Where Have You Been? (21 page)

‘But I thought that was why – why you chose that particular name. Carly. I just assumed you'd named yourself after Carly Simon.' Susan waits. Carly takes a moment to respond, speaks softly.

‘Well, maybe that was why I chose the name. In the beginning. I wouldn't know, I can't remember. I just know I can't stand that shit now.' She shrugs and turns away, indifferent. Slides the Pearl Jam disc into the player, turns it up loud.

Sometimes she's amazed by the ease of it. She has them worked out almost immediately – they're so easy to read, so
transparent: she knows when to embroider and when to omit; when to manufacture – and what. When to remain silent. This last especially. It's her particular strength, you could say. She's always been good at improvisation – she's had to be.

Ed is startled by how easily Susan adjusts to using her sister's new, her preferred, name. It's easy for him of course, he's only ever known her as Carly, but for Susan, well, he'd expected a few more slips.

Ed takes the whole business of names very seriously. Ever since the births of his own children he's been fascinated by the sometimes eerie correspondence of name and character. His own name, Edward, is an old English name that is generally said to mean either rich guardian or guardian of prosperity. His mother, he knows, had no notion of the name's origin – he was simply named after his great-grandfather, one Edward Robertson, a saddler from Bathurst.

He'd been uneasy with Susan's choice of Mitchell – traditionally a surname, had preferred Matthew – and had only been persuaded by Susan's reassurance that Mitchell came from Michael, meaning ‘who is like God' which, though perhaps a little too biblical for his taste, at least meant something. (And that first child – was there anything more god-like, really? Was there better evidence of a supreme being than the firstborn?) Stella – Estelle – had been his choice – and as he'd predicted, as he'd hoped, the name thoroughly suited his daughter's radiant personality, her twinkling soul. Somehow only Susan's name is an awkward fit with her personality.

Susan is an anglicised version of a Hebrew name, a lily, and however hard he tries, however he angles for a correspondence,
Ed can't find a connection. He buys his wife lilies, rather than the usual roses, regularly – and in this way has attempted to manufacture a correspondence, impose a connection. His sister-in-law's names – both of them – seem entirely appropriate: Karen, her original, her real name, means pure, while Carly is Latin, means little and womanly, and, when combined with the Teutonic male name, Carl, means strong. Pure. Little. Womanly. Strong. The combination of definitions encapsulates those aspects of Carly that most characterise her, quite miraculously. There's a perfect, an almost divine symmetry.

When as a younger man he'd first investigated the etymology of his own name, he'd been a little disappointed – being defined as a rich guardian is hardly a romantic or powerful proposition, and it wasn't something he particularly aspired to. But as his responsibilities expanded – first Susan, then the business, and the children – he'd felt the weight and significance of the role, and now he can feel himself growing into it, as if fulfilling the requirements of his name. He
is
a custodian, a trustee.

And he's recently come across an extended definition – one that's less pragmatic, more esoteric. Evidently, Edward is also a guardian of the mists – which is far more suggestive and contains a significance that is still waiting to be revealed.

Last Christmas, while holidaying together down the south coast, staying in adjoining cabins, Anna had told her about an affair she'd had, years ago. It was late in a boozy evening, husbands and children asleep, the two women sitting alone in the dark.

‘It was crazy,' Anna had said, ‘and totally unexpected. It was when we were first married, just after I'd had Jimmy,
when Tom was still young and handsome and successful – the world his oyster, the world at his feet. But it had nothing to do with Tom himself – or even what I actually felt about him. It was me, I think. And this fellow – his name was Jake, he was younger than me, our mechanic, for Christ's sake, there was nothing to him really, he was a bimbo – but he made me feel – well something I hadn't felt for a long time. He made me feel desirable. Young – though of course I was young – only in my early twenties. And when it happened,' she says a little unsteadily, ‘it just had to happen. There was nothing I could do and no way of stopping it. Even though I knew it was wrong and that I would probably regret it, it just had to happen.'

Susan can remember being shocked, dismayed, and uncertain how to respond. Eventually she'd asked: ‘And did you – do you – regret it?'

