What Will Survive Read online

  ‘Other people, by the sound of it.’

  ‘What? Oh. I see what you mean.’ Aisha turned to look at Stephen, wondering why she’d never thought of it before.

  ‘Perhaps it was for the best.’

  ‘What can’t be cured must be endured?’

  Stephen snorted. ‘What’s the point of endlessly going over things you can’t change?’

  Aisha looked down at her hands. ‘I do remember my grandmother coming to London when I was a child. She had this strange accent because by then she was living in America with my uncle and his wife. He’s still in Connecticut, as far as I know.’

  ‘Are you in touch?’

  ‘We exchange Christmas cards. He didn’t come to my mother’s funeral, he’d just had a bypass, but he sent flowers.’

  Stephen turned her face towards his and kissed her. After a moment he whispered, ‘Bed?’

  Aisha drew back and studied his face. ‘This may not be the ideal moment, but — when is? I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Stephen stared at her. ‘You’re not —’

  ‘Pregnant?’ She burst out laughing. ‘Of course not. We’ve always been careful and at my age... Look, I’d leave it till another time but you’re out of the country next week and then there’s my trip.’ She lifted a hand and touched his cheek. ‘It won’t take long and I’m not asking you to do anything, promise.’

  ‘Do anything about what? You’re being very mysterious, Aisha.’ He took her hand, kissed the palm and sighed. ‘All right. Go on.’

  ‘I’m going to move to London.’

  ‘To London?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to find a flat. Or a small house — I haven’t worked out yet what I can afford.’

  ‘You mean stay up here during the week? I suppose that does make sense —’

  ‘No, I’m going to live here.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘My marriage is over in everything but name, Stephen. You know that.’

  He started, as though he had been given an electric shock. ‘You don’t mean — you’re not leaving Tim?’

  ‘I couldn’t before because of Max, but he finishes school this month and then he’s off to Santiago. By the time he gets back the worst will be over, if there is a worst.’ She pulled a face. ‘Who knows, it might be as much a relief to Tim as it is to me.’

  ‘Aisha.’ Stephen had drawn apart, sitting beside her but no longer touching her. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, it’s none of my business —’

  ‘What do you mean, none of your business? I thought you’d be pleased. Once you get used to it, I mean.’

  ‘Pleased?’ Stephen gave her astonished look.

  She sat up straight, her body turned towards him. ‘You know how difficult it’s been, finding places to meet — remember that awful hotel? And when you left your briefcase at Sian’s? It’ll be so much easier when I’ve got my own place, we can spend proper nights together.’

  He said, ‘We could do that now if you didn’t have a thing about staying here.’

  ‘I hate this flat.’

  ‘I know, and I can’t think why.’

  ‘Because — oh, does it matter? The point is I’m going to have my own place in Camden or Primrose Hill, if I can afford it —’

  ‘You’ve really thought about it, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, for ages. Look, Stephen —’

  ‘Oh God, this is the last thing I need.’

  With an abrupt movement, he leaned forward and put his head in his hands. In the street below, cars hooted and Aisha heard a brief eruption of angry voices, then it was quiet again. Glancing at her watch, which she could just read in the lamp-light, she saw that it was twenty past ten. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed as she stretched out her hand to touch Stephen’s back.

  ‘Darling?’

  He straightened, his face working with emotion: ‘I can’t leave Carolina, you know that. She’s already in such a state —’

  Aisha drew back. ‘Leave her?’ she repeated in a dignified voice. ‘I didn’t say anything about you leaving her.’

  ‘She’d go completely to pieces. The boys —’

  ‘Stephen, at no point have I suggested —’

  ‘If we could turn the clock back, if you and I had met each other twenty years ago, don’t you think it would be different? Don’t you think I’d be with you all the time if I could?’

  ‘You’re not listening.’

  ‘It’s true. You know it is.’

  She threw her arms wide. ‘I don’t know why you’re reacting like this. I told you, I’m not asking you to do anything.’

