Jo as always says the obvious thing.
“Do you love him enough to marry him?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie wails. “And anyway, it’s not just that. It’s what if I don’t find anyone better? If I don’t find anyone better then I’ll settle for Andrew.”
“You know what it says in the paper today?” says Jo. “It says women are at their most beautiful at thirty-one. You’re at your peak.”
“Oh, Jo. I do love talking to you. Are you free at lunchtime?”
Not the kind of conversation you can squeeze into a few minutes. It turns out Jo is out all day at some rehearsal and won’t be home till late tonight, so they fix to meet for lunch tomorrow.
Back in the office Sam asks to come with Maggie on the site visit, but she says no. She needs him to stay and keep on top of the phones and emails. Work is piling up.
“I don’t know what happened to this recession,” she says.
“You could look in on South Street while you’re out,” says Sam. “Some kind of unauthorized work at Dean House.”
Walking across Lewes Maggie’s spirits rise. She loves Lewes. Compared to Cardiff, where she worked before, which is almost all Victorian and Edwardian stock, Lewes is a treasure trove of architectural styles. Walk down just about any street and you’ll see buildings studded with Caen stone robbed from the Priory at the time of the Reformation, flint walls over three hundred years old, mathematical tiles from the eighteenth century, Victorian decorative brickwork, right up to the blight of modern through-color render. There’s a Georgian house on the High Street with a black mathematical tile high over a top window, look with binoculars and you can see a cat’s paw printed in the ceramic glaze, made the day the tile was set out to dry two hundred years ago. When you know what to look for it’s as if the streets are talking to you, as if all the people who ever lived here for the last thousand years are watching you go by. It actually gives her goose bumps to find a house like Castle Lodge where the knapped flints run round the corners. That’s difficult work. All other flint walls trim the windows and the corners with brick. But all those years ago someone said, I don’t care how long it takes, nap me flints on two faces and damn the expense. Then at the opposite end of the spectrum you have the prefabricated flint-and-concrete blocks used in the development of Baxter’s Printworks in St. Nicholas’s Lane. No conservation officer can have authorized that abomination.
Down Friars Walk into the pedestrian area of Cliffe, where most of the buildings date from the 1970s. What went wrong in the twentieth century? Something happened that broke the link between an area and its buildings. From about 1950 onwards each new shop, each new house, arrived like a foreigner, an emissary of some alien power seeking to infiltrate and corrupt the town. These newish buildings attempt a disguise, they wear some trappings of the region, a dormer window, a tile-hung upper wall, but applied so cheaply and so out of proportion that no one is fooled.
She walks on over the bridge into Cliffe High Street. Here the authentic town returns again in earnest. The street has recently been repaved to make it more pedestrian friendly, but cars are still allowed to pass down it in one direction, which makes a nonsense of the good intentions. The whole of the center of Lewes should be car-free, the town would spring alive, but the traders won’t hear of it. They can’t believe people will ever get out of their cars.
As she turns into South Street, it’s not hard to find the building work underway. A big yellow skip stands outside the house, and men are at work within. Maggie examines the contents of the skip and sees torn sections of lath-and-plaster internal walls. She takes out her warrant card from her bag.
A dust-covered builder responds to her knocking. He’s a powerfully built man with his head shaven at the sides. Maggie shows him her authorization.
“Maggie Dutton, Planning Department,” she says, keeping her voice neutral. These moments can get confrontational. She catches the flutter of a net curtain in the next-door house. That would be the caller.
“What about it?” says the builder.
“I have to ask you to stop work here,” says Maggie. “Under the Planning, Listed Building and Conservation Area Act 1990 it’s a criminal offense to carry out works that affect the special interest of a listed building without listed building consent.”
The builder stares at her, silent with shock. She’s so small and so pretty men usually can’t take in that she’s giving them orders.
“Nothing to do with me, love,” he says at last. “Talk to the owner.”
“Under the act,” says Maggie, “the builder is just as responsible as the owner who instructs him. The penalties range from unlimited fines to imprisonment.”
The builder dabs at the plaster dust in his eyes. From the upper floor comes the sound of banging.
“Stop work?” he says. “You serious?”
“Yes,” says Maggie.
The builder turns and calls up the stairs behind him.
“Yo! Dean! Give it a rest, mate!”
A second builder appears, equally dusty, a younger man with a scarred face.
“What’s up?”
“Lady says we have to stop or she’ll put us in prison.”
The second builder throws down the hammer he’s holding.
“Fucking great,” he says. “That’s all I fucking need.”
“This house is a listed building,” says Maggie. “The owner needs listed building consent to make these alterations. He can submit an application, but until and unless it’s approved all work must stop.”
“So how long will that take, then?”
“Around eight weeks. Could be longer.”
The younger builder slumps down on the bottom step of the stairs.
“Why me?” he says. “When do I get a break?”
“I’m sorry,” says Maggie. “The owner should have known the procedure.”
She takes out her little digital camera.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look inside.”