‘The funny thing is,' Anna had answered, ‘I don't. Put me back there and I think I'd do it again. Funny, isn't it? I read this report once – they asked some old people in a nursing home what they most regretted in their lives – the most common answer from the old men was that they were sorry they'd cheated on their wives, that it had ruined their relationship, destroyed their marriages – that it wasn't worth it. But for the women it was different – they regretted that they hadn't had affairs. Regretted their faithfulness ... We're a weird lot, aren't we?'

Susan was not only shocked, but was oddly put out by the confidence, afraid almost. For if such a thing could happen in Anna's world – steady, sensible, focused Anna – what lay in wait for her? Perhaps the fortifications Ed and she had so diligently built up, their insurance against just such an event, wouldn't be secure. Wouldn't be enough.

She has avoided thinking about the incident with Howard Hamilton – easy enough with so much going on, so much to
do – so when he rings and says merely, ‘Howard here,' Susan has to think hard for a moment.

‘Howard Hamilton,' he repeats, ‘your solicitor.' Suddenly there is a strange constriction in her chest; a warmth spreads throughout her lower limbs. She angles her body away from the kitchen table, where Ed and Carly sit chatting, sipping Sunday morning coffee, cups the receiver close to her ear.

‘Howard,' she says quietly, ‘Hi.' Her heart pounds.

‘How're things?'

‘Fine. Yes. Things are fine. Absolutely fine. Great.' She can feel the gush gradually becoming a babble; pauses abruptly, takes a deep breath.

Hamilton's voice is calm, measured. ‘I think it's time we got together again for a meeting. There are a few things we need to discuss, and I need your signature on some documents.' A brisk, businesslike enquiry. ‘How are you placed tomorrow morning?'

She doesn't stop to think, to consider. ‘That'll be fine.' In fact she has no idea how she's placed; right now it's possible that she has no idea of the word's meaning.

‘Say nine-thirty?'

‘Yes. No. I mean ... the kids: I'll have to get them to school first. How about ten? Will that be okay?'

‘No worries.' Casual, so casual. ‘See you then.'

He disconnects before Susan can say goodbye. Before she can compose herself. She keeps the phone to her ear, the line buzzing loudly, for a long moment, returns the phone to its cradle reluctantly. She can feel her cheeks crimson, her ears burn; she keeps her back to the table, busies herself clearing the bench.

‘Who was that?' Ed's interest seems vague, cursory.

‘The solicitor. Howard Hamilton. He wants to meet me tomorrow morning. To sign some things.'

‘Just you? He doesn't need me?'

‘No. Just me.'

‘You don't want me to come?'

‘I don't think so...' She turns, dishcloth in hand, gives him an encouraging smile: ‘Unless you want to, Ed?'

‘No, no. I'm sure you can sort it out.' Ed sounds relieved.

‘What about me?' Carly asks suddenly. ‘Why doesn't he need me? Surely if you have to sign papers, I'll have to sign them too?'

‘He didn't say he needed you.' Susan makes her voice as neutral as possible, though she can feel her cheeks hotting up again. ‘So I guess not.' Carly is watching her closely, looks slightly amused. ‘I've no idea what it's about; what he wants.' Susan shrugs and turns back to the washing up, suddenly flustered.

‘Strange,' Carly's voice is low, almost a murmur, ‘you must have a good relationship, you and that solicitor. First time I've heard of a solicitor phoning to make an appointment on a Sunday. He'll probably charge you double for the call.'

They say that sometimes it is only when a cancer is diagnosed that that the cells divide and spread. Left unnoticed and undisturbed, a tumour may remain dormant for years, decades, sometimes only discovered post-mortem and even then not the cause of extinction anyway.

Before Carly's return she didn't think about her life too much, too intensely. After all, with the two kids, the house, Ed, the garden, work, friends, busy busy busy – who has
time to think? And even those rare moments of reflection never involved much in the way of regret. Oh, perhaps she wondered vaguely whether she should have married later, worked harder, been more ambitious, travelled further, that sort of thing. But any doubts, any long-harboured unsatisfied desires were indistinct, fleeting – and probably had more to do with how she felt others saw her than how she really perceived her life. In truth, Susan had come to the happy conclusion that she was an immensely fortunate being. That she had everything she needed. Everything she wanted.

