Love Untold, page 8
‘You’re on the cruise, aren’t you?’ said the obliging tourist as he handed back the camera.
‘That’s right,’ said Elin. And an awkward silence followed. When she looked back at that first meeting, she would honestly say she couldn’t remember much about it – what he looked like or how he was dressed. It certainly wasn’t a lightning-strike moment where she fell instantly in love. ‘Are you enjoying it?’ she asked, more out of politeness than anything else.
‘Yes. A lot more than I’d expected and today has been spectacular.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I’ve always wanted to come here. Bit of a Brahms addict,’ he joked.
Elin wasn’t really sure what to say next and was conscious that time was ticking on and she still had the Volksgarten and Palmenhaus to visit if she was going to cram everything in before getting back on the ship. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Better get on.’
‘Yes, me too. Have fun!’ he replied, and they went their separate ways.
Later they would laugh together at how useless they had both been, what cowards: how their actions embodied the exact opposite of ‘seizing the moment’.
‘We annihilated the moment really, didn’t we?’ he would say with a smile.
Elin’s last planned Viennese ‘must-see’ of the day was the famous Ferris Wheel, or Wiener Riesenrad, as she never tired of saying. She relished the Austrian sounds, as delightful on her tongue as the Sachertorte she’d eaten for her dessert at a little coffee shop in the Stephansplatz. She was due back on the ship by 10 p.m. at the latest, so had pre-booked her ticket for an 8 p.m. slot, when the sun would just be setting and she could take in the beauty of Vienna bathed in golden light.
The tourists had dwindled by now and Elin thought it a shame that people would miss out on such a stunning panoramic view, but hey-ho, their loss.
Just as the gatekeeper was letting them on, there was a cry from behind her and a latecomer pleaded to be allowed aboard. It was the tourist from lunchtime, her fellow traveller, clutching his ticket. She didn’t pay much attention till she was safely inside the car with the door locked and the four-minute journey had begun.
‘I’m not following you,’ he laughed as he stood next to her, gazing out through the window.
‘Oh, hello again,’ she said, looking at the view, not at him. ‘Good day?’
‘Amazing. Went to the Schönbrunn Zoo. Oldest in the world, y’know.’
Elin nodded, and then they were quiet again, savouring the spectacle of the panorama that unfolded before them. As they reached the top, she turned to him and said, ‘I’m Elin, by the way.’
‘Greg.’
A tight, shy smile was exchanged between them and the car began its descent.
They walked back to the ship together. It was a fine, clear evening and the air was potent, full of springtime mischief. They didn’t say much on their way, just polite chat about where they’d been that day and what they had loved. And then it dawned on her. ‘Why Brahms?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said you were a Brahms fan. I mean, I love him too, but it’s Mahler who really pulls the heartstrings, don’t you think?’
And with that they were off, gorging on a classical music fest that took them down the gangplank and into the bar on board, where they ordered hot chocolate and Danish pastries, whilst those around them sipped cocktails. In between comparing Strauss and Schubert, they offered up some basic information about themselves. As ever, Elin gave the edited version of her life, in that she didn’t mention her mother, but described Grace in her place. Greg told her that he and his previous girlfriend had split up over three years ago and he’d gone travelling to shake himself up a bit. He’d used his English Language teaching qualification all over the world and was now deciding where to settle. ‘It’s a bit like hairdressing, really,’ he said. ‘Teaching English as a foreign language. You can take it anywhere.’
‘Take it to Cardiff, then,’ she said, inwardly shocked at her own boldness.
‘What?’
‘Cardiff. It’s a nice city. Birthplace of Roald Dahl and home to the oldest record shop in the world.’
‘Seriously?’ he laughed.
‘Yes! Opened in 1894 – used to sell wax records.’
‘Ha!’
‘And I live there of course.’
He smiled awkwardly and she couldn’t believe she’d said it. She wasn’t even drunk. It was just that there was something so warm about him, so enthusiastic about life. And he had a dimple in his left cheek that partnered the twinkle in his crystal-blue eyes. Oh God, she thought. I’m flirting.
