Don't Get Me Wrong (22 page)

There was a long moment when time stood still.

It was only when the car sped off, tires grinding into the tarmac, that it all came back.

That afternoon. Sitting with Eva. Everything that was said. But Harry—like someone stepping back from a cliff edge, horrified by the fall—blanked the thought from his mind. He wouldn't let himself remember.

This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

•  •  •

Izzie sat back on her heels. “You're not going to forgive him, are you?”

No, thought Kim, I'm not. Sitting there smugly at the wedding, knowing secrets that didn't belong to him. He must have felt so powerful. Like a god. Like the center of the universe.

“Eva told him in confidence.”

“I know.”

“She didn't want to tell you before the wedding.”

But she told Harry. I can't forgive him for knowing before I did. Kim closed her eyes. Pictures of the wedding crowded in. She remembered the cavalcade of cars covered with flowers, balloons, and streamers, all sounding their horns as they wove their way through the sunlit streets of the village near Nice. She remembered the pretty restaurant with its pink-and-white awning hosting the
vin d'honneur
—the celebration after the civil ceremony—with champagne and tiny canapés, and fresh lemonade for Jean-Marc's grandchildren.

How hard it was not to feel intimidated by the neat tailoring and high heels and perfect manicures all around her. For once, Kim had made a huge effort with her appearance. She'd had a haircut. She'd even polished her shoes. But the casual elegance of the French guests had made her feel clumsy and unfinished.

Eva had said her navy dress, a silk shift, brought out the blue of her eyes. But Harry looked taken aback when he saw her, which said it all, really.

Grace shone like a film star, elegant and demure in a white lace dress with a high neck and long sleeves. Her white-blond hair was swept back from her face, showing off her beautiful bone structure. She's Princess Grace, thought Kim. She has become the woman she always wanted to be.

Jean-Marc, to Kim's surprise—because Grace had described him as impossibly good-looking—turned out to be small, with brown hair speckled with gray, a hooked nose, and a slight stoop. He made Kim think of a hooded falcon hunched against the wind. Grace had insisted he stay with his eldest daughter in the days before the wedding (
There is simply too much to do. Men just get in the way
), so there had been no chance to get to know him at all. After the ceremony, conversation was hard going because Jean-Marc spoke no English, and Kim spoke no French. Harry, who had never met Jean-Marc before either, came out with a few formal sentences that he'd painstakingly learnt, and Jean-Marc inclined his head, as if to show he was pleased that Harry had made the effort.

But it was Otis who saved the day. His face lit up when he saw Jean-Marc. He remembered staying with him the year before. “
Hola
,” he said, holding out his hand. “
Bom dia. Buon giorno. Guten Tag. Sveikas
.”

They all laughed, and Eva hugged him. “Nearly.”

Jean-Marc bent down low and took Otis's hand, looking right into his eyes. “Hello.”

Oh, thought Kim, seeing how Jean-Marc's face had softened
and been made younger by his smile, I think I can see what my mother means.

After the formal reception, they got back into the noisy procession of cars, and the select few—family and close friends—were driven to Jean-Marc's grand old villa in the hills. One long table had been set up in the shade of a pergola twisted with vines. They had course after course—melon, then scallops, chicken with fresh thyme, a green salad, local cheeses on a wicker platter, and then a
croquembouche
, a great pyramid of choux pastry puffs threaded with caramel and decorated with sugared almonds. The wineglasses were filled and refilled.

Somewhere at the bottom of her third glass of peachy Bellet rosé, Kim, who was beginning to feel drowsy and happy, found herself wondering how her mother had managed to make it all happen. Jean-Marc may not be a Grimaldi, she thought, looking out at the bright blue sky beyond the olive trees. But this is pretty close to the Palace of Monaco.

“So what do you think?” Harry sat down on the empty chair next to her. It was that time of the meal when people were changing places to catch up with gossip. Later, the children might swim in the pool behind its hedge of oleander, or play hide-and-seek in the formal gardens planted with lemon and olive trees.