Lately though, since Carly's return, her reflections have become slightly more complicated. She still acknowledges that life has provided her with everything she needs, but how, she wonders, how do we ever know exactly what it is that we want? How do we even know who we are?

Lately she wonders, really wonders, who she is.

When she was younger, surely she was more certain of herself. She thinks that before the kids she was somehow more solid, more substantial. More like Carly – vivid and alive. Now, she feels herself shadowy, like a light that's been dimmed, as if she's not quite switched on properly. She has heard other, older women talk about finding themselves invisible, feeling their own desires swamped by others' endless needs. Her own mother, for instance, was expert in inducing a guilt-provoking awareness of this – of being ignored, taken-for-granted, of little consequence. Susan has thought for years that this was justified in a way – that her mother's personality had required this quenching. Somehow she hasn't noticed her own dimming, her own increasing invisibility. She can't see Ed – or indeed any man that she knows – suffering from this peculiar phenomenon, however. Ed is not fading. If anything, Ed is becoming more and more himself. And it's Carly, she knows, Carly's vivid presence that's made her aware of her own diminishing, her increasing
blurriness. She feels like a fading sepia print. And soon, soon she'll be all but invisible.

There are parts of herself, aspects of herself that she can list:

she is Stella and Mitchell's mother;

she is Edward Middleton's wife;

she is a nursing sister.

She is good at all these things, she knows that. She is a loving mother, a good and loyal wife, a conscientious nurse. She tries hard; she does her best. But still she's not sure what it all adds up to.

All of a sudden she isn't quite sure who she is.

She arrives late, flustered as always by her inability to find a park. Howard's secretary looks up from her frenzied typing to give Susan a withering smile, tells her that Mr Hamilton delayed as long as he could, but had another client to see ... if Susan's prepared to wait now, perhaps she can be squeezed in. Alternatively, she can make another appointment, for say, Wednesday week. The secretary frowns at her monitor, jabs viciously at the keyboard. ‘Mr Hamilton's a very busy man.'

There is no squeezing. Howard ushers her in with a smile, ignoring his secretary's tut-tutting, the scheduled client's impatience. He offers Susan a chair, and takes the seat beside her rather than the one behind his desk.

‘Sh-it.' He sighs as if exhausted, glances at his watch, ‘It's only eleven and already I've had enough.' He yawns, grins. ‘How about you? Guess you've been going since half past five, or some ungodly hour?'

‘Oh, it's not quite that bad, they sleep in a bit these days.' She gives him a tight, polite smile, isn't quite sure how to behave, what's expected, what she wants to happen.

‘You forget they grow up ... eventually. Now, I've got you here...'

She interrupts nervously: ‘About the other week – the barbecue. I really want to apologise – I'd drunk an awful lot, and was very emotional to start with. I don't want you to think...'

‘Shhhhh.' He stills her hand, which is anxiously beating a pen against the arm of the chair. ‘It's okay, Susan. Really. These things happen. All forgotten. This is strictly business. Just a few more bits and pieces for you to sign. They're for the real estate agent – you're the signatory – not Carly.'

‘Oh. Okay.' She feels unexpectedly deflated, disappointed.

‘Though, I wouldn't want you to think that I didn't find the – moment – very pleasant...' he says it so casually, half laughing, but doesn't quite meet her eye.

‘No. I...' Her voice catches. His hand is still covering hers, his thumb absently stroking the soft skin between thumb and index finger.

‘Because I did,' he clears his throat. ‘And if you, if you ever need, well, anything, really...'

‘Anything...?'

‘You've only to ask.'

Now, here, with this man, Susan feels herself again. Feels more real than she has felt in a long while. When he touches her – even the slightest contact, even a movement in the air between them – she suddenly knows that her heart is beating, her blood is pulsing, oxygen is moving in and out of her lungs. She is aware, for the first time in years – it seems almost as far back as she can remember – she is aware that she is alive.