Authors: Julie Cohen
On our wedding day I walked into the church late, my hand slippery around my bouquet of freesia and roses, and Quinn was waiting there
at the altar, straight and slender. From the back he looked almost like a stranger. In the car I had been worrying, fidgeting, pleating my dress, looking at the storm clouds through the window. I’d felt my mother’s absence like a blade. But here in the church, the music started and he turned around and I was happy. Purely happy, in that one moment, with no room for anything else.
Why can’t that
moment stretch and keep? Why don’t I smell roses and freesia?
We decide against dessert. The waitress gives him back his debit card and he folds the receipt carefully into his wallet. He drinks the last bit of wine in his glass. Mine is still half full.
He spreads his hands on the white tablecloth. ‘Shall I stay the night tonight?’
‘I … I don’t think it’s a good idea, Quinn.’
He nods. He meets
my eye, looks away, and meets it again. ‘Are you feeling well?’
‘I’m a little – I’ve been having a little bit of dizziness. It’s okay. Dr Johnson said it was migraine.’
‘Maybe you should see him again.’
‘If it gets worse, I will. I promise.’
‘When … when were you thinking of coming home?’
‘I don’t know.’
He reaches out and takes my wrist, as if we’re being pulled apart, falling.
‘Let’s
go,’ I say.
He releases me. ‘Yes. All right.’ He holds the door of the restaurant open for me going out, as he did going in. He gives me his arm and I take it. Outside, London has shifted into darkness, or as dark as London gets. The Thames is flat and black; I can’t see the moon. Either it hasn’t risen yet, or it’s new, or it’s hiding behind a tower block. Here in London, I’ve lost track of
its phases.
People in shirtsleeves or strappy dresses congregate outside the pubs, smoking and laughing and yelling conversation at each other. Between Quinn and me there’s silence.
Ask me
, I think, as hard as I can.
Ask me if there’s someone else. Ask me if I’ve betrayed you. Don’t settle for silence, please
.
If he asks me, I will give him the truth. Because he deserves to know it, even if
I am too cowardly to give it to him unprompted.
But he doesn’t ask.
‘
OH, GOOD MORNING
. I have an appointment with you and I’m afraid I’ve lost the letter with the date on it, so I’m ringing to check when it is.’
‘Name?’
‘Felicity Bloom. I mean, Felicity Wickham. That’s my married name.’
Mouse and keys clicking. ‘Your appointment was on the fourteenth.’
‘Of next month?’
‘Of this month. It was last Friday.’
‘So … I’ve missed it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Bother. I’ve sort of moved house, you see, and I didn’t have the letter to remind me. Can I reschedule it?’
‘One moment.’ More clicks. ‘The first opening I have is for the sixth of November.’
‘But that’s months away.’
No reply.
‘The thing is, the problem is, that my symptoms have become more … complicated. And frequent. And I wasn’t really concerned about them before but now I’m starting
to think that maybe I should be.’
‘Perhaps you should go to your GP and get another referral?’
‘Oh. Maybe. The thing is – I’m not really, I don’t really want to – isn’t there any way I can get an urgent appointment without seeing him first?’
‘We only take referrals, I’m afraid.’
I frown at the sofa cushion. What am I supposed to do? Present myself at an A&E here in East London? And say what?
I’m getting these weird feelings of being in love?
‘So shall I book you in for the sixth of November or do you prefer to see your GP first?’
‘I … I don’t know. Maybe it can wait. I mean – do you think I need to be worried that it’s happening more frequently?’
‘You’d have to see the doctor, I’m afraid.’
‘But you must see a lot of people—’
‘I can’t possibly comment, I’m afraid. I can only book
you the appointment if you want it.’
‘Um … I … yes. Okay. Thank you. The sixth of November. I’ll write it down this time.’
It is wonderful to be in love in late summer.
