Close Your Eyes (2 page)

‘Everything all right?’ asks the porter when I jerk back into motion. ‘You went all stiff and scary.’

‘I have Parkinson’s.’

‘Tough break. I have gout,’ he says, as though the two conditions are somehow comparable. ‘My doctor says I drink too much and my eyesight is getting worse. I have trouble distinguishing between a pub sign and a house fire.’

Two teenagers are chasing each other across the grass. The porter yells at them to stop. He touches his bowler hat and wishes me the best of luck before he takes off in pursuit, swinging his arms as though doing a quick march on a parade ground.

The midday tour of the college is finishing. I look around for Charlie and Julianne among the crowds of people spilling from the doors and wandering along the paths. I hope I haven’t missed them.

There they are! Charlie is chatting to a student – a boy, who points to something over her shoulder, giving her directions. He tosses a non-existent fringe out of his eyes and types her number into his mobile phone. Another boy leans down and whispers in his ear. They’re checking my daughter out.

‘She’s not even a fresher yet,’ I mutter to myself.

Julianne is picking up brochures from a table. She’s wearing white linen trousers and a silk blouse, with a pair of red sunglasses perched on her head. She doesn’t look so different from when we first met almost thirty years ago – tall and dark-haired, a little more muscular, athletic although curvaceous. Estranged wives shouldn’t look this good; they should be unappealing and sexless, with belly fat and drooping breasts. I’m not being sexist. Ex-husbands should be the same – overweight, balding, going to seed …

Charlie has chosen a loose-fitting dress and Doc Martens, a combination that doesn’t come as a surprise. Mother and daughter are almost the same height, with the same full lips, thick eyelashes and a widow’s peak on their foreheads. My daughter has the more inquisitive face and is prone to sarcasm and occasional profanities, which I can live with unless she utters them in front of Emma, her younger sister.

Eleven weeks from now, Charlie will be leaving home for university. She was interviewed for a place at Oxford last December – as well as at three other universities – and I know she received offers in January, but she hasn’t revealed which one she accepted or what she might study. Lately I have caught myself hoping that she’s flunked her A-levels exams and will have to retake them. I know that’s a terrible thing for a father to wish, although I suspect I’m not the first.

Charlie spots me and waves. She breaks into a trot like a pedigree dog at Crufts. Likening my teenage daughter to a dog is not very PC or paternal, but Charlie has many other fine canine traits, not least of them loyalty, intelligence and sorrowful brown eyes.

Julianne puts her arm through mine. She walks slightly up on her toes, resembling a ballet dancer. Always has done.

‘So what have you been up to?’ she asks.

‘Chatting to the locals.’

‘Was that a college porter?’

‘It was.’

‘It’s nice to see you making friends.’

‘I’m that sort of guy.’

‘Normally you appraise people rather than befriend them.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You remind me of a mechanic who can’t look at the car without wondering what’s under the bonnet.’

Julianne smiles and I marvel at how she can make a criticism sound remarkably similar to a compliment. I was married to this woman for twenty-two years and we’ve been separated for six. Not divorced. They say hope springs eternal, but I sense that I may have excavated that particular well and found it to be bone dry.

‘So what do you think?’ I ask Charlie.

‘It’s like Hogwarts for grown-ups,’ she replies. ‘They even wear gowns to dinner.’

‘What about a sorting hat and floating candles?’

She rolls her eyes.

I don’t know what’s more out-of-date, Harry Potter or my jokes.

‘There’s a band playing down by the river,’ says Charlie. ‘Can I go?’

‘Don’t you want to have lunch?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘We should talk about university,’ I say.

‘Later,’ she replies.

‘Have you accepted an offer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

She holds out her arms. ‘I’ll give you one guess.’

‘But what are you going to study?’

‘Good question.’

Charlie is teasing me. Keeping her own counsel. I will be the last to know unless fatherly advice or money is needed, when suddenly I will become the fount of all wisdom and master of the wallet.

‘Where are we going to meet?’ asks Julianne.

‘I’ll call you,’ replies Charlie, holding out her open palm towards me. I pretend to look elsewhere. Her fingers make a curling gesture. I take out my wallet and, before I can count the notes, she has plucked a twenty from my fingers and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Daddy.’

