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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Banishing Verona
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“Tell me what happened,” he said. “Are Nigel and George still about to shove Henry in a ditch?”
She tried to recall his expression when he had caught sight of her a few minutes ago. He had been surprised but not very. “So you haven't talked to Henry?” she said lightly.
For one second, two seconds, five, Toby hesitated. “Well, yes.”
She set down her teacup.
“Only for a minute,” he added. “I knew you were back. That nothing terrible had occurred. I'm not trying to put one over on you, really, Verona.”
“Really,” she said. I've been a fool, she thought, a complete fool. Of course he and Henry had had a thorough debriefing. To the long list of Henry's crimes she must now add the theft of Toby's friendship. But perhaps all along Toby had courted her only as another way to get to Henry. She was the latecomer, the odd one out. “Tell me,” she said, “about your dream.”
“My dream?”
“The dream that made you fax me at six in the morning and ask me to meet you at Heathrow. Or was that a lie too? Just a way to get me to go after Henry?”
“More, more,” he said, holding up his hands and beckoning. “Bring on your hot coals, your derision. I am a liar, a wastrel, a slut, a dilettante. I deserve all the abuse you can heap on me. No, I did have a dream. Why else would I be up at six in the morning?” He had dreamed that two men, who both were and were not Nigel and George, were chasing the two of them, her and him, through
a town much like the one where they had gone to university. Verona was holding the baby.
“What sex was it?”
“A boy, with dark curly hair, maybe eighteen months, like one of those precocious Christ childs. Don't you know what it is? I thought you had that test.”
“Someone knows, but not me.” A boy, she was thinking. She cupped a hand to her belly and the baby kicked, twice.
Soon, Toby continued, they were trapped in a narrow street ending in a high wall. Nigel and George had caught up with them, seized the baby, and disappeared. “You know how sometimes the most vivid part of a dream is not what you remember but the feeling you're left with? I felt that the two of you were in danger. And”—he risked a small smile—“it does sound like your going to America was a good thing.”
“My going made absolutely no difference to Henry—he sorted out his problems in his own inimitable fashion—and it's caused me major disruptions.”
“Your young man.” His smile grew brighter. Then, as if someone had wiped them clean, his features went blank. “Oh, hell, I suppose I wasn't meant to know about that either.”
Through the door she heard Lawrence's muted voice. “Organic,” he was saying.
“Let's get this straight,” she said. “There's no such thing as telling you or Henry something in confidence?”
“Of course there is. I can be silent as the grave. I didn't tell him about the baby's father. Cross my heart.” He looked at her indignantly for several seconds before he shrugged. “The truth is, mostly not. We both love you. We're both terrible gossips.”
“How often do you talk?”
“Every day. Well, perhaps not literally but most days.”
Absurdly, pathetically, her eyes were pricking with tears. She was the last to know everything. It occurred to her that Toby had probably known for years about Jigger's will. “What about all
that stuff you told me about Henry stealing from you at university?”
“I asked him about that today. At first he denied it, then he said it wasn't theft, it was a long-term loan and handed me two twenties.” He shook his head, ruefully.
Not just a brief talk on the phone, she thought. “But, Toby, what is all this for? Henry's straight.”
“Sort of.” He flipped a well-manicured hand back and forth. “Not everything is about fucking. We both have other people for that. There are worse things than knowing who you love.”
For a moment they both sat silent, examining that claim. Then she caught sight of his watch. Nearly seven-thirty. In a matter of hours Zeke would be home, the place he never would have left but for Toby. “So,” she said, “Henry went to all this trouble to woo Betty even though it was just fucking?”
“Betty's over.” Toby stood up from where he leaned against the desk and stepped across the room to a row of three vivid prints. “But I didn't see her as a threat.” He fidgeted with the middle print, tilting it left then right. “In some ways I'd rather Henry were settled than running from one girlfriend to the next. It's what he wants these days, what he thinks he wants, the so-called normal thing. If she has some cash, even better.”
