Last Night in Richmond
‘Mike,’ said Natasha, ‘you bought champagne!’
‘Yes, but we don’t have to,’ he said, indicating the armchair by the window. Why wouldn’t she take her coat off?
‘Nice hotel. Swankier than usual.’
‘Well, you know. Do you want to …?’
‘Okay. I will.’
And there it was, the soft swelling below the waistband of her skirt, the one he’d longed to see, year after year, and he felt the air squeezed out of him in a great sigh. Hold it together, try to smile.
‘Obviously this is why I can’t drink the champagne.’
He breathed in. ‘I understand.’
‘But if you want to …’
‘I’m all right. Maybe later. Maybe I’ll … Anyway, congratulations, Nat.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How long?’ That was something people said, wasn’t it? His brain wasn’t functioning as it should.
‘Seventeen weeks now.’
‘Wow,’ he said, a meaningless response to meaningless words. Then, ‘So I guess it’s not mine!’
She looked shocked but only for a moment, then smiled. ‘No,’ she said, her coat draped across her arm as if she might leave. ‘It’s not.’
‘Please, sit. Take the weight off.’ She laid her coat on the bed and sat, and he sat in the other armchair, both set at forty-five degrees to face the bed as if something might happen there, as if it were a stage. Clearly this was intolerable.
‘Shall we get out of here?’ he said.
‘Let’s,’ she said, standing, one hand on her belly.
‘I booked us a table at a restaurant. Are you hungry?’
‘I will be.’
‘I booked it for eight o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. It was five forty. ‘But maybe we could go for a walk, get there early.’
‘Sure. Sure, let’s do that.’
In the lift, they caught each other’s eye, smiled, and then he looked to the floor, hands linked in front of him, like a priest. He wondered if Marnie might still be in the lobby. Perhaps she might throw a vase, but Marnie was long gone now.
They stepped out into the marketplace and he had a very vivid memory of their first date, not lunch in the staffroom but a formal date, the city centre on a Saturday night, how nervous he’d been and how she’d taken his hand as they walked towards the restaurant and, before they’d entered, turned and kissed him. She had always been the forthright one. There.Now we can concentrate, she’d said, and he remembered how hard it had been to do so, sitting across the table from her, a nice Thai place, nothing special, talking happily but thinking all the time, It’s here, I’ve found it, it’s sitting right in front of me. It was silly, but he remembered, too, how the news had been received at school, the cheers at the next disco when they’d danced together, all the cheeky questions from children who might now have children of their own. Kids loved it when teachers got together, as if they were responsible, were less sure how to react when teachers broke up. Now in the quiet of the back-streets, he felt self-conscious about the clomp of his boots, the rustle of his clothes. There were so many things to say but he didn’t yet trust his voice, so Natasha took over, as she always had.
‘How are your legs?’
‘Oh, fine. It’s not hard, it’s just long. It’s for tourists, really.’
‘But ten days. You look well on it.’
‘Do I?’
‘Got some colour.’
‘Tanned from the rain.’
‘But it hasn’t rained every day.’
‘No, it’s been mixed, you know, spring, typical spring.’
It was absurd to be talking about the weather again, yet he was incapable of anything beyond bland chat about where he’d stayed, the route he’d taken, how many miles. They walked the lanes and back-streets, shops shutting up now, people heading home. The restaurant was not yet open so they walked another circuit, Michael answering her questions in a strained, sing-song voice. A light rain began to fall so they circled back and tapped on the restaurant window, a waiter letting them in warily. The place was brighter, more modern and less intimate than he’d hoped, more like a works canteen, the table still wet, a sharp citrus smell in the air. The chef had not arrived, would they mind waiting with a drink? He ordered a beer, Nat asked for sparkling water, ice and lime. Time passed, and he was suddenly aware of his shirt cuffs, the frayed edges, a loose thread holding the button.
‘Cleo said you were walking with someone.’
‘I was, with her friend. She stayed on, just for an extra day or so.’ If he pulled the thread he’d lose the button.
‘And how has that been? Having company?’
‘It was … fine. You’ve met her before. Marnie.’
‘Have I?’
‘At the christening.’
‘Oh, right. Cleo’s friend from London.’
‘Yes.’
‘Married to that terrible man. Cleo hated him.’
‘Divorced now.’
‘Well. Good. Did you get on well or …?’
He knew what she was doing. She was probing, hoping there was something more than friendship. What a relief that would be, like offloading a subsiding house, and he felt a little spur of irritation, no, anger. How would it feel to flip the table over? It was futile, of course, the rage of a man at the bottom of a pit. Instead, he asked, ‘How is it going with Frank?’
She pulled her head back. ‘Okay. Things have got a little more serious,’ she said, glancing down. ‘Obviously.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve moved out of Mum and Dad’s. I’m at his now.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘And he’s excited about – the baby.’
‘Well, that’s all good news.’
She sighed and looked to the door. ‘Michael, don’t be—’
‘What?’
‘We’re getting along. We both wanted it, it felt like the right thing. It’s good.’ She looked to the door again as if contemplating fleeing. Perhaps he ought to let her. There was nothing that could remedy this situation and she must have felt so too, her cheeks red, her eyes a little wet. Unfair to torment her with this great hulking, incoherent sadness, and yet it occurred to him that if she left now, he would probably never see her again. Was that melodramatic, an exaggeration? What would be achieved by meeting in person? The bureaucracy of the separation could be carried out remotely, her dwindling mail forwarded; she could get her things when he was away; perhaps she should just go. Yet if she left he knew his heart would crack, he was sure of it.
