Chances (26 page)

* * *

Initially, they are both acutely aware that they are in his house, in his home, his bedroom. He’s let her in.

This is his marital bed.

Stop thinking about this being his marital bed.

Thankfully, Vita hasn’t noticed the photo of DeeDee on the drawers over there.

Oliver is grazing the side of her neck, his hands running fast over her body, and her eyes are closing as she’s melting into his arms.

* * *

‘You’re the first man I’ve known not to do the rolling-over-with-a-fart-and-snoozing off after sex,’ Vita told him as they lay entwined some time later.

He propped himself up on one arm, lifting the sheet to take an exaggerated ravenous peek at her body. ‘And have you had
many
men, then?’

He laughed at how startled she looked.

‘A handful,’ she shrugged. He nodded. ‘You?’ she asked.

‘More than a handful,’ he said. And then he thought, Ought I to tell her? About the website, the hotels? Do they or don’t they count? And then he thought, Pete Yorke doesn’t exist any more.

‘Since DeeDee?’ she asked.

Oliver wondered whether, if honesty was partially hidden, it became deceit? ‘A fair few,’ he admitted. ‘It took a while – to want it again. And then it took a while not to feel I was being somehow adulterous.’

Vita looked pensive.

‘It was just sex,’ he said bluntly. ‘Anyway, missy – what about you? Post-Tim? Been out on the pull much, love?’

Vita thought about Rick and then she started giggling. She couldn’t stop. Was that really only a couple of months ago? She snorted through her nose, burying her head in Oliver’s chest, groaning at the memory.

‘Are you going to share the joke?’

She looked at Oliver and suddenly she sensed how funny he’d find it too. Sorry, Rick, sorry to laugh at your expense.

Vita told Oliver about Rick, accent and all.

He rolled away from her. ‘You shouldn’t have told me that,’ he said, very seriously.

‘Oh – I,’ Vita was alarmed. ‘It’s just – I thought.’

And suddenly some strange Gestapo man was in bed beside her, slipping his hand between her legs, slipping his finger up inside her. ‘Ve have vays, jah? Vays to make you talk. Nein, not to talk but to
moan
. Vays to make you moan, jah? Fraulein Vitbury? Zis make you moan?’

‘Stop it! You idiot man, stop it, I’ll pee myself!’

In an instant, an Italian stallion was now working his way over her body, begging her for a golden shower, calling her his
bambina
, calling her his
fettuccine
, saying
mamma mia
a lot.

‘Enough!’

But a cowboy with a deep voice full of high-plains dirt took his place and was now pinning her down. ‘You ridden a bronco, bay-beh?’ He was pushing up inside her. ‘A buckin’ bronco? A buckin’ fuckin’ bronco, honey?’ He rolled her over so that she was on top.

‘I can do a reverse cowgirl, if you like?’ And, winking at the stupefied expression on Oliver’s face, Vita lithely turned around. Then, facing away from him, she screwed herself down on his cock, giving him a great view of her bum. He slapped her buttocks and said, Ride ’em, cowgirl. And she did. She was riding him vigorously. The laughter subsided into unbridled lust. Good, wholesome, filthy sex. She was intoxicatingly close to coming. And then she caught sight of DeeDee, the photo of DeeDee on the chest of drawers. And Vita was transfixed, staring at her, but all the while DeeDee was looking over Vita’s shoulder to Oliver. And then Oliver was coming and as he was coming, Vita felt herself going again, deflating as if she had a tiny puncture that wouldn’t cause any trouble so long as no one crushed her. Thus, as Oliver caught his breath again, marvelling post-orgasmically in an accent that was a mixture of Chinese and Welsh, Vita felt the wind being sucked out of her.

Oliver’s Russian accent was very good but Vita didn’t want to hear it. She wanted to talk and she needed answers spoken sensibly. She brought her face close to his; he looked sleepy, replete, happy. Was this any of her business? Was this fair? Candy had told her that there comes a point in a new relationship when it’s no longer possible to probe about previous partners, you have to let it go. You can talk openly in the very early days before emotions run deep, after which it’s case closed. Had she had her chances, on their first dates? Had she asked all that she needed to know?

