Broken Places (29 page)

Tired was an understatement. His whole body ached and throbbed; his mind begged to drift away – away from problems, complications.

‘But, first,’ Christine offered, ‘let me get you something to eat. You must be starving.’

‘No, they fed us well on the plane.’ In fact, he had barely touched the lukewarm pasta and stodgy cheesecake served on the first flight, nor the pastrami sandwich and blueberry muffin doled out on the second. However, he wouldn’t dream of asking Christine to cook for him at this hour – if she
did
cook, that is. They probably had a culinary consultant for all that sort of thing.

‘Well, how about a drink?’ Dwight went over to the bar – yes, a genuine bar, straight out of a voguish cocktail lounge; black, with six white
bar-stools
, in keeping with the colour-scheme. ‘What would you like? There’s vodka, gin, Tequila, bourbon, or I can rustle up a pretty decent
apple-martini
or a mojito or …’

Eric hesitated. What the hell was a mojito? A pint of bitter was more his sort of thing, but it might seem rather naff.

‘Or if you prefer Scotch on the rocks, I have a ten-year-old malt whisky – a present from a grateful client.’

‘Yes, great!’ All things considered, he needed a stiff drink. It wasn’t exactly easy sharing a space with his ex-wife and her patently superior spouse-to-be. Dwight dwarfed him, in every sense, and, rather than accept his swanky Scotch, his natural inclination was to thump the man over his sleek head with one of his kitschy bar-stools.

‘Cheers!’ he said, joining Christine on the sofa and wishing his own personal consultant would effect an instant makeover, rendering him worthy of the room, rather than a blot on its perfection. Never had he felt so totally inadequate. Dwight’s skin was lightly bronzed, as if he’d just returned from a trip to the Bahamas, whereas his own was red and scaly from the rash. And while the wretched guy glowed with health, he himself was a germy, aching, weary lump of flesh, fit only for the dump. His rival’s teeth were dazzling white and superbly straight and even – as indeed were Christine’s – making his own gnashers seem yellowed and misshapen. And his absurdly carroty curls seemed all the more unruly in contrast to Dwight’s enviably straight hair, which looked as if it had just been coiffed and blow-dried, and would never erupt in dandruff, or turn manic in the rain. Most galling of all, the bloke was a mere two years older than him, yet had achieved success in every field, with this extensive, ritzy property, three cars in the garage and a portfolio of shares that would make his own National Savings seem utterly pathetic. And, of course, he came from a
normal family, with a mother, father, sister, brother and two sets of
grandparents
, so that Christine wasn’t forced to conceal his origins.

‘Cheers!’ Dwight echoed, spread-eagling his athletic limbs in a modish steel and leather chair that resembled an exhibit in a design museum.

There was silence for a moment – a tense, uneasy silence. He kept expecting Dwight to embark on the ‘important issues’, but the guy said nothing more, and even Christine only enquired about his job.

‘Oh, it’s much the same as ever. Although we’re quite excited about the new Wandsworth Town Library that’s opening in the summer. It’s a listed building, actually, so it was a real challenge to adapt it, but the whole place looks amazing now.’ As if either of them could care.

‘And how’s your own work going?’ he added, hardly able to believe that he and Christine were talking in this footling manner, like two odd
acquaintances
, rather than as a couple who had shared a life, a bed. His natural instinct, were he alone with her, would be to open his heart and admit his faults and failings; tell her how deeply he regretted allowing his terrors to cramp and choke the marriage; that perhaps he could overcome them (having made a start, with flying), and be granted a second chance. He imagined taking her and Erica back with him to England, beginning afresh, re-establishing their family.

Yet, even as the thought took root, he realized it was hopeless. How could this new Christine ever settle for the old life; the lack of funds and cramped horizons, and why should he expect her to renounce all the recent bounty she’d amassed? It was
over
– as he had known full-well at the time of the divorce. Yet some part of him had always craved to reverse that cruel decree and – now that he’d lost Mandy, too – he was tempted to hark back to the past and try to salvage what was clearly irretrievable. Better to face the fact he had failed – failed twice over, with Christine and with Mandy, and that he might never find another woman, or be part of a proper family.