He looked over at Verona, trying to smile and so obviously failing that she decided not to play her ultimate card: the house in Lucca. “Did you like her?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I did. I may pretend to be a cynic but I like other people to be idealists. Betty actually wants to make the world a better place. And she's gorgeous.”
He made one final adjustment to the print and returned to his desk. “Well, it's all water under the bridge now. Tell me about Zeke. When do I get to meet him?”
“When I do,” she said.
As soon as she gave her name, Emmanuel began to shout. “Where the hell have you been? You've upset Zeke in a major way. How could you do this?”
Verona felt better by the syllable. After two days of leaving unrequited messages, the relief of knowing that Zeke was in London, walking these streets, painting rooms, and drinking cups of tea, and that this person, who was yelling into the phone, had seen and spoken to him, was profound. She wanted to ask a dozen questions: What did he say about Boston? Was he worried about the cost of the trip? Had he mentioned her? Why wouldn't he return her calls? “Is he all right?” she said.
“What do you think?”
“I don't know. That's why I'm calling you. He won't return my messages and he never picks up the phone. Could you give me his address?” She reached for her pad of paper and pen.
“His address?” Emmanuel's voice rose. “He went all the way to America because of you, and you stood him up. That would be anyone's idea of a nightmare, but for Zeke—well, I'm amazed he hasn't had another freak-out. You didn't phone for weeks. Now you phone all the fucking time … .”
While he continued to list Zeke's tribulations—his parents had health problems, he was behind with work—she lowered herself into the wicker chair where she had sat during Nigel and George's visit and stared at the daffodils on the coffee table. All but the tardiest buds had opened and the slender green spears she had carried home from the flower shop were now a mass of yellow trumpets. How effortless it seemed for them to be themselves. When at last Emmanuel paused, she said, “I was only trying to help my brother. Tell me where Zeke lives and I'll go and apologize. What else can I do?”
“You've already done quite enough. Just stay away. Do whatever you were doing before you started this niece business. You know he went round to the Barrows'?”
“Oh, God.” Of course. “Were they furious?”
“No.” Emmanuel snorted. “They were thrilled to have a new relative.”
For a moment she was afraid he was going to hang up, but beneath the brusqueness she detected something else: a faint note of pleasure. He was enjoying scolding her. “Do you think he still cares for me?” she said.
“What?”
She couldn't tell if he was astounded at her brazen question or simply hadn't heard. “Do you think he cares for me?”
“Not if he has the brains he was born with. Why are you calling anyway? You're not just about to show up with your suitcases, are you? Because I'm going out.”
She asked again for Zeke's address and Emmanuel again began to shout. She was always putting him in these impossible situations. He felt responsible for the whole business. He didn't want Zeke upset anymore. She held the pen very tightly. “Well,” she said, “can I come round and talk to you? Or meet you somewhere for a drink?”
“I told you I'm going out.”
“How about later, or tomorrow? Please, Emmanuel, give me
half an hour. I truly never meant to hurt Zeke. It's not something I can explain on the phone.”
“You know,” he said, and worryingly he sounded less bellicose, more reflective, “in Thailand you could barely give me the time of day. You wrote down the wrong phone number. Now, suddenly, when you need something, you're all over me. I'm not stupid. If the tables had been the other way round, if I'd turned up out of the blue, you wouldn't have raised a finger to help.”
As he spoke, her mind was racing. Think, she goaded herself, think. She pictured Emmanuel at the bar on the beach, wearing his orange mesh T-shirt, flirting outrageously with Jade and Vicky and Sara. “That first week in Thailand,” she said, “I couldn't get near you. You were always surrounded by bikinis. Mr. Popularity. If it hadn't been for the business with Trevor, we wouldn't have exchanged two words.”
Her flattery worked. “That was weird, wasn't it?” said Emmanuel. “And the way he and Sara rushed off without so much as a thank-you. He was lucky you spotted he was in trouble. Christ, is that the time?”
