Bitter Sweet, page 21
The night before, we’d had a long call, him in his office in the flat and me in my dark bedroom in Stoke Newington. He was full of it, the high of the week and the success of the book had him feeling elated, but there was a lot of uncertainty there, too. Much of this was about the Booker Prize night, which was a week away, but also about his upcoming trip to America to promote the publication there. He was leaving at the end of October and would be gone for a little over a week. The book had done well and hit the New York Times bestseller list, but it wasn’t at the top of the charts and there had been some less favorable reviews. One journalist had called it self-indulgent, overtly, tiredly masculine and then worst of all, far too long and pretentious to the point of farce. Cecile’s equivalent at his American publisher hadn’t fared well in the conversation that followed, and they were “regrouping” to “reconsider strategy for the fall.” Elaine was due to fly out with him and they’d spend a few days in New York doing publicity and book signings before he’d be off on a four-city book tour, which was to end in Los Angeles. He had some meetings to take with studios and various producers about the film adaptation, which was progressing quickly and now had a big name attached to play the part of Seb.
I felt like I was being left behind. I had no place in any of this, and I missed him terribly. He was slipping away from me and with every new venture or opportunity that materialized, I felt him slip a little further. Every new reader who approached him took something from me. There would be nothing left for me at the end of this, and things couldn’t ever be the same because his life would never be the same. Any small anonymity he had enjoyed would be lost. But the last thing I was going to do was to put that on him. All I could do was be enthusiastic and supportive, even though I felt sick with sadness and jealousy. I wanted to be next to him on the plane, next to him everywhere he went. And not as his publicist, but as his partner.
Richard’s status in the world as a celebrity beyond the confines of the literary world, and my love for his work, had made his affection for me all the more validating. This was my first proper relationship and until now, I’d managed to contain the feeling that it wasn’t enough to be loved by him in private and private alone. But the romance of the secrecy had faded to nothing, and it was clear now that I had done a bad job of trying to convince myself that he alone was all that I needed. That I was a mess. I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that I was looking to Richard for the security I so badly needed and missed since losing my mum. I knew enough of myself, too, that my grief had been overwhelming, and had disrupted something in my formative brain. That I was painfully vulnerable as a result. I didn’t like to think of myself like that, although I knew that I was.
It wasn’t just Richard who was leaving me behind. I would let self-pity engulf me at night when I was alone in the house, unable to sleep, crying silently into my wet pillow as the realization of just how alone I was submerged me completely. Although Dad had always been my dad, when Mum died, the fact that he was not my blood was laid bare. As he had moved on and found a new partner and they’d started a new family, I had been left completely detached from the intimacy of our lives during my childhood. I’d felt like I’d had no family. I had felt, beyond anything else, entirely lonely, as I did again now.
Bursts of closeness with people had always been intense and unsustainable, messy and passionate, and without the roots and foundations that meaningful connections needed. But those roots had been growing with Ophelia and with Eddy. Those friendships had started to become truly meaningful, transcending transience, but again they seemed to be slipping away from me and I had no idea what to do. I didn’t know how to talk to them about it, how to bring them back to me. So I told myself in those moments that it was OK. That friends moved on.
But with lovers—well. You hope that there will be one, one day, who doesn’t move on, who instead moves with you through your life. Ophelia and Eddy—they had everything they could ever want. They didn’t need me. And it was starting to look more and more like Richard didn’t, either.
* * *
—
The next week was the publication dinner, which was taking place in the private dining room of the Savoy hotel in the West End, not too far from Richard’s flat. It would be small, just Allegra, Cecile, Markus, me and a few others from the marketing and sales departments, as well as Richard, Elaine, her sister and John Cormorant. I hadn’t really expected to be invited, but Cecile insisted as I’d worked so much on the book.
Richard said he loathed these types of events and only went along with them out of politeness. He said the dinner was more for the team than for him, which I suppose was true. I did offer to make my excuses, but he said it would look odd if I did.
We were all seated at a long table. Cecile seated me to her right, opposite Elaine and her sister, Pamela. To Cecile’s left was Markus, and opposite him, next to Elaine, was Richard. Allegra was at the other end, opposite John Cormorant.
Conversation was stilted at first, and it was evident to everyone that Richard and Elaine were on bad terms. She was as unfriendly as usual. She remembered me, at least, but still called me Claire, even though I corrected her. She didn’t take much notice of me; I was of no consequence or use to her. Pamela looked so much like Elaine I wondered if they were twins. They had the same meanness, the same absence of anything gentle or kind. It was clear that Pamela was also furious with Richard and there purely to support Elaine. She kept wordlessly checking in with her with a squeeze of her wrist, a raise of an eyebrow or a crinkle of her nose. She didn’t speak to anyone else. Elaine sat with her hands clenched together in front of her mouth, her elbows on the table. She didn’t eat any bread, so I didn’t either. I noticed her long, slim fingers and her wedding band. There were no diamonds and no engagement ring. She didn’t even speak to Richard, who was leaning back in quiet conversation with Allegra and John Cormorant about something or another. I carried on chatting with the marketing manager sitting next to me, who was actually called Claire. I knew her from the pub on Fridays and I liked her a lot.
