The Art of Losing Page 11

  ‘Delicious!’ Martin delivered his verdict. Naomi made the usual polite demurrals, gathering up the plates and heading for the kitchen. Martin watched her go, then leant keenly forward across the table. ‘Nicholas, she seems like a lovely woman,’ he said earnestly. ‘Truly, when you said you had married I wondered what on earth sort of woman you would have chosen. It was hard for me to imagine, you know, having known you in your bachelor days. But she’s charming, and so attractive, I do congratulate you.’

  ‘Thanks, yes, I’m very lucky,’ I said automatically. I had grown used to people saying these sorts of things to me about Naomi, and had long since stopped wondering whether I was really so horrendous a catch as to justify the faint notes of surprise and admiration that always accompanied such declarations.

  ‘You are,’ Lydia agreed. She sounded sincere. ‘I always thought you might be the type to starve alone in your garret.’ A mischievous laugh burst out of her, the kind I remembered, making her eyes sparkle with pleasure. Naomi reappeared, having caught her last comment, and made some remark about being my saviour. I was obviously to be the fall guy of the evening. Ignoring them, I turned to Martin and asked him whether there had been any developments in the world of chemistry of late. It was a subject that he always contrived to make more interesting than it strictly should have been, and his informal lecture carried us through the main course. Naomi’s chicken casserole was not as successful as the soup, carrying a peculiar aftertaste of something sweet and faintly medicinal. Martin diplomatically avoided mention of the food this time, restricting himself to a pleased-sounding grunt as he pushed his plate away.

  By the time we had finished the dessert – a mediocre lemon syllabub which nevertheless went down well with the guests – we had also got through three bottles of wine. I wasn’t sure who had drunk most, but from the fuzzy feeling in my head I suspected it might be me. Dusk was falling outside the long French windows, and by contrast the lights in the dining room seemed to shine brighter, cocooning us in their glow. Light from the dangling chandelier above us bounced off Martin’s shiny pate, now almost entirely bald, and the thick lenses of his glasses. I could barely look at him. Next to him, Lydia was leaning back in her chair, her blonde hair spilling down over her bare shoulders. Her lips were painted pale pink, her mouth slightly open as she listened to Naomi talking. The green of her dress made her look pale, ethereal. On Naomi it had a strangely opposite effect, bringing out the relentlessly healthy bloom of her skin. I felt my wife’s hand on my thigh, squeezing affectionately. I took it and held it under the table, gripping it tightly. I felt like I had to hold on to her, or I might drown.

  ‘Ooops,’ she said, withdrawing her hand and standing up. The baby monitor was flashing red, emitting a faint crackly wail.

  ‘Bring him down,’ Lydia cried, pressing her hands together in anticipation.

  ‘Better not,’ said Naomi regretfully. ‘We’ll never get him settled again. If you want to see him, though, why don’t you come up with me?’

  Lydia started to her feet, obviously unable to think of anything better. A red flush swept through me: I didn’t want her near Adam, but I couldn’t vocalise why. Impotently, I watched the two women go, leaving me and Martin alone. I noticed that he was watching me very closely, fingertips pressed up against his thin lips.

  ‘Nicholas, are you happy?’ he asked bluntly. The words shifted me farther into unreality, echoing over and over inside my head.

  ‘Of course I am,’ I said, slowly sorting through my thoughts.

  ‘You certainly should be,’ he replied. At first I had thought that his question was somehow malicious, but looking at him again I saw only concern glinting in his small, kind eyes. ‘You have a wonderful job, a wonderful wife, and I’m sure a wonderful son. But something tells me that there is something missing.’

  ‘Well, there’s always room for improvement,’ I said stupidly. I gathered myself together: I was going to have to do better than that. ‘I think it’s in my nature to be reserved about being happy,’ I clarified. ‘I was a late starter, after all. Most men I knew got married at twenty-odd and settled into their careers far earlier than I did. Now that I have all those things that I didn’t before, it feels precarious, I suppose. I have to keep something back.’ I had convinced him, and myself. He nodded gravely, his eyes darting from side to side as he digested my words.

