Читать книгу A Hopeless Romantic - Harriet Evans - Страница 17

Laura’s other granny, who had died ten years previously, was very much like her son George. Deidre Foster was a paragon of respectability, her home a shrine to suburban living. When the neighbours put their house on the market in 1980, the potential crisis of unruly or undesirable new people next door almost sent her into a decline. Hers was the only home in which Laura had ever seen a knitted toilet-roll holder. She had vases screwed into the walls with dried flowers in, a tasteful landscape photograph printed on canvas and framed in gold above the (fake) fireplace, and two tea services: one for everyday, and one for Sundays and special occasions.

Deidre had a saying for every occasion, it was her stock-in-trade. This one predictable trait offset the others, made her more likeable, more human sometimes. It was an instinctive emotion in an otherwise reserved woman, this desire to soothe, to mend, to make things better. ‘Hold your head up high, and don’t let them see you cry.’ ‘It’ll all come out in the wash.’ ‘Better safe than sorry.’ ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’ ‘More haste less speed.’ (That one, in particular, had never made any sense to Laura.) ‘Too many cooks’ and so on. As Laura and Simon grew older, they had become squirmingly predictable, a sign for each of them to avoid the other’s eye and stuff their fists in their mouths so as not to laugh. They had never seen the point of them, never listened between each of those lines to what lay beneath – their grandmother’s desire to help, to give advice, to rationalise a world she sometimes found baffling and could not talk about for fear of breaking down and betraying herself and everything she had built up to be important.

As Laura marched briskly out of the pub, she paused for a split second at the door, clutching the old brass handle, her hand smearing the metal with perspiration. Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with heavy, painful tears. She knew he would be watching out of the window as she left. She had to hold her head up high. She couldn’t let him see how hurt she was. This wasn’t Mary and Guy, and their early morning moment in the pyramids, this wasn’t it at all. It was all a lie. She was Granny Deidre’s granddaughter; she would repress all her natural urges, bite down her feelings and walk calmly under the window where Dan would be watching, away from the moonlight glow of the lamppost on the corner, up Rathbone Street till she could safely turn the corner. And then she could collapse, and scream. Hold your head up high, and don’t let them see you cry. Granny Deidre had said that to Laura when Laura was being bullied by a particularly vicious girl at junior school. It was good advice then, and it was good advice now.

Legs shaking, eyes still filled with tears, Laura walked along the street, up Conville Place, past the cafés where people were sitting and enjoying the evening’s warmth. A man at a table on the corner raised his espresso cup to her and nodded as she turned left and headed down into Mortimer Street. He raised his eyebrows as Laura stopped, put the ball of her hand flat against her lips and cheek, and breathed deeply, expecting the tears to flow.

But they didn’t. She couldn’t cry. It was as if she were in a shock so sudden she didn’t know how to react. The clarity of her mind startled her. It was over with Dan, there was no question that it wasn’t. There could be no reconciliation, no ‘I’ve changed my mind’, no ‘I’m leaving her’. Amy was pregnant, and whatever happened between them, Laura had to be out of it. She was surprised, she noted with detached interest, that she could see it with such clarity, that it wasn’t mired for her in a welter of excuses and what-might-have-beens. No. It was over.

Laura strode down Mortimer Street, welcoming the cool breeze that played around her shoulders and the back of her neck after the unbearable heat of the restaurant. Ahead of her stretched the city, unfurling into relaxation, gently welcoming, quiet and warm and beautiful. She passed the wide, dark driveway of the ornate Royal Marsden Hospital, and carried on walking.

She probed her feelings delicately, like a child touching the cavity of a newly lost tooth, to see how it hurt, where it hurt, how much. It was strange, foreign to her, she didn’t know how to deal with it, and so she kept on walking into the night, along the wide street, the branches of the trees that lined it gracefully dipping and framing her in the quiet breeze.