Cecile was very skilled in these types of occasions and, like our captain, she ordered champagne, then wine for the table. We were eating a set menu. She tried to engage Elaine and Pamela a few times, but she didn’t get much back. Elaine wasn’t even trying to hide her displeasure at being here.
“Have you been in France for the summer then, Elaine?”
“I got back a few weeks ago. I’ve been in Yorkshire. It’s already horribly cold.”
“Yes, we don’t see you in London as much these days.”
“Well, I’m hardly interested in staying in his love nest. He’s got another spate of young girls coming round, you know.” Pamela put a sympathetic hand to Elaine’s shoulder. Neither of the women seemed to be concerned about being overheard by Richard. Claire kicked me hard under the table. This was just the kind of gossip we’d normally take to the pub with our co-workers for endless speculation on who those young women might be. I gave her a look that said, Stop.
Elaine had almost spat the words, her glacial veneer faulting for just a brief moment. Young girls? What did she mean? I felt like I might throw up, right there at the table. My pulse was so loud in my ears I was sure that other people must be able to hear it, too. I moved my chicken around my plate with my fork, suddenly disgusted by it.
“You know the flat was gifted to Pamela and me in my aunt’s will back in the seventies? She was my godmother, too. But London is Richard’s territory; he has made that perfectly clear. I’m not welcome in my own flat.”
Cecile smiled sympathetically and nodded, unflinching but clearly unsure how to respond. Pamela went back to her chicken, subtly shaking her head as though in shock at the unfairness of it. Fortunately, Richard hadn’t heard what had been said because he was still deep in conversation with Markus, Allegra and John Cormorant.
“The French house is so wonderful. I remember that trip well.” Cecile was trying to change the subject. Elaine sipped her wine and said nothing, looking down at her untouched plate. “Have you been having some renovations done? I think Richard mentioned you were planning some work to be done on the pool…”
At this point, John Cormorant, by quite fortuitous timing, tapped his glass with a butter knife and had us all raise a toast to Richard and the book. All of us, except Elaine and Pamela, murmured our agreement with his praise for both the man and the work. After the toast was over, Cecile moved her attention to Markus, sensing that Elaine wasn’t in the mood for conversation. It was clear that she had brought her sister with her so that she wouldn’t have to engage with any of us. The tension between her and Richard was uncomfortable for everyone.
Elaine left with Pamela before dessert was even served, whispering something inaudible into Richard’s ear and thanking Cecile with nothing more than a wave. Allegra left shortly after. We carried on drinking at the table while Richard and Markus had coffee. Claire took Elaine’s seat next to Richard, and I felt a stirring of resentment toward her for being so close to him. Although she was really very pretty, much prettier than me, he didn’t seem interested in her at all. Things felt much easier without Elaine in the room, but I couldn’t stop thinking about everything she had said.
“Great news about the US,” Markus said. “Good to see they are stepping up.”
“God, I’m dreading it. It’s nearly a month. I thought those sorts of backwater, backbreaking book tours were behind me.”
I tried not to look surprised by this news. Cecile, noticing us for the first time in a while, brought Claire and me into the conversation.
“The US team want to tour the book through November, rather than just doing a few big cities. I think it’s exactly the right strategy, to get back out there meeting the readers. I know it’s a slog, but it will pay in dividends.”
The wine had loosened me a little and I looked at Richard, who was careful not to make eye contact.
“A month. That’s a long time.”
“It’s a big country,” said John Cormorant knowingly. He’d spilled some of his chicken on his tie. “We’ll make sure you are looked after. I’ve asked to see a schedule next week…”
* * *
—
We all left together. I took a taxi with Cecile as Islington was on the way to Stoke Newington. I was still in shock at everything I had heard. Elaine knew someone younger was coming around? Another spate…Why did she think there was more than one, and had this happened before? And then, a whole month away. He hadn’t said anything to me last night. I wondered if that was why Elaine was so angry, too. But then they spent so much time apart, it wouldn’t matter to her where he was.
“She wasn’t always like that,” Cecile said on the way home. She was a little drunk and seemed to forget herself, because she never usually spoke so openly about Richard’s private life, even to me. “I remember about five, six years ago, they invited us out to France for a few days, to relax and have a bit of a break, as well as to plan for publication for the last book. As if you could relax staying with an author! Ha. But she was quite good fun back then, really. They seem miserable, now, don’t they.”
“I don’t know why they stay together. They don’t seem happy. And what was that about a love nest and young girls coming round?”
But Cecile didn’t bite.
“Oh, I don’t know. The two of them are always falling out about something. They seem to feed on drama. He used to stray a bit, I think, when he was much younger. Maybe he’s misbehaving again. You will learn this, Charlie, but older men have certain appetites. You need to watch out for people like him—they don’t think twice about taking what they want if it is available to them. You know, they say that marriage is a mystery, but with these two it really is. They both have their own lives, and it works, or it doesn’t…Regardless, they have their reasons for staying together. Although God knows what they are.”