“I think she'll be really happy.”

“Jean-Marc seems OK.”

“I like him.” She frowned. “Because he likes Otis. I like everyone who likes Otis.”

Harry smiled as if she'd said something funny.

“What?”

“I like Otis,” said Harry. “But you've never liked me.”

Kim was about to say, Yes, but I'm trying really hard these days not to hate you, but realized that might sound rude. So she took a sip of water instead. “I've been wondering whether my mother deserves it.”

“Deserves what?”

“All this. She's been so supremely selfish the whole of her life. But now all her dreams have come true.”

Harry looked amused. “So you think good things should only happen to nice people?”

Kim felt a flash of irritation. Trust him to talk to her as if she were a child. “Don't you?”

“It's completely random. Bad things happen to good people. And good things happen to people who shit on everyone else.”

Well, you would know, thought Kim.

“Not that Eva would agree, of course,” said Harry. “She believes in karma. Good deeds mean future happiness.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Harry said, “I'm sorry Jake couldn't be here.”

Kim shot him a quick look. But the remark seemed genuine. “It's the job.”

“Busy?”

“Very busy.”

Harry leant forwards, hesitated, and then sat back in his chair.

“What?” said Kim.

“It's none of my business. But I just wondered if you and Jake were OK. You haven't talked about him much recently.”

Is it that obvious? Kim was about to say something off-puttingly neutral and change the subject but the words wouldn't
come. She was suddenly tired of lying. “He's moved on. To the next one.”

“The next one?”

“The next intern.”

Harry looked shocked. “I'm sorry.”

Kim was surprised. He sounded as if he meant it—as if he cared how she felt. “I should have seen it coming. It's all part of a pattern. It's what he does.”

“When did you find out?”

“Oh”—Kim's voice trembled, despite herself—“three weeks ago. When I got back from Bristol.”

“You don't have to say—”

“No, it's OK. There was a letter waiting for me. Telling me it had been a real struggle to decide between us. In the end, he'd had to write down both our names, and list all the pros and cons under each one. And my cons went all the way down to the bottom of the page. So there was no contest really.”

Harry looked down at his feet.

“Damaris was really angry when I told her. She said he sounded like her consultant at the hospital. All decisions must be evidence-based.”

Still Harry said nothing.

“I don't know why I'm telling you all this.” I really don't, thought Kim. It must be the rosé.

Harry said, “So you've moved out?”

Kim nodded.

“Where are you living now?”

“With Izzie.”

“Does Eva know?”

Kim shook her head, looking over at Eva on the other side of the table. “And you mustn't tell her. She'll be upset. So I'm not going to say anything until we get back to London. This is Mum's time. Her wedding. I don't want anything to spoil it.”

“You're not the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just that it's what we all want. Your mum to have a perfect day.”

But he had that blank, shut-in look in his eyes again. So Kim knew he was hiding something. She was about to ask more, to get to the bottom of what was going on, when Otis came up with a shiny green shield bug cupped in his hands, saying he wanted to build it a bungalow and call it Charlie.

So the moment was lost. But I should have listened more carefully, thought Kim, self-recrimination howling in her head as her memories of the wedding faded away. I should have worked it out for myself. Harry was telling me that someone else had a secret. And of course that person was Eva—Eva, who had taken him into her confidence. Who had chosen Harry, not me. Again.

“You did the same, in a way,” said Izzie.

Izzie's flat was always full of sunlight. From the bay window at the front, you could see right over Sydenham to the bright green leaves of ancient oak trees, last remnants of the Great North Wood. “I did the same?”

“You kept something to yourself. You didn't tell Eva about splitting up with Jake because you wanted your mum to have her big day without anyone being upset.”

But breaking up with someone, thought Kim, isn't the same as finding out you've got cancer.

My sister has cancer.

In her mind, as usual, she heard Grace's voice.
Of course they have such marvelous treatments these days.

“He went to the oncologist with her. Her first appointment.”

“You were in Bristol.”

Kim fought back tears. “I could have cut it short.”

