Banishing Verona (21 page)
Authors: Margot Livesey
“Henry's got a taxi. Can you manage the stairs?”
Henry, thought Verona. Since when did they get so matey? She could imagine exactly her brother's flirtatious manner as he drew this innocent bystander into their affairs. She pushed herself out of the chair and headed for the door. The woman followed, urging her not to rush. Upstairs he was holding her coat. She pulled it on. “Take care,” said the woman, wedging open the door with one of her boots. “Drink some ginger ale or Coke.”
For a few seconds, as the snow swirled around her, Verona forgot everything. She could have been setting out, across glaciers and crevasses, for a base camp twenty miles away. She let the wind grab her coat and started down the snowy steps. At the bottom a taxi waited, windscreen wipers swishing, engine throbbing. She climbed inside.
“Well,” said Henry, when he'd given the driver the name of their hotel, “are you going to keep giving me the cold shoulder, to use a seasonal metaphor?”
She gazed out of the window. At the traffic light a man with a large fluffy dog was waiting to cross the street. The dog had its dark nose lifted into the snow. While Henry continued his barrage, she formulated her resolution. She would talk for the common courtesies: food in restaurants, requests, and directions. But no conversation. No questions or accusations. No arguments or half-truths.
Â
Â
At the hotel she struggled out of the taxi and, without waiting for Henry, tramped through the snow toward the doors. A few weeks ago, even a few days ago, she would have bet good money that he would try to wheedle his way back into her good graces. But this morning she had been forced to understand that, in certain major respects, she did not know her brother. She had touched his fontanel, she had accompanied his first steps, applauded his first words. She had, even now, spent more time in his company than with any other human. Yet he had lied to her at the deepest level and she had had not the slightest inkling.
Upstairs in her room, she double-locked the door and added the chain. Pausing only to remove her outdoor clothes, she climbed into bed. Was there any chance, she wondered, that Henry had been lying about Jigger? The idea of two teenage boys altering a will was preposterous. But it made sense of the way he had always been ahead of his peers, had a better car, a bigger flat, nicer clothes. It wasn't evenâwhy was this so hard to accept?âthat he didn't care for her. Her needs, her well-being, as she'd tried to explain to Toby, were simply not a consideration. So much for his fear of losing her.
Staring up at the grainy ceiling, she remembered how hard she and Zeke had worked to smooth the walls at the Barrows'. Soon, she thought, the two of them would be together in a room filled with golden light. She still didn't know how Henry had cheated Nigel and George or what had happened in Seattle, but she no longer cared. In the morning she would write him a note and catch the next plane home. Nigel and George weren't about to make unnecessary trouble for her. And if they did, there would be no more nonsense about protecting Henry. She would go straight to the police. She pictured him reading her note, crumpling it into his pocket, and going on to charm the next waitress or museum custodian, for no better reason than a cat kills birds or a hedgehog eats eggs.
An hour later she was in the bath, scooping up handfuls of bubbles and smoothing them over her belly, when she heard a faint scratching sound. She stopped to listen. The small room was full of noisesâthe popping of the rapidly cooling bubbles, the rush of water in the pipes in the walls, the whir of the heatingâbut no scratching, and at last, after half a dozen attempts, Henry had stopped phoning. She returned to the foam. If you're a boy, she thought, I'll call you Edmund, after Jigger. If you're a girl, Marian. But perhaps Zeke would have opinions about names. The idea was so delightful, so presumptuous, that at once, superstitiously, she had to pretend it hadn't occurred. The noise this time was different, the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. Someone was doing something to the door of her room. For a moment she felt herself sliding toward blackness. Nigel and George: they were forcing the door. She heaved herself out of the bath, sending a tidal wave over the rim, and seized the hotel bathrobe. She was rushing toward the phone, still tying the belt of the robe, when the door swung open. Mid-scream, she heard Henry.
“Thank you. Verona, it's me. Are you all right? I've been so
worried. You didn't answer the phone. I thought something had happened to you. Or the baby.”
worried. You didn't answer the phone. I thought something had happened to you. Or the baby.”