She had lost her job. She had lost her best friend. She had lost – she winced suddenly as she thought of it – nearly all the money she had in the world on a holiday she now wouldn’t be going on. For what? For a golden dream, a sweet, stupid boy with a beautiful smile. For that. For someone who had never even given her any definite idea of his commitment to her. He loved her, she knew that. He was going to leave his girlfriend, she knew that. But how and when and what would happen after that – she had never had any idea.

Laura had reached Regent Street. She looked about her, bewildered at the purr of sudden, slow-moving traffic. Down to her left lay the lights of Oxford Circus, the permanent chaos and snaking crowds of people visible to her even now. To her right loomed the ascetic outline of All Souls Church and Broadcasting House behind it. Ahead lay the white-faced formal squares behind Oxford Street. Where was she going? She didn’t know. She couldn’t face Paddy or being at home just yet. She just wanted to walk.

So she did. She crossed the road and carried on, through the impersonal grandness of Cavendish Square, past Coutts, past the Wigmore Hall, along the jumble of shops and mansion blocks on Wigmore Street. She kept a steady pace, not swerving or stopping, just walking, looking ahead, pounding the streets, trying to walk herself back into sanity. She had to keep on going; it was rather like being very drunk and trying not to throw up in the back of a cab or a bus that was speeding you safely home, wishing with all your heart you could be outside.

She walked until she could see the vast space of Portman Square and the back of Selfridges looming up ahead of her. She didn’t know what to do then – didn’t want to go towards the roaring hustle of a main road. She could go and see Mary, she thought suddenly, and then her heart sank. No, of course she couldn’t. This wasn’t the kind of situation her grandmother had ever found herself in. Better to keep on walking. So she ducked right, up the Georgian Duke Street to gracious, leafy Manchester Square, past the Wallace Collection, its windows black and unblinking. She turned into Manchester Street, and crossed the road.

Suddenly a car swerved around the corner and nearly smashed into her. It missed her by a hair’s breadth, and the driver swore at her and sped on, not even pausing. Laura fell against a car, and ricocheted slowly off it so she was sitting on the edge of the kerb in between two parked cars.

Then she cried; consumed with the shock, the loneliness, the feeling of terror that had flashed through her. She cried silent great heaving sobs, fat tears spilling out of her, dropping between her legs into the gutter. She felt totally alone; powerless, with nowhere to turn. She was bone-weary, flattened. And, most of all, she felt stupid.

Amy was pregnant. She and Dan were going to have a baby, an actual live baby. This was reality, not the dream world she, Laura, had invented for herself about it all. How could she have been so naïve, so stupid? What was she doing?

Laura ran her hands through her hair, riding out the jerking sobs that racked through her. As they subsided, she breathed out, and a juddering, blubbery sound escaped her that even she, in her darkest hour, found strangely funny. It made her smile to herself, a wobbly smile. She chewed her lip, still sitting on the edge of the kerb, and sat motionless for a moment. When was the last time she’d actually had a relationship based on reality, instead of some completely invented fantasy she’d written in her head? In her stupid, silly, romantic head.

The calm after her crying was cathartic. Laura stood up slowly, her legs shaking, and took a deep breath, feeling as if she was breathing properly for the first time that night. She exhaled again and closed her eyes. So far so good. It was deathly quiet on the street, and nothing broke the silence. She started walking again, more slowly.

But emotional exhaustion is a curious thing; it can be as debilitating as physical exhaustion. Suddenly she was tired, dog-tired, and when a black cab swung into view a few seconds later she hailed it gratefully, and sat huddled in the back, staring blankly out of the window for the journey home. She crawled up the steps to the flat, vaguely stabbing at the front-door lock with her key more in hope than in expectation of being allowed in. She was back at home, in her flat, and beyond thinking about anything else she knew she was safe again. She wanted to sleep, that was all she could think about. For once in her life she didn’t know what she was going to do now, and she was too tired to let the thought surprise her. It was over, and she was going to sleep, and beyond that Laura didn’t care about anything any more.