To Heaven by Water Page 19

  ‘Robin.’

  ‘Don’t say anything you might regret. Think about it before you speak.’

  ‘I just wanted to say that...’

  ‘Don’t. Please listen to my advice, Ed, and say nothing.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good. We need to cut this off at the pass. I’ll see you on Friday.’

  He wanted to tell Robin that he is off to Geneva, but he sees now that it would have been a mistake because nothing is fixed with Laurent. There seems to be a direct connection between his queasiness about Robin and his growing admiration for Laurent, like two buckets in a well attached to one rope. I have seen the future, and it’s not here looking down at a bin while Robin explains why he has sacked Alice. He has another shortbread from the Fineman bequest. The real reason he got rid of Alice is sexual jealousy. Ed sees that he has been saved just in time from his own folly. He will force himself to wait a few days before he accepts Laurent’s offer. In the meanwhile he emails to say how flattered he is to be asked, and to say that he has already consulted with his family, and he has every confidence that it will all work out. His antipathy to Robin is growing uncontrollably, like some awful cancer. He sees his mother in hospital in those final weeks: drugged, tired, serene at times, but giving glimpses of her horror at what is to come. One night he was sitting with her when she muttered in her sleep and moaned the names of her children over and over. In her turmoil she still hoped her children could exercise some magic or expend some of their youthful essences to bring her back from the abyss. He would have given any organ or any limb. So he imagined. He is now desperately ashamed of himself: I am the one who has been dishonouring her memory, not Dad. Good luck to him with the fruitcake, if that’s what he needs.

  He spends the next couple of hours going through papers and dictating letters into his little machine. He wants a clean break when they go to the shores of Lac Léman, and he closes off the Fineman file in the way that Robin likes with a note that the fees are agreed and will be paid within thirty days. He also has to read through a divorce petition, drafted by Alice a week ago for his approval. And this is a penance, which he is happy to accept. These petitions are coded misery, and it is in code that lawyers work, turning every tragedy and every anxiety to fit an existing legal template. It’s the myth of Procrustes, the stretcher, who killed travellers by cutting them or stretching them to fit his magic bed. Form D8, Form DBA, statement of arrangements for the children. In this case the arrangements for the children are proving difficult. The man has a new woman who doesn’t want him to see his children more than strictly necessary. The wife is petitioning on the grounds of infidelity. It’s not necessary, but she wants her feelings to be known. And in the background somewhere are three cowering children whose lives are going to be blighted for ever: they will be forced to spend weekends with their father’s lover. They will have to watch their father with embarrassment and shame. The husband doesn’t deny adultery, but he is contesting the level of maintenance. In Geneva Ed will be dealing with the rich, who are, understandably, always trying to protect their money from the taxman and from ex-wives by means of trusts. He has a copy of Principles of European Trust Law and he must start to read it. But even as he contemplates the move to Geneva and the higher class of misery he will be dealing in, he remembers Lucy’s words, It’s famously boring. The fact is his professional life is already boring, but he knows that by moving to Geneva he will be drawn deeper into the swamp. He puts a note on the papers: Proceed, with his signature, and puts them in his out-tray. He is, surprisingly, a good lawyer. Laurent has heard good reports of him.

  And now, after his few hours of elation, he feels down again. At thirty-two, all those feelings he had, all those hopes he had, all those uncomplicated friendships he had, and the sense he had that anything was possible, have already been dissipated. The options are falling away, the horizon is lowering. Going to Geneva may sound like a wonderful move, but how do you come back from there? What are you qualified for, except the life of a highly paid, bilingual pander to a lot of rich crooks. And the rich, as Scott Fitzgerald discovered, are dull and repetitious. His mobile rings.

  ‘Hello, Luce, I was just thinking that you are the most intelligent of us. Although there are only three of us left. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Ed, sorry, I have to speak. There’s a crisis.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Josh, that friend of yours, has posted nude photos of me on the Internet. Except that it’s not me. The head is me, but the body isn’t.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No. Look, Ed, Google me – my name and “nude photos”. It’s like Carla Bruni. It’s so unfair. I feel humiliated. What have I done to deserve this? He’s the bastard.’

  He opens Google and sure enough there is his sister, standing smiling, nude, and lying back on a sunbed, nude. Her pubic hair is trimmed in a Brazilian. It’s clearly a crude Photoshop job.

  ‘You’re right, it’s not you. Your tits aren’t that big.’

  ‘Oh thanks. Of course it’s not me. What can we do?’

  ‘You can request removal from Google. He could upload it again in minutes.’

  ‘Can you speak to him, please? The pictures of me, my face I mean, I emailed him after a party five or six months ago.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Please, Ed, this is frightening me. You didn’t speak to him last time, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I should have. Do you want to stay at our place tonight?’

  ‘Maybe. It depends on Nick. I’m sorry to dump this on you.’

  ‘I’ll call him and get back to you.’

  And now he feels weary, his upbeat mood, which was already fading, has gone, leaving no trace. Maybe I am bipolar. Today’s theme seems to be the destructive effects of jealousy.

