White Bodies(38)

For a second I’m totally numb.

“Oh God . . . I knew things were serious—but this . . . I didn’t expect it.”

What I want to say is This is awful.

“Why didn’t Tilda tell me?”

He smiles coyly, pleased to be imparting his news. “We’ve been enjoying our secret. Not going public. But I thought that, since you want to know every little thing about me, I’d better tell you. It seems fair, in the circumstances. Now, sit up straight and breathe—have a sip of your wine.”

I realize now that this is the purpose of the dinner—that Tilda told Felix to bond with me, to become my friend, because he’s about to be my brother-in-law. I feel like imploding, right there in the restaurant, crying and wailing and making a scene. But I go against my instincts, and do as Felix says, I sit up straight, draw my shoulders back and I raise my glass:

“To you and Tilda.”

“And to you, Callie.” He says it like he means it.

I drink my wine down, my head swimming from the champagne, and I feel inclined to get totally wasted. Felix is drinking heavily too, and as the evening goes on, the alcohol has a palliative effect on me and a loosening effect on him, making him increasingly revealing. He tells me about Francesca, who’s a journalist apparently and a workaholic, and she was critical of Felix’s behavior and didn’t appreciate him like Tilda does. I open up too, telling Felix about Wilf’s gardening ambitions, and the way he comes into the bookshop all the time and how Daphne is like a hawk, watching everything that goes on.

We leave the restaurant after midnight, Felix’s arm around me, and he gives me his usual hug as he puts me in a taxi, and then a tiny kiss on my cheek. He insists on paying my fare and sends me off into the night. I slouch on the seat, utterly confused, traumatized. In the dossier I’ve noted that Felix fits the traditional Controlling Men loner profile. Not the sort who sits alone in his bedroom contributing to internet conspiracy theories, or researching terrorism. More the type who has no real, meaningful friendships but does have an easy charm, who plays people, and I wonder whether I’ve just succumbed to his power to manipulate. At the same time, I can’t help thinking there’s a tiny chance that I’m wrong about everything. Felix had seemed so nice this evening. Genuinely. And I have to admit that Tilda is a drama queen—she always has been. Maybe she hyped up the violent side of her relationship with Felix to fit her own glamorous, romantic self-image—I love danger. I love risk. “To be opened in the event of my death.” Actually, it’s more than possible. All our lives she’s been prone to exaggeration.

As the cab climbs the hill towards Willesden Green I think maybe I could like Felix again, and it even seems possible that he could be an interesting, entertaining member of our family.

? ? ?

At home, I go online and say to Belle:

Help me! I think I might be mad. I just spent my evening with Felix and it made me think I might be mistaken, I might have read too much into his behavior.

What do you mean???

He was nice to me . . . and interested. Maybe I’m wrong about him. Maybe I’ve been carried away, spending too much time on Controlling Men. I’ve become paranoid.

Oh Calliegirl . . . don’t be nieve. Remember he’s a clever operater. And don’t forget the important indicators—the violence, and the isolation.

Belle, I realize what you’re saying. But I’m genuinely wondering whether I’ve got everything out of proportion. I’m going to stay off here for a while, to let things settle. And I don’t want to be part of this plan that Scarlet is dreaming up.

Callie! Don’t leave!!!! I will miss you 2 much. Xxxxxx

I have to, Belle. I need to sort myself out.

Can’t talk about this right now coz L and the children r here!!! They came yesterday and I’m sooo busy. But please don’t go. I’ll email u when I get a chance, u HAVE to stay in touch. We r proper friends now!

I sign off with some kisses and a good luck message—but resolve to give myself a break.

The next morning I wake up with a bad head and wander round the flat searching for Tylenol. Then I make a cup of tea and phone Mum in Wales—she does her painting full-time now. I think the cancer she had years ago made her want to devote her life purely to her art.

“Mum,” I say. “Have you heard from Tilda recently?”

“Not for a couple of weeks, darling, why?”

I don’t want to tell her about the marriage plans, in case Tilda wants to do it herself, or have Felix do it. So I say, “Oh, no reason. I was just wondering what you think about Felix. It seems to be pretty serious between the two of them.”

There’s a long pause, and she says, “I’m not so sure. He’s a little strange. They came to stay a couple of weeks ago—I’m sure Tilda told you—and he kept tidying up the cottage. And he washed the kitchen floor. Maybe it’s an American thing?”

“I don’t think so. Do you think Tilda’s happy with him?”

“Who knows? There’s something in the air between them; I can feel it. Tilda didn’t seem to be quite herself.”

“She’s in love.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.”

I leave it there, and we chat about Wales and Mum’s walking group, and their drunken nights down at the pub after a long day’s rambling in the Brecon Beacons. And how she had a little exhibition of her art in a village hall, and the big cheese in the fancy house—a “proper chap,” who wears maroon corduroy trousers—bought one of her red-and-orange abstract landscapes for ￡150. “I actually think he might have been flirting with me!” she says. Then she tells me that she’s thinking of getting a tattoo, a tiny tulip near her ankle, a symbol of life. Celebrating the years she’s had free from cancer. “Can’t you celebrate some other way?” I say disdainfully.