‘Oliver?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Tell me more about DeeDee?’

He continued to look at Vita, his eyes now flitting a little, as if trying to ascertain what it was that she wanted.

‘Please?’ She stroked his arm, bringing her hand to rest on his chest.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘I’m a girl,’ she shrugged, ‘girls need details.’

Oliver thought about what to say. ‘She was bright – quite feisty. Infuriating, sometimes – so stubborn and usually right. But I’ve told you this, haven’t I?’

Vita nodded and shrugged.

‘You ask me,’ he said. And he answered Vita’s questions on DeeDee’s life; from where and when they’d met to where and when he had proposed to her, to what their wedding had been like. How had he felt when DeeDee told him she was pregnant? Was he at the birth? What was her sense of humour like? How did she dress? What were her friends like and do they keep in touch? What kind of mum was she? Where did they holiday? What was she
like
? And then he answered her questions on DeeDee’s death. The brutal facts she knew already – but she wanted to know where she is buried. Oh, cremated. Her ashes? Up north. Does he still see her family? As often as ever they did – two or three times a year. And Vita wanted to know how, how on earth did he
cope
? Oliver took each question thoughtfully and in the spirit in which it had been asked. And he answered fully, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with difficulty, but he answered everything.

It was almost dark. He was all talked out. Vita’s head racketed with information which was being sifted into her heart and filtered into the pit of her stomach.

‘Supper?’ he asked.

‘What is it?’

‘Beans on toast?’

He wandered downstairs, leaving Vita alone in his room. She kept her face turned resolutely away from the chest of drawers as she dressed. She was about to leave the room – the smell of hot buttered toast tantalizing – but she couldn’t. She shuffled, her head down, over to the drawers. Slowly, she raised her eyes, fixing them on the base of the photo frame, inching her way up DeeDee’s body until she was looking at her face. She didn’t know what to say. DeeDee wouldn’t look her straight in the eye.

*

Beans on toast never tasted so good. They sat at the kitchen counter, passing the HP sauce between them. Vita glanced at a note from Jonty, listing what they needed from the shops, signing off with a funky cartoon character.

‘He’s a good little artist, isn’t he?’ she said.

‘He’s very good,’ said Oliver.

‘Oliver – did you?’ She paused. ‘Would you? Did you plan to have more kids?’

‘No,’ said Oliver, clearing the plates. ‘We only ever planned to have the one. The Bourne Three – that was us,’ he said. He was smiling and relaxed.

While Oliver made coffee, Vita wandered into the sitting room. Down here, DeeDee was staring at her – wherever Vita’s eyes might alight, DeeDee was looking directly at her. Even on her wedding day. Even with Jonty squirming in her lap. Even in a crowded Christmas grouping. Nothing malevolent, Vita knew that. But this beautiful dead woman was everywhere. Omnipotent. She was surrounding her; Vita felt tiny and insubstantial in her presence.

Suddenly, she had an overwhelming desire to go home. She was in love with Oliver. She knew it. Deeply. And that’s what made the pain more acute. She’d spent the last few hours laughing her head off, gorged on beans on toast, talked and talked about life and death. She’d had Pimm’s and strawberries and incredible sex twice. Erotic, exquisite lovemaking followed by a hot, horny, humour-filled fuck. But, with DeeDee so firmly in the picture, never mind all the photos, and with all this information about her now in Vita’s head straight from Oliver’s heart, she just wanted to go home. It occurred to Vita that a much-loved late wife was just so different from an ex-girlfriend. Fundamentally so. She wanted to go home. Alone. God almighty, love could be cruel.

*

How will I ever not feel that I’m stealing this man from the woman who loved him so?

How will I ever feel that he wouldn’t rather be with her?

‘Coffee! Jonty and I polished off those posh mints, but I found a packet of— Vita?’

He put the tray down.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I don’t feel so good.’

‘A glass of water? Paracetamol?’

‘I just want to go home.’

‘Have a lie-down here.’

‘I just want to go home.’

