Chapter 10: A Love Like That
They strolled past semi-detached Victorian villas bright with life. Maybe, Marianne reflected, the wine lightening her step, the fact that Archie had fallen short of her ideal wasn’t his fault; it reflected the vividness of her imagination. He had a quiet confidence; and his record company was a romantic prospect. He was an artist, a dreamer, the kind of man whom she felt comfortable with. And his words were pleasant to the taste. Archie believed in a future that would be open, successful: isn’t that what we should all do? That was why she had moved to London, anyway, to escape the confines of a world pressed between sky and sea.
They had reached a pub at the bottom of the hill. It was dark now. The overground rail station slouched opposite, and beyond, the hospital was carved in the black sky. Cars flowed, headlights on, along the road.
“This is where Ruth Ellis shot her lover.” Archie raised an eyebrow.
“Who?”
“The last woman in the UK to be hanged.” He wrapped his fingers lightly round her throat. “Still wanna come home with me?”
Marianne blushed. For a moment he seemed to look right into her, to know her in a way that was somehow un-cluttered by actually knowing her.
She said: “I didn’t think I’d agreed to that anyway.”
And neither of them had agreed to being followed by Joe, who was behind a lamp post, watching every move.
*
“Stay.” Sabine held Rose’s hands on the deck of her boat, as the wind gusted around them, and they gazed up at the night sky.
“I can’t. I love him.”
Sabine put her wineglass down. “I’ve got to be honest, Rose. I think you have an unrealistic expectation of what is going to happen.”
Rose had known Sabine since university, but she wasn’t someone you went to for advice. Her Frenchness – the gamine face, elfin hair, bohemian existence – did not mean she was an expert on love matters; in fact, Sabine had been through so many men – and women – it was like she’d fallen down a pothole of bad relationships-
“You are angry, I can tell.” Sabine stroked her cheek.
Rose pulled away. “No. No, I’m not.” She stood. “But you can’t change my mind.”
“The main obstacle to happiness is what we think of as happiness itself.” Sabine smiled, no doubt quoting some book or other. “You think you will be happy if you go back to Archie and try and carry on as normal, but how can you be? There will be deceit, resentment…Don’t you understand, it’s this unreal expectation which means you will never be happy-”
“So the alternative is what? Being an artist? Opting out of life and living on a fucking canal boat in the middle of nowhere?” Rose slammed her glass down and stormed back down into the cabin to pack her things. It wasn’t the first time they had disagreed over a man.
She yelled. “Can you drive me to Colchester, please?”
“No.”
“Right, I’ll call a cab. It’s only 9 o’clock.”
“Go ahead, but expect a long wait. This is Mersea Island not Camden Town, Rose.”
Rose wrenched the lid off the kettle and filled it. As the water seethed, she could feel the adrenalin of a wild argument in her blood; she had a lust for destroying everything; it was as if she needed to purify her mind after what had happened. Sabine was watching her from the wooden steps.
Rose pulled out two mugs from the tiny cupboard and clunked them on the counter. “You know what it is,” she said. “You’re jealous. Jealous of what I’ve got. And jealous of Archie.”
“What?”
“You’re jealous of Archie. Work it out.”
“Who are you?” Sabine walked in calmly, ducking her head at the low ceiling as she paused behind her friend. “You – how do you say – bite my hand and then make these accusations. Could I not say the same thing about you? That you envy the way I live? You’re obsessed with trying to be happy. It’s all you talk about. You need to let go. Listen, honey, I’ll drop you at the station first thing in the morning.”
Rose poured the boiling water into one mug, stabbed the teabag with a spoon, and took her drink out on deck. It was as if the secret they shared was such that, though they could hardly bear to be in each other’s company, they were unable to break free, bound together by an invisible rope.
*
“But try your uncle.”
Benedict held the phone away from his ear.
“Who?”
His mother was shouting into the receiver, as if it would improve the line from Tel Aviv to London. He had only called to inform her that he had quit his job as a vet, and that he was well. He most certainly hadn’t asked her for advice on accommodation.
“Your uncle. He’ll have a spare bedroom and may not even charge you. Oh, Ben, you must remember Uncle Leonard don’t you?”
Ben frowned. “Well, yes, vaguely, you mean the one who’s not my real uncle…but is he even still alive?”
“Of course he is. He’s only my age. I’ll give you his number. Lives in North London. You can’t sleep on someone’s sofa – promise me you won’t a night longer.”
Her friend Leonard, his mother reminded him, had tried to stop her being dragged off to Israel in the mid Seventies by his father (who she then divorced). Ben put the phone down and jumped in the shower. He had a date tonight, a boy called Hanif who he’d met online this afternoon.
Towel around waist, admiring himself in the mirror, he dialled. The phone answered after just two rings.
“Is that Leonard Mulberry?” he asked.
*
There were two halves to the pub. One side was carpeted, its dark mahogany tables and chairs filled with ale drinkers, the other a simple dining room with lead windows, globe lights and blond wood floors. It was hot and noisy, crowded with steam from the open kitchen. Authentic was the word.
Authenticity. An important concept, thought Archie. That was why he had disliked New Malden, where he had grown up, with its suburban sheen (nowadays, of course, it hosted a vibrant Korean community). The word’s meaning didn’t stop there for him, either. Having only found out he was adopted at the age of eighteen, he had never been able to track either parent down. If we build our lives on the ruins of our ancestors, where were his? He loved the couple he called Mum and Dad, but he had no blood lessons to learn from, no paths to follow or ignore.
Which is why he would always praise things or people he saw as authentic; like Marianne. In fact, conversation had been lively on the bench – easier than he had feared, and he had unreeled his funniest stories; been endearingly honest about his business. She had smiled and laughed along. With relief he knew his pursuit of Rose was over. How futile to fight one so difficult, when, across the table, sat this uncomplicated girl with happy eyes; in fact, how unhappy he had felt for a long time-
“Archie, I said, shall we have the Calamari to Share to start?”
“Sorry. Miles away-”
“And what are you having for your main? I fancy the scallops.”
They ordered.
“So when was your last relationship?” Marianne pushed her hair behind one ear; furrowed her cute brows.
“Now, that’s a question.” He sipped his pint, resting his chin on his hands in consideration. “Not for a while, really. Few months I suppose.”
“Oh.”
“Was that the wrong answer?” He smiled. A careful smile, a treasured possession pulled out of the back of a drawer.
“What about you?”
“Nothing for a long while. I’m too choosy!” She flinched.
“What’s wrong?” Archie touched her arm.
“Nothing. I just had a feeling, almost like deja vu. How strange. Where are the ladies’?”
Archie pointed through a double door. She took the stairs carefully; they were steep.
When she emerged, he was leaning against the wall by the cigarette machine, smiling, waiting.
She spun round. “Joe? What the-”