When they realized they were the only two left in the bar, they decided to call it a night. It was 2 a.m. by now. He walked her to her cabin. She didn’t invite him in and he didn’t kiss her goodnight. But they arranged to meet the following morning for breakfast.
After that, they spent every waking minute of the remainder of the cruise together. And yet they didn’t so much as hold hands. They did, however, talk. And laugh. And argue (about music).
On the last day of the cruise, they’d docked at Passau and decided on a daytrip to Prague, where they attended two lunchtime concerts in succession, ate meatballs and drank a modest amount of local beer. They were both quiet, knowing that this unexpectedly joyful holiday was coming to an end.
When they returned to the ship, they opted to avoid the farewell dinner and spent the evening on Elin’s balcony instead, drinking tea.
The inevitable moment arrived, of course. ‘It’s nearly midnight,’ said Greg, testing the uncertain waters of this as-yet-undefined relationship.
‘Will you turn into a pumpkin?’
‘No, but I might turn into a fool.’
‘How come?’
‘If I try and kiss you and you push me away,’ he said quietly.
‘Well, you won’t know if you don’t try …’ Elin replied, shaking. And not from the cold.
‘Okay, well, here goes.’ And he leaned in slowly, gently pushed away a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek, curling it behind her ear … and finally kissed her.
It would have been the kiss to have topped all kisses ever kissed.
Had it not been for the fireworks.
Which went off at that precise moment, making the whole event so ridiculously unbelievable that they started laughing and couldn’t stop. Could their first kiss have been more cheesy? Fireworks?! They realized that it was part of the last-night celebrations laid on by the cruise company. But still. Talk about perfect timing.
The laughter helped. It made the sex easy. Easy and utterly gorgeous.
Within a month, Greg had found a job in Cardiff and moved in with Elin.
And within twelve months they’d returned to Vienna to celebrate knowing each other a whole year. They bought tickets for the Ferris Wheel and when they reached the top, Greg got down on one knee and proposed. Elin didn’t hesitate in saying yes, much to Greg’s relief, seeing as there were eight other passengers in the car with them, who proceeded to applaud.
They were married in Cardiff’s register office on 3 October 2003 and became parents to Beca two years later. It was a textbook romance. A fairy-tale love story.
‘I think your phone’s ringing,’ said John, disturbing her reverie.
‘Oh, thanks.’ She looked at the screen – Greg. ‘I’ll just take this,’ she smiled, trying to look nonchalant, her heart racing as she tapped Answer and moved away from John and Beca. ‘So you finally deign to call me, do you?’ she hissed, hoping she was out of earshot.
‘Elin, can you just … not start …’
Elin took a deep breath. ‘Go on, then. What d’you want to say?’
Greg sounded tearful as he said, ‘We need to have a proper conversation, El. There are things I need to tell you.’
For a moment she was seized by fear and her voice softened. ‘Oh my God, are you all right? Has something happened? Are you ill?’
‘No, I’m not ill,’ he said quietly. ‘But something has happened, yes.’
15
Beca
Beca woke up to the sound of a dull thud above her head, followed by a dragging noise and more thuds. It was Monday morning and she was back in her Cardiff bed.
Curiosity trumped sleep, so she climbed out and slumped over to the landing. The attic hatch was open and at the base of its ladder lay four large plastic crates, all empty. A fifth crate came hurtling down and crashed to the floor.
‘God, Mum!’ Beca shouted. ‘They’re gonna break, you carry on chuckin’ ’em like that!’
The only response was the appearance of her mother’s plimsolled feet purposefully descending the ladder. She looked fraught and a little unhinged, Beca thought, her hair uncharacteristically unkempt. ‘You can help me carry them downstairs if you like,’ said Elin.
But Beca wasn’t getting involved. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ she mumbled.
Lying there with sunlight squeezing through the gaps in her blinds, Beca thought of the Larkin poem they’d studied in Year Ten. She could only remember the first two lines: They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. And she sighed, angry with both her parents for doing absolutely that. She’d been having such a good time, for a change. For once, her life was feeling relatively normal. A job – even perhaps a fledgling music career. And then her dad had decided to be a complete twat and have an affair with some idiot woman called Fleur. Fleur! For fuck’s sake, what sort of a name was that anyway?
