Ellen had shaken her head. ‘I don’t want you to feel that you have to marry me just because you proposed to Layla.’
I hesitated, because I didn’t want her to think less of me. But maybe it was time to come clean. ‘Actually, I didn’t,’ I admitted.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was something I said to the police at the time of my arrest, to make it look better.’
‘So you hadn’t asked her to marry you?’
‘No.’
‘But you were going to,’ she stated. And because I wanted her to feel that I loved her more than I’d loved Layla, I decided to lie. ‘No.’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘No?’
‘No,’ I repeated. But the truth was, I had been going to propose to Layla, on her twentieth birthday, the month after we got back from Megève. I’d had it all planned, I’d even bought the ring.
But then she spoiled everything.
Before
The day after the New Year’s Eve party, I told Caroline it was over. And when you tried to move out of my flat, a few days later, I did everything I could to persuade you to stay. Without asking Harry, I told you that you could have the study, at least until you found a job, saying that he wouldn’t mind. But you were adamant that you wanted to move into a youth hostel, telling me that if you were to make a life for yourself in London, you needed to meet other young people. The realisation that you thought of me as old was hard to take – hell, I was only twenty-seven. But in your eyes, I was nothing more than an older guy who had given you shelter for a couple of days.
In the event, you stayed a little over a week. For a man who lives in the present, I can still picture every minute of the day you moved out. I helped you move into the hostel you’d found, hoping you’d soon become disillusioned with sharing a room with five other people. Your idea was to find a job as soon as possible, which would allow you to move into a flat-share.
When it came to saying goodbye, I gave you my business card, telling you to call me if you needed help of any kind. And then I went back to my flat and drank half a bottle of whisky, moaning at Fate for leading you to me when you weren’t going to become a permanent fixture in my life.
Harry was bemused, then fascinated that I’d fallen so hard for you, Layla Gray. He pointed out that my girlfriends to date had all been smart young city women and that you were unsophisticated in comparison. He couldn’t see that that was the biggest attraction for me. Even before you, I’d become increasingly disenchanted with the uniformity of it all; the smart business suits, the killer heels, the sharp fingernails that raked my back with dreary repetition during sex. Harry tried to tell me that what I felt was infatuation and I tried to believe him. I also tried to forget you, working and partying twice as hard as before, to fill the void you’d left in my life.
I lived in hope of you phoning me, just to let me know how you were getting on. When a month passed without news, I told myself that you never would. And then, two months after you first disappeared from my life, you walked back in.
Now
I look at Ellen across the table, her head bent over her bowl of muesli, Greek yoghurt and blueberries, and find myself comparing it to Layla’s breakfasts of toast and chocolate spread. I frown, annoyed with myself. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, not just thinking about Layla, but comparing Ellen to her.
Sensing my eyes on her, Ellen looks up. Although I’m staring at her, I don’t see her, I see Layla, which is strange because physically, she’s nothing like Layla. Maybe it’s her hazel eyes. Are they what attracted me to her in the first place, because they reminded me of Layla’s?
‘So,’ she says, ‘any plans for today?’
I force myself away from the past and back to the present. But it leaves behind a trace of anxiety, spawned from the two Russian dolls we found, and I look over at Ellen’s set suspiciously, because she still hasn’t put them away.
‘I’ll probably go for a run. Maybe water the garden first. It’s as dry as a bone.’ She smiles approvingly and I can’t help remembering how Layla had laughed when I told her that one day, I wanted a beautiful garden in the country so that I could grow my own vegetables.
‘Gardening is for old men!’ she’d mocked. I’d never mentioned it again.
‘Have you remembered that I’m going into Cheltenham this morning, to the beauty salon?’ Ellen asks.
I hadn’t, but I should have, because every three weeks Ellen subjects herself to an intense beauty regime; waxing, tweezing, a manicure and God knows what else, followed by a session with her hairdresser, who operates from the same salon. Ellen takes care of herself in a way that Layla never did. Layla never cared much how she looked.
‘Maybe I’ll come and meet you for lunch,’ I say.
‘That’ll be lovely,’ she smiles.
I stand up, take my plate and reach for hers.
‘Leave it,’ she says, putting a hand on my arm. ‘I’ll clear away, I’ve got time before I go.’
Suddenly, the thought of being on my own while she’s in town, with memories of Layla within easy reach, makes me claustrophobic. I run a hand over my chin, wondering if I could get my beard trimmed, or thinned, while Ellen is at the salon. But I keep it so short it doesn’t really need it.
‘I may as well come with you now,’ I say. ‘No point taking two cars. I’ll take my laptop and have a coffee while you’re at the salon.’
It’s not in her nature to ask why I’ve changed my mind, nor to question why the garden that needs water so urgently can wait.
‘I’ll be quite a while,’ she warns.
‘I’ll have two coffees then,’ I grin.
I park in the High Street and walk her to the salon, telling her to call me when she’s finished. The Bookshop Café, my favourite place in Cheltenham, is further along the same street so I head there and set up a makeshift office. I order coffee and become engrossed in my work until Ellen calls.
I go to meet her and watch as she comes out of the salon. She looks good, her angular face striking.
‘Beautiful,’ I tell her. Unbidden, an image of Layla’s long red hair, which reached almost to the small of her back, comes into my mind. ‘Where would you like to go for lunch?’ I ask, chasing it away.
‘Marco’s?’ she suggests, so we cross over the road to the Italian Bistro.
An hour or so later, full of truffle-stuffed pasta, we make our way back to the car, Ellen’s hand on my arm. As we approach I see something lodged under the wiper. It’s not flat enough to be a parking ticket and anyway we haven’t overstayed the four hours I paid for, so I guess someone has scrunched an advert they found on their car into a ball and stuck it on mine. But as we get nearer I find my steps slowing until I’m not walking any more, I’m just standing there staring. My first thought is to protect Ellen but the strangled cry that comes from her throat tells me I’m too late.
‘It’s alright, Ellen,’ I say, reaching for her hand. But she snatches it back and starts running down the street, pushing her way through a family with children. And as I run after her, I take a little Russian doll from under the wiper, shoving it deep into my pocket.