‘Now you’re just being a masochist,’ Candy said. ‘Actually, you’re being a self-centred idiot. Oliver is taking a chance on this second chance at love – and you’re going to take it away from him?’ She sounded flabbergasted.

‘V, you
have
to make your peace with DeeDee,’ Michelle was actually quite cross. ‘You can’t let the opportunity you’re being given for a wonderful relationship be scuppered by a ghost of your imaginings.’

Candy nodded vehemently. They were eating
matooke
, Candy’s speciality – a stew of green plantains and beef in a sauce rich with tomato and peanuts. It was a taste Vita had known since schooldays, when she first met Candy. It was so nostalgic, so comforting. She thought back to how she’d smelt it before she’d tasted it, over half her lifetime ago.

‘I remember,’ said Vita wistfully, ‘the first time I saw your parents – when I was riding my bike around the flats at the back of my house. There they were, on their brand-new doorstep, swathed in these incredible colours and fabrics – so much material. The way it was tied in a flourish around your mum’s head. The way your dad was in a sort of tunic – but so exotic. I thought they were the King and Queen of Somewhere. That’s why I stopped my bike, not to stare – but to curtsey. And then I smelt this smell and your mum smiled and told me it was
nyama choma
. Then your dad asked, “How old are you, young lady? We have a daughter who is fourteen.” His voice was so beautiful – deep, melodious, rhythmic.’

‘And why, for fuck’s sake, are you reminiscing about all this now?’ Candy interrupted. ‘You can butter me up with your soppy memories all you like – but you’re still going to answer Michelle and me.’

‘I’m not the right person for Oliver,’ Vita said. Christ, what more did they want?

‘Last time, your excuse was that this isn’t the right time for Oliver,’ said Michelle. ‘But it seems to me, from his point of view, it is.’

‘And now you’re saying you’re not the right woman for him,’ said Candy. ‘Is that his point of view, or yours?’ She pointed the serving spoon at Vita and glowered at her. ‘Where does Oliver’s opinion come into all of this? You’re not letting him have his say on either – on timing
or
you. You’re putting thoughts in his head – that the poor sod doesn’t even know he’s having.’

‘You’re not in competition with his late wife, you know.’

That was enough. How insensitive and thick
were
her friends?

‘For fuck’s sake, Michelle, I
am
. Can’t you see? I
am
! That’s the problem. He
can’t
see it. That’s the point. Jesus – you two!’

‘You’re not giving him a chance! Show him some respect!’ Candy was really irritated.

‘I don’t even think Oliver has anything to do with it,’ Michelle countered. ‘It’s all about you, Vita.’ The three of them fell silent for a moment. ‘Your point of view is actually precisely that – it’s your point of
you
,’ said Michelle.

‘Well, why shouldn’t it be about me?’ Vita reacted. ‘Don’t I have a responsibility to myself? Why should I settle for being second best?’

Michelle knew she and Candy now ran the risk of Vita bolting out of the door so she went to her, put her hands on her shoulders, made Vita accept a hug. She softened her tone. ‘I know this is a quagmire to you – but it’s clear to me. To Candy. With Tim you felt in permanent competition with his dark side if you like – and you went all out battling for a man not worth keeping. With Oliver, you’re tiptoeing away from someone solid and good – no edge, no agenda, nothing hidden – but it’s you and only you who’s dazzled by the light of the lovely but late wife.’

‘Exactly!’ Vita tried to flinch away from Michelle’s embrace.

‘
No
. You don’t get it,’ Michelle shook her. ‘This is
your
perception, Vita. This is
your
issue. Poor Oliver. Jesus – I’d be very surprised if he gave you another chance. If you think about it, V, it’s your problem – not his. It seems to me he didn’t have a problem with any of it.’

‘But there’s another woman,’ Vita wailed. ‘Living, dead – it’s still a
ménage à trois
, once again. But this time, I won’t compete because I can’t.’

‘But Vita,’ Michelle said, very steadily and with a gentle, wise smile. ‘This was a woman who inspired Oliver to believe so steadfastly in love. You have much to be grateful to her for. He’s not searching for a replacement DeeDee. He’s just ready to love and be loved again. It’s all he wants in life.’

