All I know is that we have to make the most of the life we’ve made for ourselves, and try to focus on all the ways we are happy, rather than unhappy, with it. You have a wife who loves you, and a treasured child you never thought you would have, and I am married to a kind man who has given me a good life, and because of that I feel protective toward him; I can’t cause him pain. We have both been blessed in ways we have underappreciated. We should cherish what we shared, and carry it quietly and close, always. But if you can’t do that, then it’s best that you forget about me.
I do love you. I always will. But when it comes down to it, I can’t change who I am. I can’t break Mark’s heart, and I can’t live my life knowing I broke up your family.
I hope you will eventually forgive me.
Yours, in my memory and in my heart, always,
Evelyn
Through a veil of tears, I hurry back over words, over sentences, full of anguish for both of them. Evelyn didn’t do it. I just picture the older Eddy in his red shirt. Eddy talking about wanting Christina to choose. Eddy all those years ago, who would have been waiting for her, thinking she had chosen him, only to learn she had chosen someone else.
I go into the bathroom and fill the tub. I top up my wine glass, and light a group of three candles Justin and I always used to light when we bathed together. I strip off my clothes, and gingerly lower myself into the water. And as I sink deeper until I’m almost fully submerged, I play their story over, drawing out my favourite parts, and thinking about them. The sentiment, and the eerie familiarity of Evelyn’s words about the ways in which we love, send a chill down my spine. Hadn’t Justin said something similar?
I stare at the white-tiled wall. My feet propped against it. The nail polish I put on for Hawaii. No, I think. From the first time I heard about Evelyn and Eddy’s story, I realised Justin and I didn’t love one another as deeply and as definitely as that. Though I’m not sure many people do.
After I’ve lain there until the water has turned cool, a thought suddenly comes to me. So if she didn’t leave Mark, why is she here now? What terrible wrong did she allude to that day in the gallery? I should have things to worry about that are closer to home, but I am not going to rest until I know.
I look at my watch sitting on top of the toilet lid. Ten p.m. Too late to call her?
THIRTY
Evelyn’s is a ground-floor, period apartment in a former terraced house just a short walk from the Metro stop and shops. Its communal entrance serves all three units, with its black-and-white chequerboard floors, gilt mirrors and a vase of white lilies on a small reception table.
I sit in her lounge as she runs water in the kitchen for the flowers I brought her. ‘I thought this might be nicer than talking on the phone,’ she said when she let me in. The room is spacious, with high ceilings, decorative coving and sash windows. White carpets, white walls and minimal furniture make a stunning focal point of an ornate, brown-marble fireplace that has a beautiful oil painting of a garden above it.
‘I’ve never had it on,’ Evelyn says, coming back into the room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, and catching me running a hand over the stonework. ‘I rarely feel the cold! And real fires look lovely, but they’re so messy to clean.’
‘I want to know the rest of your story, Evelyn,’ I say, once she’s poured tea.
Evelyn holds the teapot still and studies me like I’m under a microscope. ‘But first . . . you,’ she says.
‘Me?’
‘You’re not yourself. I’d like you to tell me why. In fact, I insist.’
Distantly, I hear the rumble of a train pulling into the station. I reach for a biscuit, noting the slight tremble of my hand. Something about that sound always haunts me. Trains are either arriving or they’re leaving. Lately, I can’t get the sight of Justin leaving out of my mind. I can’t imagine this emptiness is ever going to go. Whenever I arrive at the door to my flat, all I see is Justin turning and looking over his shoulder, meeting my eyes that last time, right after he’d moved the last of his bags out into the hallway. The face of there will never be any going back.
And so, I tell Evelyn. I tell her in so much detail that the tea turns cold. In a way, it’s easier than talking to Sally; Evelyn has never met Justin, and she brings a certain objectivity that pares everything down to its simplest form. She makes a fresh pot, and by the time I go to drink this new cup, the sun has moved around to the west and is illuminating a different patch of floor.
I don’t think anyone has ever listened to me so thoroughly before. She seems to absorb my story with the complete cessation of thought.
‘What do you think I should do?’ I ask her. I catch myself realising that I actually love hearing what Evelyn thinks.
‘Do? There’s nothing for you to do. It’s done, Alice. You might not understand him or agree with his choice, but it doesn’t alter the fact that it’s his to make. It’s his own code he has to live by. He even said it to you: that he wants you to let him do what he thinks is right. So you have to have the grace to let him go, and to live with his choices. Don’t be a clinger. Don’t make it hard for him. Don’t behave in a way you’ll later regret. You can’t fight to keep him, because you won’t win.’
Her advice comes at me like a gentle hail of bullets. ‘I know that,’ I say, realising I didn’t actually know anything for sure until now. ‘I just don’t know how to let him go. That’s the part I am grappling with.’
‘You have to keep reminding yourself that it’s the right thing. That in four months’ time you will have reached a slightly higher level of acceptance. Then in four more, the pain won’t be nearly as sharp as it is today . . .’
‘I can’t decide if I should feel angry at him!’ I throw up my hands. ‘Should I? Would you?’
‘If you even have to ask me that, then you’re not angry. Not really.’ She studies me with eyes full of understanding. ‘From what you’ve told me of him, he did a hurtful thing, but he didn’t do it to intentionally hurt you. I think he’s probably a good man at heart, even though, of course, he could have perhaps handled it differently. But we could all handle things differently.’