Silence again. He gave a surreptitious glance at his watch: 10.20, Seattle time. If they didn’t bite the bullet and embark on the subject of Erica, they might never get to bed tonight. And, since neither Dwight nor Christine had brought it up again, he had better take the initiative himself. ‘So what’s going on with Erica?’ he asked. ‘Why has she been banished from the house?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Christine frowned. ‘It’s not a matter of banishment. We simply thought it best if we left tomorrow without her being here.’

‘But won’t she be upset if you just sneak off without saying goodbye?’

‘We’ve said goodbye.’

‘But why all the secrecy? Surely it’s not good for her.’

Christine sighed in exasperation. ‘Look, she’s upset about the wedding, so we decided—’

‘You mean, she wants to be there herself?’

‘Far from it!’ Dwight said, testily. ‘She’d rather we called the whole thing off.’

Christine bit her lip. ‘Listen, Eric, we’ve decided on the plan, so let’s stick to it, OK? Once we’ve left for the airport, Kimberley will bring her over. She’s the mother of Erica’s new friend, Brooke, and, to be honest, a total airhead. In fact, Brooke’s a bit of a problem herself.’

‘Like mother, like daughter,’ Dwight put in, taking a sip of his Scotch.

‘I mean, we’re grateful to her, in one way, because it took Erica a while to make new friends at school and she and Brooke have really hit it off. But I have to say she’s a precocious little miss and a bad influence, I fear. So, while we’re glad she’s found a mate, we can’t help wishing it was someone rather different.’

‘But what happened to her other friend – you know, Kelly – the one who owned a horse and—’

‘Kelly’s history, Eric! She dropped Erica a month ago and, I’m afraid to say, in a very hurtful manner, which only added to the problems, of course. Anyway, maybe you could talk to her and try to help in some way. To be honest, I need a break from the whole damned thing, and Dwight does, too – in fact, even more than me. It’s really been getting to us these last few weeks.’

‘I’ll say!’ Dwight screwed up his face in an expression of acute distaste.

‘So, from tomorrow morning, she’s all yours, Eric. Which should give you a chance to see what’s going on. Maybe you can persuade her to confide in you, and, of course, you’ll also need to keep a careful eye on exactly what she’s doing – how long she spends on Facebook, for example, and who she’s seeing and where she plans to go. And don’t let her stay out too late, even if she argues the toss, and be sure you have the address and phone-number of anyone—’

‘OK,’ he cut in, irritably. He wasn’t a total greenhorn when it came to parenting and this advice was kindergarten-level.

‘Oh, and I’ve left a load of food for you both. The fridge and freezers are full to overflowing, so don’t worry about that side of things. And if you want to take her into Seattle for a movie or a meal or whatever, all you have to do is—’

‘Hold on a minute. Never mind about movies. You say she’s in this awful state, so what if she turns bolshie? How am I meant to deal with it?’

‘That’s your problem,’ Dwight said, coldly. ‘It’s time you took some responsibility.
You’re
her father, Eric – not me – although I try hard enough, for God’s sake.’

Swallowing his pride, Eric accepted the reproof. Clearly, he was out of date with regard to Erica’s friends and other pressing issues in her life – reason enough to reproach himself. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he mumbled.

‘But first we need to bring you up to date.’ Christine shifted in her seat, swirling her juice round and round her glass. ‘There’s something we haven’t told you yet – the main thing that’s bugging Erica, in fact.’

‘Well?’ he said, awaiting elucidation in the long, awkward pause that followed.

Christine put her glass down and locked her fingers together. ‘I’m … I’m pregnant, Eric.’

He stared at her, dumbfounded. She had never wanted another child, despite his own desperate wish for more; always warned him of the dangers of a second pregnancy: miscarriage, morning sickness, a second labour as traumatic as the first, ending in a caesarean and months of post-natal depression. And she was older now – forty-two – so surely the risks would be greater still. He glanced at her flat stomach.
How
could she be pregnant, when she looked almost painfully thin? And why should the news have upset him quite so fiercely; plunged him into a turmoil of jealousy and bitterness, together with a sense of racking loss? The reason was glaringly obvious: all those years, she had refused to have a second child with him, so it was harrowing to learn that now she had gone ahead to have one with the odious Dwight. It might have been less devastating if his own hope of being a father again hadn’t just been overturned by Mandy’s treachery. She had cuckolded him, unfathered him, and all his pain at her deceit began choking through his mind once more, adding to his resentment of Christine’s own good fortune.