Oliver was confused as to why, if Vita hadn’t actually come down with some terrible lurgy, she was still adamant by midweek that she wanted to be at home, on her own. She wasn’t particularly chatty on the phone and he’d called in to the shop the next day to see how she was, only she scurried about saying she was rushed off her feet though the shop had been quiet and spic and span. He’d suggested plans for the weekend but she mumbled about her mum and Michelle and so many things to do. He’d phoned her to chat about nothing in particular but got nothing at all in return.

‘A woman her age wouldn’t be playing hard to get, would she?’

‘Sorry?’ It was Tinker. Oliver realized he must have spoken aloud.

‘Girl trouble,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, Tinker. Forget it. Let’s go.’

‘They’re trouble all right,’ Tinker laughed, ‘but they’re kinda worth the trouble too.’

This heartened Oliver. He’d cut her some slack, he decided. He’d put it down to Time of the Month. Something like that. If he hadn’t heard from her by tomorrow, he’d call into the shop again, perhaps with some flowers or a sticky bun. Something like that. Or maybe he’d pop by tonight, clean out the wasp traps. He knew Vita well enough to know she wasn’t the type to play games. Unless, of course, it was cowboys and cowgirls. He grinned. It had put a smile on his face last Sunday – and it was doing so again right now.

‘You all right boss?’

‘Oh yes, Tinker,’ said Oliver, ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

* * *

‘But it’s not a T or an S day,’ Jonty said, ‘so I should be coming in to work with you.’

‘Put your uniform on – we can’t be late on your first day back.’ Oliver straightened Jonty’s tie as Jonty slouched into his blazer.

‘I had a great summer, Dad.’

‘It’s not over yet, kiddo.’

‘I know – but it’s back to school. And it sucks.’

‘You’re a star, Jont. You’ll be fine.’

‘I know – but I want to do what you do, so what’s the point of studying frikkin’
Hamlet
and biology.’

‘Biology – you’ll be learning all about lady bits,’ his father said. ‘
Hamlet
– well, we all had to read
Hamlet
at school, like we all had to have our BCGs at school too. Painful at the time – but in the long term, you’ll be extremely grateful. By the way, do you really want to do what I do?’

‘What – be a woodchip off the old block, Dad?’ Jonty nodded and grinned. ‘It’s ace.’

‘Well, first, you need more GSCEs, a bucketful of A levels, a gap year, three lost years at uni, not to mention four rungs of qualifications before you can even take a chainsaw up a tree – and then we’ll talk family business. Oh – that’ll be Mrs Blackthorne. Good – I owe her for last week.’

‘Morning, Mrs Blackthorne.’

‘Back to school is it, Jonty?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hullo, Mr Bourne.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Blackthorne – how are you?’

‘Not complaining, Mr Bourne.’

‘I owe you for last week.’

‘When you’re ready – bread and water suits me fine.’

Oliver smiled. Part of the furniture, Mrs Blackthorne.

She was already in the sitting room, gingerly picking up a takeaway carton as if handling a dead mouse by the tail.

‘You’ve moved the photos around,’ she said casually. ‘What photos?’

‘
All
the photos,’ she said, with a broad sweep of her doughy forearm.

‘I haven’t touched the photos – they’re always just
there
; like the books.’

‘They’re not in the same spots, they’ve been moved around.’

Oliver looked around the room. It seemed to him there was no change. All the photos were still there, on the shelves and windowsills, on the mantelpiece, the side table.

‘What’s up, Dad?’ Jonty came into the room to see Mrs Blackthorne with hands on her hips and his Dad looking confused.

‘Mrs Blackthorne says the photos have been moved around,’ Oliver told him. ‘Have you moved them?’

Jonty looked around. ‘No?’ He looked confused. ‘They’re always there, aren’t they? All of them?’

Mrs Blackthorne huffed. ‘They’re all present – but they’re not correct. This one should be
there
. That one is usually like
this
. Those two normally face
this
way, and that one over there – what’s it doing looking out into the garden?’ She rearranged the frames like so. Jonty wandered out and into the kitchen to take an apple for break-time.

