A Hopeless Romantic Part 6

As the door slammed behind him, Yorky turned to his flatmate with an exasperated expression. "You're awake. At last! I didn't know where you'd gone. You've been asleep all day, you know?"

"Yes," said Laura, walking toward her room. She stood in the doorway. "I'm going back to bed. I don't know when I'm coming out again. Go after Becky, Yorks. Ask her out. And when you get back, if anyone calls, tell them I'm not here."

"Laura-" Yorky was gazing at her with a plaintive expression.

"Sorry, Yorks," she said.

"But-"

"Leave me alone," said Laura, a sob rising in her throat, batting her hand at Yorky. "I'm so tired." She said it almost to herself. "I just want to sleep. Just leave me alone."

Laura went back to bed. She ate the food she could eat without leaving the bed. The wine she left-it wasn't a screw-top and she couldn't face getting the corkscrew from the kitchen. She ate a Crunchie bar in two mouthfuls. She was too tired to read the paper. She picked it up and scanned it, but the story about a school of orphans in Zimbabwe made her cry again, so she threw the paper on the floor and turned over, facing the wall, tears rolling across her face.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

"Laura?" came a voice tentatively. Laura opened her eyes, but said nothing.

"It's me," said Yorky. "Look. Are you okay?"

Laura chewed her lip, praying he wouldn't come in, banking on a bloke's natural aversion to crying women. This was particularly strong in Yorky, sweet though he was in other ways.

"What's wrong, Laura? I'm...I'm worried about you!"

Laura pulled the duvet over her head as tears filled her eyes again.

"Look," he said, "I'm going out now. I don't want to bother you. I'm not going to come in. Will you just say 'Yes' to let me know you're alive and you haven't been attacked or anything?"

It was a good tactic. Laura patted the duvet away feebly with her hands, and said quietly, "Yes."

"Right," came Yorky's voice, sounding relieved. "Look, darling. I'm sorry about whatever's happened. Is it Dan?"

"Yes," Laura said. "Don't. Don't worry."

She didn't know why she said it, except she really didn't want Yorky thinking she was actually dying or something. It was her problem, not his, poor man.

Yorky said cheerily, "Oh. Well, you'll sort it out, I'm sure. I know you, Laura! You know what you want, don't you?"

Getting no answer, he said, "Well, bye, then," and seconds later Laura heard the front door slam. She lay there quietly for a moment, then put a pillow over her head and screamed, as hoa.r.s.ely and loudly as she could, till the urge to shout had gone out of her and she was crying quietly again, until she fell asleep.

All through Sunday, Laura slept or lay in bed, feeling sorry for herself, not moving. She didn't have anything to do, and she had absolutely no one to answer to, and all she wanted to do was hate herself a little bit more, and the solution to that seemed to be to lie festering in a hot, sweaty bed, with greasy hair and greasy fingernails and skin, feeling achy and uncomfortable. She just wanted to be alone, to feel as totally rotten as it is possible to feel, to push herself far away from the hopeful, deluded girl who ran out to see Dan every week with smooth, silky, tanned legs and clean, shiny hair.

She slept fitfully, and she kept dreaming. She dreamed she was running to tell Dan something, but she couldn't get to him; though her legs were long and she was running as fast as she could, she never seemed to make it any farther. She dreamed Dan was lying next to her, his arms wrapped around her, and that he was kissing her neck, her shoulders. She dreamed he had texted her to tell her it was all a mistake, but each time she woke up and checked her phone, there was nothing.

Early on Monday morning, she was awake, gazing around the room, looking at the detritus of her self-incarceration through the gray haze cast by the curtains. By this time Laura had been in her room for more than two days, and she was starting to freak herself out. But the thing about self-loathing is it stops you from taking the smallest of steps to make yourself feel better-even tying your hair back in a ponytail, or opening the window for some fresh air. She desperately wanted to get up, get out of bed, have a shower, but she couldn't. It was easier to lie here and not do anything. She couldn't go in and talk to Yorky. He'd told her all along she was stupid for carrying on with Dan! She couldn't tell her parents; the shock of the whole sorry mess would kill them. She couldn't call Jo, though she desperately wanted her wise, sanguine best friend's advice. Of course she couldn't call her-imagine what she'd say!

