
“Just don’t do it again,” he said.
“Of course not,” I said, and laughed lightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