  ‘Have you told Tim?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not exactly. I mean, I have told him we need to talk — but I wanted to speak to you first.’

  ‘So you haven’t done anything irrevocable —’

  ‘You’re asking me to stay with him?’

  ‘Think, for Christ’s sake. You’re famous, once the papers get wind of it —’

  ‘The papers?’

  ‘It will change everything, don’t you see?’

  ‘For the better,’ she said urgendy. ‘It’ll change for the better.’

  ‘They just love this sort of thing. The MP and the model —’

  She recoiled: ‘What’s this, a lecture on family values?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know my views.’

  ‘I thought I did. I’m taking about two adults —’

  ‘One of whom is about to appear in what’s-it-called, that ridiculous magazine.’

  ‘The publisher asked me to do it.’

  ‘All right, let’s not argue.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘Look, Aisha, I —’

  ‘You — what?’

  ‘I’m exhausted. My life has been shit since the election, if you really want to know. The one thing — I thought everything was all right between us, at least, but now you spring this on me.’

  Aisha closed her eyes, steadied her breathing, tried to think. ‘What are you suggesting? We can’t just pretend nothing’s happened.’

  ‘Can’t you — I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  She glanced at her watch again. Her voice bleak, she said, ‘It’s getting late. Perhaps I should go.’

  He lifted his head. ‘Where are you staying? Camden?’

  ‘I told you, Sian’s in London. We had a drink before the film. I’m staying with the Clarks tonight.’

  ‘But they’re in — Hammersmith?’ He reached for her hand, covering it with his, caressing it with his fingers. ‘You don’t have to go. You could stay here.’

  ‘You know how I feel about —’ She started to get up, saying in a more conciliatory tone: ‘Not tonight, OK? We both need time to think.’

  He looked up at her, hope fading in his eyes. ‘Aisha —’

  ‘I’ll get a cab.’

  He pushed himself up from the sofa. ‘I’ll come down with you.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  They sounded like polite strangers. Aisha slipped her feet into her shoes and said in a rush: ‘Stephen, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be such a shock.’

  ‘We will talk — just not now.’

  She turned towards the door.

  Stephen hurried after her, sliding his arms round her waist, dropping his head to kiss her hair. ‘Let me get used to it. What about next week?’

  ‘You’re away, remember?’

  He groaned. ‘Shit. When will you be back from the Middle East?’

  ‘Last week in July, I think.’

  ‘It seems so long.’

  She turned in his arms. ‘Not so long. And it’s won’t be so bad, really, not when you get used to the idea.’ She stood on the tips of her toes, lightly kissing his lips. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Let me come down with you?’

  She nodded and glanced round the room, looking for her bag. Stephen released her and lifted it from a chair. ‘Is this everything?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She took it from him and their hands touc
hed. ‘Love you,’ she said.

  ‘Love you too.’

  Arms around each other, they went slowly down the stairs to the front door.

  August — September 1997

  Iris folded her hands in her lap, straining with the effort of holding them still. Tim said nothing and after a long silence she said, ‘How are the... arrangements going?’

  He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and stared down at his shoes, which had made creases in the deep red rug in front of the sofa.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, making a half-hearted attempt to straighten it. Abandoning the effort, he sat back heavily and added: ‘I’m leaving most of it to the boys.’

  Iris wasn’t aware that she had reacted, but he rushed on. ‘No, it’s not me being pathetic for once, that’s how they want it. Becky’s been giving them a hand, she’s coming over to deal with Aisha’s — her stuff. You wouldn’t believe the letters — what makes people write to total strangers? Anyway, Ricky’s found a woman from the British humanist something or other and they’ve been faxing each other about the — what used to be called the service.’ He grimaced. ‘Ceremony, that’s the PC term, apparently. She does two or three a week, now the poor old C of E is in terminal decline, though I did think her suggestions about music were a bit naff. She sent Ricky a list, a sort of top ten, as Aisha didn’t have a chance... didn’t leave instructions. Apparently the latest thing is to be carried off to the theme from Titanic. You know?’ He hummed a speeded-up version of Celine Dion. ‘No accounting for taste.’