‘It’s the sort of thing a woman would notice,’ Mrs Blackthorne said and her words hung in the air like a vast banner. Black and white.

Oliver sat down heavily on the arm of the sofa. ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘oh shit.’

Michelle and Candy’s words lay so heavily on Vita that she couldn’t focus on fiction and, though
A Prayer for Owen Meaney
lay open in front of her, she was unable to read a word. There was a knot of facts in a tangle in her head, conflicting with the desolation in her heart and the ache in her stomach. It was a relief when customers came in. Vita leapt at the chance to chat. All the schools were back and mothers were visiting the shop as if at a loss at what to do with their days but spend money on half-price bunting and a new mug in which to make a comforting cup of tea when they returned home alone. A steady stream of them came in and business, though not particularly lucrative, was brisk. There was a lull after lunch and then it picked up again before the school run – it was always the same at the start of term, mums killing time because they were too early for pick-up. Rick had phoned, telling Vita about a new line he’d be sending her a sample of. Food with cute little bugs in them. Lift the core out of the wooden apple, find the colourful maggot inside. No thank you, said Vita. How about a drink then, said Rick. No thank you, said Vita. So a shag’s out of the question, said Rick and Vita had laughed at that one. It was all amicable now. The karma was good. Tim had texted saying he was away on business, to call if she needed him. She didn’t.

When the old lady came in, Vita was just selling the last of the bunting.

‘I don’t suppose I shall have a chance to use this until next summer,’ said the customer wistfully.

‘Pop it away, then, like you do your Christmas things,’ Vita said warmly. And the customer went on to buy two golden letters in the shape of an F and a G that were twice the price of the bunting. Vita waited until she’d left the shop, waited until she’d seen the old lady pocket the fizzing bath bomb (it was the mandarin one – the least popular in colour and scent) before she said hullo.

The old lady nodded and started to approach, as if about to speak to Vita, when Oliver came in. He walked straight up to the till table and put his hands down flat.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘I need to talk to you.’

Vita nodded. ‘That’s fine,’ she said awkwardly.

He glanced over his shoulder, noted the old lady, now systematically looking at each and every greeting card on the carousel. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘I’m not going to let you go, you know. I’m not going to let you think you can just
go
.’

‘Oliver,’ Vita looked down, saw the words swimming on the page of her book, blurring as tears gauzed her sight.

‘Vita – I’ve been through a lot.
You’ve
been through a lot. We’ve been given a chance. For God’s sake – let’s take it.’

‘Is it a chance?’ she whispered back. ‘Or is it bad timing, a bad idea? You’ve been through
so
much, Oliver. It’s not
me
you want – you long for DeeDee. I’m not her reincarnation. I’m so sorry.’

It was excruciating having to whisper the words they wanted to give such expression to.

‘Have I not expressed fully enough how I feel about you?’ He was insulted. ‘Who are you to judge what I’m feeling without asking me first?’

‘It’s just – it’s just. I’m
not
DeeDee. I’m only
me
.’

‘Jesus – what did that bloke do to your self-esteem? You’re beautiful, Vita, and I
love
you.
You.
I love Jonty. I love DeeDee. I quite like myself and I certainly love
you
. You must trust again, Vita. You
must
.’

His throat was aching with the effort of containing so much in so little sound.

‘You need more time,’ she whispered, not daring to look him in the eye. ‘I think.’

‘No, I do not.’

‘Say you change your mind, given time?’

‘Say you die on me?’

His words made her catch her breath and look up at him.

‘We have to take the changes and chances of this mortal life, Vita – face them head on.’

She could respond only with a nod. But, as a nod, it was a symbol of hope for Oliver and it sufficed.

‘Please, Vita, try – just try and believe me.’

Another small nod.

‘Will you call me?’

She looked at him, her eyes teary, her face flushed. He tipped his head to one side, his expression soft as he put a finger to her cheek to halt a tear in its tracks.

‘OK,’ she croaked and as he turned away from her, they both wondered when that would be.