A Bouquet of Barbed Wire (33 page)

‘Oh, Geoff.’ She wondered if he had any idea how pleased she was to see him. ‘No, I’m not all right. I must talk to you.’

‘Talk away.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘But you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, you know that.’

‘Oh yes, I know. You’re lovely. Well, first of all, they pinched me for speeding last night. That’s where I was when you rang. I went for a … sort of burn up, I suppose, on the M4, and they caught me. Oh, it’s all right, the car’s fine, I didn’t have an accident or anything—’

‘I should think not,’ he said quite calmly. ‘I’d never have lent it to you if I’d thought you’d be careless. What were you doing when they got you?’

She flushed. ‘Oh, about ninety-five. It
was
silly, I’m sorry, but I just wanted to get away.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What, from him?’

‘Yes. (Oh, I do wish I smoked.) Oh Geoff, I’ve got myself in such a mess. I don’t know how it happened, it’s sort of crept up on me. Oh dear.’ She finished her drink with a despairing gulp and thought, If it wasn’t so serious it would be really funny.

‘Now, just a minute. Keep it simple and start at the beginning. We’ll soon get it straight.’

Oh, you’re nice, she thought. I
like
you. I didn’t know you were so strong.

He said, ‘Is this the same chap who was around when I left?’ She nodded. ‘Is it your flat or his?’

‘I don’t know.’

His expression was comic. ‘But you
must…
Oh, I see. You’re living together. After all you said about never—’

‘I didn’t mean to. He’s my boss. Oh, please don’t be shocked—’

‘Shocked?’ he said. ‘Me?’

She heaved a great sigh. ‘Oh, when it started I thought it was just an affair,
you
know, and his wife was away … oh, I don’t know what made me begin … And then she came back and we had nowhere to meet and he … just took this flat, just for me, and I pay some of the rent, as much as I can—’

‘That sounds like you.’

‘Yes, only I hate not being able to pay it all, I just don’t feel right. Then … oh, it all got so awful, his daughter found out and she told his wife, and there was a scene and the daughter’s husband beat her up so she ended up in hospital, and she’s pregnant, and he left his wife and moved in with me.’

She paused for breath. The waiters brought food and wine while she watched Geoff absorbing the story. When they were alone again he grinned and said, ‘Well, I don’t know, it’s not safe to leave you for a minute, is it?’

She began to cry with relief. ‘Oh, Geoff, I’m so glad you’ve come back.’

‘Hey, what’s all this? You’ll ruin your lunch. Come on, eat it, don’t wash it.’

‘I can’t eat.’

‘Yes, you can. It’s easy. Just cut a bit off and put it in your mouth. Your teeth will do the rest.’

She began to laugh, choked, blew her nose. ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’

‘No more than I am. I’ve only been gone three weeks and already there’s a girl in Frankfurt who thinks I’m going to marry her.’ He paused. ‘But I’m not. Now tell me how I got into that one.’

‘It’s your compulsive charm.’ She began to eat, anything to
be busy, to cover up the shock he had given her. (But we were never in love. Why do I feel like this?)

‘Sarah.’ Serious voice. ‘Come back with me. I mean it. I could use a good secretary, in more ways than one. If you’re in a mess, if you’re not happy, just cut the job and the flat, and get out. Come to Frankfurt. I can wangle it all on expenses.’

‘For three weeks?’ she said doubtfully, tempted.

‘Why not? Call it a working holiday. It’ll be fun, Sarah, try it. If you’re not in love with this chap …’

‘Oh, I’m not.’ It was out: she inspected the words with appalled relief. ‘But I thought I was. I really did.’ She shivered.

‘Well, we all make mistakes.’

‘Geoff, why should you rescue me like this?’

‘Why not? We’re old friends.’

‘Yes, we are, aren’t we?’ The words warmed her.

‘So old friends must stick together. After all, we do have an E type in common.’

‘Yes.’

He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve missed you, Sarah. I really have.’

‘I’ve missed you too. But that doesn’t mean—’

‘It means what it says. We’ve missed each other. That’s all. But it’s a start.’

‘Yes.’

‘Look, we’re not big on commitment, either of us. We’re not loyal, we’re not exclusive. Maybe we’re scared. But let’s not knock what we have. I like you more than any girl I’ve ever known. I even trust you with my car. What more do you want?’

‘What more indeed?’ She was smiling.

The waiter, hovering, seized his chance. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Geoff said decisively. ‘Everything’s fine.’