They stand back to let her in. She moves quickly from room to room, photographing the work. Then she leaves a card for them to give to the owner and goes on her way.
The curtains flutter in the neighbor’s house. Her phone buzzes. A text from Jo.
Sun says average number of sex partners for women is 7. Way 2 go.
Maggie smiles as she texts back.
How do U no?
Leave out a few short-lived mistakes and it’s four. Andrew’s been the longest. They’d been friends forever before they got together. All the time she was with Nigel she was telling Andrew what a prick Nigel was, and then when they broke up Andrew took her for a walk in Regent’s Park. The roses were in bloom in the long rose beds, the air was heavy with the scent of roses, and he asked her if she only liked pricks, and she had to laugh. He was always so easy to be with. You don’t get aggravation with Andrew.
You don’t get excitement.
So what do I want? To be worked up into a froth of passion? You can’t live like that. Life is mostly the everyday stuff. We expect too much.
If women are at their most beautiful at thirty-one, I’ve got nine months to go. If my allocation of sex partners is seven, I’m due three more.
When it’s right you don’t have these doubts, do you? You just know. You take one look and you just know. That’s why it’s called falling in love. So how do you do that?
9
Carrie Broad sits on her bed gazing into the mirror on the inside of her open wardrobe door. She sees her pale face. The mole on her upper lip. Her high white brow, her hair pulled back and up, tied in a prudish bun. She stares into her unblinking gray eyes.
This is me.
She raises one hand and gives a token wave of greeting. The hand in the mirror waves back.
I’m saying hello.
She goes on staring at her reflected image, knowing that soon the face in the mirror will take on an existence of its own and will cease to be her, or she will cease to be it. This separa
tion is what she needs. Cut loose from her visible self with all its disappointments she can be a nothing. She can prowl the world seeing but unseen, knowing but unknown.
The wardrobe mirror grows until it fills the room. The girl with the blank face becomes a stranger.
Bye. See you. Don’t see you.
She reaches for her guitar and settles it onto her lap. Picking out chords with her fingers, improvising a tune that she will never be able to repeat again, she sings a song written by the girl in the mirror, the one who has gone away. The song is called “It’s Over Now.”
“I died and went to heaven
Like they said I would
And there I met my friend the Artist
Waiting for me.
He said to me, Look down
And I looked and saw my life
Like a river running to the sea.
And my friend the Artist said to me
Do you see it now?
Do you see it now?
It was always going nowhere
Always going nowhere
But it’s over now
I know it hurts
But it’s over now
I know you lost
But it’s over now
We’re above the clouds
Beneath the sea
My friend the Artist said to me
And you’re beautiful
You’re beautiful
Now you’ve died and gone to heaven
And there’s no one left to see.”
After the song has finished she goes on playing chords on the guitar, letting the sounds tremble in the air. Her guitar is her shield, no one can hurt her. Her songs are the way she knows that someone feels what she feels, even if that someone shares her name.
“Get in my car
Hit the open road
Distraction’s what I need
Drive myself to distraction . . .”
That makes her laugh. She sees the girl in the mirror smiling and she looks away. That’s the loser who’s failed her driving test twice so far. Only way she’ll ever hit the open road is with her head.
She pushes the guitar away and jumps up, suddenly filled with determination. Third time lucky.
She goes downstairs and finds her father in his study.
“I really need driving practice, Dad. You said you would.”
Her father groans and holds his head in his hands.
“Not now,” he says. “I’ve got this meeting tomorrow. It’s really important. I’m sorry, darling.”
“But I’ve got my test in two weeks.”
“Wednesday. I promise.”
He gives her a pleading look and she knows she has to back off. That’s the trouble with her father. He’s got his own problems.
Suddenly he’s up out of his chair like he’s been stung. He’s staring out of the window.
“Rabbit!”
There’s a rabbit on the lawn, nibbling the grass.
“Carrie! Wait here! I’m going out of the side door, and down to the orchard. Count to twenty, and then shout boo!”
“Why?”
“To make the rabbit run.”
He goes into the hall. Carrie watches the rabbit and counts slowly to herself. The rabbit goes on grazing, all unaware. As Carrie gets to thirteen, the phone rings. Somewhere in the house her mother answers it. As she gets to seventeen, the front door bell rings.
Eighteen. Nineteen.
“Carrie! Get the door! I’m on the phone.”
Carrie opens the window and shouts, “Boo!”
The rabbit looks up.
“Boo!”
The rabbit lopes off toward the orchard.
Carrie goes to the front door. There outside is a young guy with long hair and a beard and a backpack. He looks at her without speaking, as if he’s trying to find something in her face. His black eyes scan her all over, then come to rest on her eyes. She stands there and lets him examine her, feeling herself starting to tremble. But she doesn’t break the eye contact. It’s like looking in the mirror.
See you. Don’t see you.
“I’m a friend of Jack’s,” he says at last.
“Jack’s not here. He’s in Turkey.”
“Then I’d better be a friend of yours.”
“Why?”