Beca pulled the duvet over her head and tried to go back to sleep. But her mind was too busy to rest. She knew she should really go and help her mum, or at least talk to her. Let her rant some more.
Last night had been such a rage fest she’d thought her mother would lose her voice.
‘The deceit! Beca, that’s what I can’t come to terms with!’ This was one of Elin’s most uttered lines, along with ‘I feel such an incredible fool.’ There was a lot of anger, and a lot of swearing. But strangely there’d been no tears. Nor had her mum tried to stop her dad from leaving. In fact, as shock marriage break-ups went, Beca decided her parents’ one was actually quite straightforward. Her dad had calmly explained that he had met a woman at the Language School who’d shown him another dimension to his life, shown him who he really was. He felt he’d been living a lie until now, and that at last he’d discovered his ‘true self’.
‘What a load of absolute bullshit!’ her mother had yelled. And silently Beca had agreed. Her dad never used to talk like a knob, but then, when she came to think of it, he’d started using a lot of wanky phrases over the past few months. That, along with other little things – like wearing Superdry T-shirts and downloading Miley Cyrus. Plus he’d started meditating before work in the morning – strange Ommmmmming sounds would emanate from the study at an hour too early to process. It should have been a warning sign. Why hadn’t they realized? Presumably it was all Fleur’s doing – new dad, new man, nama-fucking-ste.
‘How old is she?’ her mum had demanded.
‘Age is an irrelevance, El,’ he’d replied, a tad on the patronizing side, Beca thought.
‘HOW BLOODY OLD IS SHE???’
‘She’s thirty-one, okay?’
‘No, Greg. No, it is NOT okay. You’re the biggest cliché in the book. Literally old enough to be her father.’
‘A very young father,’ he’d replied petulantly.
There’d been this awful silence then and Beca had tried to creep out of the room. But her mother had yelled at her, too. ‘Don’t you even THINK about leaving, Beca Matthews. You will stay here and listen to your father state his case for abandoning his wife and child.’
‘I’m not really a child, Mum,’ Beca had mumbled, only to be ignored.
Her dad had taken a piece of paper from his jeans pocket and placed it on the granite island. ‘This is my new address,’ he’d said.
Her mum snatched it up and pompously scoffed, ‘Thirty-seven B, Greg? Christ, what’s this? A return to your student days? Some grotty little flat in Grangetown?’
‘It’s not grotty, actually. Fleur’s made—’ And then he’d stopped himself, but too late.
‘No, go on,’ said her mum, her eyes wild with rage. ‘Fleur’s made what? Made it all pretty? Aw, bless.’
Her dad had stood up then, pulled on his jacket and made for the door. ‘I’ll call in a couple of days, yeah? Give everything a chance to settle down.’
‘No point, Greg. You’ve made your decision, with no thought to prior discussion …’ Beca had wondered if her mother ever spoke without sounding like a head teacher. ‘I will contact a solicitor tomorrow and initiate divorce proceedings.’
Her dad hadn’t been expecting that, by the look of things. ‘Whoa, hang on, Elin, you’re getting way ahead of yourself now!’
And this time, Beca inwardly agreed with him.
‘Greg, you’ve met someone else. You’ve been unfaithful, therefore we have nothing more to say to one another. Please shut the door on your way out. Beca, say goodnight to your father.’
He’d lurched forward then and grabbed her in a soppy dad kind of way. ‘Don’t worry, baby girl, I’ll be in touch, yeah? It’s all going to be okay, yeah?’
Beca’s face was squashed up against one of the zips on his jacket and she was finding it hard to breathe, the hug was so forceful. But thankfully, he’d eventually pulled away, wiped his eyes – oh God, he was crying! – and then left. He’s never called me ‘baby girl’ before, she’d thought.
