The Hollow Heart Part 3

A Stranger Calls

She telephoned Paul as soon as she thought he might be awake. He was still in bed. He had gone to the party, which had turned out to be rowdier than expected and with good reason he considered, had put himself the other side of two bottles of cheap red wine, a kebab and a very large gla.s.s of port.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Hmmmm."

"Sorry... Did I really p.i.s.s you off?"

"Hmm hmm."

"Sorry... I was feeling really sorry for myself."

"Erm?"

"Sorry you had to bear the brunt."

Silence.

"Really sorry."

Silence.

"Will you come round later for a drink?"

" I'll never drink again......." Said a thin voice. The line went dead.

Marianne had heard this all before, so invited Paul round for dinner anyway. As the day brightened, so did she. Her night-long vigil had helped put lots of things into perspective. Last night she thought she would never forgive George for keeping his illness a secret, feeling again that awful gall, the gnawing of deceit, the fear that she had been taken in, betrayed. Yet as a new day dawned, she knew she would forgive, had forgiven.

George had considered he was doing the right thing, for the right reasons. His was not a true deceit, just a delaying tactic while he tied up loose ends. He would have told her, in his own time, when the time was right. George had truly loved her, she had truly known love. George deserved to be forgiven, unconditionally.

She sat up in the middle of her large, lonely bed and took a long lingering look at the photograph of them in the silver frame, taken at the National Media Awards, when they had first met. There they were smiling and shiny at the very beginning of their love affair and here she was alone, at the very end.

She touched George's face with the tip of her finger. Monty sc.r.a.ped at the door, he needed to go out. He looked at her, moving his tail steadily from side to side in antic.i.p.ation. She smiled. The velocity of his tail increased, she had not stretched her face at him in ages.

Paul arrived at six sharp; fully recovered and back on speaking terms. He brought wine, smoked haddock and olives. He also brought the latest edition of the Chesterford Chronicle, presenting her with the entertainment supplement; a social life was in dire need of rest.i.tution. The aroma of furniture polish and fresh coffee mingled pleasingly, a real fire glowed in the grate. It felt more like number seventy four, more like George and Marianne's home. It felt the best it had since George died.

Marianne gave him a huge hug. He was surprised. Since George's death she had withdrawn from all physical contact, if an embrace were offered, she would just stand there, stiffly, being hugged but tonight she hugged him right back. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, eyes that were still sad but not as haunted. Looking into her eyes he saw Marianne, not George's ghost. He kissed her forehead, she was going to be alright; the mist had started to disperse.

Monty, sensing a lifting of spirit, snuffled carrier bags excitedly, it was a long time since something approaching delicious had been served in this house.

"We could go and see something hilarious, frivolous and irreverent, the Comedy Festival's in full swing," Paul offered.

"Great, nothing stuffy though, I don't want to have to make an effort, if we can wear jeans and drink beer, that would be perfect," she called from the kitchen.

Monty turned to face the hall. He padded to the doorway giving Marianne the one yap and twitch of nose that meant there was a stranger in the vicinity. She put the cafetiere down as the doorbell sounded, signalling Monty to stay.

Marianne's former boss, the publisher, Daniel Jacobs, stood in the hallway. Marianne closed the door behind him; she had not seen him for ages. He was immaculately dressed as always, yet today he looked a little piqued, his usual sparkle diminished. Marianne was intrigued, she knew Daniel well enough to know he would never arrive unannounced.

"I wasn't expecting you," Marianne said lightly. She had always admired him, they had been close colleagues. It was Daniel who had given her the commission in Paris. It was also Daniel who had helped pick up the pieces when she returned from France. A cup was laid against a saucer in the sitting room, a soft c.h.i.n.k.

Daniel turned to go.

"You have company, I'm sorry."

Marianne shrugged, she pushed open the door. Paul's sandy head was level with Monty's as they wrestled on the rug, Monty grumbling as Paul tugged at a rolled up magazine. Daniel nodded towards the neat bottom in faded denims.

"Paul, Daniel." Marianne announced. Paul turned quickly, upending his empty cup on the hearth. He caught it and beamed at them both.