  ‘So what have you chosen?’

  Tim pulled another face. ‘Nothing to do with me — Unchained Melody, The Righteous Brothers. There won’t be a dry eye in the house. Max says it was her favourite song, which is news to me — I’m amazed he’s even heard of it. Anything that happened before last year is ancient history as far as he’s concerned. He’s trying to track down some poem he wants to read, the last few lines are about love, he says, which really narrows it down. Why don’t you go to the library in Minehead, I said, the librarian might be able to help and I also thought it would get him out of the house.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘No, he said he’d look on the Internet.’ Tim rolled his eyes. ‘He hardly says a word, unless it’s about the — Friday. Last night he asked what I’m going to wear.’ He made a noise, somewhere between a laugh and snort. ‘Does it matter, I said, it’s not as if your mother’s going to complain, is it? But he seems to think it does. I heard him discussing it with Ricky, something about a white suit.’

  Iris narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Yeah, I thought Saturday Night Fever straight away, which didn’t go down very well. White is the colour of mourning in Vietnam or somewhere. I think they’ve settled for white T-shirts. They’re both anti-black.’

  ‘Of course. Aisha didn’t wear it much.’

  ‘I never really noticed.’

  ‘Didn’t you? She didn’t like shoots where she had to wear lots of black, that’s why she turned down — oh, his name’s on the tip of my tongue.’ Iris paused, then shook her head. ‘I’m going to wear blue, if that’s OK with you and the boys.’

  Iris had bought a tailored Vivienne Westwood dress on a shopping trip to London with Aisha, who’d persuaded her to try it on against her better judgement. They had eaten on the top floor of Harvey Nichols, laughing over the idea of being ladies who lunch, gone to an exhibtion in the Sainsbury wing of the National Gallery and met Stephen for an early dinner at the House; it was the first time Iris had seen them together and she was startled to see how naturally and affectionately they behaved with each other. When there were delays on the track to Taunton, which meant that the train home didn’t get in until two in the morning, she and Aisha had had a couple of glasses of wine from the buffet car and giggled together like schoolgirls.

  ‘Iris?’

  She looked up with a guilty start, as if Tim might be able to read her mind.

  He didn’t notice. ‘At least they don’t keep saying it’s what she would have wanted. I could strangle that Hickman woman — every time she comes over with one of her bloody tofu casseroles she says something crass.’

  ‘Susan Hickman? The couple who converted the barn? I didn’t think you knew them well.’

  ‘We don’t — didn’t. Husband’s a civil servant. Stays up in London during the week. I wouldn’t have thought he was the sort of bloke to tolerate all that bollocks about feng shui and lentils.’ His face twisted and he said angrily: ‘What Aisha would have wanted is to be here, with us, not in some fucking —’

  Iris said, ‘Tim, have you talked to your GP?’

  ‘What can she do? Send me for counselling?’ His face flushed. ‘I don’t want to be rude, Iris, but you know how I feel about shrinks.’

  She stifled a sigh. ‘I thought you said Max is seeing someone.’

  ‘That’s different. He can’t sleep, when he does he has nightmares and he eats all the time — crisps, biscuits, any old rubbish. Anyway, she’s not a shrink as such. She taught him history a couple of years ago and she does some work with... with troubled kids, on the side. Old Trout recommended her; he’s a decent sort of bloke at heart. Mr Fish, I mean,’ he corrected himself. Aisha had always protested when either of the boys used their headmaster’s nickname.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look as though you’re eating or sleeping. Your GP could help with that.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘The boys need you. If you were having regular meals, Max might not have such a problem. You don’t want him to develop an eating disorder.’

  ‘An eating disorder? The way things are going, a bit of anorexia wouldn’t do him any harm.’ He held up his hands. ‘I know, sorry, that was in terrible taste. This is all new to me. I always left that sort of thing to Aisha.’

