The Forever Girl

15



Amanda usually went to the airport to meet David when he returned from one of his trips abroad. Going to the airport was something of a ritual in George Town – the outing to the small building that served as the island’s terminal where, with Caribbean informality, disembarking passengers walked past palm trees and poinsettias and could be spotted and waved to from the terrace of the coffee bar. She took Billy, but left Clover with Margaret, who liked to take her with her to the ballroom dancing academy she frequented where, if one of the instructors was free, Clover was sometimes treated to a lesson.

On the way back to the house Billy dominated the conversation, asking his father about New York and telling him a long and complicated story about an iguana that, injured by dogs, had limped into the back yard of one of his friends from school. She slipped in a few questions, about her father, whom David had visited. Her father had been widowed a few years previously and had taken up with a woman they were not sure about.

“She drags him off to exhibitions all the time,” he said. “He was about to go to one when I arrived to see him. She kept looking at her watch while I was talking to him; it made me like her less than ever.”

Billy said: “This iguana, see, had a big cut on the side of his head. A dog had bitten him there, I think, and you’d think that he would have died, but he hadn’t, you see.”

“I think she must feel frustrated. He’s obviously not making up his mind.”

And Billy said: “There was another iguana – not the one that had been bitten by dogs but another one. Maybe it was his brother. He had these big spikes on his back and …”

“I wish he’d come down here to see us. She discourages him, I think.”

“That happens. Perhaps you need to let go.” And to Billy, he said: “How big was the iguana again?”

When they reached home, he took a shower and then swam in the pool. It was hot, and the doors of the house were kept closed to keep the cool air inside; in the background, the expensive air conditioners hummed. There was a cost here to everything, she had once remarked; even to the air you breathed.

She watched him through the glass of the kitchen door. It was like watching a stranger, she thought; she could be standing in a hotel watching one of the other guests, an unknown man, swimming in the pool. He was towelling himself dry now, and then he threw the towel down on the ground, and she thought: I’ll have to pick that up.

She went outside, taking him the ice-cold bottle of beer that she knew he would want. He took it from her without saying anything.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. It was what she said to Billy, to remind him of his manners. It was what every parent said, time after time, like a gramophone record with a fault in the grooves.

He looked at her sharply. “I said thanks.”

She went over to examine a plant at the edge of the patio. He followed her, beer in hand; she was aware of him behind her, but did not say anything.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me: did you have coffee with John the other day?”

She answered without thinking. “John Galbraith? No. Why would I have coffee with John?”

He took a swig of the beer. “That’s what I’m asking.”

“I told you: I didn’t.”

She had lied instinctively, self-protectively, as people will lie to get more time.

It was as if he had not heard her answer. “It seemed odd to me, you see,” he continued. “Because you never mentioned it to me.”

“I didn’t mention it because it didn’t happen.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “But it did.”

She sighed. “You’re picking a fight.”

“No, I’m not. I’m simply asking you something.”

She struggled to remain calm. “I told you. I didn’t have coffee with John. I don’t know why you should think I did.” She paused, thinking of how rumours circulated. It was a small place; inevitably somebody had seen her and had talked about it. Why should she be in the slightest bit surprised by that?

“Whoever told you must be mistaken,” she said. “Maybe it was somebody who looked like me.”

“Or looked like John?”

There was an innuendo in his comment that she ignored. “People think they’ve seen somebody and they haven’t. It happens all the time.”

“It was me,” he said.

This stopped her mid-movement.

He was staring at her. She noticed that he was holding the bottle of beer tightly – so tightly that his knuckles were white with the effort. For a moment she imagined that he might use it as a weapon; instinctively she moved away.

“Yes,” he said. “I saw you because I had called in somewhere earlier that morning and was coming back to the office. I walked past that coffee bar near the entrance to our building. I walked right past and saw you sitting there with him.”

She said nothing. She averted her eyes.

“And then,” he continued, “when I was in New York, I asked John directly. I said: what were you and Amanda talking about the other day?”