  ‘You must learn to relax and enjoy it,’ he offered. I felt a sharp stab of contempt at the banality of his advice. In the next breath I appreciated its truth, and felt bad.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Are you happy?’

  To my surprise he didn’t answer at once, but took off his glasses and polished them carefully with the edge of his sleeve. ‘I’m not like you, Nicholas,’ he said. His voice sounded a little slurred, and I wondered whether he had drunk as much as I had. ‘I’m not handsome, or sophisticated. I’m something of a figure of fun – I know this,’ he added sharply, glancing up at me. ‘I’m perfectly aware that the boys laugh at me behind my back, and that my colleagues probably do too. I’m not the sort of man who was born to be happy.’ He straightened up, his voice suddenly louder and clearer. ‘But against the odds, I am,’ he said. ‘When I met Lydia I knew that she was out of my league, but I decided to ignore that, and sure enough, she did too, and we fell in love. So now, you see, Nicholas, I am actually just like you after all. I have a beautiful wife, a beautiful child and a job that I enjoy. We’re the same. We’re the same,’ he repeated, and gave me a crooked, conspiratorial smile.

  I don’t know what I would have replied, but I didn’t have to. Naomi and Lydia swept back into the room. They were laughing like the best of friends.

  ‘Adam is so sweet,’ Lydia told me. ‘I’d forgotten what they were like at that age.’

  ‘He went down again like a dream,’ Naomi said. ‘He didn’t even want a feed, I think he just wanted to say hello. I think he’ll be OK now. Nick, do you want to make some coffee? Then we can go through to the living room.’

  I rose to my feet, feeling my head spin. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ I said. I walked through to the kitchen and shook some coffee into the cafetière, filled up the kettle and flicked its switch. I pushed the kitchen window open, breathing in the cool evening air. The only light gleamed from the top of the cooker. I stood motionless, listening to the kettle whistling, thin and high.

  ‘I thought I’d bring these out.’ Lydia was standing behind me, holding the dessert bowls. She put them down next to me, but she didn’t leave.

  I could smell the subtle fragrance that rose from her skin, apricots and vanilla. Her small, delicate fingers were curled tightly around the handle of a kitchen cupboard. Her knuckles were white, as if she were keeping her hands there by force. In profile, her face was radiant and familiar. The straight nose, the long curling eyelashes, the perfect lips that never should have been mine to kiss. As I looked at her, she turned to face me. Her chin was raised defiantly, but her eyes were sad. I thought, You’re so beautiful, I can’t bear it. For a fraction of a second, I had a crazy impulse to slap her across the face, for coming back into my life, for showing me without saying a word that there was a chance that everything I had built up had been a sham.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. She stepped forward, cancelling out the inches between us. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her lips tentatively against mine. I didn’t move. She kissed me again, harder this time. I realised that I should push her away and put my hands on her waist, but instead I felt them draw her closer against me. I kissed her back, and felt her fingernails scratch the back of my neck, her teeth bite down hard on my lower lip. I tasted blood. I could barely breathe, my breath coming in short gasps as if I were fighting for my life. I heard her gasp too, a short, almost angry exhalation, as she shook her hair out of her eyes and pressed me back against the counter. I wanted to fuck her right there in the kitchen. My fingers slid up under her dress, feeling damp silk and hot flesh.

  A noise outside made us
jump apart. My eyes went to the doorway, but it was empty. If I listened hard, I could hear Martin and Naomi chatting in the living room. A wave of relief and nausea swept over me; I swallowed to keep it down. Lydia picked up the tray of coffee cups. Her hands didn’t shake.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking me straight in the eye. Carefully, she carried the tray out of the kitchen. A minute passed. I filled up the cafetière, drawing in the dark, spicy aroma that curled up from its steam, and followed her into the living room.