“I think she just wanted to get it out of the way.”

That's not the point. It should have been me. I should have been sitting with Eva, asking questions, taking notes. Not Harry. Not Harry.

The important thing is to stay positive.

“And I don't think,” said Izzie carefully, as if she was talking to a child, “that Eva gave him much choice.”

That's what Harry does. Gets people on his side. Gets a whole army of supporters fighting his corner. Kim felt angry and outmaneuvered. “So what are you saying—I should move on?” And then, using Jake's favorite phrase because she hated it, and it still hurt her, and somehow flinging it out into the conversation made her feel she was able to hurt other people, too, “Draw a line under it?”

Izzie looked down at the pleats of her red skirt. “She'll get better, Kim. It's not like the old days.”

Although of course she has the most aggressive kind. With the worst survival rates.

“And Harry's done a lot of research. He understands what the treatment involves.”

Cancer is the rampant growth of unregulated cells. Like the banking industry. I'm sure Harry understands it perfectly.

“Don't shut him out. He wants to do anything he can to help.”

Harry had made her trust him. He had even made her tell him about Jake. And all the while, like a miser hugging gold, he had kept Eva's cancer a secret.

She couldn't forgive him.

•  •  •

Harry stood in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, looking at the multicolored tents huddled on the cobbles like upturned teacups. Occupy London. Numbers were growing day by day. According to the papers, people were mystified. What do they want, these people camping outdoors in late October in central London? What are their demands? They don't know yet, Eva had said the night before. They're working it out. All they know at the moment is that they don't like the way the world's organized. Everything we do dominated by money and led by people who have money. They want something different. They want us all to think how things could change. Sometimes that's where you have to start. It's enough to say no.

It sounds like the Summer of Love, Harry had said, grinning. A whole load of hippies drifting about, trying to change the world.

I think they're angrier than they were in the 1960s, said Eva, her blue eyes serious.

It must be cold here at night, thought Harry, looking at the white stone façade of the cathedral. And noisy, with the traffic and the clock bell marking the hours. You wouldn't get much sleep. A gust of wind would probably blow the tents away. Maybe they don't sleep, he thought. Maybe they operate in shifts, taking it in turns to organize new arrivals and talk to
the press. It was just before seven a.m., but already there were people moving round the camp. Someone was carrying a kettle. Of course, thought Harry. That's how the British protest against global capitalism. They make tea.

Eva had wanted to come. I could cook, she said. Or sing. There are mothers with children sitting on the steps of St. Paul's.

You need to rest, he said.

There's more to life than resting, she said.

Across the entrance to the camp was a huge green banner with pink letters spelling out
CAPITALISM IS CRISIS
.

“I keep forgetting things,” said Eva.

“No change there, then.”

She gave him a small push on the shoulder. “It's a recognized side effect. Chemo brain.”

“Maybe it is,” said Harry. “But I don't think you can blame the drugs. You've always had a brain like a sieve.”

“Were you always this rude?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You can't remember?”

Eva laughed. She still laughed a lot.

But there were days when she was so tired that he put them to bed one after the other, Otis, then Eva.

And then he sat on the sofa in the dark, looking at the lights on the Thames.

“Promise me you won't talk about fighting. Or battles. Ever.” Eva's manifesto, right at the beginning. Sitting in the sunshine, the light in her white-blond hair.

Harry smiled. “Make love, not war.”

“When have I ever wanted to fight anything? And anyway it's not a battle. It just is. Like rain. Or mold.”

It's Kim and I who fight, thought Harry. Every step of the way.

“You've got to help me. I don't think she's got the right attitude.” A pub near Paddington, one Tuesday evening before Kim got the train back to Bristol. She was angry, on edge, her face set. “I don't mind all the homeopathy and essential oils if it makes her feel better. But no one seriously thinks any of that makes any difference. Exercise, maybe. Nutrition. There are studies pointing to the advantages of a vegan diet. But the most important thing is attitude. She's got to make a commitment. She's got to be determined to beat it.”