She thought about what she had to do now, and the enormity of it overwhelmed her. Fix things, fix things left, right, and center. And then, in the middle of it all, get over this man.

When she looked down the months to come, long Dan-less months of not sharing things with him, not telling him things, not being with him, her stomach clenched in sharp pain and her heart beat so loudly in her chest she felt it might burst. It was over. And so was that part of herself. When she thought about how she'd misjudged the situation, how she'd run ahead and fallen in love with him without stopping to look at whether he was the person she thought he was-well, she wanted to kick herself. Except this wasn't the first time, and she knew enough to recognize that she'd done it before. One thing was for sure, though: It was the last time.

Yes, the last time she'd fall like that. Absolutely the last time. A clean slate. A smooth, glowy feeling washed through Laura, stopping the cramps in her stomach. A clean slate, a project, someone to be, a new her. She looked past the gray-blue curtains at the crack that let the sunlight in. Yes, the good feeling persisted. She would be someone new. That was the only way to be. She was going to change.

The sun was growing brighter. Laura swallowed, tasting a bitter, moldy fur on her tongue. She sat up, her hands on her knees, and was considering what to do with this newfound zeal-whether to convert it into something by taking the first of a thousand small steps and jumping in the shower, or whether to lie back and think about it some more. What should she do? The energy of the question fazed her, and she probably would have lain back down and closed her eyes again when, thank G.o.d, fate intervened.

Laura didn't know which happened first, the sight of it or the sound, but as she was sliding back down under the duvet, there was a sickening thump and the window flew into a million pieces, hitting the curtains, and a pigeon hurtled in and landed on the bed at Laura's feet. Dead. Or dying.

It took a few seconds before Laura realized the person screaming loudly was her, her first spontaneous action of the last two days. She couldn't move. She sat staring and screaming at this twitching, bloodied pigeon, its feathers scraggly and ugly, its red-pink wormlike claws convulsing on her duvet, as Yorky burst into the room.

"Stop!" shouted Laura. "Don't come any farther! There's gla.s.s on the floor-STOP!!!"

Yorky slid to a halt, inches from a huge, dagger-shaped shard of gla.s.s. "f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k me!" he yelled. "What the f.u.c.k! Laura! What have you done!"

The pigeon twitched again. Laura suddenly heard her mother's voice saying, every time she wanted to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square or Piccadilly Circus, "They're flying rats, dear. Vermin. Crawling with fleas and G.o.d knows what else."

"Get away from me!" she said incoherently to the pigeon. "f.u.c.k! Off!"

Yorky calmed down before she did. He looked from the broken window, where the curtains were fluttering plaintively in the summer breeze, across the path of devastation wrought by the flying gla.s.s in a shower across the floor, to the bed where the pigeon lay a couple of feet from Laura, who was surrounded by feathers, blood, and gla.s.s, as well as crisp packets, cans, chocolate wrappers, and bits of paper. He said slowly, "I think you should get out of there. Where are your slippers?"

"Don't know," said Laura helplessly. "I don't wear them in summer. They're too hot."

"Oh, good grief," said Yorky. "Flip-flops?"

"I don't know," said Laura. "Oh-there." She pointed at her chest of drawers below the window, which was covered in gla.s.s, and below it a collection of gla.s.s-strewn flip-flops.

"Wait there," said Yorky, and he trotted lightly down the corridor, returning with a pair of Wellington boots that he used for fishing trips (last year's Yorky craze).

"I'm going to throw them gingerly at you," he said.

Laura looked at him. "What does 'throw them gingerly at you' mean?" she said crossly. "Just throw them. Don't knock me out. And don't-urgh! Oh, Yorky-urgh. Don't throw them at the pigeon. Urgh!"

