Love in a Mist Read online

  The blast of the phone made me jump, and I broke out in goose bumps. I turned down the television. I answered cautiously: my parents had an extension next to their bed.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Flora? It’s me.’

  I waited for a second, but there was no telltale click, or the whisper of another person on the line.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. Good – you sounded a bit out of it.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No apology needed. I just wanted to hear your voice …’ His own voice had the warm, furry quality I associated with a few drinks having been taken. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘It’s not for long.’

  ‘It’s a pretty fair old shambles here, relatives round every corner. Perfectly jolly so long as you keep the alcohol levels up, which I fully intend to do.’

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘That obvious, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘The old man’s cracked open the single malt. How are things your end?’

  ‘Oh fine. Quieter than you, no extras.’

  I wasn’t going to mention the necklace, on the grounds that I wasn’t supposed to have mentioned it, but now he asked.

  ‘Have you sneaked a peek?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Alright, I have. It’s absolutely lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I do hope so. I mean, I liked it but is it, you know, right?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I said, ‘but I’m thinking of perhaps having it made a tiny bit shorter.’

  ‘Really? Good idea. Obviously I don’t have a clue, but it needs to be right. We could go somewhere together and get that sorted.’

  Annoyingly, Zinny had been right in her assessment; he sounded happy. I felt I’d expressed too much interest, too great a commitment to his present.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said, ‘there’s a chap in our nearby town.’

  ‘Not over Christmas. We’ll do it when we’re back. I’d like to be there anyway, not just to pay, to sort of get the idea.’

  ‘Fine. You’re right.’

  ‘Only thing is I suppose this means you won’t be wearing it at the festive board.’

  ‘No, I will, I promise.’

  ‘Excellent.’ There was a pause during which I heard him taking a swallow of the single malt. ‘God, I’d like to be going upstairs with you.’

  I knew he meant it and I felt flattered and comforted. But the thought of my newly painted childhood bedroom, airy and austere and most importantly empty, was overwhelmingly more attractive.

  ‘Sleep well,’ I said. ‘And thanks again, Gus, for my beautiful present.’

  ‘Nothing’s too beautiful for you.’

  ‘Shucks … Good-night.’

  ‘Night, darling—’

  ‘Night.’ I put the phone down gently but firmly. I suppose it could be said that I’d just had quite significant conversations with my mother and my boyfriend, but the combined effect of both was to leave me feeling even more alone. There was too much concealment and evasion in my life and it hung over me like a net, pinning me down and restricting movement.

  That Christmas proved two things to me. One was that three had finally become a crowd at home. The second was that I couldn’t return the compliment where Gus was concerned, and found the courage to tell him so. The two things were not unconnected. Two days of watching my parents with a slightly adjusted perspective showed me with painful clarity what they had and we – or at any rate I – did not. Why Zinny, in her sixth decade, knew exactly where a pendant should hang for maximum effect and why my father, fifteen years her junior, still had that smile, those shining eyes that were all and only for her.

  Whatever Gus and I were up to, we couldn’t hold a candle to them.

  But when I made my speech about not being sure (I had never been surer, but my courage didn’t extend to that), and about it being me, not him, all the usual double-speak, I wasn’t prepared for his reaction. He went mad, and not in the way I might have expected – not so much hurt as coldly furious. What did I mean? What was I thinking of? Had I just been stringing him along all this time?

  I explained as best I could in the face of this interrogation that I had been guilty only of not knowing my own mind, and that I still didn’t, but that to continue our relationship with these doubts and uncertainties in the background would be to string him along, and I wasn’t going to do that. I knew as I spoke that nothing was going to do any good. I had not realized he was capable of such cutting anger and disdain. His eyes were flinty and small; there was an aureole of white round his mouth.

  ‘How big of you. How bloody condescending.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation I’m not happy either.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Flora.’

  I dreaded giving way to tears, but my voice still broke slightly. ‘What would you want me to do?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ For a moment I’d caught him off balance. ‘Be true to yourself? Hang in there? Not go back on everything you’ve said?’

  That was it – the moment when I glimpsed the reality of what had gone on. Because I had said nothing. My behaviour may not have been completely honest, but at least some sort of deep-rooted honesty had prevented me from traducing myself in words.

  ‘I never said anything!’ But this was no good either.

  ‘No, come to think of it you didn’t, did you?’ I’d never have believed Gus capable of sneering, but that’s what he did. ‘But you didn’t have to; you were only too happy to soak up the attention and let me believe we had—’

  He broke off abruptly.

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘That we had what?’

  ‘Something,’ he muttered. ‘A good thing. A future.’

  I did feel sorry for him then. I remembered his voice on the phone at Christmas and the picture I had of him with his family – the adored son, brother, grandson, nephew – the fireside, the tree, the warm inclusive atmosphere of approval in which I was sure he had been raised. If I had been guilty of ticking a box with Gus, then he had done the same with me. And now I’d spoilt it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘You don’t know how sorry I am.’

  ‘You’re doing it again! Patting me on the head, patronizing me.’

