The Art of Losing Page 13

  ‘I’m knackered,’ Adam announces after a while, when Lydia’s family tales have dried up and they are sitting in comfortable silence. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She isn’t tired really, and wants to prolong the evening; there are questions about the Steiners’ own lives that she would like answered. She can see, though, that Adam is shifting impatiently in his seat, eager to be off, and agrees to come with him. In any case, Naomi’s arm is now linked through Nicholas’s, her head resting on his shoulder, sectioning them off. ‘Goodnight, then, and thank you very much for the dinner,’ she says, standing up.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Naomi says cheerfully, raising her head for an instant. ‘See you both tomorrow. We’re thinking of doing some shopping in town, if you’re interested.’

  Adam gives a non-committal grunt and steers Lydia out of the kitchen. ‘Not if they paid me,’ he murmurs as they climb the deep oak stairs. ‘Mum just wanders about from shop to shop, spending forever in each one and not buying anything, and Dad stands around like a statue waiting for her, like he’s never been in a shop before. Fucking embarrassing.’ Adam seems to find a lot of things embarrassing, Lydia muses. She supposes it is part of being a teenager. At only three or four years his senior, she nevertheless feels far older, and besides, embarrassment is not something she has ever experienced with her father, largely because she has never brought a friend home to meet him.

  In his bedroom, Adam throws himself down on the bed with a thump, groaning and stretching his arms above his head in a pantomime of exhaustion. She is about to suggest leaving him to sleep when he rolls over and holds out his hand, beckoning her to him. She lies on the bed next to him, his arm slung around her shoulder. They are so close that she can feel the emphatic thud of his heartbeat against her hand.

  ‘So,’ he starts, staring up at the ceiling, ‘how much of that stuff about your family was true?’ Despite the confrontational nature of the question, there’s no venom in his tone, only a mild curiosity.

  ‘A lot of it,’ she lies. ‘Most of it, really.’

  He nods slowly, then turns his head towards her, frowning as if a thought has just struck him. ‘You know, I was thinking earlier,’ he says. ‘About you and my dad meeting in that café. You knew he was my father, didn’t you? You must have, because of that lecture where we met. So why didn’t you tell him that you knew me?’

  Lydia stiffens, but only briefly; this is a loophole she has not considered, but she can relatively easily talk her way out of it. ‘It was only very shortly after that that I ran into him,’ she says. ‘I didn’t really know you at all at that point, and besides, what would I have said? “Er, by the way, your son passed me a note in a lecture the other day”? It would have sounded a bit stupid, don’t you think?’

  Adam mulls this over for a few seconds and then gives a begrudging snort. ‘Suppose,’ he says. She can see that he is still a little hurt, his pride pricked by being left out of the conversation, even on the basis of such a short acquaintance.

  ‘The world doesn’t completely revolve around you, you know,’ she says playfully. ‘Typical only child.’ Saying the words that have occasionally been levelled at her over the years by her father in moments of exasperation gives her a secret little thrill. Protected by Helen the imaginary art student, she can say them without fear of retaliation. Adam responds spiritedly, tickling her under her armpits until she squeals for him to let go, which to her disappointment he does almost at once.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a nice family,’ he says after a while, reverting to his earlier topic. ‘I hope you make it up with your parents soon.’

  ‘So I can leave you all alone and stop imposing on your hospitality?’

  ‘No,’ he says seriously, looking sharply at her. ‘You know I didn’t mean that.’

  She shrugs as if it is not important. ‘It seems like you’ve got a nice family too,’ she says. ‘Your parents seem very happy together.’

  ‘Yeah …’ he replies, as if embarking on a monologue, but nothing further comes. He’s lying on his back, hands pillowed behind his head now, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully.

  ‘Aren’t they happy?’ she asks, knowing it seems unnatural to press the point, but unable to help herself.

  ‘I guess they’re just like any other couple,’ he says. ‘They have good times and bad times.’ He closes his eyes. His hand fumbles with the buttons on his shirt and undoes them one by one.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ Lydia asks. She means her voice to sound normal, but it comes out as a strangled whisper, forcing its way past the lump in her throat. He doesn’t answer at first, just shrugs his way out of the shirt and casts it to the floor. Then he opens his eyes and looks directly into her own. For the first time she sees what she has been looking for in them, a lazy, predatory intent which makes her catch her breath.

