Beneath the Skin(98)
‘Life begins now. Don’t ever look back,’ Sophie said, her eyes glinting from the flames of their bonfire like emeralds. ‘Now, think of a new name, but make sure it’s one you like. You’ll have it for a long, long time.’
The ‘For Sale’ sign on the country road feels ominous as Mike approaches in his car. He’s shocked to see that Antonia is selling White Gables. Rachel hasn’t mentioned it and why should she? But still, it feels like a reprimand, an illustration of the distance between them.
He indicates right and waits for the traffic to clear. He can see Antonia’s frost-covered car parked in its usual space at the front of the house. His heart thuds in his chest. The words ‘rose-tinted glasses’ are still repeating in his head. Despite the pile of reports on his desk, he’s left the office without saying anything to anyone. He’s driven fifteen miles to White Gables, the impulse to know whether Judith is right inexorable.
Mike knocks at the door and then waits. He rings the doorbell and then waits again, feeling foolish. Antonia has already made it clear how she feels. Why would she answer the door to someone she’s politely but firmly pushed away? He sighs, vaguely wondering if she’s watching him from an upstairs window. The humiliation is probably for the best as he’s no idea what he would say. Turning up at this time unannounced is ludicrous. He’s in cuckoo land. He has to get a grip and move on.
He turns back towards the car, lifts his keys to unlock it and there she is.
Antonia is strolling down the driveway towards him. Her wavy hair is shining and bouncing in the breeze. She’s wearing a cream belted jacket with a fur-lined hood and her beautiful smile. ‘Hello stranger,’ she says when she reaches him and he finds himself smiling too. An inane grin, much like Sami’s at lunch.
Antonia feels as though she’s gabbling, filling in the lost weeks as though time is in short supply. She tells Mike comical tales about the salon girls and their customers, her Withington visit that morning, her meetings with Charlie and the decisions made about finances and the future. Her happy reunion with Sophie too.
She shows Mike the Reporter newspaper cutting about Jimmy, the sales particulars for the house and her tip jar half full of pound coins. Then she asks him if he wouldn’t mind unscrewing the U-bend under the sink as it’s stuck and changing a light bulb in the hall before he goes. Or, if he prefers, holding the ladders for her while he’s here.
‘I’m going on, aren’t I?’ she says, still smiling, still inordinately pleased to see him.
‘No, not at all. It’s lovely to listen. It’s no problem to do the chores. I’ve always fancied being Oddjob. Though sadly I don’t have the hat.’
He gazes with a frown for a minute, then looks down to the sales particulars he’s still holding. ‘This is your home. It’s where you’ve felt safe …’
She’s thought about this a lot. Like the crutch of Sophie, there’s a fine line between safety and claustrophobia. ‘I know, and it’s a strange thing to say, but it’s also been my prison,’ she says, knowing she wouldn’t admit it to anyone but him. Then she laughs to ease the sudden tension, lifting her arms to the room. ‘A very nice prison, I have to admit.’
Mike nods thoughtfully but says nothing. She’s aware he hasn’t taken his eyes off her since they sat down at each end of the sofa in the kitchen, but he’s quiet. He’s gone from very smiley to serious. Or so it seems. He’s saying so little that it’s difficult to judge.
‘Why have you come, Mike?’ she eventually asks breathlessly, looking down at her china cup, wondering if perhaps she’s done something wrong.
He closes his eyes for a moment and then smiles with a small shrug. ‘I’m not really sure. I can’t stay long.’ Then, looking at her again, so intently, ‘I’ve thought about you so much, wondered how you were.’
He clears his throat and leans towards her. His eyes search her face. Then he asks a question, as though it’s popped out. ‘Why did your mum—’ he starts. ‘Why then? Why the final straw that particular night? I know it’s none of my business, but …’ His eyes are still on hers, his face clouded. ‘I wish I’d been there to protect you. I wish I could protect you now.’
‘But you can’t,’ she whispers.
‘I know. That’s the problem.’
Olivia winds down the car window to let in some fresh air or at least let out the hot. Cold winter has started to set in, the afternoons dimming into early evening. But Olivia is having a ‘hot pregnancy’, as she puts it. She’s already pulled her car into a lay-by to take off her thick jacket and fling it on the back seat next to her swimsuit and towel. She’s now going through the repetitious cycle of putting on the blower to clear the condensation from the window screen, then opening the window because she’s boiling and then closing it because there’s a chilly wind, which causes the window to steam up yet again.
Cycles and circles, she muses, thinking how most things come right in the end.
She feels the heat rise yet again. ‘Hm, seems you’re my very own hot water bottle,’ she says aloud to her bump. Perhaps she should’ve gone swimming after all, but she got caught behind a funeral cortege on the way to the baths. When she overtook the first hearse, the widow turned her head. Her face was so composed, yet vulnerable and sad, and for a moment she thought the woman was Antonia. So she immediately turned the car, the pangs of conscience about not having visited her overcoming her desire to hang out with friends.