S
HE CLIMBED
a spiral of pain. When it was more than she could encompass, like drowning because you could not swallow enough, she blacked out. Coming to, there was a blissful moment of relief, of no-pain that felt like well-being, before it sliced into her again and screwed her up, making her twist into its own pattern. Mixed with it were dreams like memories of dreams, textures and sounds and emotions all mixed, so that she did not know where or when she was. But of
who
she was, she was quite certain. She said her own name aloud. ‘Prue. I’m Prue,’ and the knowledge comforted her. It seemed that she must hang on to it, because it was too late to tell anyone else. She thought, vaguely, that she was dying, and there was the satisfaction of being right, mixed with bitterness, when she thought, more precisely, how much there was that she had not had time to do. She had not thought so clearly before in terms of her own contribution to the world, and even now it was not specific: she felt that she could contribute more remarkably by simply being herself, than by positive action. She remembered herself as a child, on the swing in her parents’ garden, and again as an adult in the south of France, brown and oily and close to the earth. She saw herself playing netball at school, cutting her knee on a walk, at table eating stew and saying, ‘More please.’ The tears that came in her eyes were for her own remembered self far more than for the pain. The pain, although it was taking her over, was irrelevant. She saw her own existence as
something separate: Prue, free and young, walking apart from the pain. She knew she was valuable; yet she felt she had never been valued, except by herself. The images she saw of Prue were like clips from an old film, so that she thought, That was me, that was my life. How unfinished, and how beautiful. No one had ever really appreciated it. They did not know the infinitely complex, messy texture she had tried to create. The Prue-person roamed about, through the past and the present, calm and gleaming, and capable of anything. And yet she knew she would not survive to do it, any of it; she would not make a mark of any kind. I am dying, she thought, of over-ambition, no matter what they put on the certificate; and my baby, too. She wanted to think that the child would go on, would continue the Prue-person in disguise, surreptitiously, under another name, but the fantasy lacked conviction. She stared upwards, over the huge curve of the child, saying goodbye to it, just in case there was nothing beyond; and when Gavin came in and rushed to her, appalled, she saw him but she could not speak his name.

‘W
ELL
? H
AVE
you told him?’ Geoff’s voice was crisp as ever but intensified by the phone. She had jumped, when it rang, almost literally out of her skin, as the saying had it, so great was the shock of breaking such an extreme silence. She felt uneasy in her skin, in any case, as if it did not adequately cover her: she felt her nerves were exposed.

‘Sarah? Are you packed?’ More decisive still.

‘They’re at the nursing-home,’ she said.

‘What nursing-home? Who?’

She felt angry with him for not knowing at once. ‘Prue’s ill,’ she said helplessly and looked at the clock. Too much time had passed: it could not be good news.

‘Who?’

‘His daughter,’ she said, and started to cry.

‘Sarah. Are you all right?’

She went on crying, having no choice. A great storm of tears forced its way out and erupted over the phone.

‘I’m coming round. Tell me the address again.’

‘It’s all my fault,’ she said, howling. The receiver was damp in her hand.

‘The address,’ he repeated. ‘Where are you?’

She told him; it took her a minute to remember it.

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Oh Geoff, I can’t bear it.’

‘Get a hold on yourself. Have a cigarette.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ she said miserably, hysterical.

‘Well, try.’ The phone went dead.

She walked round and round the room. Then she walked round the flat. She wanted a drink but she had already had two and she did not want to be uselessly drunk when news came. She kept thinking, or hoping, that they might need her, that all was not lost, that she might be allowed to make amends. When the bell rang she ran to the door, convinced that this was her chance. She had forgotten about Geoff.

‘Oh. It’s you.’

‘I said I’d be here in ten minutes.’ He came in, looking at her anxiously.

‘I forgot.’

‘Come and sit down.’ He put his arm round her but it felt strange, alien. She thought bitterly, enviously, You’re outside all this. It’s not your trouble.

‘Drink this.’ He had poured her a large Scotch.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve already had two. I want to keep sober.’

‘Whatever for? That’s the last thing you want to be. Drink it.’ He poured one for himself.

‘Oh, Geoff.’ She sipped the drink—he had made it too strong as usual—and began to cry again.

‘Now tell me.’ He shook her gently. ‘What happened? Come on, Sarah. You’ll feel better if you tell me.’

‘She … I think she’s dying. And it ought to be me. I’m her and she’s me. But they’ve got it the wrong way round.’ She was still holding her drink to her lips and tears actually splashed into it. Salt Scotch.

