The Other Woman, page 37
‘I’ve come to see you, not him,’ Eleanor replied levelly, putting the book down. As she did so an old empty envelope dropped out of its back pages. Scrawled across it in the big spider writing that Eleanor immediately recognised as having once flowed from their father’s gold-tipped desk fountain pen was a note to their mother: Darling Connie, it said, came home for a 10-min lunch. I love you. Vx.
‘Hey, look at this.’ She held the note out to Kat.
Her sister nodded. ‘Yes, it’s been there, like, for ever.’
‘Has it? Oh, okay.’ Eleanor gently replaced the envelope, giving the book a pat as she closed it shut. A part of her waited to see if Kat said anything about their mother, whilst knowing she wouldn’t, because she never did. ‘It’s nice though, isn’t it?’ she prompted. ‘Given what happened… well, it can make one forget the good things.’
‘Oh, I never forget good things,’ said Kat briskly. ‘By the way, you could borrow my car, if you did want to visit Dad.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to. Thank you. Not this time.’
‘It’s up to you.’
Eleanor couldn’t help laughing. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me, or something?’
‘Of course not. I’m glad you came. Thank you for coming, Eleanor.’
‘Don’t be silly. I had to. I wanted to. I’m just so pleased the bloody thing was harmless.’ Eleanor returned to the window, folding her arms and gripping her elbows. ‘I do go and see him from time to time, you know.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Not as much as you, but…’ Kat had been the favoured child, at least when they were little. And if it hadn’t been Kat in the spotlight, it had been their mother. Or God. When it came to the focus of Vincent’s attention, it was invariably Eleanor who had come last.
‘It’s fine, Ellie.’
‘It’s like visiting a corpse.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘So. What can I do now I’m here?’ Eleanor asked brightly, wanting to wrest both of them back to the reason for her visit. ‘Tea? A biscuit? Or is there something you’d like me to do? Hoovering? Shopping? I’d so like to be useful.’
‘There’s nothing, thanks. Hannah, our babysitter, and Howard are doing a brilliant job of keeping the show on the road.’ Kat lay back against her pillows, her expression growing distant.
‘Hey, guess what, I have just been commissioned to write another memoir,’ Eleanor blurted. ‘This time it’s that actor, Trevor Downs? He’s really old now but…’ She broke off, feeling foolish, as Kat’s eyes fell shut. Her sister’s skin looked starkly pale suddenly beside the white January sunlight, now spooling into the room through breaks in the cloud and falling into misty pools on the silky grey carpet. There were marbled veins at her temples that Eleanor had never noticed before, threading under her cheekbones like the blue in a soft, pearly cheese. It made her want to stroke Kat’s face, show the protective tenderness which always hovered but which never seemed able to come out.
She moved towards the bed but stopped as Kat puckered her lips, seemingly in preparation to speak, but then her mouth fell still again, the lips slack and slightly open.
Eleanor turned back to the window, feeling at a loss. The garden spread beneath her was ridiculously huge and orderly, comprising not just terraces of well-tended lawns and flower beds, but an all-weather tennis court and the smart black rectangle of a covered swimming pool. Kat had been such a wild child that there was something about this tidy state of adult affluence that Eleanor still found hard to buy into.
Yet she was hardly in a position to be critical, she mused, the cul-de-sac of her decade in Oxford coming back at her: the pitiful hanging on because of Igor, the Russian academic who had asked her to write his life story and then swept her into an affair before returning to his wife in Moscow; the subsequent abandoned and useless efforts at fiction; the ad-hoc tutoring to pay bills. Not to mention a social life which, in the three years since moving to London, had somehow deteriorated into a state of lurching oscillation between abject indolence and a sexual promiscuity that she couldn’t have confessed to anyone, least of all her self-contained, snugly nested little sister. A recent nadir had been reached in the form of opening her flat door to the husband of her oldest and best friend from university, dear Megan.