  ‘No,’ he says. He puts his hand at the back of her neck, under her hair. The hand is gentle yet forceful, guiding her head towards his. She parts her lips in readiness and receives his. His mouth feels cold, almost alien. Their first kiss is chaste and tentative, his tongue kept decorously back behind his teeth. It is only after a few repeats of this that his lips begin to warm against hers. He senses the shift and increases the pressure, kissing her faster, deeper. She kisses him back, closing her eyes to shut out the rising sense of disturbance that is rippling through her body, but it won’t be shut out, rising to a relentless hum that shakes her bones and makes her tremble in his arms.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ he says, pulling back. His eyes are kind and curious. Looking into them again, she feels reassured.

  ‘I’m nervous.’ She feels the truth of the words, but cannot put her finger on exactly why.

  ‘No need,’ he says, stroking the back of her head softly and rhythmically, the way he might pet a cat. It feels nice and she leans her head back to push against his hand. ‘We don’t need to do anything else tonight. I’m just glad I’ve finally kissed you.’

  ‘Have you been wanting to?’ she asks.

  Adam leans forward again, mumbling the words between kisses. ‘Ever since – I first saw you – in the lecture hall, I’ve been wanting to,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Then what took you so long?’ she murmurs back. She feels the lines of his brow crease against hers. He sighs, long and low.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I really don’t.’ They stay like that for a while, foreheads touching, arms encircling each other, caught in the heat of their bodies and the soft, low lighting of the bedroom. After a few minutes she feels his breathing change. He has fallen asleep, wrapped up in her embrace. Quietly, she disentangles her limbs from his and moves to the other side of the bed, switching off the bedside lamp.

  Sleep does not come. She waits open eyed in bed, listening to the sound of his breathing. Now and again she turns her head to study him, accustomed to the darkness now. His full lips are parted sensuously, inviting touch. She can make out the dark circle of a nipple on the half of his torso that is exposed, the sheet flung carelessly over his body. She traces it with her eyes. She begins to feel fidgety and restless, not wanting to wake him, but unable to stay motionless in the bed any longer. She decides to go to the bathroom, fetch a tooth mug full of water. Careful not to disturb him, she slips out of bed, the chill of night air biting at her skin. The lights in the corridor are off. She gropes her way in the dark towards where she remembers the bathroom to be, battling the surge of vulnerability that comes with exploring unfamiliar territory. Gratefully, she sees a thin strip of light ahead, illuminating the base of one of the doors along the corridor. The master bedroom, she thinks. The bathroom is just next door. She heads towards the strip of light, and as she does so she hears voices, faint but unmistakable behind the bedroom door. She draws closer.

  ‘… think their relationship is,’ she hears Nicholas say.

  ‘I don’t care what their relationship is,’ Naomi hisses. Her voice is taut with pain and anger. ‘It’s nothing to do with that. All I
’m saying is that it upsets me, it still upsets me, I just wish you could understand that … and sympathise.’

  ‘This isn’t the girl’s fault,’ Nicholas says. ‘You’re upset over a name. After all this time … it’s ridiculous,’ she thinks she hears him say, but his voice is muffled, as if he is talking more to himself. ‘You agreed she could come here,’ he adds, louder. ‘I wasn’t even consulted, so how you can blame me—’

  ‘I’m not blaming you, Nicholas,’ Naomi’s voice fires back, shrill and plaintive. ‘I’m just trying to share with you the fact that this has brought back some memories that I don’t enjoy revisiting … and yes, I know it’s not this girl’s fault, she just happens to share a name with some one who I really don’t much like thinking about.’

  ‘And you think I do?’ he asks. He sounds angry now. There is a long silence. Lydia tries to imagine what is going on behind the door and cannot. After a few seconds she hears a few choked sobs, a few conciliatory mumbled words that she cannot catch.

