The House on Fortune Street (7 page)

tell me your plan about the book when I get back. Or shoot me an e-mail. I’ll be checking in.”

“When do you get back?” said Sean, but the line was dead. He stood holding the empty phone in the empty house. He could call Abigail, he thought, but either he would get her voice mail, or she would talk at length about how well things were going. As he replaced the phone, he remembered a conversation he’d had with Georgina about Keats’s attacks of jealousy. In May 1820 Fanny Brawne had gone to a party, unchaperoned, and Keats had written her a series of anguished letters:

You could not step or move an eyelid but it would shoot to my heart—I am greedy of you—Do not think of any thing but me. . . . If you could really what is call’d enjoy yourself at a Party—if you can smile in peoples faces, and wish them to admire you now, you never have nor ever will love

me. We have to understand this in the light of his illness, Georgina had

argued; nothing else makes sense of his reaction. At the time Sean had agreed.

Now he wandered from room to room. In the living room another stack of plays was waiting. In the bedroom the neatly made bed seemed to mock him. In his study the chapters clamored. He ought to be working, transcribing the interview, but he did not want to be alone with Bridget’s voice. Why had he resisted her? Finally he went downstairs and knocked on Dara’s door. A light shone in the window but there was no answer. He knocked again and, when he still heard nothing, retreated.

Back upstairs he telephoned his brother. For most of their adult lives, since he went to university and Lochlan decided to work in a men’s clothing shop, the two of them had been on perfectly cordial, utterly different wavelengths. But Lochlan had liked Judy, and since the divorce they had spoken less often. Or so it had seemed to Sean. Now, as he heard Lochlan’s voice, he wondered if he had simply imagined his brother’s disapproval.

“How’s it going?” said Lochlan.“Cleo and I were just saying we hadn’t spoken to you in ages, our fault as much as yours.”

Sean reported that he was working on a new book with Valentine. “About euthanasia. Not the most cheery topic.”

“And what about your own book? Is there light at the end of the tunnel?”

“I’m afraid Keats is on the back burner.” He couldn’t deal with all that at the moment. “How are you and Cleo? Did you have a good summer? How’s the job?”

“We did have a good summer. We had a terrific holiday in Corsica and my job is going well, touch wood. Sales for the last quarter are up. But the big news is that Cleo is pregnant, four months and growing. We told the parents last week.”

“Great,” said Sean. This time he managed to ask the right questions and exclaim appropriately. He couldn’t wait to be an uncle, an Easter baby, fantastic.

Then Lochlan asked about Abigail, and he tried to sound just as pleased about his own life. That his brother had not, on the basis of a single awkward lunch, warmed to Abigail only made him more anxious to conceal his present difficulties. He described the tour and managed to bring the conversation round to their mother’s birthday. Did Lochlan have any ideas for a gift?

bigail arrived back from Bradford on a Sunday afternoon. When she had unpacked and dealt with the mail, she suggested they go to the local Italian restaurant for dinner. At their window table she plied him with wine, told amusing stories, reminisced about Tuscany, and asked about the interviews. Sean answered, drank the wine, and observed his own bifurcated reactions. One part of him

blossomed in the warmth of her attention; the other was convinced that she was trying to pull the wool over his eyes. As she described a crisis with the sets, he remembered his father explaining how the train driver could stop and start the train but had no choice as to where he went. Whoever controlled the points controlled the route. Finally, from behind his raised glass, Sean mentioned Valentine: had she seen him up north?

“No. Was he planning to come to the show? This is almost as good as Siena, isn’t it?” She gestured at her plate of ravioli.

“He was in Leeds, doing an article. I thought he might pop over to Bradford.”

“If he does have any media connections in the north, I wish he’d use them. We keep getting great reviews that come out on our last day. Did I tell you that I met a young playwright, Sayid something? He’s going to send us a play.”

“I’ll look out for it.”

They were walking back to the house when Abigail asked if he had seen Dara, and he said not since that day he’d run into her and her father on their way to Sissinghurst. “Maybe we could invite her for supper tomorrow,” he offered.

