We All Live Here

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-seven

Lila

“Ah! Ms. Kennedy! I had been hoping to speak to you.” Mrs. Tugendhat is making her way across the playground. She is wearing a long draped tunic, and her stately manner gives the impression of a boat in full turquoise sail navigating calm seas, even as the wind blows her hair around her head in an unruly cloud.

“Hello, Mrs. Tugendhat,” says Lila, trying not to grimace. She had come early because she had been hoping to catch Gabriel.

“It’s the costumes. We were hoping we might see something by now. The dress rehearsal is creeping up!” She raises both eyebrows as she says this, as though they are sharing some great joke.

The bloody costumes. Lila knows she should have spent an evening on eBay sorting them but somehow it disappears from her brain every evening.

“Are they coming together?”

“Yes. Yes,” Lila says reassuringly.

“I sent you the measurements. You got the email, yes? Goodness, these children are so large now! When I started teaching they were all pint-sized. Pint-sized!” She thrusts a plump hand downward to indicate the height of a child who would have been, at best, a toddler. “Can you let me know when we can expect them?”

It feels like the constant chorus to Lila’s life sometimes: When can we expect more chapters? When can we expect the costumes? When can we expect the noise to stop in your garden?

“I’ll be in touch,” says Lila, guessing, uncomfortably, that the thought will probably have disappeared from her head by the time she reaches her front door. Because Lila’s head, for the last week, has been 98 percent full of Gabriel. He had sent her a slew of messages the following day— That was a lovely evening. I couldn’t sleep afterward. You are so beautiful, Bella — but he has made frustratingly little effort to see her. She had more or less assumed that this was it now, that they were a thing . That they had laid the building blocks of something lovely, and this was the next step to a stage that might involve more dinners, or sleepovers, or even introducing their families.

Two days ago she had broken and texted him from the bath.

Are we okay? You’re v quiet x

The answer had come back an hour later.

Course we are, Bella. Sorry, just a mad week at work x

She had been briefly reassured, and again when he had texted her the following morning: Morning, Bellissima. Woke up thinking about you and the other night x

Since then, nothing.

Lila knows she should just call him, or even text saying she feels a little weird about his lack of communication. But something in her worries that that could come across as a bit extra , as the girls put it. She doesn’t want to seem clingy just because they slept together. She is a forty-two-year-old woman after all. Her thoughts spin and whirl in her head, vacillating between one course of action and another. She hasn’t dated for almost twenty years. She feels like an astronaut on a moon landing, navigating a completely different landscape. How does this whole thing work now, anyway? Normally she would discuss it with Eleanor, but she has an uncomfortable feeling that she knows what Eleanor will say, and it is not positive. She will tell Lila to put her cards on the table, to be direct, to say what she wants. Or she will tell Lila that he is a dickhead so walk away and stop thinking about him. But Eleanor doesn’t understand Gabriel fully; doesn’t understand what he has been through. She wasn’t there for that delicious intimate evening, has never seen how sweet he is to her, or experienced the level of their connection. So she has begun actively avoiding Eleanor’s calls, or texting her back saying, Sorry! All nuts here! Xxx , and feeling uncomfortable about that too.

Gabriel’s mother has just appeared, hurrying across the playground with her car keys in her hand. Lila gazes at her, briefly wondering if Gabriel has said anything about Lila to her. They must be close, mustn’t they? Is that where he gets his advice? The woman briefly meets Lila’s eye as she hurries past, holding Lennie’s hand. Lila smiles and the woman smiles back, but it’s in that vague way you smile when you don’t really know someone and feel obliged to return a gesture. Lila sighs, holds out her hand as Violet, who is in a crabby mood, thrusts her rucksack into it, then braces herself for another long and unsettled evening.