His voice was perfect, warm, anxious, concerned; his expression the opposite. Behind him stood an all-male chorus: the porter whom she often passed in the lobby, the young man with spiky hair from the front desk who had greeted her on the first day, and two men in coveralls, one holding a toolbox, the other a pair of pliers. Each was staring at her with an expression of mingled relief and disappointment.
“Thank you,” Henry said again. “We can manage now. I'll call the front desk if we need anything.”
Reluctantly the men straggled away. The last to leave was the clerk. “I hope,” he said with a hint of menace, “that the rest of your visit goes smoothly.”
During these exchanges, Verona took several deep breaths. She practiced looking at something nearby: the fake tallboy that housed the television and the minibar, and something farther away, the snowflakes beating against the dark window. As soon as the door finally closed, she grabbed Henry by the shoulders and, in spite of her girth, began to shake him.
“For Christ's sake, Verona,” he exclaimed, pulling himself free. “What the hell are you doing? I knocked, I rang, you didn't answer. I thought you came here to help me, but all you've done is create scenes.”
The unfairness made her clench her fists. She longed to shoutâhow dare he drag her to America, keep her waiting for days, break into her room, steal her inheritance?âbut managed, just barely, to restrain herself. If nothing else, her silence had the satisfying effect of infuriating Henry. She went and sat down on the bed.
“So you've got it into your head that you're not going to talk. And what, precisely, will that accomplish? You came three thousand miles to see me, and now you won't say anything. Great.”
While he mined a seemingly inexhaustible vein of sarcasm, Verona, still in the aftermath of terror, allowed her mind to drift.
What was the name of the young man whose mother's home help had embezzled all her money? Brendan? No, Brian. She hadn't been nearly sympathetic enough. The issue wasn't the theft, though that was bad enough, the issue was that this woman, whom Brian regarded as a family member, had deceived him. And that's what Henry's been doing for decades, she thought: deceiving me and almost everyone else.
What was the name of the young man whose mother's home help had embezzled all her money? Brendan? No, Brian. She hadn't been nearly sympathetic enough. The issue wasn't the theft, though that was bad enough, the issue was that this woman, whom Brian regarded as a family member, had deceived him. And that's what Henry's been doing for decades, she thought: deceiving me and almost everyone else.
“You're behaving like I've committed the crime of the century, but really you've no idea what I've done.”
By both profession and inclination, she regarded the right question as the vise that could crack open even the hardest shell. Now, as Henry poured words into her silence, she was struck by how much of what passed for normal conversation was wasted on arguments and misunderstandings, and by how much harder it was, lacking those diversions, to avoid the truth.
At last he broke off, saying he needed a drink. She kept her face still as he tugged ineffectually at the door of the fridge. Finally realizing she hadn't bothered to get the key to the minibar, he announced he'd get something from his room. “But if you lock me out again, I'll set off the fire alarms. Okay?”
She didn't even nod. As soon as the door closed, she hurried to the bathroom, emptied the bath, and threw a couple of towels on the water on the floor. Back in the bedroom, she pulled on the clothes she'd been wearing before and, on some barely articulated impulse, retrieved her tape recorder from one of her suitcases. Using a pile of books for camouflage, she set it up on the table by the window. If she could get Henry to sit here, the machine would record most of their conversation. This snowy evening in this strange city might be her only chance to hear his version of events.
He came in, holding in one hand two miniature bottles of whiskey and in the other a glass of ice. From the brightness of his eyes, she surmised a third bottle. She went and sat down at the table, hoping he would follow, and he did. While he fiddled with the top of the first miniature, she pressed the button on the recorder. The top came off with a little rip. He tipped the contents
into the glass and raised it, mockingly, in her direction. “Here's to you, O silent one. I can't remember how much I told you the night we had dinner.”
into the glass and raised it, mockingly, in her direction. “Here's to you, O silent one. I can't remember how much I told you the night we had dinner.”