Yorky had prided himself on his spin bowling at school, and indeed was reckoned to be rather good at it. He tossed each wellie in the air, and miraculously each landed, in a slow, spinning arc, in Laura's outstretched hands. She pulled them on and climbed out of bed. Stepping around the gla.s.s and rubbish by her bed, she leaped across the mound of it at the bottom, and landed next to Yorky by the door.

"Er..." she said, not knowing how to ask. "Yorky...?"

Yorky stepped forward and gently picked up the dead pigeon. He dropped it into Laura's wastepaper basket, and picked up the bin.

"Cup of tea?" he said.

"Yes," said Laura. She pulled her hair back and tied it into a ponytail. "Yes, yes please."

"Going to buy a new duvet and bin?" said Yorky as he pulled the bedroom door firmly shut behind them.

"Oh, you bet."

It was Yorky's last week of term, so he left for work a while later, by which time they had had several cups of tea, called a glazier (Laura), deposited the pigeon in some newspaper and a bag in the rubbish bins outside (Yorky), donned rubber gloves and begun the work of-once again gingerly-collecting each piece of gla.s.s that had managed to spray itself remarkably widely around Laura's room (Laura). By the time the glazier showed up after lunch, Laura had showered and dressed and had stripped the bed and washed her sheets. She threw away the duvet; she knew it was wrong and a waste of the world's resources, but it was almost fetid and covered in dead pigeon. There was no way she'd ever sleep under it again, she knew.

The glazier was a short, squat man who looked as if he had been born in blue dungarees. He was called Jan Kowolczyk.

"Well, well," he said, when Laura came to check on him after a little while. "Nearly finished here, young lady, then all will be good as new again."

Laura nodded. She agreed. It was all part of it, she knew, her feeling of having been evangelically cleansed. She had had her time in the wilderness, and A Sign had come to her to show her The Way. Sure, it was a disease-ridden pigeon, and it had almost given her a heart attack, but she had felt and interpreted its symbolism as keenly as if she were an A-level student reading Emily Bronte for the first time. And she knew what she was going to do next.

"Thank you," said Laura, smoothing down her long black linen skirt and then clasping her hands lightly in front of her. Her hair was clean and soft, tied up in a neat ponytail that brushed the back of her neck. The breeze through the window blew gently across her face and chest. She felt so in control now. She glanced around the room, her eye falling on the bookshelf piled high with her own books and videos, the self-indulgent ones she daren't have out in the sitting room. It was an unspoken agreement between her and Yorky. The G.o.dfather and This Is Spinal Tap were out in the sitting room, along with various thrillers and cla.s.sics and the usual clutter of shared possessions. But each flatmate kept his or her own personal tastes to the bedroom. So Yorky's room had all his weird sci-fi and fantasy novels, his Buffy and Angel boxed sets, while Laura kept all her Georgette Heyer novels and her romantic comedy videos in her room.

She looked at them affectionately, the rows of pink and purple plastic video box covers and the lines of paperback books, their spines cracked with repeated rereading. An idea came into her head, one so terrible she shrank from putting it into action; but she realized that to make a fresh start, she would have to. She gazed unseeingly at these architects of her doom. Really, she could blame them for a lot of what had happened. Putting ideas in her head. She needed a different role model now. Perhaps she didn't need them anymore. Perhaps-no, that was a bit too extreme, wasn't it?

Her eye fell upon an old hardback of Rebecca at the end of the shelf, and she picked it up, idly leafing through the pages. Maybe it was time to read it again. She needed cheering up. Laura adored Rebecca; it was one of her favorite books. She loved the poor, unnamed Mrs. de Winter with a pa.s.sion, wanted to be her, and desperately loathed evil Rebecca, whom she saw in her mind's eye as looking very much like Amy. And Maxim...well, he was the embodiment of everything a romantic hero should be, in every way. Brooding, dark, pa.s.sionate, brusque-just perfect. And she- Laura brought herself up short. The breeze through the window picked up and she suddenly felt her blood run cold, as Mr. Kowolczyk whistled quietly in the corner.