···

Estella Esperanza has slept with the handsome young doctor. But she is allowed only half an episode of pleasure, before it emerges that the doctor has actually been employed by Rodrigo to seduce her, so that he can divorce her for infidelity and keep the majority of his fortune (Lila is not entirely sure how divorce settlements work in this part of South America but it seems a little unfair). This time, Estella is not broken by a man’s betrayal. She has been through too much, these last two series, for that. Any woman who has survived marital betrayal, a near drowning (she fell out of a speedboat while following Rodrigo), the near-loss of one of her children, and an assassination attempt by a man dressed as a giant centipede is not likely to be shaken by the discovery that a man barely young enough to cultivate bum-fluff on his chin had ulterior motives. When she discovers from a sisterly nurse that he is not a doctor, but merely posing as one, she waits for him to meet her in the treatment cubicle, tells him sweetly that she has a problem with her ankle, waits for him to bend over to examine it, then kicks him, hard, in the face, while wearing a pair of vertiginous black and gold Yves Saint Laurent stilettos. While he is groaning on the floor, clutching his face, she slides nimbly off the treatment gurney, steps delicately over his prone body, and hissing at him, Next time , pendejo, be careful who you try to fool , walks elegantly past the curtain and out through the hospital lobby.

Lila stares at the credits until they fade, and then, a little wearily, she turns off her light and goes to sleep.

···

The following morning Eleanor appears on the doorstep, two minutes after Bill leaves for his workshop. Lila, who was on the way upstairs to her study with a mug of tea, startles as she opens the door.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Eleanor walks straight past her into the kitchen, shaking off her mackintosh.

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“You’ve missed four dog walks and you’re not taking my calls. You’re avoiding me.”

Lila trails after her into the kitchen and switches the kettle on. She puts her hands to her face. “Ugh. I did something stupid and I know you’re going to say it’s stupid, which makes me feel even more stupid than I did when I did the stupid thing.”

“What?”

“I can’t cope with you telling me off right now, El.”

“I didn’t come here to tell you off! I needed to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Lila’s hands drop from her face. “Why? What’s the matter?” She’s been so wrapped up in her own life that it hasn’t even occurred to her that her friend might need help. By unspoken agreement the conversation is halted until the second mug of tea is made, the door closed, and both are seated at the kitchen table with the tin of biscuits between them.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.”

Lila waits. This could, after all, cover any number of potential categories.

Eleanor pulls a face. “The sex-party thing. I was at this event and I just didn’t feel as giddy as I do normally. It was about eleven at night and I was in this crowded room watching two people go at it and there was something about the whole vibe of it that made me feel really depressed.”

“And?”

“And I really wanted to be home having a mug of tea and chatting to someone about what was on the telly.”

“Really?”

“I don’t regret doing it. For the first few months it felt like an adventure, like I was making up for lost time. But it was this BDSM party in west London and there was polythene taped to the walls and the music was awful and it was like all the fun disappeared and I just had…the ick. I looked at all these glazed eyes and hairy buttocks and I just felt a bit…urgh. It was like someone turning the overhead lights on at the end of the party and all these crazy cool people you’ve been dancing with all night are just sweaty idiots with their mascara halfway down their faces.”

Lila resists the urge to say that every party Eleanor has described made her picture exactly this vibe. “What did you do?”

“Made a French exit and got an Uber. Jamie and Nicoletta have called a couple of times since but I just…don’t fancy it anymore. It’s literally like a switch has been flicked. Don’t pull that face, Lila. Do you think I need HRT?”

“No. I think you need a mug of tea and a nice man to watch the telly with.”

Eleanor exhales. “Oh, thank God. I thought now you were having all your own sexy adventures you’d be telling me I’d lost the plot and just needed extra hormones or something.”

“Two. I’ve had two. And I’m not sure I’m made for sexy adventures either.”

They sigh and take a sip of tea.

“I slept with the hot architect.”

“But that’s great!”

“And I think he’s cooled on me.”

“What do you mean?”

Lila tells her about the lack of texts, the vague promises that aren’t met. She tells her her darkest secret: that somehow she fears she had forgotten how to do sex properly, or hasn’t kept up to date with the latest moves, or had done something boring or repulsive to make Gabriel go off her. She had spent almost half an hour examining her jawline in a magnifying mirror looking for stray chin hairs.

“Don’t be daft. It’s nothing you’ve done. He’s one of those men. He’s bread crumbing you.”

“He’s what?”

“I’ve read about it on the internet. It’s a thing. They give you just enough to keep you on the hook, but not enough to suggest a real relationship.”

Lila shakes her head. “That’s not it. He’s not that kind of man.”