The simple version was that he had borrowed money, a short-term high-interest loan, from Nigel and George. He had done a couple of deals with them before and everything had gone swimmingly. They had put up the money for properties that Henry knew on the grapevine could be bought cheaply and resold quickly, at a profit. Last summer he had heard about a village in Lancashire. A ring road was planned and its path lay directly through a housing estate; Henry had talked a dozen people into selling. Then it had emerged, when they did the survey for the ring road, that the estate was built on a Victorian mine, the ground beneath virtually hollow. He owned twelve bungalows that no one wanted to buy or even rent; they might actually be worth a negative amount.
“I blame the whole thing,” he said, swirling his glass, “on Betty. Aha, that got your attention, didn't it? She may be mute but she's not deaf. You're wondering who Betty is. I met her at the gym. It's the sort of thing she disapproves of, spending money on unproductive exercise when peasants all over Asia are working their fingers to the bone, but a friend had brought her. We were waiting to use the shoulder press. I made a joke, she laughed, and we started going out together, the usual: films, dinner. One evening she took me to Glyndebourne. Someone at the bank where she was temping had extra tickets. I've always known there was an upper-class idyll. That evening I got to see it up close and it was amazing. We made a picnic, took the train down from Victoria, and sat in the gardens, eating and listening. The music was gorgeous, a full moon rose over the Downs, and as the applause faded this bird began to sing. Betty swore it was a nightingale and I believed her. What other bird is warbling away at 11 P.M.?
“She never said much about her family but I never say much about mine”âhe raised an ironic eyebrowâ“so it didn't occur to me that she was being secretive. Then one day the two of us were
having a drink with Toby and we ran into one of his posh gallery friends who turned out to know Betty. We all chatted for a few minutes. The following week Toby phoned, trying to round up people for an opening. Ask Betty to bring her pals, he said. That wouldn't help, I told him. They're all socialists, living in council flats. Then he broke the news. According to his friend, Betty's family owned a huge estate in Lincolnshire, an island in Scotland, and another in the Bermudas. Toby didn't tell you any of this?”
having a drink with Toby and we ran into one of his posh gallery friends who turned out to know Betty. We all chatted for a few minutes. The following week Toby phoned, trying to round up people for an opening. Ask Betty to bring her pals, he said. That wouldn't help, I told him. They're all socialists, living in council flats. Then he broke the news. According to his friend, Betty's family owned a huge estate in Lincolnshire, an island in Scotland, and another in the Bermudas. Toby didn't tell you any of this?”
He asked, she knew, only to rub it in; her expression made clear her ignorance. A little sleuthing had revealed that Toby's friend was not exaggerating. If anything, the reverse. Henry didn't mention his discovery to Betty. Their courtship continued; they spent a month at the house in Lucca he rented every summer. He taught her about wines; she taught him about birds. Finally he bought an antique ring and took her out in a paddle boat on the Serpentine.
Where was I? she wanted to ask. And what does all this have to do with Nigel and George?
“I should tell you,” he went on, “that Betty isn't at all like my idea of a Betty. She's small, flat-chested. She likes knitting and hill-walking and wait-for-it bird watching. The only thing she can cook is soup, and she belongs to some crackpot left-wing party. She used to work as a teacher's aide in the East End and she's still involved with the Bengali community. She's dreadfully untidy. In other words, we were incompatible in almost every way. When I asked her to marry meâwe were by that little island in the Serpentineâshe didn't jump for joy or fling her arms around me. In fact, she was silent for so long that I started pedaling again. At last, we were nearly at the dock, she said okay, let's. It's my life, after all. I didn't dare ask what she meant.”
For a few weeks, a month, he said, everything was fine. Each time she came over, she brought more of her clothes and books; they set up the back bedroom as her study. But he couldn't help noticing that whenever he said something about marriage, she changed the subject, and some days she didn't wear his ring. Then one evening she said there was something she had to tell him.