That's it. You see? she said to herself. This is why you're in so much trouble. Get a grip! Mrs. de Winter was a complete idiot! She should have married some nice banker from Cheam and lived a nondescript life with him instead of falling head over heels in love with Max de Winter, driving around Monte Carlo, weeping hopelessly over people, and fleeing burning buildings. There, right there, was a symbol of what she was doing wrong. She, Laura Foster, would not behave like that anymore. She would emulate someone else instead. Mrs. Danvers, in fact. The good old reliable housekeeper.

At this idea, Laura felt her heart beat faster. Yes, Mrs. Danvers. Okay, she was a bit mad. In fact, you could call her a homicidal maniac with an obsession for a dead person, namely Rebecca, and an unpleasant penchant for appearing silently in doorways. And pyromania. But-but, Laura thought, as this idea took root, at least she wasn't a fool. She was neatly dressed, ran the house beautifully, moved silently, and was always in control of her emotions. It was so true, Laura couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before. Mrs. Danvers was the kind of person one would do best to follow. Mrs. Danvers knew keeping the house in order was best. Keeping yourself busy. Putting aside bad things. Having respect for one's friends and family. Okay, perhaps sometimes in a rather extreme way. But it was as good a place to start as any. As Laura ran through the list of broken fences she had to mend, she felt slightly sick, and then suddenly she realized what she had to do, whom she had to see. Not just because she ought to, but because she actually wanted to.

chapter ten.

S o, just before lunchtime, Laura rang the doorbell of Mary's flat.

"It's me," she said nervously, when the well-known, rather imperious voice of her grandmother said, "Yes?" over the intercom. "Your long-lost granddaughter, come to reintroduce herself to you."

"Goodness gracious," said Mary. "This is a surprise. Come up, darling, come up."

Laura had walked a lot of the way, enjoying being outside amongst the normal people and not in her head. But now she was tired, her early enthusiasm waning, and she felt naked and exposed, being out in the normal world again. She kind of wanted to go back to bed, but stiffened her sinews and climbed the stairs to the third floor. There in the doorway, a gin and tonic in her hand and a smile on her face, was her grandmother.

Mary Fielding was still as beautiful at eighty-four as she had been thirty years before. She carried her age with an elegance that owed nothing to expensive clothes or fine airs. She could tap-dance, she could sew, she adored Elvis and Clint Eastwood films, and she spoke five languages. She was the best grandmother, all in all, and as Laura saw her standing there, she knew she'd been right to come.

"It's been far too long," she said as Laura came toward her. "You're practically a stranger, darling." She saw Laura's face. "Good grief. What's happened?"

"Everything," mumbled Laura, wiping her nose inelegantly on her hand. "I'm sorry I've been so c.r.a.p, Gran. I haven't seen you for ages."

"No," said Mary, "but you're here now. Let's get you a drink. Come inside and tell me all about it."

Laura sat on the gray velvet sofa, a drink in her hand, not knowing how to start or what to say next. She was feeling infinitely calmer now she was inside Mary's tidy, crowded flat, crammed with mementos of her old life with Xan. She looked around the room, thinking briefly how much it reminded her of all of her life, more in a way than her parents' house in Harrow, where she'd grown up. The photos on the wall; the drawings that each of them had done as children in a clip frame above Mary's writing desk; the tusks and knickknacks; Xan's pipe in the corner of the room-legacies of a life spent together, crammed into this flat for one person.

"I'm sorry I haven't been by for ages," she said awkwardly, breaking the silence.

"Me too," said Mary. "Well, you're here now, darling."

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"Of course I do, if you want to tell me," Mary said, lowering herself into the chair next to the sofa. She looked across at her granddaughter.

Laura clutched the wide base of her tumbler, feeling the ice cool her hand. She looked out the window at the identical apartment building opposite, down toward where she had just been walking. Through the open window, the sun was shining and the purr of early-afternoon traffic sounded in the distance. From the balcony upstairs, she could hear the sound of laughter.