‘Well, aren’t you going to say something?’ she asked.

‘Congratulations.’ The word was ashes in his mouth. ‘When’s the baby due?’

‘The end of September.’

His own child – or what he’d thought was his child – would have been born at the end of October. It was as if he himself had suffered a
miscarriage
and was now empty and in mourning.

‘I have to say we’re absolutely delighted. It’ll be Dwight’s first child, you see.’

She and Dwight exchanged the smuggest of glances. Thumping the cad with a bar-stool was no longer punishment enough; he couldn’t rest until this hateful, boastful super-stud was ripped to pieces and fed to ravening sharks.

‘Unfortunately,’ Dwight said, giving him an oily smile, ‘Erica doesn’t share our delight.’

Eric made a supreme effort to focus on his daughter rather than on himself. If
he
was so upset, was it any wonder that, Erica, too, should find the news distressing? ‘So when did she find out?’ he asked, trying to keep all emotion from his voice, whilst seeing hateful images of Dwight’s
superior
sperm swimming up triumphantly to merge with Christine’s egg.

‘We told her just a week ago,’ Christine said, leaning back against the cushions, ‘and I’m afraid she reacted very badly. For one thing, she thinks I’m too old to have babies and seems to finds it almost disgusting.’

‘And to make things worse,’ Dwight added, ‘she resents the fact the child is mine. You may not realize, Eric, but your daughter isn’t exactly my number-one fan. As I said, I’ve done my best – leaned over backwards to try to get her onside, but I seem to be fighting a losing battle.’

‘I see.’

‘Actually, you
don’t
see,’ Christine remarked. ‘She’s not the Erica you knew. She’s changed out of all recognition.’

‘But how? When? Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’

‘We did tell you – several times – but you never seemed that concerned.’

The accusation stung. Had he become so involved with Mandy, so
cock-ahoop
about his (apparent) second child, he’d stopped bothering with his first? He let out an involuntary groan, taking refuge in a Kleenex and blowing his nose so long and hard he began to feel light-headed.

‘Listen, Eric, that’s a really lousy cold you have. And you must be dead-beat after the journey. Why don’t we call it a day and go to bed? We can have another discussion in the morning and, anyway, I’ll need to show you how the heating works, and how to set the burglar-alarm and all that sort of stuff. We’re not leaving till eleven, so there should be plenty of time. Right now, you need some rest – and so do we, for that matter. Our flight tomorrow is nearly eighteen hours, so we ought to get an early night. Not that it’s particularly early,’ she added, glancing at her watch.

Thank God, he thought, he wasn’t flying to Hong Kong. Another flight so soon would finish him off.

‘I’ll show you to your room, OK?’ Christine said, getting up. ‘But, first, are you sure you don’t want something to eat – a little bedtime snack, maybe?’

He shook his head. His stomach was a war-zone.

‘Or another drink?’ Dwight proffered the Scotch again.

‘No, thanks.’ Although seriously tempted to settle for drunken oblivion, it would be most unwise to greet Erica tomorrow with the mother of all hangovers.

Having said a curt goodnight to Dwight, he followed Christine upstairs; astounded by the guest-room, which was bigger than the whole of his flat and contained a four-poster bed, with an elaborate canopy and hangings, and twisted barley-sugar bedposts in what looked like real mahogany. Never had any bed seemed so wildly inappropriate. Four-posters were for lottery-winners, honeymooners and royals, so how could a loser and a loner sleep in such princely grandeur?

‘Do use all these closets,’ Christine said, gesturing to a whole wall of cupboards, in the same wood as the bed. Had she forgotten he had lost his luggage? Apart from the contents of his flight-bag, he had nothing to put into them.

Next, she showed him the guest-bathroom, which was not far off the bedroom in size, and had a gleaming marble floor, twin basins, side by side, and what Christine called an ‘infinity tub’.

‘What’s that, exactly?’ he asked, surveying the huge circular bath,
free-standing
in the centre of the room.

‘It means you can fill it right up to the top and it won’t ever overflow. The excess water goes into a special channel, so there’s no risk of any spillage.’

But
why
, he thought, would you wish to fill it right to the top? Weren’t they into saving water over here?