  He calls Josh.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Josh, it’s Edward Cross here.’

  ‘Hey, Ed, how are you?’

  He’s drunk. He can hear pub noises.

  ‘Josh, I am not calling you for a pleasant little chat. I want to make one thing clear to you. Leave my sister alone, don’t harass her, don’t post fake pictures of her on the net and don’t ever again make any attempt whatsoever to contact her. I have put an emergency injunction in motion and I will only withdraw it if you promise me to remove these pictures. If you don’t, you will be sued for your life, and if you break the terms of the injunction you will go to prison.’

  ‘Wait. Hey, wait. It’s nothing to do with me, man.’

  ‘Oh isn’t it? Well, how come the pictures you faked up are from photos Lucy emailed to you? And how come you followed her to a meeting with a journalist a week or so ago? And how come you called her a fucking cunt? You need help, but the only help I’m going to give you is a one-way trip to court. Do you promise me you won’t harass her or contact her in any way at all?’

  Ed can hear Josh gulping now, struggling with his breathing.

  ‘I love her, Ed. I can’t bear the idea that she’s got someone else.’

  ‘Just promise. You must promise or you’re going to jail.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Josh, let me make myself absolutely clear once more – you will wish you had never been born if you contact her ever again.’

  When he puts his phone down, he looks at his sister’s nude simulacrum, and he doesn’t see life’s rich tapestry. He sees something dark and malevolent. All those friendships and hopes scattered by the warm, foul breeze of what is called real life. In some way their mother had protected them from its stink.

  15

  Lucy wonders, as Nick is shaving, whether she has slept with too many men. In theory there is no such thing: sleep with whoever you like. But in practice you are supposed to exercise restraint and judgement. We have come a long way since Jane Austen, but actually the underlying assumptions are more or less the same: you keep yourself, or some essence of yourself, for the right person. Nick is obviously a very thoro
ugh shower taker: she can hear him singing happily through the bathroom wall. It may have been a little hasty but it didn’t have any of the illicit, slightly demeaning quality of a one-night stand. He comes out of the shower eventually and pauses in the doorway with a towel around his waist.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To us.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Have we got a future?’

  ‘God, I hope so.’

  ‘So do I. So do I.’

  He sits on the bed, freshly sluiced and soap-scented. His few chest hairs are still moist. And his forward-pointing face finds hers, thrusting towards her eagerly. Their faces have a slightly bruised quality. Their skins are tender, in places chafed, and they have, she thinks, the kind of happy emptiness, the sense of emotional depletion, that sex can produce. It doesn’t necessarily last, but at this moment the feeling that they have found a kind of understanding, a profound if inarticulate rapport, is very strong. They have explored the topography of each other’s bodies, vigorously and frankly.

  ‘Do you want breakfast? Yes?’

  Their mouths are still attached, and there is childish pleasure in trying to talk in this conjoined condition.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he mumbles.

  As they separate, a thin chain of saliva breaks from their mouths.

  There’s something complicit and romantic about sharing breakfast in a café after your first night of passion. It’s a rite: the young lovers leave the bower to show themselves to the old, the married and the impotent. He, of course, has a favourite café near by where the pastries are almost as good as in Bologna. They order two almond croissants – cornetti alle mandorle as, of course, he can’t resist saying – which contain a little nugget of sweet almond paste and are covered in slightly burnt almonds. They have expended their reserves in reckless exploration and they must be replenished. This exploration operates on two levels, she thinks, an instinctive, even prefigured, lovemaking, but also a sort of unbidden imperative to find out about the other person. (She doesn’t rule out discovering the soul.) What does she know about Nick? She hasn’t always been a good judge, but she thinks that she could love him and she is a little alarmed by the thought, because it makes her vulnerable. She thinks that he is clever and funny, and good-looking, certainly good-looking enough without being dangerously beautiful. He has another quality: although he is worldly and aware, he is also quite thoughtful and curious. So many men just want an opportunity to talk about themselves, but he asked her about the coins and Roman early Christianity, not obviously a first-date topic, and appeared genuinely interested. She told him that Constantine had seen a vision of the cross, the chi-rho, which he adopted before declaring, In hoc signo vinces: In this sign you will conquer. Nick said, ‘My mission involves another cross, Lucia Cross.’

  As he spoke she wondered if his whole family had this eager look. If there is a family. He probably has a complete and rich hinterland, very different from the Cross family, who are diminished and losing their purchase. She hasn’t told him about Josh’s latest atrocity.

  ‘Can I say something before I rush off to the Daily Beast?’

  ‘Yes. You will anyway.’

  ‘You are the most fantastic person I have ever met. Last night was the highlight of my whole life.’

  ‘Oh my God. Really, really?’

  ‘I mean it. I’m saying this not just because I am trying to enslave you with my boyish charm, but because I am afraid you won’t want to see me again, and I have to go to write a piece on pets. The big question on the feature editor’s mind is, do people choose pets that look like them or is it that people begin to look like their pets? Really, I would like to spend the whole day hanging out with you. Can we meet again at seven?’