In the late summer in London with the traffic like a symphony. In the late summer when you leave the broad windows open and rain soaks the wooden floors and the smell is like being in a forest. In the yelling and the screach
of brakes and the brave birdsong, in the flicker of shadow cast by a plane tree, in the car radios coming closer and fading away into a series of bass heartbeats. When you’re in love, people smile at you, they walk on their way smiling and the next person catches it, and you spread a ripple of love all the way from your throbbing centre to the next street, to the next one, all the way outwards through
E14, across the Thames and into other people’s windows, to the places where they are having their tea, watching television, washing up. It will touch them, your love, it will make them get up from their sofas and join hands with each other, join hands and dance, fling their shoes into the street, throw the soapsuds into bubbles in the air and cry out singing with the rapture of being in love
in love
in love
‘
HELLO, LOVE, YOU’RE
not answering. I hope it’s because you’re sleeping. Anyway, give me a ring, will you? And don’t forget to drink plenty of liquids. Bye.’
‘Don’t you
ever
answer emails? Listen, I’m in London on a flying visit next week for a meeting, back to Brussels next day. I have a feeling we have to chat. Make sure there’s milk in the fridge. Okay, ciao, call me. And
answer emails
, dammit.’
‘Oh hello, Felicity? It’s Molly. I just saw Quinn and he says you’re not feeling very well, dear. I wondered if you wanted me to give him some soup to bring to you? I’m sure it would be no trouble for him to pop up to Town this weekend. I shall send you a card in the meantime to cheer you up! Take care and get lots of rest. Maybe it would be more relaxing to be at home
in your own bed, do you think?’
‘Flick. I can’t stop thinking about you. Call me.’
‘Felicity? It’s Madelyne, just ringing to see how you’re getting on with the book. Please ring me back as soon as possible.’
‘Hello, love, I’m wondering if you’ve lost your phone? Pointless question to ask, really. Anyway, give me a ring when you’ve got a moment. I hope you’re feeling better. Bye.’
‘Flick, I
mean it. Call me. You turn up out of nowhere and then you disappear. You’ve got me worried now. Call me. As soon as you get this. Do you hear?’
SURELY THIS WASN’T
right. He checked the address on his phone again, and then checked the number of the building. It was the same. He punched the button for the flat number she’d given him and waited for a reply through the intercom. But all he got was the buzz of the door as it opened.
The lobby was ten degrees cooler than the outside, floored in granite, full of mirrors and plants. He’d
been in shabbier five-star hotels. It didn’t fit in with what he knew about Felicity at all, that she would live in a place like this. This was the sort of building that wanker City-types lived in, or that sat mostly empty as pieds-à-terre for wealthy foreign nationals.
In the lift going up, he thought again how little he knew about Felicity Bloom. He didn’t know her new last name. He knew none
of her friends. Nothing about her current life, really, other than that her mother had passed away a couple of years ago and that she was married to a man she didn’t talk about, and that she drew children’s books. He’d picked one up in a shop a couple of days ago:
Igor the Owl and the Earwig Enigma
. It was charming, and warm, and funny, and very Felicity in a way that this building wasn’t.
It
was probably her husband’s flat. Before the lift doors opened, he fantasized that she was married to some rich arse-hole who had dragged her into this sterile Canary Wharf world, and when she’d come to find him it had been a cry for help. That he was supposed to save her as much as she’d saved him. The daydream lasted for about as long as it took him to step from the lift into the corridor with its
thick carpeting, its discreet numbers on the doors, and realize that if this was what Felicity was used to now, he didn’t have much to offer in return. Seeing as he was unemployed and flirting with depression.
And he was only coming to check on her. For a week, since she’d met him in Greenwich, she’d been around nearly every day. Knocking on his door, turning up at odd hours, sleeping on his
sofa. And then, for over a week: nothing, aside from a text or two. There was no other way to check that she was all right apart from coming to her flat.
Besides, he missed her.
He rapped on the flat door, only now suddenly realizing that the reason she hadn’t been in touch might be because she was with her husband, and the odds were that the husband would answer the door right now. Typical
of Ewan not to have planned for this possibility. He stuck a carefree smile on his face, ready to act airily like the old friend that he was. Only that, and nothing more.
For several minutes, nothing happened. He raised his hand to rap again, when the door opened. Her hair was down around her face, her eyes blinking. She rubbed her forehead with her hand and seemed not to recognize him at first.
‘Flick,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Hmm. Asleep.’ She peered up at him. ‘How did you know where I was?’
‘You texted me your address.’
