The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [86]
“Um . . . I’m OK.” Mattie’s voice still wary. Tentative. Kathryn tried for a cheerier tone. “I’m in London,” she said. “It’s great here.”
“Mom, what are you doing?”
There was music in the background. One of Mattie’s CDs. Sublime, Kathryn thought. Yes, definitely Sublime.
“Can you turn that down a bit?” Kathryn asked, having already had to stick a finger in her other ear from the pub noise. “I can’t hear you.”
Kathryn waited for Mattie to return to the phone. The drinkers around the bar crowded at the edges of the tables. Beside her, a man and a woman held pints of beer and shouted into each other’s ears.
“So,” her daughter said, having returned.
“It’s raining,” Kathryn said. “I’m in a pub. I’ve just been walking around. Seeing the sights.”
“Is that man with you?”
“His name is Robert.”
“Whatever.”
“Not right now.”
“Mom, are you sure you’re OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine. What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You sounded breathless,” Kathryn said.
“Did I?” There was a pause. “Mom, I can’t talk right now.” “Is Julia there?” Kathryn asked.
“She’s at the shop.”
“Why can’t you talk?”
In the background, Kathryn heard part of a sentence, muffled words. A masculine voice.
“Mattie?”
She heard her daughter whisper. A suppressed giggle. Bits of another sentence. A distinctly masculine voice.
“Mattie? What’s happening? Who’s there?”
“No one. Mom, I gotta go.”
Above the phone, on the wall, there were names and numbers written in pen and colored marker. Roland at Margaret’s, one note read.
“Mattie, who’s there? I can hear someone.”
“Oh, that’s just Tommy.”
“Tommy Arsenault?”
“Yeah.”
“Mattie . . .”
“Jason and I broke up.”
The man beside her was jostled, and he spilled beer on Kathryn’s sleeve. He smiled apologetically and tried ineffectually to wipe the spill with his hand.
“When did that happen?” Kathryn asked.
“Last night. What time is it there?”
Kathryn looked at her watch, which she had not yet set to London time. She calculated. “It’s five forty-five,” she said.
“Five hours,” Mattie said.
“Why did you break up with Jason?” Kathryn asked, not acquiescing to the change in subject.
“I didn’t think we had that much in common anymore.” “Oh, Mattie...”
“It’s OK, Mom. Really, it’s OK.”
“What are you and Tommy doing?”
“Just hanging out. Mom, I gotta go.”
Kathryn tried once again to calm herself.
“What are you going to do today?” Kathryn asked.
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s sunny out, but there’s a lot of wet snow out there. You’re sure you’re OK?”
Kathryn toyed with the idea of saying no to keep Mattie on the line, but she knew that was the worst sort of parental blackmail.
“I’m fine,” Kathryn said. “Really.” “I gotta go, Mom.”
“I’ll be home tomorrow night.”
“Cool. Really, I gotta go.”
“Love you,” Kathryn said, wanting to hold on to her daughter’s voice.
“Love you,” Mattie said quickly.
Free to go now.
Kathryn heard the transatlantic click.
She leaned her head against the wall. A young man in a pin-striped suit waited patiently beside her and then, finally, took the receiver from her hand.
She crawled under a sea of legs, retrieved her shoes at the bar, and went out into the rain. She bought an umbrella at a newsstand, thinking as she paid for it that the manufacture of umbrellas in England must be an evergreen enterprise. She felt briefly sorry for herself and thought that in addition to everything else, she would doubtless get a cold. It was Julia’s theory that if one cried in public, one would catch a cold. It wasn’t so much retribution for the display of emotion as it was the irritation of mucous membranes in the presence of foreign germs. Kathryn felt momentarily homesick for Julia, would have liked a glimpse of the woman in her bathrobe, would have liked a cup of tea.
Kathryn marveled at the umbrella’s protection (a brilliant design, she thought) and deeply appreciated the anonymity it afforded. If she watched the feet around her carefully, she could hide her face from people as they passed; the umbrella acted as a veil.
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