"Jasper and his boyfriend-they've just got back from Skye," Mary explained. Her upstairs neighbor, Jasper Davidson, was a painter.

"Right," said Laura, even then amused by the comings and goings of the inhabitants of Crecy Court. Mary took another sip of her drink, and looked expectantly at her granddaughter. Laura shifted in her chair.

"Okay. Shoot," said Mary, who had a fondness for the early oeuvre of Clint Eastwood.

"Well-I've messed everything up," Laura said calmly. "And I don't know what to do."

Mary leaned forward in her chair, her earrings glinting in the sunlight. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that," she said. "Now, my love, suppose you tell me about it, and we'll see what we can do."

"It is bad," said Laura. "The worst."

"Well, you're still alive. I'm still alive. I got a postcard from Simon in some small village in Peru today, so clearly he is still alive, and when I spoke to your mother an hour ago, she and your father were still alive, so that's not true, is it, darling? Come on," she said, crossing her capri-pant-clad legs. "I'll just sit here, and you tell me in your own time, how about that?"

So Laura told her, absolutely everything, safe in the knowledge that her grandmother wouldn't judge her or frown or be shocked. As she finished, culminating in the dinner at the Newman Pie Room, the retreat to the bedroom, and the pigeon, there were tears running down her cheeks again.

"I'm sorry," Laura said, trying to breathe properly. "I just...G.o.d."

Mary smiled at her granddaughter. She put her smooth hand under Laura's chin and wiped away a tear with her thumb.

"My darling girl," she said. "Stop crying. Stop it. From what you tell me, I imagine you have had the luckiest of escapes. Now, dry your eyes, and sit still, and I'll get you another drink. It's over now, don't you see? Isn't that wonderful?"

"What?" said Laura, wondering what on earth she could mean. "It's not wonderful. I feel like a complete fool. I've lost my best friend, I've lost my job, I've behaved like an idiot."

"I think it is wonderful," said Mary, standing up. She went into the kitchen. "You fell in love, well, that's wonderful. All right, it was with completely the wrong man. But it's over now, and the best of it is, no more secrets. No more living your life in half shadow, which is what it seems to me you've been doing these last few months."

"Yes," said Laura, staring into the gloom of the kitchen. "I hadn't thought of it like that. But-I'm always doing it, always falling for the wrong person. I'm so stupid."

"No, you're not," said Mary. "You just haven't met the right one yet. And until then, at least you're not lying to everyone you know anymore."

"I know," Laura said. She squirmed a bit in her seat. "But...I know this sounds awful, but..."

"What?" said Mary.

"I quite liked all of that," Laura confessed. "The secrecy. The drama of it. If I'm completely honest, I think that was partly it. Isn't that awful? That's what makes me feel so bad about it all. What a nasty person I must be."

It was dreadful, when she thought about it with the tiniest bit of hindsight, to admit this was the case. That a small part of herself was such a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t, so enjoyed putting herself through all of this. That she liked hearing sad songs on the radio and staring gloomily out the window late at night. The tears in her eyes as she walked home of an evening, thinking about how much she loved him and how great they were together. It was so adolescent.

"Laura, darling, every woman does it at some point in her life," said Mary. "You're not a nasty person. You're an honest person. You've absolutely shown how incompetent you are at cloak-and-dagger stuff, my love, and that's wonderful, too. It's not in your nature, Laura, it never has been. You've always been honest, since you were a tiny thing. It's best that way."

"It's boring that way," said Laura.

There was silence from the kitchen. Laura thought maybe her grandmother hadn't heard her.

"I mean, it's such a boring way to live your life," she said.

Mary appeared in the doorway, holding two more gin and tonics. She set them down on the raffia mat at the center of the coffee table. She put her hand on Laura's shoulder.

"Darling, never say that." She spoke quietly. "Never say that. Living an honest life is the best gift anyone can have, believe me."

She sat down heavily in the wicker chair.