Second Chance (29 page)

‘Yes, I shall miss Paul. He's a decent man who tries to do his best for everyone. You'll get on well with him. Francesca has treated him badly in the past and will probably do so again in the future. But perhaps not. I'm afraid I'm not very charitable towards Francesca.'

‘You're doing fine, it seems to me. Annabel thinks so, anyway.'

My eyes prickled with tears. Annabel seemed like an exotic butterfly who'd landed briefly on my shoulder and then flown away again in a butterfly's zigzag fashion. She'd never need me again.

Lewis noticed my distress. ‘What's this wedding going to be like, then?' he asked me.

‘Have you ever watched any of the royal weddings on the telly?'

‘No.'

‘Just as well. Do you ever have those dreams when you have to do something very difficult and nerve-racking and you've completely forgotten to prepare for it?'

‘Oh, very often. An important exam when I realise I've been swotting up the wrong subject.'

‘And I'm usually on stage in a play I haven't rehearsed. Well, it won't be as bad as that. Not quite. Have you told your parents about it?'

‘Yes. A wedding in London. They think it's very posh. You will be there, won't you?'

‘Of course.'

‘Can you give me your phone number so I can ring if I have a problem.'

I wrote it down and handed it to him. ‘You'll have lots of problems, love, but at least you won't have to worry about how much it's all going to cost. Francesca can be depended on to cough up for everything.'

‘Going to be an expensive do, then?'

‘No. Twenty grand ought to cover it.'

‘You're joking, aren't you? Tell me you're joking.'

‘I'm joking. She'll probably decide to cut down on certain of the more vulgar extravagances because of Selena's death. You know what I mean – she'll probably decide to get the dresses for her and Annabel in Harrods rather than in Paris, arrange the reception at a small five-star Knightsbridge hotel rather than in the Ritz... Listen, it's going to be OK. And even if it isn't, Lewis, it's only a day out of your life.'

‘Thanks. And if I need any more cheering up, I'll give you a bell.'

I kissed him when he left. After all, he was almost my stepson-in-law.

Rhydian phoned that night. He was angry when I said I was leaving in the morning, saying it was too sudden, too brutally sudden, altogether too cruel. I had to remind him about the decision he'd made in Cwmllys. He said that was the sea talking. It was the exhilaration of the swim, the discovery that he wasn't entirely without courage, the gratitude for Annabel's safety, the need, he supposed, to appease the gods. That night, he'd felt a largeness of spirit which was entirely false. His voice broke. He insisted that he was a weak man who needed me in his life. We owed it to ourselves, he said, to fight for a little mercy, a little happiness.

I was too fraught to say anything. I couldn't see any happiness for me, with him or without. He begged me to let him phone me in London. I begged him not to contact me for at least a month. Things had happened too fast, I said, and we needed a cooling-off period. Did we? I put the phone down. I was shaking with misery.

Far too unhappy to go to bed, I sat on my mother's sofa with Arthur on my lap, thinking about her sad life. Only a few days ago I'd been determined that mine was going to be different, that I was going to fight for my share of the world. That night, I had no fight left in me. It was almost three o'clock before I even had the energy to get myself upstairs.

The journey back to London was a nightmare. I'd remembered to let George Williams know that I'd had a change of heart about Arthur; he'd found me a wonderfully strong cardboard box for the journey and I'd made it everything a travelling cat could ask for; air holes in the lid, a cushion covered by a smart tartan travelling rug, a new cat-nip mouse. I talked to him, sang to him, recited poetry to him, he yowled back at me without pause, except for brief periods when he seemed to be hurtling himself about or feverishly scratching the box to pieces. I drove for 235 miles without daring to stop for a snack or a pee.

When I got back, I could hardly believe that the house was still standing, hadn't even been burgled, was, in fact, beautifully clean, the late afternoon sun patterning the walls and the carpet, the central heating breathing gently in the background. My spirits rose.

I carried in the snarling cardboard box, leaving it unopened in the sitting room while I filled two new plastic trays with the cat litter I'd bought in a pet shop in Abernon, filled a new stainless-steel bowl with water and another with cat food. Then, after making sure that every door and window was tightly fastened, I opened the box and retreated to an armchair. I expected Arthur to emerge looking angry, worn and threadbare. He seemed in tip-top condition, looked around him as though fairly satisfied, then, ignoring the food, the water and the cat litter, jumped up onto my lap. I was a cat owner. ‘I'm not going to get stupid about you, Arthur,' I told him, as I fondled his almost transparent white ears. The large, round eyes he turned towards me were the colour of young wheat.

The next day was cold and windy, the sky a pewter grey. In spite of the fact that Arthur had used the two litter trays and eaten a hearty breakfast, my heart was leaden as the sky. I had almost two weeks before I started work, the most I could hope for in the interim was a costume fitting. For my various shabby blouses, long droopy skirts, aprons, down-at-heel button boots and possibly a brown Sunday coat with a bit of rabbit fur round the collar.

Annabel rang me at midday to say she'd enrolled for a two week Cordon Bleu cookery course which Francesca thought was in preparation for the entertaining she intended to do at the Manse. They'd already managed to book the wedding for three weeks' time, though they'd had to accept a Friday afternoon because Saturdays were completely full until after Christmas. She was going to wear Francesca's wedding dress, ivory silk oversewn with seed pearls, which only needed a little letting out. Francesca was going to see to all the other arrangements and wanted to know how many guests I wanted to bring. I'd have to get hold of a handsome escort from somewhere. I tried to think of a distinguished looking, silver-haired actor who'd a) own a decent dinner suit and b) could be depended on not to giggle or get drunk. I couldn't think of one. What a pity I didn't know John Thaw. Annabel then said she had to rush. And put the phone down.