“It was all very labyrinthine. Her only brother had died a few years ago of diabetes, leaving her heir to the family fortune. Ever since, her parents had had strong views about whom she should marry. What do you mean, views, I asked. I was ready to convert to any religion, any political party, but what they wanted was genuine blue blood, someone out of Debrett's. If she married against their wishes, they would disinherit her. My expression must have changed. She began to reassure me that she didn't care about the money, in fact she'd prefer to be disinherited, but she did mind that they'd be upset. I did my best to cheer her up. Said that when her parents met me, they'd come round. Everything seemed fine except that I made a colossal blunder: I pretended not to know they were rich.”
He drained his glass and reached for the second miniature. “I could get used to this business of your not talking. It's positively restful. Maybe you can guess what happened next? She ran into Toby. The two of them went for a drink, and our golden boy let the cat out of the bag. Her parents owned a picture he was interested in, an early Hodgkin. That night she didn't come homeâshe still had a room in her old flatânor the next.
“She collected her stuff while I was at work. She wouldn't speak to me, she wouldn't listen. She'd become convinced that I was the person her parents had warned her about: the callous fortune hunter. She could just about understand my not mentioning it after Toby broke the news, but she couldn't accept my not saying anything when she told me. I swore up and down that I would love her if she were a penniless orphan, but she didn't believe me. It was like trying to scale a wall of glass. Nothing I said made a difference.”
Scale an iceberg, Verona silently corrected.
“I didn't think things like this could still happen: that there were heiresses, that I could meet one and fall for her and have her fall for me.” He was staring out of the window at the endless riot of snow. Watching him, she caught herself wondering, just for a moment, if he could possibly be sincere. Did he really love Betty,
for richer, for poorer? But even Henry might not know the answer to that question.
for richer, for poorer? But even Henry might not know the answer to that question.
So, he continued, he had the idea that if he could make some money, quite a lot of money, Betty and her parents would realize he wasn't a fortune hunter. He had gone out on a limb, borrowing not just from Nigel and George but from other people too. Then the report about the mine appeared and everything fell apart. He'd come to Boston for a long weekend to figure things out and in the hope that one of his American acquaintances might advance him the money. “The day after I arrived, I wandered into the library down the streetâthe guidebook recommended the muralsâand picked up a magazine. There was my old girlfriend Charlotteâyou know, the one with different-colored eyes who worked as a programmer. She moved here a decade ago, and according to this article she'd made a killing with a software company in Seattle. I got her phone number from her brother in London, and she was thrilled to hear from me. We had a couple of conversations and she suggested I come for a visit. I thought it was the answer to my prayers. We went skiing, wined and dined. Etc.” He pointed toward the bed. “But I must be losing my touch. When I asked about a loan she had a major tantrum and dredged up all this stuff from our past.
“So I have two women furious at me, owe a stupid amount of money, am being pursued by two men who don't know the meaning of restraint, and have a sister who won't speak to me.” He picked up the empty miniatures and threw them, one by one, at the window. They bounced off harmlessly and fell to the floor. “I hope your machine got all that.”
He stood up, bent to kiss her cheek, picked up his suitcase from where it still lay on the end of the bed, and left the room.
Alone, Verona gazed into the swirling snow and pictured him, trudging through the blizzard, wandering the deserted streets. But even as she was embellishing her imaginings, the snow drifting over Henry's body, covering his black coat, another part of her knew, with a confidence unshaken by recent events, that within a
matter of minutes her brother would be seated in some bar or restaurant enjoying the interest and admiration of strangers.
matter of minutes her brother would be seated in some bar or restaurant enjoying the interest and admiration of strangers.
Other books
Food Whore by Jessica Tom
The Villain Keeper by Laurie McKay
Chesapeake Summer by Jeanette Baker
Malevolent by Jana DeLeon
A God Against the Gods by Allen Drury
Dark Rising by Greig Beck
Across the Bridge by Morag Joss
The Stolen Canvas by Marlene Chase
Zombiestan by Mainak Dhar
Snowblind by Michael Abbadon
