Late Valentine Ch. 02

In-between the two tall, well-dressed school friends, a tall, handsome woman. Ginny. As dark-haired as Rob, her arm draped on his, leaning into him a little. Looking so assured, the rise of her full belly pushing against the pale shift dress; a tiny Grace already making herself known to the world. The look captured between her and Rob full of an easy familiarity and a deeper intimacy that seems so obvious. His look a hard-boiled adoration. A look I hadn't liked to linger over, even though, sitting there with Mariusz, my eyes had returned to it over and over again. Was I imagining the element of control she, Ginny, seemed to display in the expression on her face? I thought back to our exchange earlier, in Rob's bed, about what we could see in each other's eyes. And perhaps I was just being fanciful. 'Too much imagination' is how my mother would reprimand me.

But, still. My eyes had kept on returning to those photographs on the wall. Wondering. Did John know? Not know? Suspect? The look captured on his face so open, so innocently happy.

Rob hasn't moved from the couch. I brush the back of his hand.

'Hey, I have to remind myself to shut my big mouth from time to time, so don't be afraid to tell me if I'm going places you don't want to go Rob. Just tell me to butt out.'

'No. It's ok, Elizabeth.'

But he looks a little pensive. So I shut myself up. Families are, as he said last night, very complicated places.

+++

It's not that I hadn't thought she would look gorgeous tonight. Not with Nadia on the case. But the reality has robbed me of the power of sensible speech. She laughs at me while I run my fingers along the folds of fabric that grace her neckline, over her shoulders and down her back.

'I can see you really like it Rob, but I'm not sure if 'it' is the dress, or how I look in the dress.'

I can't quite meet her eyes, suddenly terribly self-conscious about showing her how I'm feeling.

'Hey, I'm just teasing,' she says with real warmth. 'I can't believe I'm wearing a dress like this. The colour alone! I mean, do you know how rare it is to not be told that the perfect colour for someone with this hair is a royal blue or an emerald green? I mean, seriously?'

I manage to smile back, swallowing the catch in my throat before it rushes out with words I'm sure to regret saying out loud. Instead I kiss her cheek and whisper that she'll be the most beautiful woman in all of London tonight, which is just silly enough to make her smile and blush all at the same time.

But as we walk down streets full of late shoppers and early drinkers towards Kensington, I can't help but feel as if I've ducked away from something important.

+++

The grip of his fingers through mine tightens and tightens until, by the time we're stepping into the museum foyer, it's uncomfortable. But I don't want him to let go. Because I know something I said earlier has gotten under his skin. Something uncomfortable. I'm happy he still wants to hold my hand.

'Right then, in we go,' he mutters under his breath as we step into the elegant central hall bathed in the most beautiful light, a barrage of delighted shrieking and clapping assaulting my ears as I take in the sight before us.

It's not what I expected from a fundraiser dinner at all. Having been to more than a few back home I'd expected a roomful of respectably and dully attired middle-aged people looking pleased with themselves about their philanthropic largesse being played out in the public arena. Rob had explained to me this would be a different sort of affair; that the charity was for the children and, therefore, so were their fundraisers. The place certainly seems filled with kids of all ages, most dressed as their favourite fictional character by the looks of it, being entertained by an array of performers, all hell-bent on raising as much fun and laughter as bodily possible. There was, Rob had explained, a formal element to the programme, but they keep that short and to the point. The focus is on the kids.

Rob is almost immediately besieged by people wanting his time and he regretfully, slowly, lets go of my hand, leaving me feeling -- that word again -- adrift. Only this time, not so buoyed. I fret a little at which of my questions earlier has caused his agitation; sip at the Bellini someone has attentively slipped into my hand and begin to circuit the hall.

By the time I realise I've lost sight of Rob I'm beginning to see the other children here, smaller in number, the ones who don't look so sure they want to be at a party, in costume or not. Clinging onto a parent, a grandparent or sometimes a sibling. Fearful and lost. As I accustom myself more to where I am, to what sort of an event this is, I begin to see the other adults here, too. The ones with professional, patient demeanours, talking quietly to the children who look most likely to bolt.

I swallow the rest of my drink, suppressing an unexpected desire to run; to back away from this world, this life. I'm scared by how quickly, how openly, Rob's shown me so much of his life. His full, complicated, life.

