He leans towards her, fixes her with his hazel eyes. He is smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I really don’t know. Who was he? Where did you meet him?’
She thinks of the passports sitting somewhere in this house. She cannot afford to make him angry. She cannot tell him that Stella’s father was the love of her life, the most beautiful man she’d ever set eyes on, that he was an exquisite pianist whose music brought her to tears, that he’d broken her heart and that she was still carrying the shattered pieces of it around in her pockets even now, three years since she’d last seen him.
‘He was an arsehole,’ she says. Then she pauses and takes a large sip of wine. ‘Just a pretty boy, a criminal, with nothing between his ears. I felt sorry for him. He didn’t deserve me, and he certainly didn’t deserve Stella.’ She speaks the words with conviction, because while she looks Michael directly in the eye, little does he know that she is describing him.
This description seems to sate Michael for a moment. His smile softens and he looks real again.
‘Where is he now, this idiot?’
‘He did a runner. Went back to Algeria. Broke his mother’s heart. His mother blames me.’ She shrugs. ‘But really, he was always going to disappoint her. He was always going to disappoint everyone. He was just one of those guys.’
He leans towards her again. ‘Did you love him?’
She snorts derisively. ‘God,’ she says, still thinking of Michael. ‘No.’
He nods, as though giving her approval. ‘And was there anyone else? Over the years?’
She shakes her head. It’s another lie but an easier one to tell. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No one. I’ve been living hand to mouth with two small children. Even if I had met someone, you know, it wouldn’t have worked. Logistically.’ She shrugs.
‘Yeah. I can see that. And you know, Lucy’ – he looks at her earnestly – ‘you know, any time you’d asked, I would have helped. All you had to do was ask.’
She shakes her head sadly
He says, ‘Yeah. I know. Too proud.’
This is so far from the truth that it is almost funny, but she nods, knowingly. ‘You know me so well,’ she says, and he laughs.
‘In so many ways we were the worst, worst combination of people. I mean, Jesus, remember the times we used to have? Christ we were crazy! But in other ways we were, God, we were fucking awesome, weren’t we?’
Lucy makes herself smile and nod agreement, but she can’t quite bring herself to say yes.
‘Maybe we should have tried harder,’ he says, topping up his glass already and then topping up Lucy’s even though she’s barely had two sips.
‘Sometimes life just happens,’ she says meaninglessly.
‘That’s true, Lucy,’ he agrees as though she has just said something very profound. He takes a large gulp of wine and says, ‘Tell me all about my boy. Is he clever? Is he sporty?’
Is he kind? she asks silently. Is he good? Does he take good care of his little sister? Does he keep me grounded? Does he smell nice? Can he sing? Can he draw the most beautiful portraits of people? Does he deserve better than me and this shitty life I’ve given him?
‘He’s pretty clever,’ she replies. ‘Average at maths and science, excellent at languages, art, English. And no, not sporty. Not at all.’
She looks at him steadily, searching his gaze for a shadow of disappointment. But he looks pragmatic. ‘You can’t win at everything,’ he says. ‘And boy is he good-looking. Any sign of an interest in girls yet?’
‘He’s only twelve,’ Lucy says, somewhat brusquely.
‘That’s old enough,’ he says. ‘God, you don’t think he might be gay, do you?’
She wants to throw her wine in Michael’s face and leave. Instead she says, ‘Who knows? No signs of it. But as I say, he’s not really interested in that sort of thing yet. Anyway,’ she changes the subject, ‘I should probably get back to the panzanella. Give it time to steep before we eat.’
She gets to her feet. He gets to his and says, ‘And I should get the barbecue going.’ She heads towards the kitchen but before she can walk away, he catches her hands in his and turns her to face him. She can see his eyes are swimming, that he’s already losing focus and it’s only half past one. He puts his hands on to her hips and pulls them towards him. Then he pushes her hair away from her ear, leans tight in towards her and whispers, ‘I should never have let you go.’
His lips graze hers, briefly, and then he pats her on her bottom and watches her as she walks into the kitchen.
26
CHELSEA, 1990
Shortly after my mother told me that David was making us give all our money to charity and that he was going to be living with us forever, I saw him kissing Birdie.