In Jeopardy (16 page)

‘It suited him that I drank myself to sleep. I was more malleable, and therefore less inclined to question his absence from our marriage or complain about his neglect of me.

‘I drank to dull the pain of what I considered was my pathetic existence. I often returned to an empty house and drank myself to sleep.’

That man’s treatment of my sister goes a long way to explain her problem with alcohol.

‘He said that I was a hopeless drunk and that I was ruining my looks. As I might have said, it suited him to believe this. I didn’t drink and drive or begin a shift in a compromised state. I drank myself to sleep to shut out the demons that haunted me. It was pointless trying to explain to Richard that
drinking isn’t uncommon in my profession. We are constantly subjected to broken people and this work wears you down.’

‘Until we find you accommodation you’re going to stay here.’

‘You didn’t show me the bill. I doubt that it’s cheap.’

‘I have arranged with the hotel to cover charges to both rooms.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘I just did.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

I wink in an attempt to disarm her. ‘I’m not just being a Good Samaritan – I have my reasons.’

‘How long do you intend to stay in Australia?’

‘I haven’t set a return date.’

‘When you left London did you plan to stay here indefinitely?’

‘When I contacted you I had no idea your marriage had fallen apart. I expected that meeting up with you would include your better half.’ What a thought, pretending to be pleasant to that mother-f—ker. ‘This crisis has saved me from having to be pleasant to that turd.’

‘Weren’t we discussing the bill?’

‘That’s a closed matter.’

‘I have to pay for my own room. I can meet the bill and at worst I can cover the charge on my AMEX.’

‘Save your money to cover the bond on your new place.’

She doesn’t answer this time, but her face works itself into a pout, like the ones that preceded a foot stamping episode when she was a child.

‘The publisher funding the Antipodes project struck a good deal with the hotel and I’ve managed to wrangle the same rate for both rooms. I own my place in London and have no other debts. Extending my stay will hardly break the bank.’

I mull over whether I should tell Christine about my relationship with Lucy and the decisions she made that changed, and had a dramatic impact on, both our lives.

You remember I mentioned my friend Lucy and the selfless manner with which she looked out for me when my life collapsed.

She nods.

You may wonder why a single working mother would be so available for a friend. We were lovers once, lived together for some years. I wanted to make the relationship more permanent. She is almost ten years younger than I am and she was uncertain about my offer. This uncertainty crystallised when she met Troy’s father. I had been abroad covering an angle on one of the civil wars constantly erupting in the Middle-East. The project in Syria was only a few weeks.

Lucy became familiar with my work taking me away from home. She filled in evenings and weekends partying, listening to bands, packing up to spend the weekend out of town, occasionally with her parents. She often collected me from the airport or met me at the train station.

I returned late that evening, at the start of the weekend to an empty apartment. Lucy was aware of my plans, but didn’t leave a message stating where she was or when she would be home. She didn’t answer my call for some hours, didn’t want to talk and informed me she would arrive home late Sunday. When I pressed her about a time she gave a vague excuse about traffic delays from Bristol. This was odd; she usually travelled within striking distance of London and out of town by train to avoid traffic congestion.

I had made a restaurant reservation to eat out, so I cancelled the booking and ate at home alone waiting for her to return. She called again telling me not to wait up; was delayed and would go directly to work then return home at the usual time.

I missed her to the point that my insides ached. These feelings gave way to blind fury and thoughts that she better have a good explanation. I couldn’t sleep, and I blamed and cursed her. She had
treated me shabbily and her explanation suggested that she lied. Curiosity and the pained pleasure of wanting to know something that you regret knowing once you find out became torturous.

Not seeing Lucy until the next day felt like an age, even though it had only been three weeks. It didn’t matter how I tried to justify the situation, she dismissed me with a flimsy excuse and I expected the worst was yet to come.

The next morning, as minutes passed, I became more desperate for her return. I called her at work and was told she rang in sick. This news inflamed my worst fears and I doubted that this time the situation could be papered over by an awkward explanation.

That evening she didn’t subject me to a litany of excuses. Instead she presented me with no whitewashing, only the truth. At the time a carefully orchestrated lie would have been preferable, even though I knew she had betrayed me. Before I met Lucy I had a succession of girlfriends and lovers. I lived with some of them, but these were casual relationships. After initial heartache, a blow to my pride or relief it was no real loss when they ended.

Lucy was caught in a whirlwind romance. The short time I was away she had been swept off her feet by Harry. Before she realised what was happening, what she was up for, she became engaged to a boy, a stranger she recently met. That weekend she fell madly and blindly in love with him. This situation was only marred by the complication that she hadn’t ended our relationship.

Harry drove her to Bristol to meet his parents who moved from London some years earlier. She met his brother and sister-in-law over that long weekend. They were married weeks later. It was high summer. She told me years later the reason he gave for wanting to have the wedding in such haste was to catch the good weather before it turned. She was truly sorry about the news she assaulted me with. I spared her further awkwardness, claiming she need not be, and that all was fair in love and war. At this point I understood the bruising effects of heartbreak and how it differed from merely being jilted.

I missed Lucy, had been in two minds about contacting her. I knew to see her again would only enlarge the hole in my heart and amplify this empty feeling. Other times I wanted to lash out at her with angry words, accuse her of being smug; berate her about the self-satisfied state of her idyllic life. It tore me apart that all was well in her world while mine imploded. Each dull day was much the same as the previous one.

I rehearsed many conversations over and over again in my mind. These were all variations of the same theme. Each contained that same phrase,
Lucy you are a love rat. One day you will live to regret your cruelty.
When my emotions subsided I was able to see the situation more objectively. Love can be cruel and heartbreak is a real part of the human condition. I didn’t expect it to hurt as much as it did to be dispensed with, exchanged, for someone else.