The thought of John Thaw brought Joanna Morton back into my mind, the woman I'd met briefly on the train a week ago. She'd seemed so strong and sympathetic; we'd had a few moments of real communion. She'd given me her card, asked me to ring her. I decided to phone and invite her to lunch.

She wasn't in but I left my name and number on her answerphone.

I felt a desperate need for company. I had friends, I told myself, but they were people I met at work and at parties, people who talked about plays, acting and actors, occasionally about agents, directors, theatres, then about plays and acting and actors again. I came to the sad conclusion that I had no real all-purpose, all-weather friend except Paul. He might have lacked something as a lover, but had always been a good friend.

All that day, I waited to hear from Joanna Morton. She didn't ring.

Arthur was still behaving immaculately, taking in his new surroundings without once demanding to go out. A pamphlet I'd picked up at the pet shop informed me that I had to keep him in for two weeks, that cats had been known to walk the entire breadth of England to get back to their original home. Arthur seemed untroubled by homesickness; ready to settle for luxury cat food, central heating, a clean, comfortable bed and frequently changed cat litter. We got through the weekend.

At half past nine on Monday morning, before she'd even started on the hoovering, Mrs Heathfield, my help, announced that she could no longer work for me as she was allergic to cats. She rolled up her overall, put it back into her bag and said she was sorry. Very sorry.

I insisted that people could only be allergic to long-haired, pedigree cats, but at this, she sneezed several times and then started to have palpitations, so that I had to accept her tearful goodbyes. Of course her tears may have been due to the allergy, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt and a month's wages. She'd been so thoroughly dependable for so many years – ever since we'd bought the house, in fact – that I was near tears too. ‘I may have to take you for a little drive to the nearest motorway, Arthur,' I told him when she'd left. Oh God, I was turning into a woman who talked to her cat. ‘Only kidding, Arthur.'

Feeling that things couldn't be much worse, I decided to pack some of Paul's belongings, starting with his clothes. Several items looked grubby and in need of ironing, but I folded them neatly – actors are always good at packing, they've had to do so much of it – and filled two of our largest suitcases, writing PLEASE RETURN THIS on the label of the slightly less battered. The sad business of sorting out and dividing up had begun.

The phone rang and it was Paul inviting me out to lunch. I was longing to go, but told him I was too busy; it wouldn't do for him to realise how lonely I was. In spite of all my weaknesses and failings, I could cross my heart and say I wanted him to be happy. And not feeling guilty about me.

No one else phoned. Still no word from Joanna Morton. I had too much pride to ring her again.

The whole of that week passed without incident, without company, one day dropping into night as silently and sadly as leaves falling. I walked briskly to the nearest shops to buy cat food and instant meals and small brown loaves, and hurried back to Arthur who'd started greeting me with a deep and I think affectionate crooning sound in his throat, something between a purr and a growl. Sometimes I talked to him in English, sometimes in Welsh; he seemed to have a perfect understanding of both. He didn't respond to music, classical or pop, but would often keep one sleepy eye on television programmes. He settled down far better than I did. I missed Wales; the silence, the voices in the silence, the views from the windows and doors, the hint of sea in the wind. I missed Annabel's company. I missed Rhydian almost unbearably.

I spent part of the next two weeks in a village in Cumbria, where the television serial was to be set and where they were pre-filming some of the outdoor scenes. The hotel I stayed at was pleasant enough, the surrounding countryside breathtaking; immense hills and huge tracts of moorland. But the other actors there were far too young, I couldn't keep up with the amount they drank in the bar after supper nor with their talk which was all jest and jargon like people in American sit-coms. I'd felt middle-aged ever since my mother's death, now I felt I'd been catapulted into a situation where I had to be on my guard not to look bewildered nor ask questions nor talk in grown-up sentences.

Annabel was staying at the house in my absence, looking after Arthur. I phoned every day to check on them. One evening I was terrified to hear that she'd bought him a harness and lead and taken him for a walk round the garden. ‘But he is safely back in the house now?' ‘I've already said so. Twice. Would you like to speak to him?'

I was pleased to get home. Annabel had made a very impressive spinach-and-mushroom roulade for supper. She'd also learnt how to make choux pastry, she told me, but still hadn't mastered fried eggs. She loved Lewis, but didn't want to talk about the wedding. She still cried every night about Selena. She hugged me before she left and asked me to cross my fingers for her. I said I would.

Arthur ignored me that evening and the whole of the next day.

The next time Paul phoned he seemed very subdued and asked when he could call to collect some of his things. I told him to come later that day, invited him to bring Francesca with him, but was relieved when he said she was, as usual, far too busy.

When he arrived at the house we'd shared for almost ten years, he was pale and tense, unwilling to look at me, unable to decide what packing to do first, unable to start on anything. I pretended not to notice, but felt pleased that it was he and not I who'd decided on the break-up. After a while I got him to sit down with a coffee and gradually he managed to relax.

He said the wedding preparations were going well, that Annabel was managing to keep a check on Francesca's excesses. ‘So it's going to be fairly low-key?' I asked. At which we smiled ruefully at each other.

Francesca had spent the previous day with one of the organists of Westminster Abbey, an uncle, as it happened, of one of her clients, deciding on the right size pipe-organ for Horeb. Paul said she'd described the chapel as ‘an architectural gem, just a little bigger than my drawing room'. It was to be in place in time for Christmas and I was to go with them for the presentation ceremony. It was difficult to hate Francesca. I decided I wasn't going to try any longer.

Paul didn't get much packing done that day, but we both realised that the most harrowing part was over.

‘Did you see the obituary in this morning's
Times
?' he asked me as he was leaving. ‘That German professor you met on the train – Dr Joanna something.'

I sat down heavily in the nearest chair. ‘I can't believe it. I've been trying to get in touch with her.'