“I need food,” he says. “I need a shower.”
All at once she sees beneath the beard and the long hair a face she remembers from the past.
“You’re Toby.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Carrie.”
“Hello, Carrie.”
Neither of them has moved. Neither of them has broken the intense eye contact.
Her father bursts into the hall from the back door.
“You’ll never believe it! I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes! The rabbits are climbing the fence!”
“Dad—”
“The bugger took a run at it and up he went! Like a bloody lizard!”
“Dad, this is Toby. He’s a friend of Jack’s.”
“Hello, Toby. Did you know rabbits could climb fences? It’s a new one on me.”
“He needs somewhere to stay. I told him he could crash here. Is that okay?”
“I expect so,” says Henry. “Ask your mother.”
“She’s on the phone. He’s a friend from Underhill.”
“Fine, fine,” says Henry. “I have to go and call Terry. We need to raise the fence.”
He disappears into his study.
“So it’s fine,” says Carrie. “You’d better come in.”
Toby picks up his backpack and comes in.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You said food.”
“Right. I could do with something.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Saturday,” he says. “Or maybe Friday.”
“Oh my God!”
She takes him into the kitchen and starts hunting round for something quick and easy to feed him.
“How about a cheese and tomato sandwich? Or would you rather have cornflakes? I know. I’ll get you a glass of milk.”
“Yes,” he says simply.
So she pours him a glass of milk and fills a bowl with cornflakes and while he eats that she sets about making him a cheese and tomato sandwich.
He eats slowly, intently, quietly.
“So what happened?” she says. “Did you run out of money?”
“Yes,” he says.
“That must have been so scary.”
“No.”
“Where’ve you been traveling?”
“I walked up the river bank. That was this morning. Yesterday was France.”
“And now you’re going home?”
“No.”
She watches him eat with the pride of a mother watching her child. He looks so thin, so unloved. He’ll need a shower. His clothes will need washing.
“How long have you been traveling?”
“Long time.”
Every word he speaks excites her. He doesn’t say so much, but it’s the tone of his voice. It’s like he doesn’t care what impression he makes. He thinks before he speaks, as if to check that what he’s about to say is correct as far as he knows. And those eyes! She feels as if he sees right into her.
Her mother, off the phone at last, comes into the kitchen. Carrie introduces Toby as if she’s been expecting him.
“This is Toby, Mum. He’s Jack’s friend from Underhill. Dad says it’s okay if he crashes here.”
“Toby?”
“Toby Clore.”
“Yes, of course,” says Laura vaguely. “That was Liz on the phone. Alice’s mum.” She explains for Toby’s benefit. “Alice is Jack’s girlfriend. They’re in Turkey right now. Alice texted her mother to say they’re standing in the Roman stadium in Aphrodisias. Apparently it’s the largest Roman stadium anywhere.”
Henry Broad comes back.
“I’ve found out how the rabbits get in!” he announces to Laura in triump
h. “They climb the fence! I’ve just been on to Terry. He’s going to build a slanting top section to the fence. Like this.”
He holds his arm up at an angle.
“Jack’s in Aphrodisias,” says Laura. “Liz phoned. I asked Liz and Alan to come to dinner on Saturday. They can help us celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?” says Carrie.
“Oh, it’s all rather silly. Saturday’s the anniversary of our engagement. It’s not at all important.”
“I like that,” says Toby. “If you think about it, every single moment of our life could be a celebration of every other single moment.”
He says it as if he expects to be taken seriously. It’s like he comes from some alien civilization and has never encountered humans before.
“Where should Toby sleep?” Carrie says. “He could have Jack’s room. Or a spare bedroom?”
“Whatever you like, darling. How long are you staying, Toby?”
Toby lowers the sandwich from his mouth and gives Laura a slow smile.
“Not long at all,” he says. “Couple of nights. If that’s okay.”
“He can go in Jack’s room,” says Carrie. “He’s Jack’s friend.”
Henry has now had the opportunity to take in their unexpected guest.
“So you’ve been traveling,” he says. “Gap year, is it?”
“That sort of thing.”
“So which college are you heading to?”
“No college.”
“Oh, right. Straight into earning your living, eh?”
“No earning. Just living.”
He says it so simply it silences them all. Carrie is entranced. Everything he says and does seems to her to be perfect.
“You must have indulgent parents,” says Henry.
“I suppose so,” says Toby. “I never met my father. I haven’t spoken to my mother for years.”
Another silence. Toby finishes his sandwich.
“Come on,” says Carrie. “I’ll show you where you can sleep.”
He follows her upstairs. Jack’s room looks uncharacteristically tidy. His teddy bear has been put on the neatly made bed.
“You can use my bathroom,” says Carrie. “It’s still called the children’s bathroom. I’ll get you a towel.”
“That’s your room, is it?”
He’s looking through the half-open door of Carrie’s room. On the far wall hangs Anthony Armitage’s portrait of her. Toby is staring at it. He moves to the doorway to see it better. He looks from the portrait to Carrie.