Eleanor dug her fingernails into her forearms as the shame flared. Billy had been in London for a stag do. They had said drunken farewells through a taxi window after a chance encounter in a nightclub. Megan had been many miles away, safely ensconced with their three boys in their Welsh home. ‘No,’ Eleanor had said. But when Billy had reached for the zip on her dress, she had turned, lifting her heavy tumble of hair to make his task easier.
Eleanor had tiptoed as far as the bedroom doorway when Kat’s eyes flew open. ‘Actually, there is something I want, Ellie… something to show you… I don’t know how I could have forgotten. Hang on a minute, while I…’
Seeing the grimace of determination as Kat manoeuvred herself out of bed, Eleanor sprang back across the room to help, only to be met with a warning hand to keep away. She took a step back, aware of the deep, buried reflex of looking after her little sister stirring again.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Kat assured her tetchily. ‘It’s good to move. The doctors said. No one is supposed to lie around after an operation these days. They get you up and about as soon as possible.’ She stood, pausing to let the crumples in her long white nightshirt fall free, and then moved steadily to a dark green and orange silk kimono hanging on the back of the bedroom door. She slid herself into it with a quick graceful shake of her shoulders, deftly knotting the cord into a big floppy butterfly-bow off her hip. ‘We’re going to my study. Prepare to be surprised.’ She tapped her nose and grinned, looking so restored and pleased with herself that Eleanor did not have the heart to do anything but follow her downstairs.
Kat’s study was a cosy end-of-corridor room containing a desktop computer, a voluminous orange beanbag, an oak chest spilling with sewing equipment and a tailor’s dummy swathed in a sari of lilac silk. Kat went straight to the desk and plucked a sheet of A4 out of the tray of her printer. ‘My surprise is this.’ She shoved the paper under Eleanor’s nose, beaming. ‘It arrived this morning. Talk about a blast from the past. I want to hear your views.’ She pronounced the word as if it was a great joke, sliding past Eleanor and settling herself on the beanbag, from where she began to adjust some lower folds in the lilac silk, her small, nail-bitten fingers working nimbly. ‘I printed it off so it was easier to read. Take your time,’ she mumbled, managing, in spite of having several pins between her lips, to communicate impatience.
The paper was an email. Noting who it was from, Eleanor leant back against the desk in a subtle bid to steady herself, marvelling both at the timing of its arrival and the reminder of her little sister’s relentless and unfailing ability to wrong-foot her.
From: N.Wharton@QueenElizabeth.org.sa
Subject: Greetings
Dear Kat,
This is just a friendly enquiry to ask how the hell you are. Something perhaps to do with the big Four Ohhh being on the imminent horizon, wanting to take stock, etc. Where did twenty years go? That’s what I keep asking myself. I hope you are well and happy. Are you well and happy?
As for me, doctoring took me to dermatology and for the past ten years I have been working as a consultant at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital here in Cape Town. (Hence the above email address!) I have a South African wife, Donna, and two beautiful daughters (they take after their mother!), Natalie and Sasha, aged fifteen and thirteen. We are lucky enough to live in Constantia, a beautiful area outside Cape Town (in case you didn’t know!), in a house with a big garden, pool, etc., and views across the valley towards the city and the famous Table Mountain.
Donna is very happy being near her family (we moved here ten years ago from London, where I worked at King’s after my elective). Her father is a successful property developer and they have a superb estate in Rondebosch where she and the girls are able to keep their horses and go riding. (Yours truly prefers tennis!) Living relatively far out of town, Donna is kept very busy running around after the girls – they go to school in the city and have hectic social lives!
Well, Kat, I was just wanting to touch base. A friendly line after twenty years. It would be good to hear some news back from you if you had the time.
By the way, how’s Eleanor these days? Say hi from me if you see her.
Best wishes,
Nick (Wharton)
Eleanor read slowly, trying to hear the Nick she remembered between the sentences. There were a lot of brackets and exclamation marks, she observed wryly, her expert eye scanning the text. Far too many. Only nerves could account for it, she decided, feeling a flutter of the old bitterness that, after so many years and all that had happened, Nick Wharton should still betray such signs of jitters when placing himself across the path of her little sister.