She turns to Julianne. ‘Did you ask him?’ she whispers.

‘Shush.’

‘Ask me what?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

They’re obviously planning something. Charlie has been particularly attentive all day, holding my hand – the left one, of course – and matching stride with me.

What is it that I’m not being told?

When I look back from Julianne, Charlie has already gone, her dress billowing in the breeze, pushed down by her hands.

It’s almost lunchtime. I need food or my medication will likely go haywire and I’ll begin twerking like Miley Cyrus.

‘Where do you want to eat?’ I ask.

‘The pub,’ says Julianne, making it sound obvious. We walk through the arched stone gate and turn along St Aldate’s where the pavements are crowded with parents, prospective students, tourists and shoppers. Chinese and Japanese tour groups in matching T-shirts are following brightly coloured umbrellas.

‘It’s all very
Brideshead Revisited
, isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder if it’s more a theme park than a university.’

‘Has Charlie told you what she’s going to study?’ I ask.

‘Not a word,’ says Julianne, sounding unconcerned.

‘Surely there must be some rule against that. No walking on the grass – or keeping secrets from your parents.’

‘She’ll tell us when she’s ready.’

Despite my reservations about her leaving home, I love the idea of Charlie going to university. I envy her the friends she’ll make and the fresh ideas she’ll hear, the discussions and debates, the subsidised alcohol, the parties, the bands and romances.

As we approach the intersection, I hear a commotion. A protest march is converging on the high street. People are chanting and carrying placards. Pedestrians have been stopped at the corner by several police officers. Someone is beating a snare drum next to a girl playing ‘Yankee Doodle’ on a flute. A boy with pink streaks in his hair thrusts a leaflet into my hand.

‘What are they protesting about?’ asks Julianne.

‘Starbucks.’

‘For serving lousy coffee?’

‘For not paying UK tax.’

Further along the street, I notice the Starbucks logo. One of the posters bobs past, reading,
Too little, too latte.

‘We used to march against apartheid,’ I say.

‘It’s a different world.’

The march moves on. They’re a harmless-looking bunch. I can’t imagine any of them blowing up parliament or piloting the tumbrils to the guillotines. Most of them are probably heirs to family fortunes or ancestral titles. They’ll be running the country in thirty years. God help us!

Julianne chooses a pub by the river, which is decorated with hanging baskets of flowers and has an outside courtyard with tables overlooking the water. There are couples punting on the river, negotiating the wilting branches of willow trees and the swifter current on the outside of each bend. A rogue balloon skitters across the rippled surface and gets caught in the reeds.

After ordering a mezze plate to share, I go to the bar and get a large glass of wine for Julianne and a soft drink for myself. We toast and clink and make small talk, which is relaxed and natural. Ever since the separation we’ve continued to communicate, phoning each other twice a week to discuss the girls. Julianne is always bright and cheerful – happier now that she’s not with me.

As exes go, she’s one of the better ones – from all reports. Maybe it would be easier if she were a harridan or a poisonous shrew. I could have put our marriage behind me and found someone else. Instead I hang on, forever hopeful of a second chance or extra time. I’d happily go to penalties if the scores are still level.

‘Are you sure Charlie has a plan?’ I ask.

‘Did you have a plan at eighteen?’

‘I wanted to sleep with lots of girls.’

‘How did that work out?’

‘It was going fine until
you
came along.’

‘So I should apologise for cramping your style.’

‘You dented my average.’

‘You were a complete tail-ender. A number eleven batsman if ever I saw one.’

‘I managed to bowl
you
over.’

‘Now you’re mixing metaphors.’

‘No, I’m not – I’m an all-rounder.’

She laughs and waves me away. It feels good to make her happy. I met Julianne at London University. I’d spent three years doing medicine despite fainting at the first sight of blood, and Julianne was a fresher in her first year studying languages. I changed direction and transferred to psychology – much to my father’s disgust. He’d expected me to become a surgeon and carry on four generations of family history. They say a chain always breaks at the weakest link.