And before she could take advantage of his better mood, he was gone.
She sat there, alone with the flowers, feeling as if she'd run up ten flights of stairs and hit a wall. For a few seconds the future stretched before her, utterly empty. Then, setting aside the pad of paper, she stood up and went into the spotless kitchen. The phone book lay open on the table. For the twentieth time, she read down the column of names. At some point during the last forty-eight hours, when it had dawned on her that Zeke was not going to return her calls, she had looked him up and discovered a single listing for Cafarelli, D. and G., his parents she assumed. She had rung directory assistance only to learn that, like her, he had an unlisted number.
Now she thought of calling his parents and appealing for help. I fancy your son. You'd have an instant grandchild. Better still, she
could go to their shop. Buy celery and radicchio and slip in the odd question: Where was Zeke these days? Had he said anything about a woman? Or she could pretend to need someone to paint her living room. But they would give her the same useless phone number she already had. She closed the directory and put it firmly back on the shelf. What she must remember was that this wasn't about finding Zeke literally. If that was all she wanted, there were a dozen ways to accomplish it. It was about finding the part of him that cared for her, which somewhere between London and Boston had got mislaid and which she desperately needed to recover. Meanwhile, she phoned her producer and said she would be back at the radio station tomorrow.
 
 
For the second time in her life, a taxi dropped Verona at the Barrows' and she rang their doorbell. In the middle of her program that morning she had suddenly remembered her grandfather's book, abandoned in their spare room, and been appalled at yet more evidence of her carelessness. Now, standing on the doorstep, she allowed herself to fantasize that Zeke would answer the blue door. But no, the door was opening and standing before her was the small woman from the many photographs in the bedroom. Her absorbed expression suggested that she was still seeing whatever she had just been looking at through her reading glasses rather than the person standing before her. “Yes?” she said.
“My name is Verona MacIntyre. I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute.”
Mrs. Barrow's glasses, dangling from a cord, fell to her chest. “So,” she said slowly, “you're the famous Verona. I suppose you'd better come in.” She stepped back and, when Verona was inside, led the way to the kitchen. “Forgive my saying this,” she said, over her shoulder, “but Zeke didn't mention that you were pregnant.”
“I don't know how to begin to apologize.”
“Then don't. Have a seat.” She motioned to an empty chair and
herself sat down behind several piles of pages. “I'm Ariel and I'm afraid we need to watch the clock. My husband will be home soon and I'm worried he might call the police. He's still beside himself about your staying here.”
“And you're not?”
“I was when we first found out.” Her gray sweater was marked by a constellation of dark stains. “I'm sure you can imagine it was very disturbing to think of a stranger having the run of my house. But when I talked to Zeke and we figured out who you are—you do this radio show, don't you?—I realized it was more complicated than that.”
Verona nodded gratefully. “It is complicated. Some men were looking for my brother, and I needed a place to stay where no one could find me.” She gestured at the stove and the counters. “Zeke didn't know anything about what was going on.”
“Did you just come to say that?” Ariel glanced over at the clock. “Because, if so, please don't worry. We understand he's not to blame, at least I do. The whole thing was so improbable. I'm glad you're back. He seemed upset when you disappeared.”
Verona studied the nearest pile of dog-eared pages. “He was, but I spoiled everything. I asked him to come to America, and then I was ill and couldn't see him. Now he won't talk to me. I feel terrible.”
“It sounds like you should,” said Ariel crisply. She asked again why Verona had come and, when she explained about the book, led the way upstairs.
Every day since she left, Verona had pictured this room. Now here it was in all its ordinary shabbiness, the miscellaneous furniture, the faded curtains, the scuffed floorboards. Had Zeke understood, she wondered, why she'd nailed the coveralls to the floor?
Ariel was already peering beneath the bed. “Lots of dust, a pen, and a Ping-Pong ball,” she reported. She stood up, holding the ball. “I just remembered. The first time Zeke came round he talked about a book he wanted to return to you. It must be the same one, don't you think?”
