The Art of Losing Page 16

  ‘When is your birthday?’ Lydia asks.

  Adam shifts in his seat, obviously preferring to keep this information to himself. ‘Day after tomorrow,’ he mumbles eventually. ‘I don’t want a fuss over it. I usually get some mates together, but everyone’s buggered off home early this year.’

  ‘Perhaps they didn’t want to buy you anything,’ Nicholas interjects from his paper drily. Adam nods placidly, seeming to accept this. Lydia feels a rush of sympathy – unwarranted, since Adam doesn’t appear to be upset about the cancellation of his birthday plans at all. She must buy him something, but when she runs through the usual possibilities – socks, chocolates, bath things, DVDs – she is daunted by the potential significance of the choice. Perhaps Naomi can help, she thinks, glancing furtively at her. She isn’t intimidating like some of the mothers Lydia has known in the past. In fact, she seems more like a friend, someone on a level with her.

  They leave Adam and Nicholas ensconced in front of the television, half watching an old repeat of some American sitcom. Naomi puts the radio on as she drives into town, and so conversation is kept to a minimum, the odd exchanged comment on one of the songs or the stupidity of some other driver on the road. Once they are in town, Lydia wonders whether they will go their separate ways and meet back at the car later, but Naomi seems to have everything worked out. She whisks Lydia around the market, through the department stores and the little boutiques, collecting presents as they go with the efficiency of a sergeant major and suggesting possible ideas for the imaginary Margaret, Keith and Helen. To her own surprise, Lydia finds herself contradicting Naomi when a bottle of pink-packaged scent is picked out for Helen; Helen is more of a tomboy, she explains. She is enjoying the fantasy, and even although she knows it is ridiculous, buys presents for both her imagined sister and mother, despite having no one to give them to.

  Two hours later, they retire to a market café and order huge Christmas-spiced mugs of hot chocolate and toasted sandwiches. The whirlwind procession round the shops seems to have invigorated Naomi, whose cheeks are flushed apple red and whose russet curls seem to have a life of their own, bouncing crazily whenever she moves her head.

  ‘Now, I know we haven’t got Adam’s birthday present yet,’ she says, ‘but I have a few ideas, if you can bear to go round a bit more after lunch.’ She looks to Lydia for confirmation and nods, satisfied. ‘He isn’t that difficult to buy for, actually,’ she adds. ‘He likes gadgets and gizmos, mostly – useless things. You know what men are like.’

  ‘Does he really not want any fuss for his birthday?’ Lydia asks.

  ‘He’d be disappointed if I didn’t make any,’ says Naomi confidently. ‘We’ll bake a cake, maybe take him out to dinner in the evening. You too, of course.’ She pauses, as if struck by a thought, and when she speaks again her voice is lower, more diffident. ‘Your parents will be back for Christmas, won’t they?’ she asks.

  Lydia hesitates. ‘I think so,’ she says. This is obviously the wrong thing to say – Naomi’s eyebrows fly up dramatically. ‘I mean, yes,’ she rectifies hurriedly, ‘they will, but we’re just not sure where we’re going to spend Christmas yet.’ Dimly in the distance, she sees some awkward decisions and explanations to be made approaching, but pushes them away from her; she’ll deal with her next move when she has to.

  Naomi misinterprets her troubled expression. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m trying to get rid of you,’ she exclaims. ‘It’s nice to have another girl around the place – I feel at something of a disadvantage normally.’ She laughs, but Lydia catches the hint of something more serious lurking beneath.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to let me stay,’ she says, meaning it.

  ‘Honestly,’ Naomi says earnestly. ‘It’s fine – better than fine.’

  For a moment Lydia thinks she might be about to cry. She smiles, swallowing down the lump in her throat. Naomi is so nice, she thinks, and feels a sudden stab of anger. It’s obvious that Nicholas doesn’t deserve her. How can she bear to stay with him, knowing that he has been unfaithful to her with another woman? Naomi is not beautiful as her mother was, but she is attractive, cheerful and full of energy, surely the perfect wife and mother. As they sit in the café, Lydia tries to imagine how they must appear to passers-by: just another mother and daughter, perhaps, having lunch together as they have done so many times before. So this is what it is like. She feels angry again, but this time the resentment is towards her own mother. I could have been here with you instead, she thinks bitterly. It’s a familiar but rarely acknowledged feeling, and she is so used to dampening it down that it passes in seconds.