He took hold of her free hand in a tight grip. ‘You’re not making sense. His daughter is in hospital, that’s all you’ve told me so far. Come on, darling, I want to know so I can help you.’

She looked at him, puzzled, as if she had never seen him before. Who are you to help me? Stranger. Or perhaps it was always so, one stranger or another, a hand to clutch, a body
to lean against, a face to show concern. The endless charade of finding someone in whom to hide.

‘She’s having her baby. But it’s too soon. There must be something wrong. They rang him at the office this afternoon and he went straight away. He said he’d phone but he hasn’t.’ She wound her handkerchief round her hands. It was wet and bit into her fingers, leaving a mark. Perhaps if she could hurt herself enough Prue would be all right.

‘Well, it’s just taking a long time. Why all the fuss? People take ages having babies, don’t they? My mother never got tired of telling us what hours of agony she endured to produce the two of us. What are you in such a state about?’

She got up, wanting to free her hand, feeling guilty to have even that much comforting contact with another human being. (This is something I must bear alone.) If she had known any magic spells she would have done them.

‘I was a substitute,’ she said. ‘But they’re killing her.’

‘C
HAMPAGNE,’ SAID
Prue rapturously. ‘Oh, I wanted champagne more than anything else in the world and you knew. You’ve brought it.’ She started to raise herself up in bed, pulled a face and subsided. ‘Ouch, I forgot. Stitches. God, I’m a wreck. Mummy, you never told me it was so painful—no, good job you didn’t. And I thought I liked pain—ooh, sorry—’ as she caught the look, simultaneous and identical, on all their faces. ‘Well, you know what I mean. But I think I’m cured, if anyone’s interested. God, it was
awful:
right now I hope I never even prick my finger again. Sorry I’m a bit woozy, it’s that wretched stuff. But it helped. Not enough, though. God, they do pull you about. I felt like a horse or something, everyone tugging at me. Ugh. But I did it. D’you realise, I actually did it. Not alone and not unaided but I did it. I produced!’

Manson struggled with the cork, watched by Cassie and Gavin. He felt Gavin restraining himself from offers of help. He grew hot, felt the veins on his forehead, the tension in his fingers and the start of sweat. Excitement, relief, old-age?

‘Careful,’ said Prue, and the cork popped. They all laughed nervously and he started to pour. Cassie handed Prue the first glass. ‘Well done, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m sure this is very unethical but never mind.’

Prue laughed. ‘They can’t say a word, you’re paying. Oh, you were clever to get me in here. Imagine if I’d been in a
stuffy old hospital where you couldn’t all come, and no alcohol. Imagine.’

They all had their glasses. Manson cleared his throat, glanced at Gavin and Cassie, and then turned to Prue. ‘To both of you,’ he said. There were sudden tears in his eyes.

Prue drank to herself. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Oh, don’t you think she’s just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?’

Gavin sat on the edge of the bed. He sipped his drink awkwardly, as if he wished it was something else. ‘Yeah, she’s great. I guess we’re prejudiced but she looks great to me.’

Cassie drank with concentration, her eyes fixed on Prue. She didn’t look at Manson or Gavin. Mingled with lightheaded relief was the purest envy. Prue had her baby. Everything was all right. It was over. ‘She’s beautiful, darling,’ she said.

Prue looked at Manson. ‘Daddy. You’re not saying anything. Don’t you like your grand-daughter?’

‘I love her.’ Prue’s face blurred as he looked at her.

‘So do I.’ Prue sighed with total contentment. ‘God, I can’t believe it. It’s over and I’ve got her. Eve. Do you like the name Eve? I only thought of it the other day. Eve Sorensen. It’s terribly good, don’t you think? And wasn’t she clever to come early? I was so sick of being huge and Gavin was sick of me
being
huge, weren’t you? (Oh, don’t look like that, don’t be silly.) And now look at me. All gone. You wouldn’t think such a tiny baby could make such a mound, now would you? I thought she’d be a monster. Huge. But it must have been all the padding. I wish she didn’t have to be in that incubator, I want her with me, all the time. But I s’pose it’s all right. It won’t be for long, will it? Oh, she’s so pretty. I thought she’d be hideous, I really did. That is when I wasn’t thinking she’d be dead. Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? I thought we’d both die, I really did. Wasn’t that silly? I even wrote you all letters. Now I’ll have to tear them up.’