It felt to her as if there were a vice around her chest.

“And do you know what?” David went on. “He said: I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s what he actually said. He flatly denied it. I let the matter go.”

She felt a rush of relief, of gratitude. John was covering for her. He was as good as his word. “Well, there you are,” she said. “You must have imagined it. Or you saw two people who looked a bit like us. The eye plays tricks, you know.”

He took a step forward, bringing himself almost to the point where he was touching her. Now he spoke carefully, each word separated from the word before with a pause. “I saw you. I did not make a mistake. I saw you.”

“You imagined you saw me.”

“I saw you. I saw you.”

She fought back. “Even if you did, then so what? So what if I have coffee with one of your friends. I know him too, remember. And anyway, are you seriously suggesting that there’s something between me and John, of all people?”

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s why you should lie to me – which you’ve done recently on more than one occasion.”

She tried to be insouciant. “Oh, so many occasions then …”

“The Grand Old House. You went there with somebody – I don’t know who it was – but you didn’t tell me. You gave an account of your evening that very specifically omitted to say anything about your being there. But you were, weren’t you?”

She faltered. “The Grand Old House …”

“I didn’t see you myself, but one of the girls from the office said you were there. She told me. She said: I saw your wife. I saw her yesterday. I wanted to say ‘hi’ to her, but she was with a man I didn’t know.”

“Your spies are everywhere, I see.”

“Don’t make light of it,” he hissed. “It was another lie. It can’t have been John you were with. But John’s involved in some way, though I don’t know how.”

She felt a growing sense of desperation at being accused of doing something of which she was innocent. And yet she could assert that innocence only by confessing to something else – something that would implicate George, who was also every bit as innocent as she was. But then she thought: am I completely innocent? I entertained the possibility of an affair; I sought out George’s company; I went some way down the road before I turned back.


When she spoke now, there was irritation in her voice. “I am not seeing John. If you can’t understand that, then you can’t understand anything.”

He appeared to think for a while before responding to this. “I don’t understand why you should tell me lies unless you have something to hide. And if I conclude it’s an affair, then, forgive me, but what else am I expected to think?”

“But you yourself think he’s gay.”

He became animated. “Yes, I did think that. Not any more. I don’t think he is. I asked him, you see.”

She was incredulous. “And he discussed it with you?”

“John is impotent. That’s the issue with him.”

She was at a loss for anything to say.

David watched her. “Yes. That’s quite the disclosure, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“He gets fed up with people thinking that he’s gay. He says that it’s nothing to do with being anti-gay – which he isn’t – it’s to do with people making an assumption. He says that he understands how gay people might resent others treating them differently. Patronising them, maybe; pitying them. They put up with a lot.”

“So he opened up to you about this to stop you reaching the wrong conclusion.”

“So it would seem.”

Of course it added up; it might explain the sense of disappointment that she felt somehow hung about him. But was that its effect? Did men in that position mourn for something, in the same way that a childless woman might mourn for the child she never had? Was it that important – that simple, biological matter: could it really count for so much?

David continued. “He told me when we were in New York. He became very upset when he talked about it. He said that it’s been with him all his life, and it has spoiled everything – his confidence in particular. He’s never had a girlfriend – never.”

She had not expected that, but it made sense of the conversation she had had with him. He had said something about confidence; she tried to remember what it was, but could not.

She considered telling him the real truth now. She could do that, of course, but the problem was that the truth would sound implausible and he would be unlikely to believe it. And why should he believe her anyway, in the light of her lies? So she said, instead: “Don’t you think I’m entitled to a private life?”

The question surprised him. “You mean …” He struggled to find the words. “Are you talking about an open marriage?”

The term sounded strangely old-fashioned. She had not meant that, but now she grasped at the idea. “Yes.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Never more.” She was not; she had not thought about it until a few seconds ago.

He put down the half-empty bottle of beer. “Listen,” he said. “We’ve fallen out of love. We both know that, don’t we?”