  ‘That’s not what I was doing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s unintentional …’ His voice dripped sarcasm. ‘It just comes naturally.’

  That did it. ‘Stop this!’ I said. ‘Stop behaving like a child!’

  His face was a study. I remember thinking he was either going to hit me (which only an hour ago would have been unthinkable) or burst into tears. I was horrified at the havoc I’d wrought in this nice, handsome, otherwise admirable bloke. This chap who had shot rapids, scaled cliff walls, hacked through jungle and penetrated fathomless caves had been completely unmanned by my stab at fearless honesty.

  In the end neither the blow nor the tears happened. He grabbed hold of what was left of his composure, turned on his heel and stomped off. It would almost have been funny if it hadn’t been so sad. And the stomping didn’t end at the door. He handed in his notice and was gone the next day, leaving Holland House with a gap in its curriculum which everyone else had to fill.

  The whole thing was horrifying. But it proved that I’d been right. I shed many tears for my own foolishness, and his, and swore that from now on I’d keep my distance. I was no longer a virgin; I had nothing to prove.

  I put the necklace away, and Zinny, either through discretion or lack of interest, never raised the topic again.

  Eighteen months later I heard via another member of staff that Gus had got engaged to a girl called Sophie Something-or-other whom he’d met on the Borneo project.

  NINE

  Sometimes, events that seemed inconsequential at the time become emblematic of something that follows much later. For this reason a particular vignette from this
time sticks in my mind.

  In the spring of the following year, after Gus had left Holland House and people had stopped asking me how I was, I spent the Easter break in Paris. I went alone, through choice. I’d found this much out about myself, that I was quite content with my own company, and not a nervous traveller. I positively liked the odd hitch; my coping mechanism kicked in and I got a little adrenaline high from sorting the problem. Because I hadn’t been to university I’d never taken the gap year which was just beginning to be de rigueur (there were whole companies springing up that were devoted to it) but if anything this omission had whetted my appetite for travel. I wasn’t a completely free spirit; I did like to be organized and enjoyed time in advance spent researching, truffling for bargains and places of interest. Zinny and Nico had an almost proprietary attitude towards Paris and were keen to give me advice, but I politely put them off and said I wanted to find out for myself – if I could successfully manage in Prague, Istanbul and (as a woman alone my proudest boast) Marrakesh, three nights in Paris would be a piece of cake.

  I travelled by ferry and train, and stayed in a small, modern hotel near the station, where everything was easily accessible. For the first forty-eight hours I positively inhaled the boulevards, the museums, the art and the atmosphere, and because I walked everywhere I made enchanting discoveries – brilliant tucked-away churches, and painters’ houses, and bookshops, tiny bijou parks and cafes. Low cloud and intermittent drizzle didn’t put me off – I wore my parka and walking boots with pride; no-one knew me here and I had nothing to prove.

  On Easter Saturday I took the metro to Montmartre, which was not at all the vibrant, welcoming place of my imagination. I’d pictured somewhere bohemian but cosy – cobbles, cupolas and balconies outside, warm candlelight shining on glasses, a haze of Disque Bleu cigarette smoke in the bars and cafés, a burble of spirited conversation, a sense of artistic history at my shoulder.

  The drizzle had intensified to stair rods, but I don’t believe it was only the rain that made it seem different. The day began badly when I nearly had my shoulder bag stolen. The metro carriage was crowded and I was strap-hanging. A thin girl with pinkish-red hair and a peeling plastic jacket was standing near me; I noticed her from the corner of my eye because she was one of the few standing passengers not holding on to anything. She just seemed to ride the movement of the train, her thumbs tucked in her pockets, flinty-eyed and expressionless. I wasn’t clueless – I had survived Marrakesh – and kept my hand on top of the bag. When we stopped at an intermediate station there was that bounce and lurch before the doors opened, so everyone standing had to catch their balance, and I felt someone bump into me from behind. I knew at once what had happened – the pink-haired girl and her accomplice (the bumper) had gone, and so had my bag. But if they were a crack team, the locals were a match for them. The man next to me blocked the sliding door, a couple on the platform grabbed at the swinging strap of my bag and snatched it back, and the two girls ran like hares down the staircase, one of them barefoot. The woman threw my bag back, the man gave a thumbs-up and we were on our way.

  ‘Merci, merci beaucoup!’ I gasped, too late for the kind people on the platform. Everyone else was blank-faced, as though nothing unusual had happened. The man who had held the door for me tipped his head forward.

  ‘Prenez garde, hein? Careful!’

  ‘I will. Merci.’

  ‘Are you going to Montmartre?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Careful there too.’

  My traveller’s confidence was a little bruised by this, but it was obviously a common occurrence and at least the locals’ instinct had kicked in and saved my life-support systems. Thank goodness I’d got in the habit of leaving my passport, credit card and most of my travellers’ cheques in the hotel safe. I did check, just in case the girls’ sleight of hand extended to removing cash while still in flight, but everything was still there.