  She moves away from the door and tiptoes back to the bedroom, water forgotten, head buzzing. The easy affection at dinner was a front, she thinks. She doesn’t feel angry at having been deceived. In a way she admires Naomi for fighting for her happiness, rolling it out for Lydia to see in an attempt to convince herself. Privately, Lydia also feels a sense of triumph. The perfect marriage does not exist after all, not here. It too has been tainted by what she has been through. She realises that not once in the overheard conversation did either of them speak her mother’s name, as if they are both afraid of the spells it might cast or break between them. Lying back in Adam’s bed with him tossing and turning intermittently beside her, she half expects to hear shouting carried down the corridor, the re-explosion of the argument into something uncontainable. She strains to hear, but nothing breaks the dark flat silence.

  Nicholas

  1989

  In retrospect, I was never sure how I got through the rest of that dinner party. It would have been hard enough at the best of times, but with the best part of two bottles of wine sloshing the secret around my system, I had to pull every fibre of my being into line to put across some semblance of normality. Lydia and Martin stayed another hour, perhaps two. I sipped the strong coffee in the hope that it would sober me up, but all it did was make my heart race crazily. Lydia seemed incredibly relaxed, chatting animatedly with Naomi about the difficulties of finding good schooling. Martin seemed content to languish in the arm-chair, occasionally making the odd supportive comment as he drifted in and out of a doze, his glasses repeatedly slipping off the end of his nose and waking him with a start before he replaced them and started the whole performance over again. When the clock struck twelve I could take no more and made some facetious remark about coaches and pumpkins. Inane as it was, it had the effect of rousing Martin, who stumbled to his feet and announced that they should really be heading off.

  ‘I suppose we should,’ said Lydia, with what appeared to be genuine regret. ‘The babysitter won’t be pleased if we stay out much longer.’

  We escorted them to the door and waved them off, amid a flurry of thanks and plans to meet again from the two women. When I embraced Lydia, kissing her briefly on the cheek, I half expected some signal from her, some kind of subtle clue as to how I was to interpret the kiss in the kitchen, but her body was wholly pliant, giving nothing away. When I released her, her pretty pink lips smiled, but her eyes looked through me. I felt the shutters going down. As I watched her swing her slim bare legs into the car and start the ignition, I thought, Of course. She’s driving, and she’s drunk almost nothing. The knowledge somehow intensified my shame.

  ‘Well, that was a nice evening,’ I heard Naomi say behind me. I closed the door and came inside. For a moment I thought that her tone was sarcastic, but one look at her radiant face told me that she was sincere.

  ‘You liked them?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re lovely.’ She delivered her verdict with such firmness that I realised it would be no use trying to suggest that the guests had been a bore and that the evening should never be repeated. ‘Martin is quite eccentric, of course, but such a sweet man, and he obviously adores her. You can see why – she’s such fun, and she’s so beautiful, isn’t she?’

  It wasn’t a rhetorical question. ‘She’s quite pretty, I suppose,’ I said, beginning to collect up the coffee cups and pile them on to the tray. Lydia’s had a faint pink stain around its rim where her lipstick had rubbed off. My thumb grazed it as I picked it up; it felt soft and slippery on my skin.

  Naomi rolled her eyes, but I could see my answer had pleased her. Not given to jealousy, she was nevertheless not immune to brief flashes of feminine insecurity. Together we carried the evening’s leftovers through to the kitchen. As she bent to pick up a crumpled napkin from the floor, the strap of her dress slipped off one shoulder, fluid green silk peeling away and exposing one bare round breast. On another evening I might have gone over to her and cupped it in my hand. That night I stood motionless, unable to work out whether what I felt was desire or regret. I didn’t want to touch her, for fear that I would discover that in fact I felt nothing. As I looked at her, she glanced up and smiled. She pulled the strap back into place more slowly than she might have done, and with a shiver I realised that the act of its slipping had been at least partly premeditated. She walked over to me and wrapped her arms around my neck.

  ‘Why don’t we leave the clearing up until tomorrow?’ she suggested.

  I laughed and disentangled myself, shaking my head. ‘I hate waking up to that sort of chore,’ I said. ‘I’ll get on with it now. Listen, you should go to bed, you’ve worked hard tonight and Adam will probably wake you in a couple of hours anyway. You deserve some rest.’