Eleanor pulls out her phone and types something. Then she starts to read: “ Blows hot and cold .”

“Okay. Maybe.”

“Uses a generic nickname . ”

“Mm. He calls me Bella. That’s not quite generic.”

Eleanor pulls a face. “Implies he wants a relationship, and says things like ‘you’re just my type’ or ‘you’re too good for me’ but with no real follow-up . ”

Lila is getting a sinking feeling.

“Avoids too many dates. Something always feels off.”

Lila feels a bit sick now. “He’s a bit hard to pin down. You really think that’s what it is?”

“Gives you a sob story so you invest in him emotionally . ”

Lila puts down her mug. “His wife actually died, though. Is that a sob story?”

They agree that that one could go either way.

“Asks for photos . ”

“Sexy photos? No. He doesn’t do that.” She feels briefly flooded with relief.

“It says here they may not even be aware that they’re doing it. And he could be genuine. But if you can tick a few of those it’s probably worth thinking about.”

Lila thinks of the many conversations she and Gabriel have had. The long, almost nightly chats. The fact that she is the only parent at school who has taken Lennie home. The way he looks at her. The way he understands what it’s like for her. “I don’t know. He’s maybe some of that, but he’s definitely more than that too. I mean, I don’t want to write him off just because he’s had a busy week at work.”

“Then don’t. But don’t drive yourself nuts about it either. C’mon, Lila. Just have a straightforward conversation with him. You’re forty-two years old.”

“I knew that was coming.”

“That’s why you love me.”

They sit for a moment, taking turns to reach into the biscuit tin.

“Bloody hell, El. Do you remember when we were sixteen and we thought we’d have all this stuff worked out by now? I thought I’d know it all by thirty.” Lila takes a bite out of a slightly soggy chocolate-chip cookie.

“I’ve got a horrible feeling we’re going to be having a variation of this conversation when we’re eighty-five.”

“He left his dentures on the side of my bed. Do you think that means he likes me?”

“He keeps smiling at another woman in the nursing home .”

“I’m sure I saw his mobility scooter parked outside the local pole-dancing club.”

“He can only get it up with fourteen Viagra tablets and a hoist . Does that mean I’m not attractive enough?”

They begin to cackle, and then, unaccountably, get an attack of the giggles. It is the best Lila has felt all week.

···

Jensen arrives at lunchtime, just as she is taking a break from editing the first three chapters. She does this when she writes, going back over her previous work and honing, polishing, substituting words if she can think of better ones. It’s the part of writing she enjoys most. He appears at the French windows with a wave just as she is downstairs making tea, and it seems a little off not to offer him some. They sit outside in the garden to drink it. He is dressed in non-gardening clothes, surprisingly smart in a pale gray cashmere jumper and dark jeans, headed to a potential job on the outskirts of London. “It’s a lot of work. I’ll probably have to take someone else on to get it all done. But it’s a beautiful old house and they want to restore the garden to its Georgian origins, so it’s been pretty nice just doing research and trying to work out what I should suggest to them.” He has a folder of drawings with him and shows her a couple: beautiful, precise diagrams of hedging, and geometric paths.

Her own garden is finished, the last of the plants dug in and watered, and for the last week she has sat out here every evening, Truant at her feet, just enjoying the space and the peace. It is as if she has been given a whole extra room in her house, a place where she can feel quite different, a place without a complicated history. Weirdly, Jensen and Bill had been right: when she sits on the bench that Bill made she does think about her mother. But it is a good feeling, more of a warm remembrance than a gaping maw of absence. Her mother would have loved this space. She would have used words like “heavenly” and “divine,” and murmured, Just look at how the light moves through those plants, Lila! Can’t you just wallow in all that birdsong?

“You really did a lovely job,” she says, breaking the silence. And he pulls a quick face, like people do when they’re not good at receiving compliments.

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, then scuffs at the path with the toe of his shoe. “This one was personal.” He gives her a quick sideways smile, and it is a little awkward but his eyes are kind.

Lila feels a faint pang in his presence. His broad, open face holds no secrets.

“Well,” she says. “You don’t have to be a stranger, just because you’ve finished working.”

“Yeah? What shall I do—just knock on your window at odd hours, demanding tea?”