  Louise

  2007

  Lydia sits at Sandra’s breakfast bar, eating the same breakfast she has eaten for the past fortnight: white toast, blackcurrant jam, strong black coffee. Sandra’s cat rubs relentlessly against her legs, keeping up a strong, steady purr that soothes and relaxes her. She enjoys these times. While she is here, she can forget about Nicholas and Adam, and pretend that she is simply an ordinary daughter in an ordinary home. Sandra is busying herself with wiping the kitchen sideboard, occasionally commenting on the weather or the shopping that needs doing, as much to herself as to Lydia. The two of them have not moved much past the polite and stilted landlady and lodger relationship that they struck up when Lydia moved in, but it seems to suit them both. Since Adam’s appearance at the house, Sandra has made the odd sly remark on his keenness, but not receiving much response, seems to have given up. Now she’s singing, tuneless snatches of unidentifiable songs, wide hips shaking as she vigorously polishes. Lydia finishes her coffee and slips off her stool. She never knows whether to wish Sandra a good day, so oblivious does she sometimes seem to her presence. This time she decides to leave quietly, but as soon as Sandra hears the squeak of the kitchen door she wheels round.

  ‘Lydia, come back, love,’ she calls. Lydia reappears. Sandra wipes her hands on a tea towel, awkwardly approaching. ‘I need to have a little talk with you,’ she says.

  Lydia thinks back over the past few days, wondering what could possibly necessitate a talk. She has come back at a reasonable hour every evening, has been careful to keep her music down, had no one over to stay. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asks.

  ‘Well—’ Sandra doesn’t seem to know the answer to this. ‘Not wrong, exactly, no, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to move out.’ Something about her manner has suggested that whatever the news is, there will be a lengthy build-up to it, and to hear it revealed so suddenly shocks Lydia, so that she cannot ask for details immediately. Sandra provides them in any case. ‘Neil is coming back,’ she announces, as if confident that Lydia will be happy for her. She knows from an ill-advised, tipsy conversation shortly after her arrival that Neil is Sandra’s husband, who moved out unexpectedly and without much explanation a few months earlier. ‘I knew the man would come to his senses. It was all a silly mistake, you see, and now that he’s coming back, I shan’t need the extra money any more. Besides, I’m sure you understand, it wouldn’t be quite the thing to have you around when he comes back – nothing personal, dear!’ She laughs heartily, perhaps to compensate for the lack of hilarity coming from Lydia’s direction.

  ‘But what will I do?’ Lydia hears herself saying. She despises herself for showing her inadequacy so obviously, but she is genuinely at a loss.

  ‘Well, there are plenty of other bed and breakfasts,’ Sandra says brightly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find something, and of course, if it takes a few days …’ She seems to be reluctant to finish the sentence, and her plump shoulders lift and fall.

  ‘Right,’ says Lydia. ‘I suppose I’d better get out and start looking, then.’

  Sandra looks slightly irritated, holding out her hands as if to implore Lydia to see sense. ‘Don’t take it like that, love,’ she entreats. ‘I didn’t know you were planning on staying much longer anyway.’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’m staying,’ Lydia says. She wants to get out of the kitchen. Cutting off Sandra’s next words, she turns and leaves, slamming the door; it crashes satisfyingly, emboldeningly behind her. Snatching her coat from the stand, she leaves the house and heads for the bus stop, pulling the coat up over her head to shield her from the rain.

  Twenty minutes later she stands in Lincoln’s front quad and calls Adam’s mobile. It takes him six or seven rings to answer, and when he does he sounds out of breath, as if he’s been running – or having a passionate romp with Isobel, she thinks, trying to cut the thought out of her mind.

  ‘Can I come up?’ she asks.

  ‘Sure.’ He answers so quickly that her suspicion is laid to rest. ‘I warn you, though, it’s a bit chaotic up here.’

  She climbs the stairs to Adam’s room and finds that he is surrounded by a mountain of cardboard boxes, into which he is stuffing all his worldly possessions. From the way in which he scoops up handfuls of clothes, piling them into a box and squeezing them into tightly compressed balls, she divines that he is not the most efficient packer. She sits on the bed and watches him, swinging her legs back and forth.