+++

It's only been five minutes, but I'm already bored by the people around me. Unsurprising, since they are from what we respectfully refer to as the old guard of the charity. The ones who would rather return to the more conventional, stiff, ways of raising money. I'm probably doing a good enough job of appearing to listen to them, but all I can think about is where Elizabeth has got to. Just as I think my good manners may be about snap, I feel rather than see John next to me.

'Robbie,' he says, in the way he's said it since we were young boys.

We shake hands, then stop pretending, and lean in for a hug.

'Where is she, then?' John's face, usually so composed, is alive with curiosity.

'Elizabeth?' I reply, trying, but no doubt failing, for nonchalance. 'I was just asking myself the very same thing. I really must excuse myself, ladies,' I murmur to the old guard, and move away. 'Thank god you came when you did, John. I was losing my mind with the old biddies.'

John smirks. 'You owe me a pint.'

'Where are Mariusz and the girls?' I ask him, scanning the hall for Elizabeth, worrying I won't be able to see her.

'Over by that conjurer,' he waves to his right.

And there she is. Just beyond the conjurer and his tricks. Holding an empty glass. And talking to my sister. I wince inside. That was one introduction I'd intended to do in person, and I'm about ready to plunge across the masses to intervene when John grabs my arm.

'She seems to be holding her own. Let her.'

I look into his face. His mild blue eyes look back directly into mine. I can't honestly remember how long it's been since we've looked at each other as openly as this.

'Where did you find her, Robbie? Because after all this time, I thought you'd be well out of practice, but she -- well, she... What I mean to say is, you seem to have struck gold. Or been struck by lightning. Or both.'

'Neither of us has had enough to drink for this sort of conversation, John,' I warn him.

He smiles quietly. 'You could be right. Another time, then?'

It feels as though the ground is suddenly, sharply shifting underfoot. An almighty cheer pulls me up. It's the first of the acrobats spiralling down from the upper balconies. Even I had had to be persuaded their fee would be worth it, but now, looking at the rapt faces and hearing the mass intake of breath, I concede their worth, instantly.

+++

'Elizabeth? Hello, I'm Lizzie, Robbie's sister.'

It's the beautiful blonde from the hotel all right. Looking devastating in a -- and I have to repress a laugh -- green silk dress.

'Good to meet you,' she offers her glass to mine. 'I want to say 'at last' but that'd be bloody ridiculous, now, wouldn't it? Although I have to admit, I've been absolutely dying to meet you. Frantic, in fact. Have you any idea how long it is since Robbie's introduced any of us to anyone at all? Well over a decade, that's how long. A bloody decade. Cheers.'

I stare before catching myself and pretend to drink from my empty glass. 'How did you find me? Recognise me, I mean?'

'Saw you in my hotel lobby with him.' She gives me a close look.

I swallow, wondering exactly what she saw, but Lizzie's waving over a young man dressed in white and black and appropriating another Bellini for me.

'Here,' handing me the glass; 'Now then, apparently you picked him up on South Molton Street. Is that correct, or is that Robbie's code for something else entirely?' She tips her head back, swallowing more champagne, her eyebrow arched and her blue eyes trained on mine. She's giving no quarter, that's for sure.

'Uh-huh. Yeah, I followed him into a store. He was... preoccupied when I first laid eyes on him, and that made me curious to see what it'd be like to get his full attention.'

'Did it, now?'

'Yes.' I lift my chin, thinking this encounter with Elizabeth might be enjoyable.

'And? What's it like, having his full attention?'

'Better than I could have imagined.'

She ducks her head. Laughing or coughing, I can't tell which.

But when she raises her face -- it occurs to me we are exactly the same height -- she levels her eyes steadily to mine once more. 'Are you another Capulet?' she asks, deadly serious.

I open my mouth, then close it, a little stunned at her harsh tone. I think she takes it as confusion, for she starts to explain. 'You know, the star-crossed lovers --,'

'Yes, I understand the reference clearly enough. I'm just not sure what you mean?'

'He's had a Capulet before and it broke him. And I can't bear to see that happen to him ever again.' Her eyes are Rob's eyes. The same deep blue. 'Not ever again.'

'I don't want to break him,' I reply, surprised at how clear I sound.