“He found it,” Verona exclaimed. “Fantastic.” Suddenly it seemed all her problems were solved. She was still expressing thanks and delight as Ariel hurried them down the stairs to the hall. Through the half-open door she glimpsed the living room where she and Zeke had worked together. How pleasant it looked with its immaculate walls and bright rugs. Ariel, turning to usher her out, caught the direction of her gaze. “Gerald likes it,” she said with a shrug, “but it still feels a bit formal to me. We always end up in the kitchen.”
On the doorstep, she shook Verona's hand and wished her luck.
 
 
In the first pub she came to, Verona stopped and ordered a sparkling water. The news that Zeke was in possession of Jigger's book had filled her with elation—he was an honorable person, he would have to give it back—but as she raised her glass she realized how easy it would be to return the book without seeing her, through Emmanuel or the radio station or by leaving it on her doorstep in the middle of the night. And then—a terrible thought—whatever was between them really would be over.
“Are you okay?”
She looked up to see a thin, scruffy boy watching her intently; a V-shaped piece was missing from one earlobe. “I'm fine, just doing my breathing exercises.”
“Cool,” he said, and moved away.
No, she insisted, overriding both her own doubts and Emmanuel's accusations: Zeke was just catching up with work, recovering from the journey, getting his own back by making her wait. She took several deep breaths. The clock above the bar showed nearly six. She ought to go home and prepare for tomorrow's interviews, but she felt too restless to read her notes attentively. Catching sight of her mobile phone, lying on the table beside a beer mat, she remembered the offer she had made to Henry on the plane. If she couldn't fix her own love life, maybe she could fix his.
Betty said hello in a small, soft voice that got louder and harder as soon as Verona identified herself. “I have nothing to say to Henry,” she said. But this was the kind of refusal Verona knew how to deal with. She explained that she had a tape of Henry she wanted Betty to hear, how important it was, and at last, after several more demurrals—she was in the middle of studying, the weather was horrible—Betty agreed to meet her at a pub near the radio station. Then Verona was rushing home to collect the tape and on to the Hamilton Arms. The place, crowded at lunchtime and after work, was at this hour almost empty. She settled herself, with another sparkling water, at a corner table. She was remembering that snowy afternoon in Boston—and how some combination of Henry's passion for Betty, Toby's needs, and her own panic had made her follow him so ill-advisedly to New York when a young woman came through the door.
“Verona?” she said, pulling off a striped woolen hat.
She was at first glance as Henry had described her, small and slender, but in no way did she seem to merit Toby's epithet of
gorgeous
. Beneath her duffel coat she wore an assortment of colorful garments: red jeans, a pink pullover, a blue shirt. It was impossible to guess if the clothes came from a secondhand shop or an expensive boutique. They shook hands.
“Would you like a drink?” Verona asked.
“No, thanks. I don't mean to sound rude but I just want to get this over with. So what's the tape?”
Verona explained that they could listen to it at the radio station, and they headed for the door. Outside, rain was falling. Wishing she too had brought a hat, Verona turned up the collar of her coat. “What are you studying?” she said, as they walked to the zebra crossing.
Betty said that she was applying to teachers' training college, to teach mathematics. “I like that it doesn't matter what background the kids come from, and I like that there are right and wrong answers.”
Zeke, Verona recalled, had made a similar comment about accounting.
“Last year,” she said, “I interviewed a Pakistani businessman who's started an after-school program. He was very evangelical, believed that math was the universal language and everyone should learn it.” She did not add that later, when she left the station, his chauffeur had accosted her and led her over to the open window of a long black car. She had bent down, and there was Mr. Mirza reclining on a mass of cushions. Ms. MacIntyre, he had said, patting a cushion, may I have the honor of your company? She had declined politely, claiming she'd lose her job. As she walked to the underground, the car had kept pace in the street beside her.

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