‘If I’m honest about him, about Frank,’ she was saying, taking his hand, ‘we don’t have what you and I had.’
‘Please, don’t do that.’
‘I just mean—’
‘I can think of one thing we didn’t have.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘And I’m pleased for you, I mean I will be pleased at some point in the future, for you, for both of you. I – I know how much you wanted it.’
‘I did want it,’ she said, then stopped herself. With you: was that what she was about to say? Every consolation was another blow, and for a terrible moment, he thought, My God, what if she asks me to be godfather?
The door opened and a man hurried in, swiping the rain from his hair with the flat of his hand, the chef, he supposed. They’d not eat for some time yet and it seemed intolerable to sit and make small-talk when he had thought they might get back together. He had tried to suppress the notion but that was what he’d thought, that she might say, Let’s try again, get to grips with the situation, do what we can and talk, honestly and openly, find what we’d once had. He’d thought she might stay the night. Why else had he bought the room, the ridiculous champagne? Now he felt sulky and self-righteous. ‘I wish you’d warned me in advance.’
‘I thought I should tell you in person.’
‘But you could have let me know this morning.’
‘Then it wouldn’t have been in person, would it?’
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. She was moving things on briskly, talking about selling their house.
‘We might need to speed things up a little.’
‘Of course.’
‘Maybe register it with more than one estate agent.’
‘Fine. I’ll do that.’
‘How is the house? How does it feel?’
‘You mean … is it tidy?’
‘I’m sure it’s tidy.’
‘Am I washing out the bath, making the bed?’
‘I mean is it … appealing?’
‘Does it smell of freshly baked bread?’
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. ‘Yes, Michael, that’s what I mean.’
‘It feels sad. It’s a sad house. I can’t bear the place, actually. I cannot bear to be there.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘That’s why I’m wandering around on the fucking heath like a lunatic all the time, because I can’t stand being in our home.’
‘Then perhaps you should move out, rent, you’ll have to eventually.’
‘I can’t afford it.’
‘Then we should speed things up a little. Like I said.’
He remembered this, too, the cadence of their arguments, his petulant outbursts, her forced attempt at reason, the performance of patience, the sudden silence. He put his hand to his mouth and was startled by the feel of the bare skin, unpleasant and clammy. ‘I will look for somewhere. I’ll look. I haven’t got round to it.’
She said nothing, her hand bracing her forehead and he realised that she was crying. ‘Hey, I don’t want to make you upset.’
‘You’re not making me, I just am.’
‘I’m pleased for you, that it’s happening, I am. I will be, eventually.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But it’s not what I’d hoped for or what I wanted. It’s not what I thought our marriage would be.’
‘No.’
‘And I thought about kids a lot.’
‘I know, me too.’
‘How stupid, to just presume, but I took it for granted we’d be parents, Mum and Dad, we’d be good at it.’
‘And we would have.’
‘And I know it would be easier for me to … If I could just, you know, give you my blessing, say I’m happy for you both, new chapter, he’s a lovely fella, but … I’m just so fucking sad, Nat, nearly all the time.’
‘And what can I do about that?’
‘I don’t know. Stay away?’
She looked up, her mouth open. ‘I don’t want to do that.’ And now she took his hand across the table, holding it still. ‘I want you to be happy.’
He laughed for a moment. ‘Fucking hell, so do I.’
They were both crying now and the waiter was approaching. ‘Oh, now we get served,’ said Natasha, urgently dabbing her eyes with a napkin and they were both laughing too, hiding their heads in the menus, shoulders shaking.
‘Would you like to order?’
‘Actually,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Something’s come up.’ He glanced at Natasha, who gave a small nod and perhaps the waiter was relieved because within a few minutes the bill was settled and they were on the street. The rain had eased and it was a relief not to face each other as they walked slowly to her car, the conversation turning to easier stuff: village life, the health of her parents (they send their love), the management of the new school, the kids. The countryside there was wild but lovely. Lots of nice walks.
And then they were at the car and it seemed that everything was happening too quickly, like a conversation through the window of a departing train. There was no reason why they couldn’t continue but she should get back. ‘It’s a quarter to seven.’
‘Wild nights,’ he said, and thought how strange that she was returning to a home he’d never seen, would never see. How did it go? Frank would ask from their sofa. How did he take it?
‘I hope you enjoy the rest of the walk.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ he said, far from sure.
‘Good luck. Be careful on the Moors. I’ll see you with Cleo and Sam. Send Anthony my love.’ He promised he would but she must have pressed the button in her coat pocket because the car door was unlocking and now they were embracing, her body subtly arched away from him so that only their shoulders touched and then she was reaching up and holding his face, pressing her cheek to his.
Then, just as quickly, she had turned, holding her coat across her belly protectively and climbing into the car. He stepped back and saw her face once more, managing a smile, eyes glinting. She raised one hand, then turned the wheel sharply and was gone.
Back at the hotel, he asked if it was possible to return the champagne but it was tricky because it was part of the Romantic Weekender package. Perhaps he could take it with him. That, too, would be tricky so instead he ordered a sandwich and went to his room.
In his efforts to hide the ice bucket, he had pushed it too close to the radiator so the bottle was now warm and, when he opened it, foaming and unpleasantly flat, but he forced it down, taking care not to drink the whole thing, leaving a couple of inches in the bottle for the morning.