  After another silence, Iris said wearily: ‘Even if you just pick up some of those meals that go in the microwave from Marks & Spencer, it would get you into the habit of sitting down and eating together.’

  ‘Ricky’s gone back to London. He went this morning. Olivia — his boss — she thought it might take his mind off things. Now he’s just the opposite, I’ve hardly seen him eat for days, he says he feels sick or something. He’s coming back on Thursday afternoon for the —’

  ‘Oh yes, you said.’ Iris glanced down at her watch, wondering how soon she could bring the conversation to a close. She cleared her throat and began to get up from her chair.

  Tim lifted his head. ‘Did you see the article on Saturday?’

  ‘The article?’ Iris sank down again. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  ‘Bit over the top, wasn’t it? All that stuff about Plato.’

  ‘Well, I did think —’

  ‘Made me sound a complete prat. But she’s been really helpful — Amanda. The journalist. I’ve been talking to her a lot, it seems to help, I don’t know why.’

  Iris said quickly: ‘She’s not coming to the funeral?’

  Tim shook his head. ‘No, though there’s not much I can do about the rest of the meedjah. Did you see that programme at the weekend? They wanted to interview me, all of us I mean, but I told them where to go.’

  ‘I switched off after five minutes.’

  ‘I wish I had. But Amanda’s not like that; she seems a decent sort of girl. She’s going to Beirut and she’s promised to tell me anything she finds out.’

  Iris frowned. ‘What’s there to find out? The car ran over a landmine.’

  ‘Well, they checked out of the hotel in Damascus on the Sunday, that was the thirteenth, and the — it didn’t happen till the Monday. No one seems to know where she —’

  ‘Tim, stop torturing yourself. Horrible things happen, it’s something we all have to come to terms with.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Iris, don’t give me all that crap. If Aisha’d gone straight to Beirut, none of this would have —’ A spasm crossed his face. ‘I’ve given up with the Foreign Office. They just give me the official line — trag
ic accident but they shouldn’t have been there, the website warns against travel in the south of Lebanon etcetera, etcetera. According to Amanda, the Lebanese government’s no better. Now all the hostages are free, the last thing they want is more bad publicity involving foreigners.’ He paused. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it. Where did she spend that night? Was she scared, did she have any inkling —’

  Iris snapped, ‘Of course she didn’t. The whole point about landmines is you can’t see them.’

  Tim stared at her. ‘I thought you people were all in favour of what’s-it-called, closure.’

  Tear stung Iris’s eyes. She closed them and lifted her hands to her face, her hair falling forward to cover her cheeks. ‘Tim, I can’t — I’m still finding the whole thing terribly distressing.’

  In a shocked tone, he said, ‘Sorry, Iris, you always seem so — capable. Aisha always used to — I know she was very fond of you. Look, I hope you didn’t mind me turning up like this? I just wanted to make sure you knew the form for Friday.’

  Iris took the last of several deep breaths and dropped her hands. She wasn’t wearing make-up, so at least her eyes weren’t smudged. ‘I — are you sure you’re happy with me reading last? You don’t think it should be you or May? I assume she’s coming from France?’

  Tim sighed. ‘She is, but you know May. She and I never really —’ He stopped. ‘Anyway, you’re a professional — less likely to make a fool of yourself. This is going to be hard enough as it is, without everyone breaking down all over the place.’ He changed the subject, saying with forced brightness: ‘How’s Clara?’

  Iris’s daughter had flung open the front door as he arrived, rushing past him in her riding gear with a cry of ‘Oh hi, Mr Lincoln’. She had hurried down the short drive and turned left on to the road, disappearing before he had time to speak to her properly.

  ‘Worried about Max. They talk on their mobiles a lot. But you know that.’

  ‘I didn’t, actually.’

  ‘He rings her at night.’

  ‘Thank God he’s talking to somebody.’

  ‘They want to go back to Chile. Has Max said anything?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Once again, Tim sounded surprised.