'Good. Because if you're worth him, you will find my brother is the most loving, generous, hard-working and kind man in the whole bloody world. But if you break him, I will come for you and wreak some serious vengeance. Because it can't happen twice. I can't let it happen to him again do you understand me?'

'I really do, Lizzie. Loud and clear. But hear this. I want to make him happy,' I'm almost panting, overcome with the meaning of the words as they pour out of my runaway mouth. 'I really do. That's what I felt when I saw him walking down the street. That there was a man in need of --,' I falter.

'Love. That's what he needs, Elizabeth. Love of the strong, generous and uncomplicated kind.'

We both pause. There's a sudden drop in the atmospheric pressure followed by a roar. We look up at the same time to see a tiny gymnast spooling downwards on a brightly coloured ribbon.

'I think we're going to get along rather fabulously, you and me,' Lizzie declares, patting my forearm and beckoning the same waiter over for another glass.

I take a deep breath, repress a smile, and look upwards as two more acrobats swing over our heads.

+++

I know John is giving me one of those looks; the sort that begged me to stay out of trouble back at school. But I'm itching to stride over there and intervene; the sight of my sister bending Elizabeth's ear is almost too much to bear. But then I see a small smile break over Elizabeth's lovely face as she looks up at the spinning, tumbling acrobats above us all, and a glance at my sister's face tells me she's equally intrigued. A draw, then, their first encounter.

'Told you,' John's voice in my ear holds a note of triumph.

I turn back to look at him. He's tamed his hair, for once. And has even attempted a close shave.

'How are you, John? Really, I mean. I can't remember the last time we spent time together without one or both of the girls and Mariusz.'

He blinks, the only giveaway my question has thrown him. He is, after all, many generations more British than I am, and his breeding is of the impeccable sort -- how to walk on the outside of a girl so she's never exposed to the passing traffic; understanding the difference between 'the Hunt' and the hunting season; relentless training in disguising and burying all spontaneous emotion, etcetera. He and Ginny were far more compatible on a social class basis than I ever was. Although even as I'm asking him the question, I'm simultaneously wondering what's got into me. Because when was the last time I genuinely asked anyone how they feel, let alone John?

'You know, I am -- better. I think I'm going to be ok.'

'Five years,' I offer, wondering again how it's been so long, yet so short, a time since Ginny was here, between us.

'Yes. Five years. And, you know, that's practically a lifetime for the girls. They don't really have any memories of her at all. Only ones they've gathered from me. Or you. Or their grandparents.'

I nod.

'They were all I could get out of bed for, you know, in the first couple of years. Longer, maybe. But you know that, Robbie. You saw it with your own eyes. Now -- well, now -- I'm beginning to realise I've started to do some living of my own again. Small things, but --,' he shrugs, a gesture I'm as familiar with as if staring at myself in a mirror.

'I'm glad, John.'

I want to say more, but I was right earlier when I said we hadn't had enough to drink for this sort of discussion.

The unsaid fills the time and space between us.

And then, 'I think I'm going to be able to be happy again. One day. That seemed absolutely unimaginable for a long time. But not now.'

I stare back at him, seeing in him the quiet eight-year old boy in his new glasses; the quick and dry student; the hollowed-out widower. And the man he is now. Still an inch shorter than me. His lighter hair showing less grey than mine, his face worn but perhaps more animated, now that I'm really examining him this closely.

He blinks, gestures in the direction of Elizabeth and Lizzie.

'And you? Are you going to take this chance at finding some happiness, Robbie?'

I'm abruptly grateful now that I haven't had too much to drink after all, because if I had, I'd be making some flippant remark designed to push him away. Instead, I'm forced to reveal the extent to which I'm tongue-tied. All I can do is give him another nod. And hug him back when he grabs me to him, long enough for it to be more than a casual moment. The last few times we've done this have been weighted with the misery of Ginny's horrible absence. I let gratitude sink into my bones for what she left behind.

+++

Sitting at our table I watch him make his way slowly back toward us, stopping for anyone who snags his attention. He hadn't let on he was the Chair of the board, or that he was giving the main speech of the evening. It had been short. But heartfelt. Surprising me. I guess I thought he'd retain some of that British reserve for something like this. Listening to him, I'd gotten the impression John and Lizzie were also caught unawares by how candid he was about his reasons for supporting the charity. They'd exchanged looks full of speculation with each other across the table, John lifting a restless Grace onto his lap and Lizzie tapping the table with her manicured fingernails.

