One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [92]
‘Is it serious?’ Hal was reaching in the fridge for the duck breasts.
‘Um, yes. Yes, it is.’ It was, to me. And I wanted to have something as serious as Hal. To Ivan? Probably not.
‘Good,’ he said lightly. ‘That’s good.’
Yes it was, wasn’t it? I thought as I followed him back to the terrace, head held high, clutching the salad bowl. It was absolutely bloody marvellous. My life was marvellous.
Hal ran me home later in his groovy convertible car. I was wrapped in an overcoat he’d lent me against the wind, a silk scarf around my neck, my right hand huge and bandaged. There’d been a bit of an incident. During pudding – plums in red wine left by the housekeeper, delicious, naturally – Hal had taken a phone call; clearly work as he mentioned a merger, or a takeover, and also mouthed ‘Excuse me’ as he left the table. He’d withdrawn down some steps to the lawn below. I’d watched as he’d paced up and down, talking. Tall, broad, one hand in his pocket, against a background of purple hills under a starry sky, head bent: he’d looked… important. That was the word. I’d toyed with my plums. Drank some more wine, thoughtful.
On he’d talked and, after a bit, I’d gone to the loo. On the way back, eyes swivelling as I drank in the perfect house, I couldn’t help looking at the photo of Céline again as I passed. Only this time, I picked it up. The frame, old cherry wood, had collapsed, come to pieces in my hands, the glass slipping out like a guillotine blade. It smashed in pieces on the floor. Horrified, I swung round, but Hal was still pacing about in the gloom. I’d crouched hastily to pick up the bits, and one large shard had sliced my hand quite badly, right down to the quick. I’m not good at blood.
Moments later, Hal was back and I was trying not to faint. Unable even to stagger to the loo, I was kneeling on the floor, moaning and swaying. There was a fair bit of blood as I’d attempted to stanch the flow with my other hand, so it looked as if I’d attempted suicide. Slit my wrists.
Hal had hoisted me to a sitting position in a ticking-covered chair, put my head between my knees, held my hand in the air and talked to me in a voice one normally reserves for the educationally subnormal. When I’d recovered sufficiently so as not to pass out, he took me to the bathroom and washed and bandaged me, whilst I apologized profusely for breaking his frame. He insisted it couldn’t matter less, that it was ancient, and I explained that I’d gone back for a second look because I’d recognized Céline’s top. Had an identical one at home, which I’d bought in Primark – no, Paris! – which was quite a coincidence, I’d thought. Hal had accepted this explanation as if it were watertight, but as I’d glanced in the bathroom mirror, I’d seen his face as he wrapped my finger: handsome, composed. And also, the face of a middle-aged woman. Flushed, mascara smudged, eyes overbright, looking as if she’d been at the sherry.
When he dropped me at my hotel in the square, the lights were twinkling in the trees above and people were still drinking on the terrace outside. I wondered if I should ask him in for a nightcap. Wondered if I could claw back some ground, some dignity. Have a serious discussion about Simone de Beauvoir over a pastis. But just as I was about to suggest it, he was hailed by a corpulent Frenchman drinking on the terrace.
‘Alors – Hal!’
Plucking his brandy glass, he came swaying down the steps to shake Hal’s hand over my head. I tried to look alert and interested, but after a while, felt silly sitting there as they talked across me, even though Hal had introduced me. So I got out. Hal immediately shunted into first gear and shot me an apologetic but grateful smile, clearly keen to escape the garrulous Frenchman.
‘Night, Hal,’ I called. ‘Thanks so much!’
‘Night, Hattie.’ And off he drove.
I watched him go with a bright smile and a cheerfully raised hand