Lying in Wait(78)

Everything was going pretty well for us, and then Laurence rang me one night out of the blue to say he had moved into the cottage that night. He seemed upset but didn’t want to discuss it. I was surprised because it was barely furnished at the time. He said he’d see me during the week, but when I called his office to leave a message they said he was sick, so I took the train out to Killiney and walked up the hill to the cottage that weekend. Laurence had been full of plans about how he was going to do it up. It was a pretty place. The windows were diamond-paned, ivy grew up the walls, and rose bushes stood on either side of the front door. I rapped the brass knocker. There was no reply. I knocked again and eventually heard a shuffling behind the door and it opened a crack.

‘Laurence, it’s me.’

He pulled the door open reluctantly.

‘They said you were sick. Are you OK?’

‘Yeah.’ He opened the door wider to let me in. He was clearly unwell, still in his dressing gown and unshaven. I followed him into the bare sitting room. The curtains were closed, blocking the amazing views of the bay, and the air was sour.

‘You look terrible. Have you seen a doctor?’

‘I’m fine.’

He was clearly not fine. There was a single mattress and a duvet on the floor in front of a muted television, and it was surrounded by crisp packets, cereal bowls, cake boxes and empty brandy bottles.

‘Laurence, what’s going on?’

He pulled me towards him, rested his head on my shoulder and began to cry. I was alarmed.

‘What is it?’ I embraced him and tried to squeeze his pain away.

‘I can’t … my mother …’ he sobbed. I could smell alcohol and stale sweat.

‘You should take a shower, clean yourself up. I’ll put the kettle on.’

He nodded and headed towards the bathroom. I rummaged through a suitcase on the floor and found a clean towel, which I hung on the towel rail amidst the rising steam. I went into the kitchen, which was laden with dirty dishes and empty food containers. I began to wash up and clean the place as best I could. He had clearly moved in a hurry, because there were no cloths or scourers and only a handful of old chipped plates and crockery, left over from his granny’s time.

I always knew that Laurence was sensitive and could be emotional, but I wondered what could have happened to cause this sudden collapse.

He emerged clean-shaven, and I gave him a fresh set of clothes. He turned away from me as he dressed, as if ashamed.

‘Lar, whatever has happened, you know I love you, right? That still means something.’

‘I’m so, so tired,’ he said. ‘I just want to sleep.’

‘You mentioned your mother …?’

‘I can’t talk about it. I don’t want to see her. Ever.’

‘But she loves you. You always said she loved you too much.’

‘Please don’t ask me about her, please? I just can’t.’

‘Will you come and stay with me for a few days? For as long as you like.’

He bowed his head. ‘I don’t deserve you, I really don’t deserve you.’

Laurence let me drive – he wasn’t sober enough – and when we got back to my apartment, he went straight to bed and slept for twelve hours.

He never told me what the row with his mother was about, but it certainly affected him deeply. I couldn’t imagine what had caused the upset, but some part of me felt relief, I must admit. He had been attached to her in a way that even his work colleagues found odd. They joked about it, and he had always been mildly embarrassed about living at home. He stayed with me for a week and then went back to work. He had a friend, Helen, who retrieved some stuff he needed from his mother’s house while I flew off to Milan for a lipstick shoot. When I returned, he had moved into the cottage permanently. He had been to Avalon and used a rental van to take beds, ancient sofas, odd chairs, tables, rugs, curtains and a dinner service, all things he said were never used and wouldn’t be missed. He said the attic of his house had been covered in dust sheets for years. I helped him unpack boxes of books and records and hang pictures and curtains. I met his friend Helen when she delivered other bits and pieces one day. Laurence had gone to the hardware shop for paint.

‘So you’re the one.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, he should have moved out years ago, but his mum is very vulnerable at the moment.’

I thought we’d got off on the wrong foot. ‘Hi, I’m Karen.’

‘Helen. I was his first girlfriend.’ She seemed pushy and mean, and barged past me into the sitting room. She took a look around.

‘I knew his granny you know, who owned this cottage? She was a right battleaxe.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Have you moved in already?’

I was embarrassed. I was trying to be polite, but I realized I sounded as if I owned the place.

‘Oh no, I’m just helping Laurence – but the kettle’s just boiled.’

‘Grand so.’ She dumped her boxes in front of the TV and sat in Laurence’s armchair.

I made an effort to be mannerly. ‘So, about his mum? I know they had an argument, but I don’t know what it was about.’

Helen’s eyes narrowed. ‘He didn’t tell you? Me neither, but I’m assuming it’s because he moved out. His mother is insane, but I really think he should still talk to her at least. He could pick up the phone. I’m around there every other day. Laurence pays me to keep an eye on her, but she isn’t eating and barely sleeping. She is refusing to talk to Malcolm. You’ve heard about Malcolm? The psychiatrist? He says she’ll have to be sectioned if something doesn’t change soon.’