“I might have to work at the theater,” Abigail said, her careless tone signaling that this was a plan set in stone.

She said the same thing when he proposed the next night, and he took some small comfort in the fact that she was too busy even to see her best friend. In the days that followed he studiously avoided any reference to Valentine and rearranged his schedule to work longer hours at the theater. Abigail was her usual whirlwind self but at least he always knew where she was. Then, the night before she was leaving for Coventry, she was late coming home. She had left the theater early to meet with a designer and told him she’d be back by six. After trying her mobile twice, he carried his bicycle into the kitchen and set

about adjusting the gears. The designer lived miles away; perhaps the tube had broken down again. But why didn’t she phone, or answer her phone? Every answer that came to mind was distressing. He was reaching for a spanner when at last the front door opened.

Abigail appeared with two bags of groceries. “Sorry I’m late. I ran into Dara. We went for a drink.”

From below, he heard the sound of Dara’s front door. “I wondered where you were,” he said, tightening the spanner. He did not add that he also wondered why she hadn’t phoned and why she had gone shop-ping, given her departure the next day. It was not like Abigail to stock the larder on his account.

“I haven’t seen her in ages,” she said.“We stopped at the Lord Nelson.” As she put away the groceries, she told him that Edward was finally moving in with Dara, in the new year.“His daughter is settling down at kindergarten and he’s got enough pupils to cover his expenses.”

For the first time in several hours Sean forgot his own fears. “Oh great. I’m so glad.”

At once he felt Abigail’s mood shift. With a bag of coffee in one hand, a wedge of Brie in the other, she stood frowning at him.“But what if he doesn’t do it?” she said. “He’s been vacillating for so long. Dara will be crushed if this doesn’t work out.”

He didn’t understand her anger—was it at Edward? At Dara? At him?—but all the feelings he was holding back kindled. “You’re such an absolutist, Abigail,” he said, glaring back at her defiantly. “You think a person decides to buy a red car and then hands over a check, but most people have to drive a black car and a blue one and talk to their friends, before they actually buy the red one. Vacillating is part of deciding. That’s why the Belladonna Society insists on a waiting period. They don’t want anyone killing themselves out of a single impulse of despair.”

For a few seconds he continued to meet her gaze. Then, afraid of

what he might say next—was she test driving Valentine?—he bent to lift the bike right side up. As he straightened, she came over and rested her hand on the handlebars. “Would you like to come to Coventry?” she asked, smiling at him appealingly. “You could visit the cathedral, work at the library.”

Despite himself he smiled back. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid my chapters aren’t very portable.”

“Oh, your stupid book,” said Abigail, pouting. She leaned over and kissed him.

hen she was gone again, this time for two weeks. In her

absence Sean did his best to write his chapters. She invited me to go with her, he reminded himself, but that only quieted the beasts for so long. As for Dara, he forgot about her until one afternoon, while he was proofreading the transcript of an interview, a loud thud came from downstairs. What was the noise? Did she need help? In the ensuing silence he was struck by how quiet she had been recently, and that he couldn’t remember the last time he had smelled her cooking. But there was no further sound, and he went back to checking his pages. He would knock on her door tomorrow.

Two days later his knock was again met by silence; he thought about leaving a note but didn’t have a pen. Later he forgot. For one reason or another he did not try again. Ten days passed before, one rainy evening in late November, he ran into her, hurrying along the street.

“Won’t you come in?” he urged as they reached the house. “All right,” she said in a muffled voice. “Just for a moment.”

Inside he turned on the central heating, and went upstairs to change his sweater. When he came down again, he found the kitchen empty. Dara, still in her coat, was in the living room. She was standing in front

of the fireplace, staring up at the painting. A pool of water circled her feet.

“Dara? I brought you a sweater. It’s one of my favorites,” he added, meaning the painting. “You both look so happy.”

She turned to him, her usually expressive face blank. Perhaps he should have praised the composition, the handling of the paint? But before he could make amends, she was heading for the kitchen. There she exchanged her wet coat for Abigail’s sweater. Although her hair clung darkly to her head, she insisted that she didn’t need a towel. As he opened a bottle of red wine, he asked how she was. “We haven’t seen you for weeks.”