  ‘Let’s. I would love that.’

  ‘Can we meet near my office?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. I’ll call as I leave.’

  She holds his hand where it rests on the table. The waitress, middle-aged, who knows him by name, gives her a thumbs-up from behind Nick’s head and she takes this as an endorsement. She’s one of the old-school waitresses Lucy likes, a little battered by life, with badly dyed dead hair, but also a heart of gold. Of course. They have mainly been driven out by slim, cheap Eastern Europeans.

  He gets up and they kiss and he leaves. She is happy to sit here in the close, coffee-scented café. She calls her brother.

  ‘We were expecting you,’ he says, sounding a little petulant.

  ‘Sorry. I went out with Nick.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I think he is going to be fine.’

  ‘Oh, good. That’s the main thing. Rosalie was looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘Please tell her sorry from me, or better still I’ll call her and tell her myself. Did you talk to her about departing for Zurich?’

  ‘Geneva. Yes, she’s keen.’

  ‘When will you go?’

  She tries to sound unconcerned, casual.

  ‘As soon as possible. Probably in about six weeks. We’re going to try to let the house. Obviously we are not going to sell right away.’

  ‘How is Rosie?’

  ‘She’s great. She thinks she is pregnant.’

  ‘Wonderful. That’s lovely.’

  ‘Yuh. Maybe, but you know how it is with her, there’s a certain imaginative dimension.’

  ‘You’re saying your wife is nuts. Everyone’s nuts: Dad’s got a New Age whacko, Josh is – clearly – a psycho, and now you are implying that Rosie is off her chump.’

  ‘You sound happy. Good in bed, is he?’

  ‘Oh dear. Married men. Did you speak to Josh?’

  She wonders if Josh has been pushed off his list of concerns, shoved down the list by his emigration.

  ‘Yes. I read him the Riot Act. I threatened him with a court order.’

  ‘Can you do that? Really?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not that simple. You would have to make a complaint to the police, and you can imagine how enthusiastically they would deal with it. Of course they would offer you counselling. But I can rustle up some paper to frighten him. He’s promised to take down the pictures. By the way, when I was finished with him he was sobbing.’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘Literally. Choking.’

  ‘Good. You know when you go to Geneva and Dad goes to Africa to see Uncle Guy, I will be the only one left here?’

  ‘The Cross family goes global.’

  ‘The Cross family goes phut. Kaput.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Geneva is only a couple of hours away.’

  ‘It’s a world away.’

  ‘Ring Rosie and have a natter. She’s at home.’

  ‘A natter? What does that mean? Talking about nappies and Babygros?’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing.’

  ‘Ed, before I speak to her, what’s the situation with your little indiscretion?’

  ‘It didn’t happen. She’s gone. Left the firm.’

  ‘Are you upset?’

  ‘Jesus, Lucy, let’s not go there.’

  ‘Any connection between her departure and yours?’

  ‘None. To be honest, while I was in Geneva, Robin fired her for taking unauthorised days off.’

  ‘How jolly convenient.’

  ‘I always start off really pleased to hear from you and then...’

  ‘And then I annoy you. I’m getting you back for never letting me play with your Star Wars things. Bye-bye.’

  She orders another croissant and rings Rosie.

  ‘Hello, Rosalie speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Rosie. Sorry I didn’t make it last night. You weren’t really, really expecting me, were you?’

  ‘Up to a point. I made up a bed. How are you, darling?’

  ‘I’m fine. And how are you?’

  Lucy tries to make this sound like the usual meaningless pleasantry.

  ‘Fine. We’re off to Geneva.’

  ‘
I know. Ed told me. That’s absolutely amazing. Do they have dance? Silly question, they are bound to.’

  ‘Yes, they do. Darcey Bussell once gave her Swan Lake there at the Ballet du Grand Théâtre.’

  Lucy thinks that Darcey Bussell’s endorsement may have swung it Ed’s way.

  ‘And there’s skiing just up the road, Ed says.’

  ‘Yes. Sham.’

  ‘Sham?’

  ‘Chamonix. Lucy, can I tell you something. Secret?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘That’s completely brilliant. When did you find out?’

  ‘I haven’t done a test yet, but I am. I am pregnant. I feel totally different. All sorts of things are going on in my body.’

  ‘That’s so lovely.’

  Lucy hopes that Rosalie isn’t deluding herself: she has always found Rosalie’s belief that dance, particularly ballet, can produce some mystical experience charming. After all, why limit yourself to the rational? Rosalie was never a Zelda Fitzgerald, but she did put herself (and her feet) through a lot of cruel and unnatural punishment, without ever being taken on by a major company. When she met Ed, she was still living in hope of a career in dance. But in the last year or so, her search for self-fulfilment has found a new destination in the beatific condition of motherhood. God help Ed if she isn’t pregnant.

  ‘I’m sure you think I’m crackers, but I just know I’m pregnant. A woman knows. Do you believe me?’

  She has a slightly flat, suburban accent, at odds with the lovely presence. But then, so does Darcey Bussell.