A Most Desirable Marriage Page 17

  Travis stroked her hand. ‘Must be hard.’

  ‘He said he was sorry. Or at least he said he was wrong to think what he thought. Daddy never did do “sorry”.’

  He didn’t ask what Gerald was sorry for, but now, unwillingly, she found herself telling him, reliving that day four years ago when she and Lawrence had made their annual visit to her father.

  The visit – arranged always by Jo out of a sense of duty – had gone according to plan. Gerald, as usual, paid scant attention to her, his conversation mostly focused on Lawrence. They sat in the small sitting room of his seaside flat discussing world politics, particularly China, seldom referring to her or her opinions, as if the two men were totally alone. She and Lawrence had learned not to expect anything different; they just went through the motions.

  As they were getting up to go, Lawrence asked if Gerald enjoyed living by the sea. His father-in-law had suddenly made the decision the previous year to move from Gloucestershire to Ramsgate. He had not looked at Lawrence, but stared hard at her.

  ‘It’s fine here. I know nobody. It suits me.’

  The vindictive tone of his remark had puzzled her, made her wince, but she said nothing.

  ‘It was all right for you, Joanna. You got out.’

  ‘Of Gloucestershire?’ she asked, not knowing what he was getting at. He’d lived in a village not far from the house she’d grown up in for decades and seemed perfectly content.

  Then Gerald’s face – normally so shuttered and controlled – had suffused with anger. He’d moved up close to her, his arms tight to his sides.

  ‘How do you live with it? You killed that lad. You and your vile mother.’

  Jo found she was shaking, as if he’d physically attacked her. ‘Me?’

  Gerald snorted, the sound harsh and cruel. ‘Oh, Miss Innocent. Yes, you. Acting as your mother’s pimp. Seducing him, drawing the poor boy in so that she could have him. You thought I was a fool, that I didn’t know what you were both up to . . .’

  Lawrence had moved between them now. ‘Gerald, stop it, for God’s sake. That’s ludicrous. Jo was a child. She had nothing whatever to do with the boy’s death.’

  But her father, still strong enough to do so, pushed him roughly aside. ‘Stay out of this.’

  Jo didn’t reply to her father. Her mind was elsewhere, back at that clear spring morning. How she’d got up, desperate to be outside, smell the cool air, feel the early sun on her skin. Duke, the Labrador, had been a willing companion as they left a trail of footprints across the dew-soaked lawn, making for the small gate behind the fruit cage which led to the open fields beyond. The Wellington tree, large and ancient with the oddly spongy bark she loved, sat in front of a wall of rhododendron bushes to the right of them. Something caught her eye as she drew level with the tree, and she turned to look. At first she couldn’t process what she was seeing. It looked like a scarecrow dangling there, turning in the breeze, half hidden beneath the branches, dappled by the morning sun. But as she drew closer, she realized it was Bobby, seventeen years old, from the correctional facility down the road, helping with the garden that summer under the watchful eye of Mr Bennett, their full-time gardener.

  Yes, she’d met Bobby in passing, around the garden, noticed his slim, dark good looks, his shy smile. She was fourteen, went to an all girls’ school, hardly met members of the opposite sex of her own age. But she’d never said more than ‘Hello’ to him. He’d never said even that back, just shot her a shy grin.

  She didn’t remember much about the mayhem that followed her discovery. Only Duke barking frantically, jumping up at Bobby’s swinging feet, heavy in the black scuffed work boots, half-laced. Then her running, heart bursting from her chest. Her mother screaming and screaming. The police. And her father, his face a mask, quietly patrician and in charge as he dealt with the local constable, but not speaking to, or looking at her or her mother throughout. Not once.

  Then watching out of her bedroom window two days later, as he left the house without saying goodbye to her, throwing one small holdall into the boot of his precious ultramarine Alfa Romeo Giulietta. Setting off down the gravel drive at a sedate pace, as he might if he were heading for the golf club for a round with his friends. But never coming home.

  ‘Did your mom seduce the boy?’ Travis was asking.