"We've met before," he crossed the room in an easy stride, "one of Marianne's many awards dinners. I was very drunk and sang My Way badly after the band had finished."

"I remember." Daniel raised a brow, teasing him.

"Wish I didn't." Paul laughed and so did he.

He clocked Marianne's death stare.

"Just taking Monty for a spin in the garden, leave you to it." He left with the little dog trotting beside him, perfectly happy with the arrangement.

Marianne poured her ex-boss a gla.s.s of wine. Daniel took a sip, standing at the fireplace, taking in the room.

"You have such lovely taste, Marianne. Artistic. Where did that come from?"

"A lot of it was George, once you cleared away the clutter, he had some lovely pieces." She joined Daniel in a drink, and waited.

"It's Claude."

Marianne stifled a sigh.

"He's very ill. I saw him just a few hours ago, he was asking for you. He's been trying to get in touch with all of us, to say goodbye."

Just out of range, Marianne thought she saw the edge of a blade, looked like a scythe. Oh, hi death, you still here? Always comes in threes, she heard in her head.

Marianne polished off her drink.

"Oh Daniel, Claude's nothing to do with me, hasn't been for a hundred years."

Daniel took a deep breath and put his gla.s.s down. The past divided them, yet united them at the same time. In another life, while working in Paris, Marianne had fallen for Daniel's best friend, Claude. The match, Marianne, a hungry young journalist, and he a well-known photographer, had been the talk of the town.

For Marianne it had been a terrible mistake, although fun at first, Claude had quickly reverted to his old ways, spending money like water and conducting a series of affairs with a string of models. Claude had given Marianne more than just heartache.

Nevertheless, Marianne had adored him and, believing his promise of marriage, stood by him, until the evidence of his unfaithfulness was irrefutable in the form of a very pregnant, young a.s.sistant. Distraught and desperate to distance herself from the shame of a failed relationship, despite the many warnings and the inevitable pity of friends and colleagues, she left the sprawling Left Bank apartment they shared, abruptly. As a celebrity photographer, she had hoped Claude's PR would quash any leaks to the press but on hearing the news, one of his ex-conquests decided her career needed a boost and went to the media with sordid tales of drug-fuelled, s.e.x romps. To witness at first hand the rancour of the media and see your private life sordidly splashed across the centre pages, had deeply affected Marianne. She vowed there and then to use her skills as a journalist only for good, to campaign for justice and expose wrongdoing wherever and whenever she could.

Marianne returned to England, taking the first job offered, convincing herself that sometimes it was just as easy to let go; see which way the wind blew and where fate would take you if you just let it. She had found it quite easy to reinvent herself as an ambitious, unattached, workaholic. A new career, in a new town, where no-one knew she had been the girlfriend of a glamorous celebrity.

She had blotted out Claude and the memories, because when she did think of him and their brief happiness, she could not help but relive the pain of packing her possessions into boxes, remembering how she had felt, as the boxes filled and she had emptied. Now he was dying. Marianne remained untouched. The girl he had betrayed gone forever. She had moved on, developed a sh.e.l.l, the legacy of their relationship a half-forgotten nightmare, an echo of another time.

"I really don't think..." she said quietly. Besides it was ancient history, Claude had married his a.s.sistant and they had children now, he had another life too.

"I understand," Daniel was abrupt, moving out into the hallway. "You've been through too much lately, losing George and everything. But Claude's one of my closest friends Marianne and he specifically asked to speak to you, so I said I'd try."

The Grandfather clock chimed.

"Does he want to speak to me now?"

"There's very little time, I've come straight from the airport."

Marianne caught his pain. She called to Paul in the garden.

"I'm going into the study with Daniel, we have some important business to discuss. We'll be a while." Dusk was falling. Monty was in Paul's arms as he sat on the swing tied to the chestnut, growing precariously close to the house. He nodded and waved.

"I'll walk Monty and make a bit of supper for later, no worries, will Daniel stay and eat?"

"Not tonight." Marianne replied.

"Seems nice," Daniel said, as they made their way to the study, "young, but nice."

"It's not like that with Paul," Marianne sniped, and was immediately sorry for her sharpness. "Not like that with anyone now," she ended softly.

Daniel went to pick up the landline.