Our food has arrived. Julianne scoops hummus on to crusty bread and chews thoughtfully. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ she asks, sounding nervous.

‘Not really, how about you?’

She shakes her head.

‘What about that lawyer? I can’t remember his name.’

‘Yes, you can.’

She’s right. Marcus Bryant. Handsome, successful, painfully worthy – a suitor from central casting, if such an agency existed. I once made the mistake of looking him up on Google, but didn’t get past his four-year stint working for the International War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague and his pro-bono work with death row inmates in Texas.

There is another long silence. Julianne speaks first.

‘If I had my life over again, I don’t think I would have married so young.’

‘Why?’

‘I wish I’d done more travelling.’

‘I didn’t stop you travelling.’

‘I’m not criticising you, Joe,’ she says, ‘I’m just making an observation.’

‘What else do you wish you’d done – had more lovers?’

‘That would have been nice.’

I try to share her laugh, but instead feel melancholy.

She responds, reaching across the table. ‘Oh, I’ve hurt you now. Don’t get sad. You were great in the sack.’

‘I’m not sad. It’s the medication.’

She smiles, not believing me. ‘There must be something you’d change.’

‘No.’

‘Really?’

‘Maybe one thing.’

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t have slept with Elisa.’

The admission creates a sudden vacuum and Julianne withdraws her hand, half turning away. Her gaze slips across the river to a boathouse on the far bank. For the briefest of moments her eyes seem to glisten but the sheen has gone when she turns back.

Almost ten years ago, on the day I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease I didn’t go straight home. I didn’t buy a red Ferrari or book a world cruise or draw up a bucket list. Nor did I purchase a case of Glenfiddich and crawl into bed for a month. Instead I slept with a woman who wasn’t my wife. It was a stupid, stupid, stupid mistake that I have tried to rationalise ever since, but my excuses don’t measure up to the damage I caused.

A single, random, foolish event can often change a life – a chance meeting, or an accident or a moment of madness. But more often it happens by increments like a creeping tide, so slowly that we barely notice. My life was altered by a diagnosis. It was never going to be a death sentence, but it has robbed me by degrees.

‘I apologise for prying,’ says Julianne, toying with the stem of her wine glass.

‘You’re allowed.’

‘Why?’

‘I guess technically we’re still married.’

She sips her wine, not responding. Silence again.

‘So what are your plans for the summer?’ she asks. ‘Going anywhere nice?’

‘I haven’t decided. I might pick up one of those late package deals to Florida. Palm trees. Pouting girls. Bikinis. Surgically enhanced bodies.’

‘You hate the beach.’

‘Salsa. Mambo. Cuban cigars.’

‘You don’t smoke and you can’t dance.’

‘There you go – spoiling my fun.’

Julianne leans forward, putting her elbows on the table. ‘I have something important to ask you.’

‘OK.’

‘Perhaps I should have asked sooner. I’ve thought about it for a long time, but I guess I’m a little scared of what you might say.’

This is it! She wants a divorce. No more tiptoeing around the subject or beating around the bush. Maybe she’s going to marry Marcus and join him in America. Or she’s decided to sell the last of her father’s paintings and take a round-the-world cruise. But she hates cruises. An African safari – she’s always talked about going to Africa.

‘Joe?’

‘Huh?’

‘Have you been listening?’

‘Sorry.’

‘I was telling you a story.’

‘You know I love stories.’

Her eyes darken, warning me to take this seriously.

‘It was in the newspaper. An old woman in Glasgow lay dead inside her house for eight years. No one came to visit. Nobody raised the alarm. Her gas and electricity were cut off. Windows were broken in a storm. Mail piled up on the floor inside. But nobody came. They found her skeleton lying next to her bed. They think she fell and broke her hip and could have lived for days before she died, crying out for help, but nobody heard her. And now her family are fighting over her house. They all want a slice of her money. Makes you wonder…’

‘What about?’

‘How terrible it must be to die alone.’

‘We all die alone,’ I say, but regret it immediately because it sounds too flippant and dismissive. It’s my turn to reach across the table and touch her hand. She raises her fingertips and our fingers interlock. ‘We’re not responsible for other people’s mistakes. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?’