One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [169]
There was also a quiet satisfaction in being the only one who knew. Aside from Hal, of course. But I was pretty sure, being a man, and a very particular type of proud, guarded man, he wouldn’t be sharing quickly. Wouldn’t be running any touchy-feely colours up a flagpole – hey, it’s me, top lawyer Hal Forbes, I’ve been dumped. Would lick his wounds quietly for a while, as I would mine. But I was quite lonely. And once or twice – and I cringe to admit this – I had to resist the temptation to send him a text: ‘Are you OK?’ Happily I recognized the dishonesty inherent in that and tossed the phone back in my bag. After all, hadn’t I promised myself I’d be scrupulously honest from now on?
After a while, though, I did email Seffy at school. Explained about Hal and me, and how sorry I was. I’d debated long and hard about ringing him, but I wanted him to have the luxury of thinking about it before he was bounced into a response. Or was that my luxury, at hearing his considered response, as opposed to his instinctive one? The thorny old truth again. Anyway, he must have been at his computer, because two seconds later, he rang.
‘If that’s what you’ve decided then fine, it’s not a problem, Mum.’
I felt relief wash over me. ‘But you’re so fond of him, so close to him now.’
‘Still can be, can’t I? He’s still my uncle. I’m not the one marrying him, though, am I? Relax. We were OK as we were, we’ll still be OK.’
I shut my eyes. Thanked him silently. Blessed him inwardly. Muttered something about seeing him on Sunday. But when I replaced the receiver, I stood a little straighter. And as I went about my supper, my solitary boiled egg and soldiers, there was less tottering. Fewer hair-line cracks.
But I did feel my life shrinking again: a shrunken life. I was necessarily drawing back from people who would ask about Hal, and therefore isolating myself. It seemed to me, though, as I put one foot in front of the other and went about my business, that at least my soul was intact. No compromises. I didn’t have that terrible feeling that, any minute, I was about to be found out. By Seffy. By Hal. There was great comfort in that. I felt I was getting to know myself again.
I found myself cleaning my little house from top to bottom, wanting to thin out all the rubbish, pare it down. De-clutter. I mended the curtain rail, painted the kitchen – even weeded the garden. And I got a plumber in for the downstairs loo – a nice chap, who found a rather chatty housewife who didn’t draw breath. He couldn’t get out of the door quick enough. I also worked long hours in the shop, sorting out the accounts, a job long overdue, whilst Maggie went to Italy with Ralph to fondle marble, amongst other things. I busied myself, as they say in women’s magazines.
Weekdays were fine, Saturdays OK, Sundays downright dangerous. I felt unsafe on Sundays, especially in the evenings. Something lurked ominously within me, waiting to break out. Luckily the museums and art galleries were open and I got to know the V&A pretty well. They don’t turf you out until quarter to six, if you’re interested. And when they do, if you’re still feeling precarious, there’s always the Brompton Oratory round the corner. I’m not Catholic but wished, as I joined the queue for evensong, I could kneel and genuflect like the mysterious-looking foreign women: draw comfort from it. I did once. Then felt a fraud.
One weekday evening, when I was coming home from work past the Slug and Lettuce on the Fulham Road, I saw, amongst the café tables on the pavement outside, a sheet of blonde hair. Its shiny perfection and brightness amid the bustle seemed almost allegorical, and just as I was wondering where I’d seen it before, Ivan stepped out of the pub and made for that very table, a pint in one hand, a spritzer in the other.
He saw me and stopped. ‘Hattie.’
‘Ivan.’
Damn. Again. Gorgeous. Again. Tanned, pink shirt and jeans. Damn.
He recovered first. Spoke first, albeit flustered. ‘Good to see you. D’you want a drink?’
Two young people outside a pub, whilst an older woman shuffled by, back from