  ‘Shall we?’ says Naomi brightly, standing up. Lydia follows her through the sparkling stalls decked with fairy lights, breathing in the heady scent of mulled wine. For the rest of the day, she will make believe that this is her life.

  Lydia wraps up Adam’s present in pale blue tissue and silver wrapping paper. Working on Naomi’s declaration that he likes useless things, she has bought him a gadget for his desk, a complicated arrangement of ball bearings and pivots that swings dizzily round and round in different directions when given the slightest push. She imagines him sitting in front of an abortive essay, distracting himself with its hypnotic spiralling and swaying. It isn’t the sort of thing that she would have bought anyone else – there is only her father to buy for, and he would have looked up in blank incomprehension on unwrapping a present for which there was no clear or feasible use. Anyway, if Adam reacts in the same way, she has the receipt. She finishes smoothing down the corners of the parcel and ties a navy ribbon around it tightly in a bow. Downstairs she can hear the sounds of Naomi and Adam decorating the Christmas tree, lugged in from the rain that afternoon. They always decorate it on his birthday, Naomi has explained, seeming to take comfort in the unchanging nature of the ritual.

  Lydia goes to the mirror and looks at herself critically. She is wearing a dark red dress that falls just above the knee, gathered tightly around the waist with a black belt. Her dark brown hair is pinned up on her head in a precarious arrangement, but now that she looks at it she doesn’t like the effect. She runs her fingers through her hair, disentangling the pins and letting it fall over her shoulders. Perhaps she should put on some more make-up. She looks askance at herself from a distance, as if trying to catch herself unawares through a stranger’s eyes. What she sees seems to be missing something, but whatever it is she has no time to fix it. Adam is calling up the stairs, telling her that they will be leaving soon. She hurries down to join him, clutching the present.

  ‘Nice!’ Adam wolf-whistles appreciatively and she is grateful for his uncomplicated praise. He kisses her swiftly on the lips, and over his shoulder she sees Naomi and Nicholas exchange a look – of confirmation, perhaps, or of surprise.

  ‘Yes, you look lovely,’ says Naomi. She looks attractive herself in a turquoise dress that billows out from the waist, disguising the heaviness of her hips, and a long pendant that sways gently between her breasts when she moves. Lydia catches Nicholas watching it. He is wearing a suit, a white shirt open at the neck, his black-and-silver hair drawn severely back and revealing cheekbones so sharp and acute that they might have been carved out of stone. His dark eyes glitter like jet. He looks dangerous, she thinks, and shivers, but in another moment he smiles at her, and the cruelty drops from his face like a mask.

  ‘Better get going,’ he says lightly. ‘The table’s booked for eight.’

  Dinner is at an expensive Indian restaurant on the outskirts of Oxford, a purple velvet-draped boudoir crammed with candlelit private booths. When she steps inside, Lydia is hit by the scents of incense and curry spices, jostling each other brashly for prominence, so strong that they temporarily close off every other sense to her. The food is so hot that she can barely taste it. Peering down at her plate, candlelight flickering intermittently across the darkness, she wonders what she is eating. Nicholas ordered for all of them with ruthless efficiency in a tone that brooked no denial, establishin
g only her lack of allergies as the basis for making his decisions. She tries her best to eat, but each mouthful burns the back of her throat, and the water she gulps to try to assuage the sensation only seems to clarify it, setting every tastebud on fire. Opposite her, Adam stares, his eyes travelling lazily over her face, her bare shoulders, her breasts. She looks back at him, but never for more than a second at a time. She can tell there is something different in these looks. With a light shiver, she realises that it is likely they will sleep together that night. She tries to imagine it, and cannot hold on to the concept, her mind shutting down on images that come to her unbidden.