“Yes.” She wrapped her hands around her glass. He was wondering if he ought, in spite of her protests, to fetch a towel, or even a blanket when, almost as if a switch had turned, she began to speak. There had been a review at the women’s center, everything was in an uproar, and several of her colleagues had been ill. “I’m leading so many groups,” she said brightly, “I sometimes can’t remember if I’m doing substance abuse or taking control of your life. I have to wait for the introductions to give me a clue. And we’ve had a wave of dotty clients. One woman I work with has an obsession with fire extinguishers, another buys lottery tickets all the time. How are things with you and the euthanasia book?”

He described the interviews and how powerfully people spoke. As always Dara asked just the right questions, the ones that made him want to tell her more. “And what about people who’ve attempted suicide and survived?” she said. “Are you interviewing anybody in that situation? Anybody who regrets the attempt?”

She was watching him intently, and before he knew it he was holding forth again. The single biggest obstacle to euthanasia was the popu-lar belief that most failed suicides were happy to discover their inept-itude. The society’s position was that almost anyone who wanted to

could commit suicide, from which it followed that failure was a sign of ambivalence, the famous cry for help. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to get on my soapbox. People seem to lose sight of the fact that the society is advocating euthanasia only for one particular group, those for whom the prognosis is nothing but pain.”

He had coined the last phrase a few days ago and took particular pleasure in saying it. Dara seemed to appreciate it too.

“Nothing but pain,” she repeated.

“The reports I’ve read by doctors are particularly convincing, and of course there are places—Oregon, Belgium—where euthanasia is already legal.”

“You’re an excellent advocate. I’m sure the book will be useful.”

“It’s nice to think it might actually do some good. So how are you and—”

Suddenly Dara’s glass was on the table, and she was on her feet. “Time to go.”

“Oh, can’t you stay for supper? I’m sure we can rustle up something. It would be great to have company.” In his disappointment he almost took hold of her sleeve.

“I have things to do,” she said, not looking at him, reaching for her coat.

He was still saying that he hoped they would see her soon, that he knew Abigail missed her, as she left the room. He heard the sounds of first their front door, then hers, open and close.

Later that evening, when Abigail rang, he mentioned the encounter. “How was she?” she said. “She left me a message the other day. I couldn’t quite make it out, but I know she was upset. By the time I

phoned back she was in a meeting.”

“She seemed fine, a bit preoccupied. Or, I don’t know, maybe tired.

Things at the center sound even more chaotic than usual.”

“I must call her. I just never have ten minutes free when we’re

touring.” A rustling sound accompanied her words—was she sorting papers?—and then she began to talk about how well their school visit had gone.

n the first day of December, Sean woke abruptly to the knowledge that the euthanasia book was due in a week. For nearly a month he had been dodging Valentine’s phone calls and writing optimistic replies to his e-mails, almost all of which reported finishing a section, or a chapter. Now he had to face the reality that his pursuit of the interviews, and his absorption with the subject matter, had led to many pages but not yet to the coherent chapters that represented his half of the book. The idea of discussing this, or indeed anything, with Valentine was out of the question. Instead, as he stepped into his jeans and pulled on a shirt, he decided to contact

the secretary.

Three hours later he climbed the stairs to the attic office. He knocked at the half-open door and a voice called, “Enter.”

The secretary was at his desk, on the phone. He smiled, and nodded toward a chair. “This is a matter for your doctor,” he said into the receiver. “If you can’t resolve it with him or her, then you should seek a second opinion, but it isn’t grounds for a complaint to the BMA. People have to act according to their consciences. Forgive me, I have someone waiting.”

After several more attempts, he managed to extricate himself.“Sorry about that,” he said, approaching with outstretched hand. “Part of my job, as you’ve probably gathered, is to act as an informal counselor. It’s hard for people to keep things in perspective when it’s literally a matter of life and death.”

He offered coffee, stepped out of the room, and returned a minute