She met his gaze now. Anger and resentment had turned to acceptance; to a form of sorrow that she was sure they now both felt.

She fought back tears. She had not cried yet for her failing marriage, and now the realisation came that she would have to do this sooner or later. “I’m so sorry, David. I didn’t think this would happen, but it has.”

He spoke calmly. “I’m sorry too. I don’t want this to be messy.”

“Of course not. Think of the children.”

He picked up the bottle of beer and took a sip. “I’ve thought about them all the time. I’m sure you have too.”

“So what shall we do?” She marvelled at the speed with which everything had been acknowledged.

They were standing outside on the patio. He looked up. Evening had descended swiftly, as it does at that latitude; an erratic flight of fruit bats dipped and swooped across the sky. “Can we stay together for the children’s sake?” he asked. “Or at least keep some semblance of being together?”

“Of course. They’re the main consideration.” She was thinking quickly. Now that they had started to discuss their situation, the whole thing was falling into place with extraordinary rapidity. And the suggestion that came next, newly minted though it was, bore the hallmarks of something that had been worked out well in advance. “If they’re going to school in Scotland, I could live there. I’ll live in Edinburgh. Then we could all come out here to see you in their school holidays.”

He weighed this. He had thought that she might mention the possibility of returning to the United States, which is what he did not want; he would lose the children then; lose them into the embrace of a vast country he did not understand. “I’d stay in the house here?”

“Why not? It’s yours, after all.”

He seemed reassured. “I’d still meet all expenses.”

That was one thing he had never cavilled at; he had been financially generous to her – very financially generous – and she thanked him for it. “You’ve been so good about money.”

He laughed. “It’s what I do, after all.”

“But you could have been grudging, or tight. You weren’t – ever.”

He said nothing about the compliment, but he reached out to touch her gently. “Friends?”

She took his hand. “Yes.” She paused. “About John …”

“You don’t have to.”

“John saw me, seeing George. I was worried that he would misinterpret what was going on. And he did.”

He caught his breath. “George Collins?”

“Yes. It didn’t mean anything – or maybe it did. But we were never lovers. I enjoyed his company and … Why can’t a married person have friends? Why not?”

“Don’t tell me,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to know.”

“It’s not what you think.” But then she said, “I feel something for George. I just do. I can’t help it.”

“What everyone says.”

She felt that she did not have to explain. He was the cold one; he was the one who had chilled their marriage. “You’re to blame too,” she said. “You lost interest in me. All you ever thought about was your work, and that’s still the case, I think.”

“I don’t think that’s fair. Don’t try to transfer blame. The fact remains – we’re out of love.”

“Which is exactly the position of an awful lot of married couples. They just exist together. Just exist.” She looked at him. “Is that really what you want, David?”

He turned away. “No,” he said. “And now that we’ve made a plan, let’s not unstitch it.”

“You don’t plan your life just like that, without thinking a bit more about it.”

“Don’t you? Some people do. They make decisions on the spur of the moment. Big decisions.”

There was one outstanding matter, she thought, and now she raised it. “And we each have our freedom?”

“In that sense?”

“Yes. We can fall in love with somebody else, if we want to.”

He shrugged. “That’s generally what happens, isn’t it? People fall in love again.”

It sounded so simple. But what was the point of being in love with somebody who was not free to be in love with you?

He said, “I must go and get changed.”

She nodded absent-mindedly. Marriage involved little statements like that – I’m doing this; I’m doing that – little explanations to one’s spouse, a running commentary on the mundane details of a life. She was free of that now; she would no longer have to explain. But still she said, “I’m going inside,” and went in. She stood quite motionless in the kitchen, like somebody in a state of shock, which in a way she was. She crossed the room to the telephone. She knew George’s number without looking it up, as she had made an attempt to remember it and it had lodged there, along with birthdays and key dates. The mnemonic of childhood returned: In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Those were the last four digits of his number: 1492. It would be so easy to dial them.