"Where is he?" Marianne asked.

"In a hospice, outside Paris," Daniel replied.

"What's it like, so I can imagine it when I speak to him, I won't know what to talk about."

"It's very pleasant, his room is filled with flowers and soft music, not in the way of funeral parlours, but more like a home from home."

"A home to die from," she said.

Daniel continued.

"It looks directly onto the garden, there's a fountain in a courtyard. His bed is large, and piled with cushions; drawings by the children are stuck on the walls and there's a cl.u.s.ter of some of his best photographs, in frames, on a table where he can see them. There's a beautiful picture of you."

That hurt, for some reason.

"Is there a pretty young nurse?" she asked.

"Of course," Daniel replied.

"Good, okay dial the number." She stood by the desk, fiddling with a strand of hair.

She closed her eyes trying to remember the Claude she had fallen in love with; his dark green eyes, flecked with gold; eyes that always reminded her of a majestic cat; eyes that lit up whenever he saw her. She tried not to imagine this dying stranger, this poor man she did not know or care about. It took ages to finally get through.

"You rang, thank goodness you rang," he whispered dryly, although the voice racked with illness, was not his, "how are you?" he hissed.

"Good," she whispered back.

"I bet you still look good, you always did."

She left the air blank.

"Thank you for ringing, I'm so happy to hear your voice, you have no idea what this means to me." His words were rasping; his breathing laboured.

"Take your time, Claude. I'm not going anywhere. Are you okay? Are you comfortable?"

"I'm fine, absolutely fine and happy now that we have this chance to talk. I have meant to speak to you so many times, and now there's not much time." He stopped, breathless, she heard him take a drink. She sat on the edge of the desk, Daniel had moved away, discreetly reading a book in a corner. Her hands were trembling; she had forgotten his beautiful accent; the perfect English with the hint of France.

"Claude, I'm so sorry," she said.

"No, no Marianne. I'm sorry. So sorry, you'll never know. That's why I asked Daniel to make sure I could speak to you. Please believe me. I'm really sorry, for everything," he gasped, and then silence. He took another drink.

"It was a long time ago, Claude." It was all she could think of to say.

"Marianne, I need you to forgive me," he said, louder this time, with a cry in his voice, "Say you forgive me."

She did not answer.

"Forgive me, please, I need you to forgive and then I can pa.s.s in peace," he was pleading.

She held the telephone away from her ear and looked at the handset, hardly believing what he had just asked of her. She glanced quickly at Daniel and then replaced the receiver slowly; finally, making sure Claude heard her do it.

Daniel closed the book and came to join her at the desk.

"Thank you, he'll pa.s.s more peacefully now," Daniel whispered, touching her shoulder, imagining Marianne too filled with emotion to speak.

Marianne closed the front door softly after saying goodbye to Daniel. Paul had left candles burning everywhere and the newly fitted French doors to the garden were open to the cold night air. Marianne poured herself a drink. A yellow post-it on the microwave door bore the message, 'Ping if you're hungry' in Paul's handwriting. She kicked off her shoes and wandered into the sitting room.

Paul and Monty lay curled up together, fast asleep on the sofa. Monty lifted an eyebrow and waddled off the couch to greet her. Paul stirred. A yellow post-it on his mouth, 'Please remove to kiss', another on the fly of his jeans, 'Please remove and ravage me'. He had clearly had far too much wine.

She left the notes where they were, tousled his sandy head in a brief goodnight and made her weary way upstairs. Monty followed, leaving Paul on the sofa. Her feelings had altered, the grief had shifted. She had not felt so brittle or bitter in years. She cleaned her teeth, yet her mouth still tasted metallic, it was as if she had spent the entire evening chewing tinfoil.

Daniel left a message giving details of Claude's funeral a few days later. If she were ever asked, Marianne would pretend she had never received it. Claude had been dead to her for years. She erased the message and turned to Monty, who was spinning in an excited circle, antic.i.p.ating his walk.

"Do you know what?" she asked him, clipping on his lead. "Just lately, I feel as if I've had enough death to last me a lifetime!" She threw open the door, striding down the pathway, leaving the gate ajar, so all the negative vibes could swirl out into the street and dissipate before her return.