Harriet Evans - The Love of Her Life

So the weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years. To her surprise. And still she didn’t move, still she stayed in Riverside Drive.

On Friday evening, Venetia and Oscar gave Kate a farewell supper. It was early, because Kate was going out to meet Betty, and Venetia and Oscar were off to a drinks party at Alvin and Carol DaCosta’s on the third floor. Venetia made quiche, Oscar made a beautiful mesclun and pomegranate seed salad. They drank a toast to Daniel, said bon voyage to Kate.

The last few days seemed to have flown by; how could it be Friday already, Kate wondered? Escaping their ministrations – ‘Remember to take an adaptor .’ ‘Did you collect your drycleaning?’ she excused herself, and shut the door of her bedroom slowly and sank down on the bed, wondering when she should pack.

Now she was alone, she wished, as she had done these past few days, she was going tonight, that she was already there, even though Lisa had told her there was no point in coming over till Daniel was out of intensive care; but still, Kate wished she was there, even if he didn’t realize it. ‘It’ll give you time to sort your stuff out, before you come,’ Lisa had said. Kate supposed she meant it kindly.

The truth was, really, that she didn’t have that much stuff anyway. Clothes, yes, but all her books, her old things from her old life – they were all in storage in the basement of her flat in London, like her old self, trapped in aspic, while the new self gazed longingly into the window of Pottery Barn or Bed Bath and Beyond, picking out covers for imaginary cushions, towels to hang on illusory rails. She’d bought a new duvet and pillow set for her room in the sales this year and she was still excited about it.

Kate shook her head, smiling. She realized now, with a start, that she’d lived for nearly three years with her mother and Oscar – because she enjoyed it. Not just because they were fun – Oscar wanted people to be happy in his presence, and he wanted Venetia to be happy more than anyone else and, therefore, her daughter by extension. The truth was, it was fun, living with them, especially for a girl like Kate who was, as Zoe had once pointed out, old before her time anyway, and more likely to enjoy an evening around the piano singing showtunes than queuing for ages to get into a loud, sweaty, pricey club (as she saw it).

But it was also nice because Kate had got to know her mother again, after years of never really seeing her, years of her name being persona non grata with almost all her father’s friends and family in London. Even Venetia’s sister, Jane, who was much more stiff-lipped than she, and lived a life of rigid, middle-England organization in Marlow, could barely tolerate any mention of her. It was fun, living with her mother again. Especially this happy version of her mother. She didn’t put any pressure on Kate to do anything she didn’t want to – she was just happy to have her living there.

Still, perhaps that’s why it’s a good thing I’m going back, Kate told herself as she climbed up on a stool to take down her big suitcase from on top of the wardrobe. It was dusty – when was the last time she’d used it? She couldn’t remember. Cars honked faintly outside: Kate looked at her watch. It was time to go. She pulled some slouchy boots on over her skinny jeans and ran out into the hall.

‘You look lovely, dear,’ Oscar called, spying her through the open doorway.

‘Thanks, dear,’ said Kate. ‘I won’t be too late.’

‘Stay out! Enjoy yourself!’ called her mother. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Downtown, near the West Village,’ said Kate, without great enthusiasm. She sighed. She wanted to see Betty, of course, but Betty was on a matchmaking drive and tonight, Kate feared, was to be the culmination of this. Since the last person Betty had set her up with turned out to be gay, and was only going along with Betty because he wanted her gallery to show his work, Kate didn’t hold out much hope.

‘So, will you stay in London?’ Betty wiped her fingers on the napkin and stared at Kate, who paused with a bowl of miso soup halfway to her lips. ‘I bet you will.’

‘Stay there?’ she said, in astonished tones. ‘Good god no, Bets. Are you mad? I’m going back to see Dad now he’s had the op, then I’ll wait till he’s on the mend ok, I’ll see Zoe and the kids and I’ll be back on the first plane that’ll take me. It’s Oscar’s sixtieth in three weeks, anyway. I can’t miss that. Can you imagine?’ Betty said nothing. ‘Come on.’

‘Hm,’ said Betty. ‘Well, I’m just saying, that’s all. It’s going to be weird. Three years!’ She turned to Andrew, who was next to her, and gestured at him. ‘What do you reckon?’

Kate and Betty had been friends since university, so Kate should have been used to her ways. Now she reminded herself, as she stole a glance at Andrew from under her lashes, that Betty – and Francesca, for that matter, so thank god she wasn’t here too – always said what they thought, always had done. It was funny, really. Most of the time. She blushed as Andrew suddenly met her gaze.

‘I hope she comes back,’ Andrew said. He coughed, awkwardly, and was silent again. Betty rolled her eyes significantly at Kate and made nudging motions at her. Kate ignored her. She was too astonished, and pleased, at what Andrew had said, for usually he said nothing, let alone anything conclusive.

Kate had known Andrew now for a couple of months purely because, since he’d moved into Betty’s building in January, Betty had wasted no time in throwing him into Kate’s path. This was made easier by Andrew’s eagerness to meet Kate when he heard she worked for a literary agency. For Andrew was that not-so-rare creature: the boy with a book inside him. Kate had met enough of them both in London, when she worked on various magazines, and in New York, working at Perry and Co, to recognize Andrew as conforming fairly typically to type: he was angry about a lot of things, not least the parlous state of the Great American Novel, and his novel was extremely difficult, both thematically and practically. He had thick hair he brushed back from his face a lot, mostly in anger. He hadn’t written more than a word since he had first started talking to Kate about it. He was ‘circling round the themes’, he had told her, when she’d asked.

‘Right,’ Kate had said, politely, when she first heard this. She had glanced at Betty, who was nodding hopefully as if, a mere few minutes after their first introduction, she expected Kate and Andrew to dive underneath the table and copulate.

‘Honestly, that’s not exactly true,’ Andrew had added with a rueful smile. He scratched his cheek. ‘Could also be that I’d rather be out having a few beers after work than writing.’ He smiled at her, and Kate had instantly liked him again.

She found that, over the following weeks, she alternated in the same way, not being sure whether she liked him or not. Sometimes he was really very funny, coruscatingly rude or charming about something. Other times – too many – he was moody, virtually silent, as if oppressed by the weight of matters on his mind. Betty was running out of excuses, of social events to ask him to. Sooner or later Kate was just going to have to make a move, she told her. Ask him out for coffee.

As Andrew got up to use the bathroom, Betty said this to Kate, in no uncertain terms.

Kate was horrified.

‘Ask him out? No, no way, Bets. I couldn’t. Get him to.’

‘He’s not going to,’ said Betty decisively. She looked around her, to make sure Andrew wasn’t on his way back and hissed across the table, ‘It has to be you. Come on. You’ve got to seize the moment. Otherwise it’ll be over, and – and then what? You could have missed the chance to get married. For ever. How would you feel then?’