The whole thing had been completely surreal. Beca had stood still. So had her mum. The only sound in the room was her mother’s fast and furious breathing, and the fading engine of her father’s car as it sped away from the house. It was then that Beca realized she was still holding half a gingerbread man baked by Grama Grace which she’d started munching in the car. She wasn’t sure what else to do, so she finished it off – only the top half was left – stuffing his head into her mouth more out of nervousness than anything else. She must have been in shock. Because why wasn’t she crying? Her parents were splitting up!
‘I’m making faggots for tea,’ her mother had announced, before slamming cupboard doors and banging chopping boards and clanking pans with unnecessary force. It wasn’t far off a percussion rehearsal at school orchestra.
‘Mum! You know I hate faggots – they make me parp!’ Beca’d moaned, instantly regretting it.
‘Do you really think NOW is an appropriate time to discuss your digestive system?’ Elin had demanded, and Beca had muttered a Sorry. But then her mother had stopped stock-still mid onion chop and turned to her. ‘I’m so sorry, Bec,’ she’d said.
Beca hadn’t been sure where to look. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘It is. I should’ve seen it coming. I’ve let you down.’
Beca hardly ever saw her mother looking vulnerable, but in that moment she did. It had been made worse by the fact that she was wearing the ‘fun’ apron Dad had bought her for Christmas. It bore a picture of a koala and the phrase I can’t bear washing up. So, in a rare act of tenderness, she had reached out to her mum for a hug. Elin had seemed as surprised by the gesture as Beca was, and failed to reciprocate properly. ‘I’m fine, don’t fuss,’ she’d snapped, turning back to her onions. Which were probably the cause of the tears now running down her face.
Presumably the plastic crates were needed to pack the rest of Dad’s stuff, a process her mum had begun the night before, after they’d finished eating. ‘No point in hanging around!’ she’d declared, heading out to the shed and the makeshift gym where her dad had stored his protein powders and multivitamins. Her mum was apparently so eager to dispose of any trace of her dad that Beca wondered if she was glad he’d gone.
16
Alys
From the description Kirsty had given of her husband, Douglas, he sounded like he might be a bit of an arse. So for the first few days in her new home, Alys kept expecting him to knock on the cottage door, explaining that his wife’s generosity had been misplaced. He would stand there full of apology, saying that sadly Alys needed to move on. But a week had passed and then another and there had been no knock at the door from Douglas. Alys had continued to see Kirsty regularly, both inside and outside of AA meetings, and things between them couldn’t have been more genial. Kirsty would frequently call by for coffee and tears, and to work through the Twelve Steps with Alys, her stalwart and very wise sponsor. Alys enjoyed the process – it warmed her heart to feel she was giving something back, helping a fellow alcoholic to stay sober, which in turn helped to keep her sober. That was the theory, and one to which Alys could honestly say she adhered.
One principle of the recovery programme that Alys hadn’t been able to master was that of never borrowing money from anyone. She hadn’t yet paid back the cash that Kirsty had lent her and, contrary to what she’d intended, she had continued using the credit card beyond the purchase of a few essentials. Little things at first – a new electric toothbrush, some good-quality face products, a coat she’d seen in the sale of a high-end Brecon boutique, and the impetuous purchase of a brand-new bike. She wasn’t sure how she was going to explain that one away, although she could say she needed it to cycle to meetings. If there was one thing Alys was good at, it was burying her head in the sand. And in fairness, Kirsty had reassured Alys on several occasions that she did not expect to be repaid.
The non-surgical facelift was probably a step too far. But on seeing herself in the mirror one morning, Alys had decided something had to be done, and that it would be worth the risk. She had two options. One was to use the credit card to buy a ticket to India and visit her surgeon ‘friend’ for a proper nip and tuck. But the problem with that was that it would mean disappearing abroad for at least three weeks and then she’d never be able to return. Plus, she was really rather enjoying her new home. The second and best option would be to make an appointment at the pricey clinic in Brecon. There, she could get her facial hair re-lasered, her eyebrows microbladed, and have a few new fillers thrown in for good measure. The nice girl on reception said if she paid up front they’d give her a ten per cent discount. What wasn’t to love? She booked herself in, and two days later walked out with a new uplifted face and a dent in Kirsty’s credit card to the tune of four hundred quid.