  Plates are removed and replaced by discreet linen-suited Indians, bowing their sleek heads gravely whenever Nicholas makes another unintelligible request. Finally, amid a burst of music and clapping, a large white dessert is brought to the table, studded with flickering candles. Lydia joins in the chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’, even although Adam looks mortified and blows the candles out as quickly as he can. The sombre waiters linger until it is clear they are no longer needed, then melt back into the shadows.

  ‘I suppose a toast is traditional,’ Nicholas declares as he divvies up the dessert into bowls. Lydia takes her first mouthful; it is strange, perfumed, with the consistency of blancmange, but mercifully cool after what has come before. ‘Twenty is an important age,’ he continues, grasping his champagne glass. ‘A time when one makes the transition from boy to man. All I can really say to you, Adam, is that you seem to be doing it with ease … coping with your studies, popular with your friends – and with the ladies. Those Steiner genes coming through,’ he says slyly, glancing swiftly at Lydia as if for some sort of confirmation. He clears his throat, then motions around the table for glasses to be raised. ‘To Adam. Our only son. Our only child.’ On the last few words his face and voice change. He immediately busies himself with drinking, but Lydia has seen the sadness that has swept over him. For a second he looks like an old man, not intimidating or frightening or anyone who could be a figure of hate. She doesn’t like seeing him like this: it doesn’t fit with what she thinks of him. Laughing and trading comments over their desserts, Naomi and Adam don’t seem to have noticed the sudden shift in mood, or perhaps they simply don’t want to. For Lydia, Nicholas’s sudden gloom is oppressive, and she is thankful when the dessert bowls have been cleared and he has paid the bill and risen to collect the coats.

  On the way home he seems to be recovered, singing along to the radio in a harsh baritone as he drives. She sees, though, that when they enter the house he makes straight for the drinks cabinet, having drunk only one glass of champagne at dinner, and pours himself a large measure of whisky. He stands swilling the liquid around the ice cubes in the bottom of his glass, watching it. She knows she should thank him for the dinner, but he is wearing his introspection around him like an electric force-field, designed to repel anyone who comes too close. As she lingers, his eyes flick over to her. She sees them drop swiftly, reflexively, down to her stockinged legs, and she wants to turn away, but feels frozen to the spot. The way he is looking at her is as if he has realised for the first time that she is female. After a few seconds, he looks back into his drink.

  Lydia rouses herself, mumbles a thank-you and retreats before she has time to tell whether he acknowledges it or not. Naomi is lying on the long cream sofa in the front room, eyes closed, humming a tune.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Lydia says, hesitating at the door.

  ‘See you tomorrow, dear,’ Naomi says, not opening her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia lingers, half wanting Naomi to say something more, to delay her from going upstairs. She feels suddenly shy of Adam, and guilty, as if slipping in between the crisply ironed sheets with him, his parents just rooms away, is somehow something of a slight or a betrayal. She waits a few more heartbeats in the doorway, but Naomi does not stir.

  Lydia is still clutching Adam’s present. She hurries up the stairs and finds him in the bedroom, unlacing his shoes laboriously. She holds it out to him.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ she says.

  Adam looks up, his face splitting into a pleased smile. ‘You didn’t have to get me anything,’ he says, taking it.

  ‘It’s nothing much.’ Suddenly she feels embarrassed about the present and wonders what possessed her to choose it. Adam tears the wrapping paper apart, his fingers puncturing the tissue with disregard. She thinks of the way her father unwraps presents – slowly, methodically, folding the paper up to be stockpiled neatly in a cupboard and reused the next year.

  ‘Cool,’ says Adam, as he examines the gadget. ‘No, really,’ he adds, looking up sharply, as if she has made some denial. ‘I like this sort of stuff. I could put it on my desk.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ She thinks he may be being polite, but he starts to assemble the gadget’s various parts, fitting spokes into sockets, sliding ball-bearings along the long silver struts as if on an abacus. He frowns with concentration, head bent over his task, not speaking until it is done.

  ‘There.’ He goes to the desk in the corner of the room and places the gadget next to his laptop, turns back and smiles. As he comes towards her again he switches off the light. For a moment they are in total darkness until his fingers find the switch of the bedside lamp. The soft reddish glow does not give out much light, cocooning them in a pocket of semi-visibility. Adam sits very close to her on the bed, his hand stroking her hair back from her face. She sees him looking at her again, the way he did across the table earlier, a slow, lustful assessment of everything he sees.