  ‘Last day of term,’ he says unnecessarily after a few minutes. ‘My mum’s coming to pick me up in half an hour. Fuck knows how I’m going to get all this done by then.’

  ‘Half an hour?’ She looks at the carnage around them. ‘Let me give you a hand.’ She sets about refolding clothes and stacking essay folders into neatly regimented lines. ‘You didn’t tell me,’ she says casually.

  ‘What, that term was ending? I did,’ he replies, but not looking at her.

  ‘You didn’t.’ She keeps her voice light. Nonetheless he puts down his armful of DVDs and comes to crouch by her side, putting his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘If I didn’t, it’s only because I keep forgetting you’re not a student,’ he says. ‘I just assume everyone knows when term ends. Look, if you’re worried that I wasn’t going to keep in touch, of course I was. I was going to give you a call when I got back home tonight and see if you wanted to do something, actually.’

  ‘Really?’ She thinks it over. In his voice, the words sounded plausible, but when she replays them inside her head they come out as unlikely, paper-thin excuses. She wants to believe him, and so she gives him a small smile; reassured, he springs up again and resumes packing.

  ‘So did you just come by for a chat?’ he asks.

  ‘Hmm. Not really.’ In a rush, Sandra’s dismissal comes flooding back. ‘My landlady just threw me out. I’ve got to find somewhere else to live as soon as I can.’ She realises that she has painted the scene in rather more dramatic colours than it deserves, but it sounds better that way and she wants to grab his attention. It works; he stops packing again and sits on his desk, arms crossed.

  ‘Why the hell did she do that?’ he asks, frowning.

  Lydia raises her hands expressively. ‘I don’t know, something to do with her ex-husband, I think.’

  ‘What will you do, then?’ Adam’s dark eyes are full of concern, and as she looks at them she is struck by a thought so obvious that she cannot believe it has not occurred to her before. For all these weeks, she has been trying to square their involvement with her desire to somehow get closer to Nicholas, seeing Adam and her nebulous feelings for him as an unwelcome and unexpected complication. Now she sees that far from hindering her purpose, he can serve it. Her encounters with Nicholas so far have equated to little more than a few abortive followings on the street and the peculiar and brief conversation in the café. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had started to accept that this was all there was to be, and that, curiosity satisfied but little else, she would return home having achieved and discovered nothing. Now she sees that Adam has been holding open a door through which she can pass at any time she likes, and although part of her shrinks back from the thought, she cannot resist pushing at that door.

  ‘I was wondering if I could stay with you,’ she says. Adam raises his eyebrows, exhaling slowly. She has caught him off guard, but he doesn’t look altogether displeased.

  ‘Right,’ he muses. ‘Just for a bit, yeah, till you’re sorted out? I’d have to ask M
um, of course, but I’ve had friends to stay before, so I think she would be cool with it.’

  She is tempted to ask whether Isobel has ever come to stay, but bites it back and asks the other question. ‘What about your father?’

  Adam gives a short bark of laughter. ‘Oh, don’t worry about Dad,’ he says. ‘He’ll barely notice you’re there.’ The words are dismissive, but his tone is affectionate. Lydia is about to question further when Adam’s mobile blares into life. He grabs it and listens. ‘Already?’ he says. ‘Yeah. Well, almost, yeah. I’ll come down.’ He puts down the phone and turns to Lydia. ‘Mum’s early,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘Do you want to come and meet her?’

  As they descend the stone staircase Lydia tries to remember Adam’s mother. Although in those early years they must have met several times, Naomi seems like a background figure, slipping in and out of her mental vision. She remembers red hair, a voluptuous figure. Because of these things, she recognises the woman immediately from across the quad, but as she draws closer no extra spark of recognition comes with seeing her face. She supposes she must be in her early fifties, but her brow is smooth and only the tiniest of lines crease at the corners of her eyes. The red hair is pulled back from the nape of her neck into a curling ponytail. She is wearing a long, rather shapeless skirt that does not disguise the swell of her hips. Lydia can tell that once she had an hourglass shape, but the years have thickened her waist and stomach, giving her an air of comfortable plumpness.