“Of course.”
“I was wondering if Callie could come out with me for half an hour or so.”
“Yes, yes . . . we’re not busy—that’s totally fine.”
We went back to the Albany—only for coffee (her) and hot chocolate (me) because it was 11:00 a.m., not lunchtime. I was bracing myself, preparing to come clean and admit to everything, to confess that I’d stolen the memory stick, read her letter to me. I didn’t know exactly how far I’d go—to tell her about Scarlet, and my fears that Felix had been murdered, seemed too much at this stage, while her grief was raw . . . I sipped my hot chocolate and was about to launch into my speech, when:
“Callie, I’ve been making decisions . . . I’ve been so low, crying and crying, even thinking about taking an overdose—killing myself.”
She was making a tremendous effort to get her words out fast, speaking with a hollow, breathy urgency, all the time tracing shapes on the table with her finger.
“I miss him so much.”
She was bent up, staring at me so hard.
“And it’s so much worse when I’m at Curzon Street. He made it his place—choosing everything—the colors of the walls and the floors, the art, the bed, even the crockery and the cutlery. I walk around the place and I see him everywhere—cooking that damned squid in the kitchen, watching movies with us, lying in bed, and I can scarcely breathe—his ghost is in the brickwork there. And I’m not consoled by his presence—like those people who keep dead relatives’ rooms just as they were left, like a shrine. I’m fucking tormented by it. . . . Everything that tells me that he was there, tells me also that he’s gone. Forever.”
She tried to pull herself upright but couldn’t manage it.
“Anyhow, Callie. Here’s the thing. I’ve decided to leave England. I’m going to LA, to see if I can break into movies there. I’ve spoken to an American agent who says I have a good chance, because of the scripts that are already being sent to me because of Rebecca, and also my role in Envy should help. You remember I told you about that? It’s the one that reminded me of Single White Female. And this American agent says he can also help find me a good place to live in LA!”
She sounded wasted and manic at the same time.
“It’s the best way forward for me . . . I need to move on. Not to forget Felix, of course. But to honor him by doing good work. Really honor him. Demanding roles in good films—the sort of thing that would have made him proud of me.”
I was so surprised that my brain felt numb. Eventually, I managed: “I don’t understand. . . . How long will you be gone?”
“Oh, as long as it takes!” She spoke in a way that suggested a long sweep into the far future.
My thoughts stumbled towards practical things, obstacles. “Don’t you need a green card?”
“It’s fine—Felix was American. And I’m his wife. Anyhow—it’s easy with acting, if you’re offered a good part. It’s international.”
“What about money?”
“I can sell Curzon Street if I need to. But, in the short term, you can move in there. It’s so much nicer than your flat.”
“You mean you’re leaving soon?”
“Yes . . . I can’t stand being here much longer. . . . As I say, it’s ripping me apart, being alone in that flat.”
“But that will look so bad. He dies, you leave.”
“For fuck’s sake. I don’t care how it looks. I don’t care! I’m falling apart—and I need to save myself.” Her desperation was obvious now.
But still I said, “Tilda . . . please don’t go! I’ll miss you too much.”
She got up and came round to my side of the table and gave me the deepest, warmest hug I’ve ever had from her. I sensed the enormity of her decision. She wanted to sever herself from everything, from England, from Curzon Street and from me. Inside, I was screaming, This cannot happen!
“I know you’ll miss me, little one. But I’ll be in touch. And I’ll come home sometimes. . . . Come on . . . chip, chip.”
“Can I come and see you?”
“Maybe . . . maybe, yes.” It sounded like no.
“I’m going next week. I’ll get a spare key from Eva, and you can move in.”
I didn’t tell her that I already had the spare key. I just sat silently, in shock, struggling to understand.
43
Tilda left for Los Angeles, and I moved into Curzon Street. Before I’d even unpacked, I went to the linen cupboard, rooting around, feeling for my fix. The memory stick was in its home—the corner of the last pillowcase in the pile. So I extracted it, plugged it into my laptop, and was instantly rewarded:
Yes, Callie, I know you’re reading this. I know you go through my things, looking for morsels of me to eat, searching for clues about my life, and you’d never miss my favorite hiding place. You think you know me, that you’re under my skin—but I know you better!
I have one last message for you, little sister—let matters lie; stop your relentless prying. You think there’s some mystery to solve about my life, but there isn’t; I’m just a woman who’s lost her husband—a grieving widow. Allow me that. Felix was a charismatic, flawed control freak who died tragically because of a random, cruel, idiotic heart defect. Yes, he was dangerous; yes, he manipulated me emotionally—I can see that now that he’s gone—and it might have been me who died first. But that’s all over, and I need to move on.
Try to support my decisions. I’ll have a new life, and new roles—my American agent is excited about my prospects in LA. . . . I’ll be able to lose myself in work, and maybe achieve some real success. It will be such a relief after the trauma of Felix’s death. I’m hoping to do a fair amount of nothing also; lounging about in a villa in the Hollywood Hills, catching up on sleep, swimming in my pool, maybe I’ll even try to meditate!
As for you, Callie. Nurture your own life now; think about your own ambitions. Go on—try to rustle up some! You can do it! And my offer stands—if you need therapy I’ll pay for it, and you can stay in Curzon Street as long as you like—I don’t mind paying the bills. I can afford it, Felix’s money will come to me. He was too young to have made as many millions as he wanted, but there’s enough—for both of us.
So realize that our old lives are over—and that the future has begun.
Tilda x