‘We’ve been together such a short time. And so much of it has been spent apart. I don’t …’
‘You don’t what?’
‘It’s one of those situations, you know? If you told your mates in the pub? They’d give you that look like – mate …’
‘Then don’t talk to your bloody mates in the pub! Listen to me!’
‘I want to, Lou!’
‘Then what the hell is your problem?’
‘He looked just like Will Traynor!’ It burst out of him like it had nowhere else to go. He sat down. He put his head in his hands. And then he said it again, quietly. ‘He looked just like Will Traynor.’
My eyes had filled with tears. I wiped them away with the heel of my hand, knowing that I had probably now smudged yesterday’s mascara all over my cheeks but not really caring. When I spoke my voice was low and severe and didn’t really sound like mine.
‘I’m going to say this one more time. I am not sleeping with anyone else. If you don’t believe me I … Well, I don’t know what you’re doing here.’
He didn’t reply but I felt as if his answer floated silently between us: Neither do I. He stood and walked over to his bag. He pulled some pants from inside and put them on, yanking them up with short, angry movements. ‘I have to go.’
I couldn’t say anything else. I sat on the bed and watched him, feeling simultaneously bereft and furious. I said nothing while he dressed and threw the rest of his belongings into his bag. Then he slung it over his shoulder, walked to the door and turned.
‘Safe trip,’ I said. I couldn’t smile.
‘I’ll call you when I’m home.’
‘Okay.’
He stooped and kissed my cheek. I didn’t look up when he opened the door. He stood there a moment longer and then he left, closing it silently behind him.
Agnes came home at midday. Garry picked her up from the airport and she arrived back oddly subdued, as if she were reluctant to be there. She greeted me from behind sunglasses with a cursory hello, and retreated to her dressing room, where she stayed with the door locked for the next four hours. At teatime she emerged, showered and dressed, and forced a smile when I entered her study bearing the completed mood boards. I talked her through the colours and fabrics, and she nodded distractedly, but I could tell she hadn’t really registered what I had done. I let her drink her tea, then waited until I knew Ilaria had gone downstairs. I closed the study door so that she glanced up at me.
‘Agnes,’ I said quietly. ‘This is a slightly odd question, but did you put a pregnancy test in my bathroom?’
She blinked at me over her teacup. And then she put her cup down on its saucer and pulled a face. ‘Oh. That. Yes, I was going to tell you.’
I felt anger rise up in me like bile. ‘You were going to tell me? You know my boyfriend found it?’
‘Your boyfriend came for the weekend? That’s so nice! Did you have lovely time?’
‘Right up until he found a used pregnancy test in my bathroom.’
‘But you tell him it’s not yours, yes?’
‘I did, Agnes. But, funnily enough, men tend to get a little shirty when they find pregnancy tests in their girlfriends’ bathrooms. Especially girlfriends who live three thousand miles away.’
She waved her hand, as if shooing my concerns away. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. If he trusts you he will be fine. You are not cheating on him. He should not be so stupid.’
‘But why? Why would you put a pregnancy test in my bathroom?’
She stopped. She glanced around me, as if to check that the study door really was closed. And suddenly her expression grew serious. ‘Because if I had left it in my bathroom Ilaria would have found it,’ she said flatly. ‘And I cannot have Ilaria seeing this thing.’ She lifted her hands as if I were being spectacularly dim. ‘Leonard was very clear when we marry. No children. This was our deal.’
‘Really? But that’s not … What if you decide you want them?’
She pursed her lips. ‘I won’t.’
‘But – but you’re my age. How can you know for sure? I can’t tell most days if I’m going to want to stick with the same brand of hair conditioner. Lots of people change their mind when –’
‘I am not having children with Leonard,’ she snapped. ‘Okay? Enough with the talk of children.’
I stood, a little reluctantly, and her head whipped around, her expression fierce. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I caused you trouble.’ She pushed at her brow with the heel of her palm. ‘Okay? I’m sorry. Now I am going for a run. On my own.’
Ilaria was in the kitchen when I walked in a few moments later. She was pushing a huge lump of dough around a mixing bowl with fierce, even strokes and she didn’t look up.
‘You think she is your friend.’
I stopped, my mug halfway to the coffee machine.
She pushed the dough with particular force. ‘The puta would sell you down the river if it meant she saved herself.’
‘Not helpful, Ilaria,’ I said. It was perhaps the first time I had ever answered her back. I filled my mug and walked to the door. ‘And, believe it or not, you don’t know everything.’
I heard her snort from halfway down the hall.
I headed down to Ashok’s desk to pick up Agnes’s dry-cleaning, stopping to chat for a few moments to try to push aside my dark mood. Ashok was always even, always upbeat. Talking with him was like having a window on a lighter world. When I arrived back at the apartment there was a small, slightly wrinkled plastic bag propped up outside the front door. I stooped to pick it up and found, to my surprise, that it was addressed to me. Or at least to ‘Louisa I think her name is’.
I opened it in my room. Inside, wrapped in recycled tissue paper, was a vintage Biba scarf, decorated with a print of peacock feathers. I opened it out and draped it around my neck, admiring the subtle sheen of the fabric, the way it shimmered even in the dim light. It smelt of cloves and old perfume. Then I reached into the bag and pulled out a small card. The name at the top read, in looping dark blue print: Margot De Witt. Underneath, in a shaky scrawl, was written: Thank you for saving my dog.
15
From: [email protected]
Hi, Mum,
Yes, Halloween is kind of a big deal here. I walked around the city and it was very sweet. There were lots of little ghosts and witches carrying baskets of sweets, with their parents following at a distance with torches. Some of them had even dressed up too. And people here seem to really get into it, not like our street where half the neighbours turn their lights out or hide in the back room to stop kids knocking. All the windows are full of plastic pumpkins or fake ghosts and everyone seems to love dressing up. Nobody even egged anyone else that I could see.
But no trick-or-treaters in our building. We’re not really in the kind of neighbourhood where people knock on each other’s doors. Maybe they’d call out to each other’s drivers. Also they’d have to get past the night man and he can be kind of scary in himself.
It’s Thanksgiving next. They’d barely cleared away the ghost silhouettes before the adverts for turkey started. I’m not entirely sure even what Thanksgiving’s about – mostly eating, I think. Most holidays here seem to be.