‘Well? What do you think?’ Kat urged. She had finished with her repinning and was back in the beanbag, sitting cross-legged now, her knees neat bulges under her silk gown, her big blue eyes electric and staring. ‘Nice that “friendly line” bit, don’t you think?’
‘Yup. Very nice.’ Eleanor was trying to picture Nick in Cape Town in a white coat, being a proper doctor.
‘Well? Do you think I should reply?’
‘It’s up to you.’ Eleanor smiled. It was one thing to be wrong-footed, quite another to show it.
‘But what do you think?’
Eleanor shrugged. She found it hard to believe that Kat really wanted her opinion.
‘If you help me,’ Kat added impishly, ‘it will take no more than a few minutes.’
‘Me? Help you? Why on earth would you want me to do that?’ Eleanor set down the letter and moved away from the desk. Kat was putting her through some sort of sick test, she decided, prodding her emotions to see what came out. She had forgotten the power of her sister. Kat did what she wanted and everyone else dealt with the consequences. She either didn’t care, or didn’t notice.
‘It would take me hours, but you’ll be able to do it in two minutes,’ Kat pleaded. ‘I’m crap with words, all dyslexic and rubbish, not like you, always so brilliant.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Eleanor murmured, something inside her softening nonetheless. Nick Wharton was such water under the bridge. Ancient water. Ancient bridge.
‘I’ll tell you what I want to say and you make it better,’ Kat instructed, leaving her perch to turn on the computer and then pressing Eleanor into the desk chair. ‘We’ll do a cheerful potted history like he did, preferably not mentioning the jolly business of having had some of my gut removed—’
‘You’ve got follow-up checks and things, have you?’
‘Oh, heaps. Now let’s get on with it.’ Kat settled herself back into the dent she had left in the beanbag, lying on her side this time, one arm protectively cradling her lower stomach. ‘Start with “Hi Nick”.’
Eleanor obediently began to type. Kat, for whatever reason, had decided she should help with the letter. Test or whim, it was what she wanted. ‘And you’re sure Howard won’t mind…’
She glanced up in surprise as her sister hissed an expletive and slapped the bean bag.
‘What?’
Kat was sitting bolt upright, glaring at her. Eleanor stared back in disbelief. It occurred to her that if she had needed reminders of why they didn’t see more of each other, Kat could not have been doing a better job. A long time ago, her sister had simply stopped liking her, Eleanor reflected bleakly. It was the only explanation. The sole wonder was her own difficulty in accepting the fact.
‘Judging me,’ Kat snapped. ‘Bossing me. Like you think you have some sort of right. Because of… well, just because you’re older.’
‘I never think like that.’
‘For your information – not that it is any of your business – Howard and I respect each other’s privacy. We give each other space. That’s one of the reasons I married him. He lets me be, unlike most other people I’ve come across… like Nick Wharton, for example. Oh my god, the man was such a limpet – it’s all coming back to me.’ Suddenly she was snorting with laughter. ‘Mr Clingy… aagh… no wonder I was horrible to him.’ She rolled her face into the beanbag, pretending to chew the fabric.
‘Why don’t you leave him alone then?’ Eleanor asked quietly.
Kat stopped her rolling and sat up. ‘Because not replying might just seem rude. And where’s the harm?’
For a moment Eleanor imagined picking up the computer keyboard and hurling it across the room. She pictured the dummy falling, its robes of lilac flapping like a giant bird, pins pinging in showers of silver rain. But it would upset Kat again and that would be bad. The kimono had fallen slightly open, affording a clearer view of the outline of the bandaging thickening her sister’s slim waist. ‘You are right,’ she conceded softly, quickly looking away, ‘so let’s get on with it. Where were we?’
‘Hi Nick, I think.’ Kat plucked at a thread on her gown. ‘You’re just so serious sometimes, Ellie. It can drag people down. And you’re not to be too clever for this, okay? I’ll suggest stuff and you phrase it nicely. But the letter’s from me, remember, the muggins who scraped five GCSEs, not the bright star who went to Oxford.’