‘Did I?’ She was barefoot, in a sleeveless top and a skirt that skimmed her knees. ‘I don’t remember. When did I do that?’
‘The day before yesterday. Flick, are you okay? You look … odd.’
‘I told you – I was sleeping.’
‘Can I come in?’
She went into the
flat and he followed her. The air conditioning wasn’t working as well in here as it was in the lobby and the corridor. Or that could be because the windows were open, letting in the outside air. The living area looked as if a strong wind had blown through it. There was a half-drunk glass of water on the floor near one of the two white sofas and a crumpled knitted throw beside it. A lamp lay on
its side. Papers were scattered everywhere; he glimpsed several saccharine greetings cards on the floor. A drawing of an owl with glasses, scribbled out with almost vicious strokes.
He remembered what he’d suspected earlier, from the odd way she could behave, the blissed-out expression she could get. The way she looked now, groggy and disoriented. But there was no obvious evidence of drug use
– no powder on the coffee table, no smell, no roaches or gear.
‘Is your husband in?’ he asked.
‘Quinn? You mean is he here? No, he isn’t.’
‘It’s a nice flat.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s customary,’ he said gently, mostly to see if it made her smile, ‘to offer one’s guests a cup of tea.’
‘I don’t think you should be here,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it’s safe.’
He looked around again. No man’s jacket hanging
on the back of a chair, no briefcase, nothing particularly husband-like, except for the expense of everything which lay like a gloss over the flat. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s the editor of a newspaper.’
Ah. He could picture Mr Felicity, editor-in-chief: good suit, excellent shoes, hair thinning, belly straining the shirt from too many business lunches. The flat made more sense, now. It didn’t
explain why Felicity was married to him.
‘Are you expecting him back?’
‘No. I’m not expecting him. Why are you here, Ewan?’
‘Didn’t you get my messages?’
‘I’m not sure where my phone is. Maybe it’s in the bedroom? I don’t know. When is the last time we spoke?’
‘Last Thursday.’
He saw her calculating in her head. ‘That was when we had ice cream for breakfast. Not since then?’
‘Not except
by text. Don’t you remember?’
‘I’m a little …’ She rubbed her forehead again. ‘And what day is it today?’
‘Friday.’
‘Of the following week? Oh. Oh dear.’
She didn’t seem distressed, just disappointed.
‘Have you eaten today?’
‘Toast. I’m fine.’
‘You lie very badly.’ He went into her kitchen. There were, in fact, toast crumbs everywhere. There was also quite a bit of uneaten toast, much of
it burnt. All of it was cold. The only empty bottle was of Lucozade.
‘I think you should leave,’ Flick said, following him.
‘Why?’ he asked, filling the kettle and switching it on. He looked in the fridge for food: champagne and a jar of jam. The milk was on the counter beside the kettle and it had clearly gone off.
‘I think I might do …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m trying to do the right thing,
Ewan. I’m not sure how to do it.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No. No, I’m fine.’ She frowned. ‘Yes, I’m sure I’m fine. Actually, I feel completely normal right now. So that’s good.’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you doing any drugs at all?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t have to lie to me about it. I’ve seen almost everything you can imagine.’
‘I’m not doing drugs. Listen, Ewan, I really don’t think it’s
a good idea for you to be here.’
‘I’m just doing for you what you did for me. I’m worried about you, and I want to make sure you’re all right. Where do you keep the tea? We’ll have to have it black.’
‘Don’t bother, please.’
‘Just as well – everyone tells me I make a shitty cup of tea. Let’s talk.’ He pointed through the kitchen door to the living room, and she sighed, went to one of the sofas
and sat down. She looked small in this big flat, and as if she didn’t belong. He sat beside her. Said, ‘You haven’t changed a bit since I knew you.’
‘I’ve changed in some ways.’
‘Do you love him?’ he asked. She’d been looking down, pulling the throw over her bare feet, but at that she raised her head.
‘I …’
‘I can’t believe you love him,’ he said, surprised at the rush of emotion, the jealousy.
‘If you loved him, you wouldn’t have come to find me.’
‘It’s complicated, Ewan. I don’t think I can really explain it to you. I can’t explain it to myself. But yes, I do love him. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have married him.’