29. Sunnymede, Saturday #2
Mary frowns and sits up a little straighter.
“No, I didn’t. I sent you a letter, along with your portrait.
” She begins to stammer as she recalls the sequence of events.
“At the end of term, Jean brought the painting and letter with her to London.” She frowns again.
“She said you picked it up during a session. That you laughed at it. It was fucking brutal to hear, actually. You were always so down on my work.”
My stomach lurches. I talk quickly, gulping for air.
“That’s not true! The only contact I had from you was the email, cutting me off.
A round fucking robin. No painting. No letter.
Your profiles deleted, your number changed.
You vanished , Mary. For months, I tried to contact you.
I begged Jean for news. She said you wanted me to leave you alone. ”
“Right,” she says doubtfully. There is an uneasy pause as she picks up a shiny beetle from the floor, cupping it in her hands and placing it carefully outside.
The door wobbles shut. Leaning against it, she continues spitefully.
“You know, when you gave up on therapy and fucked off, you hurt us a lot. Jean and me.”
Revulsion floods my body. I spring up from the floor to face her. “Why did Jean say I left London?”
She shrugs. “You lost interest. You drifted. That’s what you do, isn’t it? And now,” she says, shuddering, “you’re Anna’s little puppet . How much is she paying you for the appearance on Monday, out of interest?”
A shiver passes through me. Jean always kept me hanging on, promising that Mary would find her way back to me soon.
This was a necessary separation , she claimed.
First, there was the parental influence that she had to shake off, and the whole trauma of Lawrence.
Then: Mary will be in touch when the trial’s over.
I turn toward the window, repulsed by how naive I’ve been.
But, beneath that fear, a darker acknowledgment: For a long time, I believed Jean would prevent Mary from being with anyone else.
Hadn’t that suited how I felt about her?
Annexed in her treatment, Mary could never reject me.
“We need to get you out of here, Mary,” I say flatly, turning back to her. “This isn’t an artists’ collective; you’re living in a forest squat. A ruined fucking jungle. And Jean is lying to you. You need to come with me now. For your own safety. For your child’s safety.”
Mary goes over to the sink and concentrates on pouring food into a dog bowl. But she is agitated, and in a different way from before. Rattled, as if some element of our interaction has broken through and disturbed her.
Then she sighs and spins around. Her expression changes. My heart lifts.
“I didn’t ask you to come, Gus. I didn’t ask you to cozy up with Anna, or involve yourself in any of this. I don’t know how you found me. Or what you want here. But I’m not asking you to support my choices. I just want to be left alone.”
“They’re not your choices, Mary,” I explode.
“Can’t you see that? They’re Jean’s choices.
She’s got you living here like a tramp. She’s turned you against your parents.
And, whatever you think of them, they are—you have no idea —falling apart without you.
Your mother always carries a birthday card with her, wherever she goes.
Just in case she bumps into you. She even sleeps in your childhood bed. ”
“My mother is taking me to court,” Mary says blankly. “And she’s calling Lawrence as a witness. That tells me everything I need to know.”
“I told them about you and Lawrence, Mary.” I blurt it out suddenly. “I’m so sorry, but I had to.”
“They’ve always known.”
“Trust me, they didn’t. They were shocked. Your dad—” I say, and my voice chokes at the memory of Bonamy’s anguish. “Your poor dad was horrified.”
Mary watches my mouth for a moment, as if trying to focus her attention on what I’ve said.
But then the blankness falls back over her eyes.
“Wrong, Gussie. You don’t actually know my family.
They’ve always known. It was just too ugly to address.
They failed in their duty to protect me, so I had to say goodbye to them.
It was the only way I could greet myself. ”
I recognize that as a line of Jean’s. I take her chin in my hand, but more firmly than I’d intended. Instantly, Mary pulls away, her lip curling in disgust.
“Jean warned me about this side of you,” she spits defensively. “She said she did her best, but you were just like Oriel: bitter. And she told me about the things you used to say about me. When I think of the way you used to touch me in the night, Gus, when I was off my head, I feel sick .”
I hear myself utter a cry. She carries on.
“You wanted to have me, just like he wanted to have me. Like everyone’s always wanted to have me.”
“Mary—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—” I stammer tearfully, thinking back to how Jean encouraged it. “I thought that you liked being with me. Wanted it. I thought it was nice. I thought we were having fun.”
“I didn’t want it, Gussie,” Mary gasps, now wiping tears of her own. “I needed a friend.” She grips desperately at her abdomen, and her voice falters. “I want—need—a friend.”
I slump back on the bed, humiliated. The sting of Anna’s words: You embarrassed her .
Warm tears run down my cheeks as I imagine, with horror, that I pushed Mary into something she wasn’t comfortable with.
But did I really cross a line, or was this one of Jean’s inventions?
Another way she’d got Mary to believe she’d been exploited?
We stare at each other, bewildered. I desperately want to explain myself, to get her to understand just how far Jean has betrayed us both, but then Mary’s phone starts to ring, a dull vibrating sound that shakes against the plastic worktop.
My chest freezes. I recognize the sudden panic in Mary’s eyes as my own.
“Don’t answer it, Mary, please,” I beg. For a moment, Mary wavers. She looks down at the screen, then back at me. “Don’t answer. Don’t tell her I’m here.”
Seconds pass; the old-fashioned handset hums insistently. Then, shaking her head as if waking from a dream, Mary turns.
“Hello, Jean,” she says.