Our Kind of Cruelty(44)
Kaitlyn kept her eyes on me. ‘God, don’t you think there’s more to life than that. It’s like, what are we all waiting for?’
‘What do you mean?’ I poured us both more wine.
She sat back, holding her glass against her chest. ‘I know this sounds like a terrible cliché, but I saw an interview with Joan Collins once and the interviewer asked her if she looked that good every day and she said of course she did, because life isn’t a dress rehearsal.’ She took another deep sip of her wine and when she looked up at me her eyes were glistening. ‘I mean, I spend all my life behaving like it’s a bloody dress rehearsal, waiting for the real bit to start. And it’s such a fucking waste.’
We sat in silence for a bit and I could feel my heart through my cotton shirt, pounding along its own godforsaken path. I thought of V in her life, sitting with Angus no doubt at their kitchen table, while I sat here with Kaitlyn, and it all suddenly seemed appalling. Because what were we doing? Why were we pretending like this?
I felt Kaitlyn lay her hand over mine and I looked down at the paleness of it against my pinker skin. She was so translucent I could see the blue of her veins pumping her blood round her body and I was struck by how fragile she was, how easy she would be to break.
I pulled my hand out from under hers. ‘I guess I’d better be heading home.’
‘Sorry. I was just …’
‘No, it’s not you.’
She smiled lightly. ‘Oh no, Mike. I mean, I really like you, but not, I mean …’
‘I can’t …’ I started.
‘I know you’re still in love with Verity.’ She looked up at me and her eyes were quivering. ‘But from where I’m standing she doesn’t seem to make you that happy.’
‘She makes me very happy,’ I said, although something about the words sounded faintly ridiculous.
‘Happiness is so odd, don’t you think? I mean, sometimes we can mistake feelings for happiness or love, when sometimes they’re the exact opposite.’
It sounded like a terrible thing to say, but I supposed women like Kaitlyn were used to feeling that way. I stood up. ‘Look, thanks very much for dinner. It was delicious.’
Kaitlyn laughed.
‘No, really, I’m sorry. Please, can this not ruin our friendship?’ I didn’t know why I was saying such soppy words, why I cared even. But there was something unbearable about seeing Kaitlyn’s tiny figure seated on the chair, Snowdrop snuffling by her feet. I felt an odd need to put my arms round her shoulders and give her a hug, but obviously I didn’t as I didn’t want to encourage her in any way.
She stood as well and the movement seemed to compose her. ‘No, I’m sorry, Mike. I think I’ve just drunk a bit too much. Of course we’ll still be friends, don’t be daft.’
She walked me to the door and we kissed awkwardly on both cheeks, raising our hands in stupid farewells and tripping over our words.
I breathed deeply when I reached the outside world and looked up at what I could of the stars behind the hazy pollution. My body felt jangly and so I began to walk, not admitting to myself where I was going at first, but in the end accepting that my feet were taking me towards Kensington. I trampled along the messy, chewing-gum-littered streets, stepping over what looked like people wrapped in filthy sleeping bags, lying on thin strips of cardboard. Never mind the women on the stage, it was much more likely that one of these homeless people was my mother.
Kaitlyn’s words slid around my brain like a ball bearing in a slot machine. I knew she had said things that were worth listening to and yet their meaning eluded me. I couldn’t work out if she had been giving me advice or, if she had, if it had been worth heeding. I couldn’t work out if she was right or wrong. I couldn’t work out what I thought. I needed V to tell me, because only she could make sense of the world for me.
V’s house was dark, except for the gleaming light in the porch. The shutters and curtains were all drawn, apart from in the kitchen, but this room was dark as well, the moonlight glinting off all the steel and concrete. I knew V was inside, although I stopped my mind from wondering at what she was doing. I checked my watch and it was nearly midnight, which made me feel better. V got tired and she would no doubt be asleep, dreaming maybe of me.
I walked to the opposite side of the street and leant against the ivy-laden wall I had stopped in front of before. I looked up at the window where I had seen V draw the curtains and felt her presence so strongly it was like I could have flown through the window at that moment. I imagined the shattering glass and the screams of Angus; I could feel her as I took her in my arms and we flew away, back to our nest at the top of the mountains. I thought it had started raining, but then I realised I was crying, hard and fast.
Anna, the gardener, rang me the next morning and asked if I’d had a chance to look at the various planting options she’d sent me. I admitted I hadn’t, but said I would get right on to it, clicking on to her email as we spoke. I had no idea of the names of any of the plants she suggested and spent an annoying hour googling each one for pictures which yielded little joy. The exercise depressed me anyway, as I should have automatically known what flowers V preferred. In the end I told Anna to go with what she thought. How about colours, she asked, I was thinking pinks and yellows. I thought immediately of Susan’s mother-of-the-bride dress and told Anna absolutely no yellow. We agreed instead on blues and whites.