  Jo was hardly aware that she’d been speaking out loud. ‘Who knows. I couldn’t ask, but I very much doubt it. He was so shy and so . . . young. Mr Bennett said the police put it down to Bobby being a bit disturbed, the location of our garden just a “convenience” . . . such an odd choice of word. The boys weren’t popular in the area, as you can imagine. People attributed all sorts of stuff to them, mostly unfairly I’m sure.’

  ‘But she had before . . . I mean with other men.’

  Jo nodded. ‘Apparently. My father said so anyway. Made a point of telling me what a dreadful slut Mum was the next time he saw me.’ She paused. ‘And he was certainly right that she was very flirtatious with men. But whether or not she seduced Bobby . . . and if she did, was it a contributory factor in his death, no one will ever know. She was certainly different after that: tearful, nervy, very needy. I felt I had to look after her.’

  ‘Christ . . . how tragic. But he never accused you of pimping for her till four years ago.’

  ‘No, that was a new one.’

  ‘What did you say when he accused you?’

  ‘He didn’t give me a chance to say anything. Just went off on this crazy rant, as if Mum was the Madame of a brothel and I was the chief prostitute. I was just so stunned I couldn’t speak. Lawrence had to drag me out. Dad even followed us outside, still yelling. It was appalling.’

  ‘Must have had some kinda brain episode. It happens. They go a bit crazy sometimes, old people: lose their inhibitions. Basically lose their minds.’

  ‘I know. But he seemed so sane until he started shouting at me. And he obviously remembers it, or he wouldn’t have said what he did just now.’

  ‘Tough on you whichever. Doesn’t go away, shit like that.’ Travis laid his arm across her shoulder, pulled him towards her. She closed her eyes, rested her head against him, grateful for the support.

  ‘Jo?’ She opened her eyes to see Lawrence standing on the other side of the grey laminate table, his eyes wide with surprise.

  She sat up. ‘Lawrence! What are you doing here?’

  Her husband glanced at Travis, then at her. She knew she ought to feel embarrassed, but she had no energy for it. Travis had withdrawn his arm, but he still sat close, almost protective.

  ‘I thought . . . you said you weren’t coming. I just thought someone ought to.’

  She nodded, touched that he would bother.

  ‘Is he . . .?’ Lawrence pulled out a chair, scraping the legs on the polished linoleum floor, and sat down.

  ‘I spoke to him about an hour ago. He’s very weak. But he was talking, knew who I was.’

  Lawrence was clearly constrained by Travis’s presence and the American got up.

  ‘I’ll go get some fresh air. Text me.’ He touched her briefly on the arm and walked out through the swing doors. Jo watched him for a moment, then turned to her husband.

  ‘Don’t go there,’ she warned, as she saw his eyebrows raised in question.

  Gerald died that evening. Without a fuss, as he had lived. He waited till Jo, who had been sitting by his bedside all afternoon, holding his hand, slipped out for another cup of tea. He hadn’t opened his eyes again, hadn’t spoken to her in the interim. To Jo, his earlier apology seemed like the beginning of something, not the end. And although she knew better than to expect him suddenly to gaze into her eyes and say he loved her, she found herself waiting nonetheless; waiting for something more.

  Jo sent Lawrence home. At one point he’d tried to hug her, but she held him off. She was anxious not to rely on him, it would have been too easy, because their shared history with her father seemed to supersede what had happened since – Lawrence knew her better t
han anyone else in the world.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Travis asked, when the preliminary formalities had been dealt with. It seemed to Jo to be pretty straightforward, dying. A few forms to sign, a bag of personal possessions – which she didn’t want but Travis insisted she take – numbers exchanged. Now they were making their way to the car park. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, drizzling and cold. Jo shivered, clutched his arm.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘I can drive you home . . . or we can hole up somewhere, get some sleep.’

  ‘I’d rather go home. Unless you’re too tired to drive.’

  ‘Home it is.’

  Cassie must have been listening out for them.

  ‘God, Mum. I’m so sorry.’ She came down in her dressing gown, wrapped Jo in a long hug. ‘I’d have come, but you made it sound like it wasn’t serious.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. And it was. Travis had warned her she would have a reaction later, when it sunk in that her father was dead, but Travis had loved his father. She knew the only reaction she felt – and would continue to feel – was relief.