“Absolutely. Maybe with a special free-form dance around the pond if you require biscuits.”

“I’ll start working on my choreography.”

She remembers how openly she was able to talk to him about the night they had spent together. How it had been funny, and straightforward—on his side, anyway—instead of making her feel anxious and unsure of herself. This realization—with its parallels—makes her feel faintly ill at ease, and when Truant suddenly streaks across the lawn toward the kitchen and starts baying at the door, she is almost glad of the interruption. “I’d better see what he’s barking at,” she says, standing.

“Sure. Oh! I actually popped by because I wondered if I could get a copy of that invoice I gave you a couple of weeks ago. My accounts software has apparently gone nuts and I need to see the last one so I can calculate what’s left to settle.”

Truant is inside the house now, apparently hurling himself at the front door.

“Sure,” she says, distracted. “I think it’s upstairs on my desk by the printer. Just give me a moment.” She has to shout now to be heard as she jogs toward the house.

“Don’t worry,” he says, from behind her. “I remember where the printer is. I’ll get it.”

It’s a delivery. For next door. Lila resists the urge to point mutely at the number on her door, clearly two digits out from the address on the packet, and has to endure a short speech from the man in the uniform about how hard the delivery company works him and his colleagues, how they are given no time between drop-offs, which is why things go to the wrong houses, all while Truant snarls and writhes at her heels, trying to get through the narrow gap in the door. Then the driver decides he might actually have something for her and walks back across the road to his van, returning at a frankly leisurely pace with a parcel for Bill. She suspects it will be more sheet music: Bill has been ordering tranches of piano music so that he has new things to practice with Penelope.

When she finally shuts the door, shooing the dog away, and places the package on the hall table, her ears are ringing. Which may be why she doesn’t register the silence for a few minutes. She walks to the kitchen and looks out, but Jensen has gone. She thinks he must have let himself out through the garden while she was engaged at the front door, and walks over to pick up the empty tea mugs. He has left his folder of drawings on the bench. She picks it up and brings it inside, deciding she should probably call him to let him know. It won’t be good if he turns up at this new job without them.

She’s just about to dial his number when she hears footsteps on the stairs. She looks up, and Jensen is standing at the bottom, in the hallway. His face is ashen, and he’s holding some sheets of paper. He stares at her.

“ My sexytimes with J—or how, after twenty years, I got back on the bike . What—what the hell is this?”

She realizes, with a sick feeling, what he is holding.

There is a brief silence.

“Jensen, I can explain. It’s not actually what—”

“ He had joked earlier about his ‘dadbod.’ True, he wasn’t sculpted like a Greek god, but there was a friendly homeliness to his shape . ‘Friendly homeliness,’ huh? Nice.”

“It’s not actually you,” she stutters.

“ He told me he got engaged after his girlfriend scrawled ‘Do it or forget it’ on his windscreen .” He looks up at her. “No? Who is it, then? We rolled around on the floor of the workshop until we were covered with sawdust and wood shavings… ”

She feels as if her entire body has turned to ice.

“So you were just using me for…material?”

She shakes her head dumbly.

“But this is for your book, right? The one about rebuilding your life? This is a chapter of your book.”

She doesn’t speak. She cannot move. It is as if all the muscles in her body have liquefied. He is tapping his finger on the typewritten pages. “I told you everything. Everything I’d been through. And you have taken the night we spent together and just—just vomited it out into something you’re going to sell?”

“I—I can change the details. I—”

“Who the hell are you, Lila?”

He looks at her with an expression she hasn’t seen before. It is, she realizes, something like revulsion.

“You told me you didn’t want a relationship because you were dealing with a load of stuff. I thought you just needed time. I got that. I thought I’d sit back and wait for the clouds to clear and see how it went. I actually thought you were a really nice person. Just a nice, honest person who was coping with a lot.”

He puts the pile of papers on the hall table and gives a bewildered shake of his head.

“Turns out I’m still a really shit judge of character.” He walks to the front door and stops on the threshold. He turns, takes a breath, like someone struggling to control himself. “You know what? Irina was a terrible, terrible girlfriend. But at least she never pretended to be anything else.” He gives her one last scathing look, and walks out of the front door.