  ‘This is a nice dress,’ he says, and even his voice is different. She is reminded of what Nicholas said – making the transition from boy to man. She almost prefers Adam when he is childish and petulant. This confident, sexy stranger intimidates her; she doesn’t know what she might do in his presence. She feels her heart beat harder as he touches the material of her dress. ‘I liked the present you got me too,’ he says, ‘but on balance, I think I like this wrapping paper better.’

  ‘You might not like what’s inside,’ she says, trying to joke.

  He shakes his head, serious. ‘I already know I like that,’ he says. He kisses her, drawing her in towards him, and she feels her leg come up to hook around his waist, almost as if it has a will of its own. His hand runs up it quickly, stroking the curve of her hip. She can feel the other hand at the back of her dress, locating the zip and tugging it down. His fingers stroke the bare curve of her back until they come up against the strap of her bra, nimbly working at the catch and releasing it with unexpected expertise. He pushes the clothes away from her and they settle into a pool at her feet. His fingers hook over the top of her pants, tugging them slowly down over her thighs. She feels herself move to accommodate his movements, letting him sweep them down over her knees, her ankles, allowing them to drop. She feels like a plastic doll as he arranges her on the bed, staring intently at her body, and then touching, kissing, in so many places that she loses track of what she is feeling and where.

  He is still fully clothed. She tugs at his shirt collar. ‘Take this off,’ she says. He does so, and just for a second she catches sight of the eager teenager again in the way his fingers fumble at the buttons, temporarily losing their easy control. It reassures her and she smiles. ‘And the rest,’ she says. When he is naked she finds that she can look at him with the same curiosity with which he studies her. They lie next to each other, their bodies moulding together in a way that surprises her; there is a strange natural fit between them, with no awkward angles.

  He is kissing her harder now, his hands travelling searchingly over her, finding their way between her legs. ‘Do you want me to use something?’ he whispers in her ear. She nods, not sure whether the answer will please him, but he swiftly reaches across and takes a small silver packet from the bedside table. He has planned this, she thinks, or maybe he has always kept them there, for Isobel or others. She pushes the thought away, closing her eyes tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck. She hea
rs the thin sharp rip of paper and foil, feels Adam draw away from her for a moment. She keeps her eyes closed, screwing them tighter against the first moment’s pain. Against her will, tears spring up and push their way out past her lashes.

  ‘Lydia,’ he whispers, ‘look at me.’ She opens her eyes and sees him above her, his face full of concern. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. She nods. ‘I didn’t realise,’ he whispers. ‘I didn’t … you’re sure about this?’ She nods again. As the pain fades she feels a wild sense of release sweeping up to cover her, her blood thrumming through her veins and making her shake. She moves with him, bringing her mouth up to his neck, kissing, biting. This is instinctive; there is no need for words, thoughts, looks. She hears his breathing quicken against her ear, his arms holding her more tightly against him. ‘Oh God,’ she thinks she hears him say, and in another moment he moves so violently inside her that she cries out, twisting her fists in his hair, her body damp with sweat. The sensation rocks her from top to toe. When he is still, her body is still buzzing, as if poised to flee or fight. She feels his hand stroking the curve of her cheek, and turns so that he can cup her face in his palm. A moment later she meets his eyes, and feels as if she is seeing him for the first time.

  He opens his mouth as if he might speak. ‘Lydia, I—’ he begins. She knows that he is about to say he loves her, and shakes her head; she doesn’t want to hear it, not sure whether it is really true. ‘OK,’ he says, smiling. ‘But thank you.’

  They lie together, bathed by the fuzzy red light. As always, he falls asleep first. She watches his chest rise and fall. She can feel a sharp, sore sensation between her legs, nagging for attention, but she doesn’t want to move. As she lies there the strange familiar dread pierces her contentment; a strange sense of déjà vu, eerie and unexpected, like a skeleton grinning from the darkness of the closet. She shivers, wanting someone’s arms around her, wanting someone to tell her that everything will be all right. She presses her face up against Adam’s chest and hugs him to her, not knowing why she is shaking.