  *

  The funeral was miserable. Just Jo and the children, Janet from next door, Beth, the girl who’d cleaned for Gerald, huddled in the chilly crematorium in Margate. The vicar – a tough, direct woman in her fifties with the grey pudding-basin haircut so favoured by women priests – had called Jo in advance for background about her father for the eulogy. But Jo found it almost impossible to answer her questions. She put her in touch with Janet, who seemed to know him better.

  The three of them sat in silence in the car on the way home.

  ‘Are you sad, Mum?’ Cassie asked.

  ‘Sad for him, I suppose. I’m not sure he had such a great life. And selfishly, sad for me . . . that I didn’t have a father I could relate to, one I could properly love.’

  Neither of her children replied. She wondered if they were thinking about Lawrence, who’d asked if he could come to the funeral, but Jo had said no. He’d sounded upset that she didn’t want him there, but pretending they were all still a single unit seemed like a lie. Was she punishing him? In a practical sense it didn’t seem much of a punishment to be let off a visit to a dismal crematorium, miles from anywhere, for the funeral of a man he had hardly admired. But still, she knew she was exerting a mild form of retribution, telling him: you can no longer take it for granted that you’re part of this family.

  Chapter 13

  1 November 2013

  ‘You’ll come to the last-night party?’ Jo was sitting with Travis and Cassie in front of the fire in the sitting room, each with a glass of red wine. ‘It’s after the show Saturday.’

  ‘Won’t it just be the actors and play people?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Cassie said, ignoring her mother.

  ‘Reckon it’ll be everyone,’ Travis said. ‘And Nicky’ll want you both there.’

  Jo wasn’t so sure about that. Nicky had been strange since the funeral. She’d rung him a few times, left messages, but he hadn’t responded. When she asked Travis if he was all right, the American had seemed unaware that there was a problem, beyond the usual one of the girlfriend, of course.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’ she asked her daughter.

  ‘Briefly, this morning.’

  ‘It’s just he hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts.’

  Cassie shrugged. ‘You know Nicks. Not the greatest multitasker on the planet. It’s Amber, Amber or the play, the play or Amber. You may get some action when at least the play’s off the slate.’

  ‘Maybe. I feel I’ve hardly seen him for months now.’ She knew she was sounding peeved. She had to admit that her son’s obsession with his girlfriend had proved surprisingly painful for her – despite always pitying women who couldn’t let their children go. But it wasn’t that at the moment. She was sensing a different sort of snub from Nicky.

  Both Travis and Cassie were looking at her with sympathy, and she quickly made a joke of it. ‘Yeah, yeah . . . jealous of another woman. Pathetic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Know how you feel,’ Travis grinned. ‘Hardly seen him myself, except on stage. Those two are so totally full-on.’

  ‘He’s pussy-whipped, poor boy,’ his sister said, her tone infinitely superior. ‘But he’ll get bored, watch this space.’

  *

  Jo didn’t need to worry about who would be welcome at the party at the theatre bar. As Travis had implied, the world and his wife were there, the place packed, the crowd chattering and ebullient, most holding drinks – some sort of sparkling wine, glasses of which were laid out in serried ranks along the length of the bar which ran the entire right-hand side of the room. Dotted around the walls were hanging posters of the play, a blurred image of Travis, his eyes dark and hypnotic, staring out from behind the play’s title.

  Cassie spotted Nicky and Travis talking with a group of people by a pillar in the centre of the room and they began to push their way towards them. There was no sign of Amber.

  Travis saw them first. ‘Hey . . . you made it. Great. I’ll get you a drink.’

  He began to elbow his way in the direction of the bar. Jo turned to Nicky.

  ‘Hi, darling.’ She went to hug him, but his face tightened and he stood stiffly, unwelcoming. ‘Hi, Mum.’ He gave her a perfunctory kiss on each cheek, then turned away almost immediately to talk to Cassie.

  Jo was shocked. She wanted to grab him, ask him what the matter was, but she couldn’t, not in this crowd of his fellow-actors and associates. She stood, numb, until Travis returned and thrust a glass into her hand.

  ‘Cheers!’ she said, putting aside her confusion to raise a glass to him. ‘Congratulations!’