  A steady rain was still falling as I left the station with a stream of other tourists, and it was colder up here. I zipped up my parka, having first taken it off and put it on again over my bag. With my short hair en brosse and my frayed jeans I reckoned I looked almost like a street urchin myself, and so might be safe from further attacks. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

  Oh well, I thought, as I marched, hands in pockets and hood up, through the dingy puddles and drifts of litter past a parade of sex and porn shops, tattoo parlours and strip clubs already open for business, it’s all part of life and this is the quartier I’m in. I found myself thinking, without rancour, of Gus, who’s idea of travelling was so diametrically different. What on earth would he have made of this celebration of sleaze? At least, I supposed, there was some anthropological interest, but it was a far cry from the simple longhouses and dignified ancient traditions of the Dayaks.

  I passed the Moulin Rouge with scarcely a second glance – red neon and sequin-encrusted tits at eleven thirty in the morning was plain jarring and seedy. I needed to get up and out of this Gallic Soho (though come to think of it that was unfair to Soho which, based on my one visit, was positively cosy by comparison). A sign for Sacré-Coeur pointed almost vertically upward, and I promised myself a hot chocolate once I’d made it.

  The climb warmed me up a bit, which made the cold wind at the top of the hill all the more of a shock. Handfuls of fine rain blew in my face like ground glass, making my eyes water. I turned into a small square which I thought might be sheltered, and perhaps home to a welcoming café, but that turned out to be a mistake. A group of kids, hard-eyed and wild as hawks, were on me in a flash, waving a dog-eared piece of card for me ‘to sign’, waving it in my face and babbling ‘lady’ and ‘miss’ and ‘for poor!’ I began by shaking my head benignly, even smiling, but when the pushing began alarms sounded – my bag must have been detectable under my coat – and I said ‘No!’ rather too firmly. Instantly the chatter became sharp, the pats and pushes rough. I realized there was no-one but me in the square. I walked as fast as I could without breaking into a run, with my flotilla of black-clad tormentors pecking and screeching like crows until they fell away, like magic, when I reached the street.

  At least in Marrakesh there was sunshine. The steamed-up windows of the nearest café were like the gates of heaven. On this foul day it was packed, but I got a stool at the counter, undid my parka and ordered hot chocolate and a pastry. Goodwill towards Paris flooded back as I took the first sip. I was pleased after all to be here on this famous windy hill and who knew – this was an old place, maybe Renoir and Degas had sat in here and discussed techniques over Gauloises and absinthe …

  ‘Not very nice out there, is it?’

  I’d assumed the elderly man sitting next to me was French, but the voice was unmistakably English, with the slightest quirk of camp.

  ‘No, it is not,’ I agreed.

  ‘Do you know this area?’

  ‘No. First time.’

  ‘I bet it’s not what you were expecting.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Let me say it.’ He inclined his head as if about to confide something vaguely risqué. ‘A dump, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Known for it.’

  He reminded me a little of the art master at Holland House, except this man was probably in his seventies, or even older. He had the sort of looks that must once have been raffishly charming – indeed the charm was still there in the eyes, the voice and the slightly wolfish grin. But he had not, as they say, looked after himself. He was dreadfully thin, his dark grey hair was rather too long, and his complexion had the dull, suffused appearance of the lifelong smoker and drinker. His pinstripe suit was the worse for wear, and he’d sought to make a statement of this by adding a black T-shirt and a neckerchief knotted at the throat; worse-for-wear two-tone shoes completed the outfit.

  ‘… can’t go wrong with Paris though,’ he was saying. ‘It’s our default option for a short escape.’

  Before I could sto
p myself, I asked, ‘Are you here with someone?’

  ‘I am, unfortunately.’

  Oh hell, did he think I was being flirtatious? It occurred to me that with today’s luck I had washed up next to a bona fide dirty old man. Perhaps he saw something in my face because he added, ‘No, I’m here with my other half. She’s gone to buy a hat – there’s a place round the corner, you should take a look. Stuffed with amusing little chapeaux.’

  I couldn’t tell whether this suggestion was serious, or if I was being teased. I didn’t think of myself as an amusing chapeaux kind of person.

  ‘I’m not dressed for trying things on.’

  He looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘Oh I don’t know.’

  Within five minutes I’d already noticed a repertoire of small verbal and physical mannerisms designed both to charm and ever so slightly disconcert.

  I said, ‘I’m dressed for sightseeing in atrocious weather.’

  ‘You are, aren’t you, good for you.’

  Throughout this exchange he’d been holding a lighted cigarette, occasionally tapping it on the side of the large glass ashtray that stood on the bar by his elbow. His index and middle fingers were yellowed by nicotine. Now he stubbed out the cigarette and raised a beckoning finger to the girl behind the bar.

  ‘Encore calvados s’il vous plait.’ His accent was execrable, but she seemed to like it. ‘Attendez …’ He turned to me. ‘Would you care to join me in something stronger?’

  I was about to decline and then thought Why not? This was Montmartre in the rain, a stranger, a little bar … ‘OK. Thank you.’

  ‘Deux calvados.’

  Brandy wouldn’t have been my choice, but I didn’t care enough to intervene. He fished a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and wagged it in my direction.