Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
‘Look…’ he says.
His eyes are bolted to mine, but there’s a subtle disconnect behind them; like he is here almost fully, except for the part of him that is gone.
‘It’s not for me to help you make your mind up about the rest of your life. I barely know what I’m doing, let alone what you should be doing.’
The way this comes out, so bluntly, so on point, almost blows me off my feet. ‘But?—’
‘I’m being very straight with you here, Moira. Whatever you might be thinking, or wanting, I can’t offer you a life to replace your current one. I can’t put myself in that position.’
No, no, no. What? Did he really just say that? Position? A thousand no’s, and then a thousand more. Where did this come from?
The blood drains from my body. He is scouring my face, so much conflict and consternation in his eyes that I have to look away; I have to try to breathe.
Did he think our earlier conversation about me having to go back to England was my way of fishing for him to offer up an alternative? ‘Frank,’ I say, trying not to get overly het up, determined to make my point as succinctly as he made his. But my voice is wobbling with dismay and hurt pride. ‘Let’s get one thing very straight. I want nothing from you. I am not asking you to give me a life. I do not expect any other person in this world to give me a life. Only I can give me a life.’ I prod my chest with my index finger. ‘Only me.’
Didn’t succeed on the not sounding het up part!
‘Irrespective of the fact that I have to go back to England right now for practical reasons, I am very much aware that I have a life in England, and I don’t have a life in California. Even if I wanted to, I can’t stay there for anything other than small snatches of time. I have no right?—’
‘To the life you might want? So you settle for one you don’t.’
He almost sounds like he’s contradicting himself. I am so damned frustrated and confused.
‘That might be over-simplifying,’ I say.
‘Sounds like it’s you who’s over-complicating.’
His hand goes to my face, his fingers curling to cup my jaw. And I don’t know if he’s going to kiss me or if he wants to comfort me, but I move away from his touch. I cannot have him touch me right now. The rejection registers hard in his eyes.
‘This is not easy for me,’ he says. ’But what I’m trying to tell you is that…’
But he never does tell me.
He never says it because we hear the most ungodly thud.
A body has just comes tumbling down the huge flight of steps. It lands hard onto the pool deck, almost right at our feet. Like a beautifully dressed sausage.
‘Rupert?’ I almost can’t believe my eyes.
My husband struggles to his feet. He stands there, partly stupefied, rubbing his arm, like he’s come to tell us that war has just broken out – but now he thinks he may just have had a nightmare.
‘What the hell?’ I gawk in horror at this clown before me. This clown I’m married to. And then it dawns on me. ‘Were you…?’
‘Spying on us from behind bougainvillea bushes?’ Frank finishes.
Rupert dusts off his trousers, tries to tug his jacket back round the right way. He looks me guilelessly in the eyes and then he says, ‘You didn’t text.’
The three of us stare at one another, for a moment. My heart seems to skip beats at this man, this idiot, who lies to me about cheating, shows me videos of his girlfriend, and tumbles down flights of steps, like he’s turning my life into a slapstick comedy. Then he says, bashfully, ‘I wasn’t spying on you. Truly. I… I slipped.’
Frank sniggers. ‘You were spying, dude. C’mon! Might as well just admit it.’
Rupert smoothes down his hair. ‘I happened to be passing by,’ he says. ‘I was on my way to… to…’ He makes a point of looking directly at me. ‘I was on my way to ask you if you wanted to go to a late dinner, actually. Given you hadn’t texted. And then…’
‘You thought you were going to see some action,’ Frank finishes.
I’m waiting for him to add something very Frank-like, such as Hey, you and me both … but he just stands there silently assessing the situation, looking like it’s not one he wants to find himself in at all.
And then he says, ‘Right. I’m fucking out of here.’
I want to say or do something, but I am stunned into silence and inaction. Rupert arriving and Frank leaving is not how it’s supposed to go at all. Rupert and I watch Frank walk across the patio towards the hotel door. Frank doesn’t even look angry; he looks neither in a hurry to leave, nor a hurry to stay. He looks like a guy who really doesn’t give a damn any more.
As he opens the lobby door, not even glancing back over his shoulder, Rupert gives a flick of his wrist, and says, ‘Scoot! Go on. You’re almost there. Yes. Excellent. Lovely. Keep going.’ And when Frank disappears around the door and it closes, Rupert chirps, ‘Have a jolly good night!’
In my room, after I tell Rupert that I’ve had dinner already, and he needs to go and F off and maybe buy a pack of Elastoplast for the one-inch gash on his forehead, I pore over events of the past hours, days, of the last three months of my life, staring into the unmoving ochre blades of the ceiling fan.
The thought just comes to me, unbidden. That clearing in your head of all the wool that makes everything so tangled. Frank might have just acted like he doesn’t give a damn. But Frank does give a damn. Frank gave a damn when he pretended he’d drowned, because he needed to know my reaction. He gives a damn when he listens to me so intently and remembers every word I say. When he shares intimate revelations with me. When he gets frustrated because I struggle to see the very thing that is staring me in the face.
Frank gives a damn. A very big damn, in fact. I see it now.
And I see something else. It rushes at me: that moment of clarity about myself.
I realise I am not confused any more. Far from it. I am acting now, not reacting. I might not have authored this particular chapter of my own story, but I’m taking the red pen and I’m deciding what gets cut and what gets to stay.
So I phone Rupert.
He picks up after the first ring.
I tell him I want to make something very clear. I tell him I am not coming back to him. I will return to England, for Harriet, and because I really have no choice in the short term, but I will be starting divorce proceedings immediately. I tell him I don’t believe him. I never believed him. I’m sorry he chose to keep on bullshitting me. But the crazy part of it is, it doesn’t even matter any more. This isn’t about him any longer. This is about me.
I tell him we shouldn’t share this with Harriet until we get back to England; we should let her enjoy her remaining time with Aiden. I tell him that if he tries to come to my hotel to have a conversation with me, I will call security and insist I don’t know who he is.
I tell him that’s actually not too far from the truth.
I don’t wait for him to say anything. I hang up, and then I power down my phone.
And then I walk down the hall to Frank’s room.
I know the scene I want to write next. I don’t care how it fits in with the ultimate ending.
I care – hugely, magnificently – about now.