The taxi dropped Cecile outside her Georgian townhouse. I couldn’t believe she lived there. I’d never seen it before. It was one of those London houses that you walk past and wonder what people do to be able to live in such a place. Cecile seemed to spot me rubbernecking out the window.
“It’s all Matthew,” she said, digging about in her Chanel handbag for a key in the glow of the streetlight. I’d hoped to get a glance inside the hall, to see if the portrait was real.
When we pulled away, I looked at my phone. I had a missed call from Richard, which surprised me. After a night of being ignored and discovering he’d be away for a month, and that his arrangement with Elaine might not be as mutual as I’d been led to believe, I didn’t feel like emailing him to tell him to call back as I usually would. When I got home, some half an hour later, the house was quiet; Ophelia was staying with Oscar a lot, and Eddy was out somewhere or another. It was a Thursday night, and Thursdays were bigger than Fridays these days. I was taking my makeup off in the bathroom when he called again.
“Hello, Charlie.”
“Hello, Richard.”
“Well, that was quite the evening. You looked lovely, by the way.” He was being totally charming, which was very annoying.
“A month? Couldn’t you have told me that?”
“I wanted to tell you face-to-face. I’ve only just confirmed it in the last few days. Elaine is fucking off back to France tomorrow morning, thank God. I’m in the study now so I can’t speak for long. I was hoping you’d come here tomorrow so we could spend some time together, talk properly. I feel like I’ve not seen you for a long time, which is odd, isn’t it.”
“I feel like that, too. Everything feels strange at the moment.” I decided not to raise what I’d learned from Elaine until I saw him.
“Will you come by then after work?”
* * *
—
It was busy for a Friday, and I couldn’t get away before seven. As well as tying up loose ends on Altitude at Sea, I was now planning for our spring books as well as working with Cecile on a contingency campaign just in case Richard did win the Booker. Everyone had their head down in their own overwhelming workload. No one even mentioned going to the pub, which never happened. At 3 p.m. on Fridays, without fail, someone would start taking an inventory of who was coming for post-work drinks.
I was utterly enervated, and happy when Richard suggested I take a bath and we order food in rather than cook. The flat felt familiar and cozy. There was no real evidence of Elaine anywhere, but the sheets were fresh on the bed, and I could feel something of her, which put me on edge. A hint of perfume in the air, two coffee cups on the draining board, a carton of soya milk in the fridge that I knew he didn’t drink. I put his caramel jumper on after my bath. He’d resigned himself to the fact that it had been adopted by me. It felt like autumn was close to over, although it was only just October.
We sat on the sofa eating pizza from the Italian place a few doors down, big chunks of congealed cheese sliding off the base and sticking to the box. I could see that Richard was exhausted, too. His eyes were slightly bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. There was a faint sourness to his breath and his tan had faded. His shoulders slumped a little and he was unrecognizable from the man who had commanded the Southbank the week before. He kept rubbing his face and pushing his hair back. He was distracted, as he had been for weeks now, really since before France. I didn’t know how to bring him back to me, or if I could. I knew that any mention of Elaine and what had been said the night before would not be well received, so I decided to leave that for now. I could contain it, I had to, or I would push him away even further. Although he was quiet, his mood was volatile and felt like static electricity. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The longer we were quiet, the more it was like he wasn’t really next to me, like he was some stranger in Richard’s clothes, in his flat.
As if he’d read my mind, he said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so—absent. I have been consumed by the book, obsessing over it, really. And at the same time trying to start writing again. Dealing with everything that goes with it, traveling…”
He paused. I didn’t dare look at him, instead focusing on my food, hungry but unable to eat.
“It hasn’t been fair on you. I can see you slipping into a melancholy mood, Charlie, and I know you are prone to this sort of feeling. I’m not really sure what to do about it.”
“I’m OK, don’t worry about me,” I said quietly. “My moods are far beyond the control of anyone. I’ve been busy, too. Work has been crazy. And with my friends. I do have a life outside of you, you know—you just don’t really see it.”
I was lying. I had hardly any life outside of Richard, hardly any thoughts, even. Ophelia, Eddy and I were moving away from each other slowly, our universe was expanding and we were being thrown outward in different directions.
“Well, that’s good. I don’t want things between us to end. You know that.”
I needed to hear him say this to me more often.
“But, look. I’m going to be away, and busy, a lot over the next few months. As well as this American tour I expect a few more trips to Los Angeles, and then there will be international festivals. Australia, I expect, in the spring. I don’t want—I can’t—think of you waiting for me. You need to live your life, Charlie; it won’t change that I am here.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by that.”
“I just think…you should be having fun, meeting people. Sleeping with other men—men maybe more of your own age.”
Tears burst before I could think to stop them. Richard was shocked by my reaction and went to comfort me, but I pulled back, overwhelmed with that awful, familiar feeling of rejection and loss. I had to look at his face, to see what he was really saying.