I sit back in my chair, thinking. It's not that he said much, exactly. More the way he'd said it. Lizzie catches my eye and raises one of her already arched eyebrows even higher.

'He's not usually that personal when he speaks,' she informs me, swirling the remains of her coffee around the cup in her hand.

I glance around me, seeing that he's moving further away, not closer, so I turn my attention back to her.

'Perhaps it's your influence on him. Loosening him up a bit. He could certainly do with it.'

'Me? Oh, come on, it's a little too soon for that,' I protest.

'Hmm, maybe.' She smiles at me. 'I'm being hopeful. No. Optimistic, that's the word. Nothing wrong with that, is there? A little optimism can't do much harm.'

She leans forward, over the bright white linen of the tablecloth, closing the gap between us.

'Although now I give it some proper thought, it can't be optimism he's been lacking in. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you? No,' she continues without waiting for me to respond, confident she has my full attention. 'No, that took optimism to ask you to stay for the weekend.'

I sip at the coffee in my cup, figuring out how much Lizzie knows about the last couple of extraordinary days. She seems to take a decision, leaning even closer, eyes flashing.

'I love my brother, Elizabeth. Very much. He's pretty much all the family I've got, and more than anything, I want him to be happy. Sane and happy. And while I've suspected he's been getting it from somewhere, until now there's been no sign of who with. A succession of women, perhaps. Who knows? No-one he wanted to bring to meet any of us, his nearest and dearest. None of it made him any happier, anyway.' She shrugs. 'And now here you are. It's a time to be optimistic, if ever there was.'

'I think I agree with you, Lizzie.'

It's a little unnerving, how similar her eyes are to Rob's.

'Good. I think I'm just asking you to be good for him. Or to ask that if you have to break his heart, to do it quickly and cleanly. Don't hang him out to dry. That's all.'

She sits back, twirling a spoon in her fingers. Aside from the eyes, there isn't much else to show that she's his sister. Where he is broad, she is slight. Where he is dark, she is light.

'At last. Sorry it's taken me so long to return, Elizabeth.'

I flood with warmth at his touch. And am just as aware of Lizzie's scrutiny. She's watched us intently for most of the evening. I could say the same for John and Mariusz, although they've managed to be more casual about it, for sure.

'I don't think it'll be long before we make a move,' his fingers squeezing my shoulder.

I look around our table. Both the little girls look fast asleep, Faith curled around Mariusz, her party outfit rucked and rumpled.

John catches Rob's eye. 'Can you take Grace for a couple of minutes,' he asks, already standing up and handing his sleepy daughter to Rob.

He takes her in a practised move, bracing her against his chest, pulling her dress around her, and sitting down in the chair John's just vacated. She looks like a child out of a Victorian painting, with her glossy dark hair, red velvet dress and black shoes. He and Mariusz exchange grins.

'They are both getting too big to sleep on us like this,' Mariusz comments, his eyes crinkling.

Rob merely nods, and strokes Grace's hair. A gesture made with easy familiarity and love. It bites at my heart and I drop my eyes to the pristine, whiter than white tablecloth, full of reproach.

+++

She's quiet as we take a cab home, her hand soft in mine. I talk to her about the streets we're driving along; where their names come from; who the original landowners were; how much property here has been bought up by Russians in the last fifteen years or so. I've no idea how interested she is, but she nods and hums and twitches her hand to show she's at least pretending to listen. I try, and fail, not to worry about it. Whether she's been knocked off-kilter by something that I've said or done. Or Lizzie's said. Or that it's been too much of a sudden exposure to everyone and everything. She's pretty much met all of the people who are most important to me in one fell swoop. I wonder how I'd be feeling in her position, but can't, and give it up as a bad job.

London's in full Saturday night swing. Blokes rolling and swaggering in their gaudy trainers, girls skittering along on high heels and sugary drinks. Lots of flirting and bravado on all sides. It's a clear, mild evening and I suddenly decide on something, lean in to give the cabbie new directions, then sit back down next to Elizabeth. Reclaiming her hand to stroke it.

'Alright, Elizabeth?' I can't help myself from asking.

'Yes,' she turns her head to me. 'Sorry, I know I've gone a little quiet. I guess you've given me a lot to think about tonight, is all.'