  Naomi sagged gratefully; perhaps she had been playing seductress only out of a misguided belief that it was what I would want. ‘If you’re sure, I think I might take you up on that.’

  I kissed her on the forehead. When she had left I stood alone in the kitchen by the open window, just as I had done earlier in the evening. It was colder now, and the night air stung my face. For a moment I thought I saw the shadow of a woman’s body reflected in the windowpane, but when I turned sharply the kitchen was empty. I swayed dizzily, clutching the counter for support. My eyes felt hot and prickly. I stayed there for I don’t know how long, until time had lost its meaning and it almost seemed as if I could turn it back and undo what I had done, unpick the chain of events that had led to the kiss and somehow diffuse them into something no more dangerous than a few shared words, a friendly embrace. I knew it was a fantasy. Too drunk to think further, I sat on the kitchen chair and rested my head on the table. When I woke again dawn was breaking. There was a searing pain in my head, and I still hadn’t done the washing up.

  A few days later I found myself sitting in a draughty school hall, listening to two bespectacled chemists pontificating about splitting the atom. Although I had no recollection of it, I had apparently agreed at the dinner party to accompany Martin to the talk, which was taking place at his current workplace and given by two of his most esteemed colleagues. Even if I had been able to follow the thread of the argument, the monotonous voices of the speakers would have made it difficult to concentrate, and as it was I had long since given up trying to attend. The audience seemed to be largely made up of bored public schoolboys loosening ties and staring out of windows, with a few chemist clones eagerly drinking in the lecture in the first two rows. Next to me, Martin nodded, rocked in his seat and made small affirmative noises at points of particular excitement. Once or twice he turned to me with eyebrows raised quizzically, and I nodded enthusiastically back, feeling that I owed him this much at least.

  ‘Fascinating, don’t you think?’ he exclaimed when the chemists had left the stage after a torturously drawn-out question-and-answer session and a lacklustre round of applause. ‘Of course, it is still such a new area, but I really believe we will see some new developments extremely soon.’


  ‘Of course, I’m no expert,’ I said, fighting my way past a crowd of surly sixth-form boys loitering in the aisle. I had rarely been so glad to have given up teaching. ‘I certainly enjoyed it, though. I expect it’s one of those areas which becomes ever more interesting the more you know—’ I broke off, aware that Martin was no longer listening. His face had taken on the adoring spaniel look that was generally reserved for Lydia. He was staring at a slight, balding figure in a brown tweed suit, whom I recognised as one of the perpetrators of the talk.

  ‘That is Professor Duncan Barnbrook,’ Martin hissed. ‘Our head of department, although of course his work extends far beyond the school.’ Judging by the way his face lit up when Barnbrook looked our way and gave him a nod, this unprepossessing figure was obviously some kind of leading light.

  ‘Good of you to make it, Martin,’ the professor observed. Bumbling, Martin introduced me; I was acknowledged with a sombre nod. ‘George and I were just about to go and have a glass or two of wine, if you’d care to join us.’

  Martin fell over himself to accept the invitation, and within ten minutes we were sitting in an ancient public house, dusty wooden benches and walls covered with what looked like medals of war. Unfortunately, the conversation in the pub proved just as impenetrable as the lecture. Professor Barnbrook and his sycophantic deputy appeared to have no conception that their work might not be of supreme interest to everyone they encountered, and Martin did nothing to dispel this illusion. As I listened to Barnbrook drone on, I tried and failed to imagine Lydia sitting in my place. Did she ever accompany her husband to these scientific evenings, and if so, what could she possibly find to entertain her? Not for the first time, I wondered why she had ever married him. It was clear to me that she wasn’t happy, couldn’t be, if our kiss in the kitchen was anything to go by. I couldn’t help turning the analysis back on myself, and wondering whether the easy logic meant that I too was unhappy at home, but I suppressed the thought. It was different for me. I had been drunk, very drunk, and she had taken advantage of me, however ridiculous that sounded. Over the past few days I had determined to reduce the incident to an ill-thought-out error of judgement. It wasn’t that difficult. Already I had reformed my thoughts until they resembled something close to pity – pity for a restless housewife tied to a pleasant but pedestrian husband, searching for a cheap thrill outside the confines of her marriage.