To dull the raw pain I threw myself into my work. I undertook extended projects to more dangerous places, indifferent to the risk of death or injury, at times hoping that I would die in an explosion.

Do you remember visiting me in London?

Christine nods.

I think you were in the relationship with Richard or it might have been just before you met him. You may have even been engaged at the time. I recall being aloof, reprimanding myself for this, ashamed of my conduct. If memory serves me well you wore that dreamy look, anticipating a promising future. Perhaps I projected this onto you, imagining that this was how Lucy’s life was unfolding. This impression, however mistaken it may have been, heightened my misery.

I didn’t reveal what happened in my life, instead I sulked inwardly. I reminded myself that you hadn’t travelled halfway across the world to be subjected to brooding stretches of silence. I chastised myself at the time. Later, when you left London, I was troubled, disappointed that you probably found my hospitality lacking.

Remember our trip on the Flying Scotsman?

Again she nods.

When we stopped at York before pressing on to Edinburgh, I left you alone in York to continue the trip we planned, while I returned to London. I hadn’t been honest with you. It was true, I was ready to begin another project; untrue, that I was called to the office.

Before leaving for the trip I sent Lucy’s birthday card to her work. When my phone rang I thought it was work, instead it was Lucy. I excused myself from our cabin, raced to another section of the carriage to return her call. I felt renewed hope.

Lucy was on a lunch break when I called. I asked when she was expected to return. Her colleague offered to check if she was in the staff lunchroom. I waited, disappointed and expecting I couldn’t be this lucky. Lucy coughed into the phone before thanking me for remembering her birthday. She told me she called my apartment. When I didn’t answer she assumed I was assigned to a project out of town.

An awkward silence suspended our conversation before she asked where I was. She expressed interest in your visit, asked questions about you, then the tone of her voice dropped. A longer pause followed as if she was attempting to disguise disappointment. I asked if things were okay then beat down my sentiments of concern. I berated myself for being interested in her welfare.

She suggested we meet over coffee or lunch. My initial impulse was to snap back,
A bit late for that
. This thought was instantly replaced by blind optimism, even to just see Lucy again. I realised that although she was unavailable, this woman wielded power over me.

I dared not admit to anyone what I was about to do fearing that I would appear foolish. Christine, Lucy was the reason I lied then left you in haste. She waited for me around the corner from the inner-London library she worked at. Her ivory complexion had paled, contrasting with my skin that
was flushed with colour after running from the station. The train arrived late and I cursed every lost minute.

I expected to find her more cheerful. Instead she was subdued and indifferent. At the time I was unaware that she was masking feelings of disappointment about her recent marriage. Perhaps it was true that marriage dampened love and romance and shifted to a state of mundane normality. Had her marriage soured? Did she want to meet me again to patch things up between us, continue where our relationship left off?

I rebuked myself for being thoughtless. Was it malicious of me to wish misfortune on Lucy? I felt no compunction wishing ill on her partner and justified this attitude as he was an adversary. Months after she left, I still longed for the relationship I lost, and for her to return. Although curious about why she appeared flat, I dared not ask and was cautious not to offend her. She had cast a spell over me. I was angry at her, at times I hated her, but I savoured every agonising minute I could spend in her company.

Again she apologised that she hadn’t contacted me sooner to thank me for the card. She was unwell, and it wasn’t until a few years later that I learnt the truth. I refrained from pressing her for details about her life with Harry, instead, filling the time up with polite conversation. We continued to meet over lunch or coffee. She was quieter than I recalled. Still, although curious about her life with Harry, I refrained from prying. These thoughts contrasted with the desire to bark out accusations about how she had treated me. Instead, I made a point of asking how Harry was.

Whenever we met she’d launch into a bland account of her life, only informing me about what she thought I should know. Then one day she seemed unaware that she revealed far more about Harry and her life with him than she intended.

They lived a few suburbs west of Wimbledon. This was Harry’s family home and an early inheritance. Harry was an architect who had shunned an orthodox career and occupied his time taking on project work with small practices or with teams of architects within large companies. These contracts and conditions suited him, fitting around the band he played in.

Occasionally when I met Lucy she filled in details about Harry. At least the bits she knew about him and believed appropriate conversation fillers. He and his brother went through the public school system. Both of them were heavily involved in the extracurricular sport and music expected at these privileged schools. At university Harry became involved in a student band. He told his parents, to their horror, that music was the real education and would become his vocation.

During the first year of their marriage Harry undertook a twelve month contract. Although this was full-time work he continued to play gigs with the band he formed some years ago, sometimes into the early hours of the morning. He sympathised with Lucy’s disappointment and complaints that he left her alone too often. In the earlier days of their relationship she regularly watched the band until becoming exhausted from staying up late then facing work the next day. She rarely watched Harry play on weekends as much of her time was spent cleaning the large house they lived in. I guess in the early days this was a labour of love.

She said enough to reveal the cracks in her relationship that were rapidly emerging. It became difficult for Lucy to refrain from disclosing what happened. She could not disguise the tightening muscles in her neck becoming ropey when she spoke. Sometimes her face appeared pinched as if
she were flinching from pain. She prefaced conversations with words like:
Is it that long since we met?
And,
I’m glad we have remained friends.

I still wanted us to be more than friends, but consoled myself that we hadn’t parted on bad terms. She simply fell in love with someone else. I came to terms with this reality by continuing to commit to longer projects and avoiding the possibility of new romance. Other times I cursed Lucy, hated her, but somehow, I kept this to myself.

Do you wonder why I’ve revealed this much about my relationship with Lucy?