  He grinned, ‘Thanks. Yeah, it’s been awesome. But kinda gutting when it’s over and you know you’ll never do it again. I guess the end of a run always feels like you lost a limb.’

  She drew closer to him. ‘Nicky’s being weird with me . . . do you know why?’

  The actor looked puzzled. ‘Yeah? He hasn’t said anything to me.’ He glanced across at her son, who was studiously ignoring them both. At that moment, a wiry, intense woman in her fifties, faded-blonde hair past her shoulders, dressed in jeans, a gold-coloured camisole and black jacket came up and grabbed Travis by the arm.

  ‘Come with me, dearest, I need you to meet one of your biggest fans.’

  ‘The producer,’ Travis whispered to Jo, giving her an apologetic grin. ‘Back in a sec.’

  Jo didn’t know what to do. She stood, clutching her glass, trying not to stare at her son, feeling foolish and very much alone in that crowd of chattering thespians. She tapped Cassie on the shoulder as she was talking to one of the other guests.

  ‘I think I might sneak off.’

  ‘Now?’ Her daughter frowned. ‘It’s only just started.’

  ‘Parties aren’t really my thing.’

  ‘OK . . . do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘God no! But will you say goodbye to Nicky for me? Say I wasn’t feeling well or something.’

  Cassie gave her a puzzled look. ‘He’s just there, Mum.’ She pointed to where Nicky stood, only feet away. ‘Can’t you tell him yourself?’

  ‘Umm . . . don’t want to interrupt . . . it’s his night . . .’ She kissed Cassie quickly on the cheek and moved off before her daughter could ask any more questions.

  She tried to catch Travis’s eye, but he was leaning against the bar engrossed in conversation with a balding man about her age – heavy grey-tweed coat hanging open to reveal an expensive white shirt and jeans – whose florid complexion implied that he hit the bottle rather more than he should.

  Jo walked home, hardly aware of the journey. She knew what was wrong with Nicky. Sensed it as soon as he stopped returning her calls. Lawrence. He must have told their son that he’d seen her in Travis’s arms in the hospital canteen, the day her father died. And obviously Nicky was blaming her, not his friend, because Travis hadn’t noticed anything amiss
in their relationship.

  On an angry impulse, she called Lawrence as she walked, not caring that it was late.

  ‘I just asked him what was going on,’ was Lawrence’s reply to her accusation. ‘I assumed he knew. You weren’t talking to me, and I didn’t want to bother you when your father was dying. But I think I have a right to know who you’re having a relationship with.’

  ‘You don’t have a right to one single thing about me or my life, Lawrence.’

  ‘All right . . . take that attitude if you like. But why are you so angry? And why haven’t you told the children?’

  ‘Why do you think? I know you don’t find it the least bit embarrassing to be having sex with someone young enough to be your son, but I certainly do.’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone, broken only by a martyrish sigh.

  ‘So you are having sex with him. Nicky said that was ridiculous.’

  ‘Well it might be ridiculous to him, and to you too, obviously. But I am. And I’m enjoying it hugely.’ Her anger drove her to emphasize the last word with unnecessary relish.

  ‘God, Jo . . .’

  ‘What? Too much information?’

  ‘No . . . no, of course not.’ He sounded jumpy. ‘I just wish you’d told me, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t see why it matters to you. You’ve got what you want.’

  ‘It does matter to me. Of course it does.’ There was a pause. ‘He’s living in my house, for starters.’

  Jo was so astounded at Lawrence’s words that her mobile almost slipped from her hand. She grabbed it and pressed it back to her ear.

  She took a deep breath, steadied her tone. ‘So basically it’s the house – your house – you’re worried about. Your concern has nothing whatever to do with Cassie and Nicky.’

  ‘That’s being childish. But it does make me wonder if he’s the reason you’re hanging on to it.’

  ‘I’m not even going to answer that,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll have to deal with the house situation sooner or later you know.’ He had adopted his head teacher’s tone. ‘You can’t keep burying your head, Jo, carrying on as if nothing’s happened. And there’s the children.’ He was on a roll now, pompous ass. ‘Even if you don’t think I have the right to know, they certainly do.’