Ten minutes later, Eleanor read out the completed version, a wholly collaborative effort apart from the exclamation marks, which she had scattered liberally, telling herself that writers with sick, spoilt, bafflingly manipulative little sisters had to get their kicks where they could.
Hi Nick,
What a surprise to hear from you after so much time! It was great to get all your news of what sounds like the most wonderful life. I have never been to Cape Town but know of the famous Table Mountain, of course. How incredible to wake up to that every morning!
You asked for news of me and mine, so here goes. I have also been lucky with how things turned out. I stayed as a fashion dogsbody for a few more years but gave up work after I got married in 1998. Hard to believe that was fifteen years ago! My husband Howard is a Fund Manager with Bouvray-Smith. We live near a place called Fairfield in East Sussex, not a million miles from Broughton, which perhaps you remember?! We’ve got three kids, Luke, who’s 13 and brainy like his dad, Sophie, who’s 11 going on 25(!), and Evie who’s 7 and probably most like me! We are also lucky enough to have a lovely house and garden – lots of space for the kids to run around in. We even have a pool, though the English weather probably means we don’t use it quite as much as you do yours! Howard has to commute, which is a pain, but apart from that life is pretty good. I do a bit of dress-making but otherwise spend my time being a mum - like your wife Donna, by the sounds of things – running around after the little darlings!
Well, Nick, thanks for your email. I can’t imagine you forty years old, I must say. Though of course it will be my turn in a few more years!
Eleanor is visiting at the moment and says hi back.
Take care and all the best for the next forty!
Kat (Gallagher these days, but I still use Keating sometimes. Was that how you tracked me down?)
‘By the way, you know if you end with a question he’s more likely to write back.’
‘Is he?’
‘It’s human nature.’
‘Is it?’
‘Do you want him to write back?’
‘Dunno.’ Kat frowned. ‘Oh, I guess not. Take it out then.’
‘Out it goes.’ Eleanor deleted the second sentence in the bracket.
‘Oh, and add a kiss please. Just one. Lower case. Everybody kisses everybody these days after all, don’t they? A kiss means literally nothing.’
‘Does it?’ Eleanor murmured, adding one small cross next to Kat’s name and resisting the urge to point out that Nick’s signing off had been much more formal. Kat could still have any man she wanted, she reflected, with a twist of weary pride. Age, motherhood, illness made no difference. One snap of her little sister’s fingers and men fell like nine-pins. They always had. They always would.
An hour and a half later, after tea and some delicious ginger biscuits reputedly made by Hannah the babysitter, they were on the doorstep, conducting farewells in the glare of Eleanor’s taxi headlights. Kat had by then showered and changed into a grey glitter-flecked mohair jumper, loose black trousers and bright red Converse trainers. The jumper shone in the light, catching the sparkle in her eyes. She looked radiant, transformed.
‘Would you come again,’ she said suddenly, ‘if I asked?’
‘Of course. Whenever. If you ask.’ Eleanor bounced the phrase back casually, knowing Kat was laying down her terms. She had in fact reached a state of longing to be gone, to be on her own. Ill or not, her sister was such hard work, so ready to fight, so good at making her feel there was something she needed to apologise for, if only she could figure out what it was.
‘Okay. Cool.’
‘Or you could come and see me in London,’ Eleanor offered, ‘take a break from Howard and the kids. We could have lunch or something.’
‘Oh yes, we must,’ Kat cried, as if she might even mean it, when they both knew she didn’t.
* * *
Ten minutes into Eleanor’s train journey, a text came through from Megan.
You okay? Long time no hear. xx
Eleanor gripped her phone, seeing again her friend’s husband’s big, square, dismayed face peering at her over the mangled sheets of her bed linen three weeks before. The morning mortification had been mutual. Billy had loped off like a whipped dog and she had stumbled to the toilet to throw up with a violence that she knew was as much about self-abhorrence as her hangover. The Trevor Downs commission had come through on the very same day; a flimsy lifeline, it had felt like, the pretext she needed to clean her act up and start again.
Eleanor stared at the message. She was pretty sure Billy wouldn’t say anything, but that didn’t make it any better or easier. Slowly she typed back:
