Alex Preston - The Revelations

She had called her mother the night before and told her that she would be staying for the rest of the year, would be having the baby in New York. Her mother, unusually emotional, had started to cry. Abby’s middle sister Susie had moved back home, after finally divorcing the maths teacher. Abby could hear her shouting at the children in the background.

‘And you really think this is what you went to that wonderful university for,’ her mother was saying. ‘To run a cult thousands of miles away from your family?’

Abby had made vague, soothing sounds and hung up. She rarely spoke to her mother any more. Sally and David were her new parents. And she knew that they were very proud of her. She took a gulp of wine.

A group of students came in. She realised that they had been at the meeting earlier. The girls were exquisite-looking: shimmering with health, their hair bounced as they walked. The young men were tall and wore pastel-coloured shirts tucked into their chinos. They sat at a table at the other end of the bar and Abby had to strain her ears to make out what they were saying.

‘It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Almost all my life, it feels like.’

‘The whole thing was so chic. Because that’s what I always hated about going to church with my family. All the unattractive people there.’

‘And the music is so great. I’ve already downloaded some of the podcasts. A bit of talking, some music. I listen to it on the way to class. Oh, hey, look, there’s Abby. Come and join us, Abby.’

Abby left her half-drunk glass of wine on the table and walked over to the group. She smiled down at them.

‘Can I get you guys a drink?’

‘No. Let us get you one. It’s Ben’s turn to buy. What would you like?’

‘Um. . Could I have a Diet Coke?’

They sat and talked for an hour. A huge bowl of nachos appeared in the centre of the table. Abby pulled out long strings of cheese, negotiating them carefully into her mouth. She enjoyed spending time with these young, burnished Americans. They had none of the scepticism of their English peers.

‘I’m going out to California next week,’ Abby told them. ‘I’ve never been before. I’m terribly excited.’

‘Oh, you’ll love it. Where are you going?’

‘San Francisco and LA. We’re doing a thing in LA with a bunch of Hollywood actors. The founder of the Course was out there last month and there seemed to be such excitement about it. I suppose a drive to make religion stylish was bound to go down well out there.’

‘I’ve got some friends at Berkeley who’d love to come along. Should I let them know about it?’

‘Sure. Please do tell as many people as you can about the Course. This is just the beginning. It’s really marvellous to be there at the beginning of something. David Nightingale, the founder of the Course, is making a huge speech in London today. Some terribly powerful church leaders from over here have flown out to watch him. With their support, the Course is going to simply explode in the US.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I must go and catch my train. I have to be in New York tonight. But here’s my card. Send me an email if you’d like to become campus representatives for the Course. We need as many people to spread the word as possible.’

She strolled downhill towards the train station. The university buildings were the colour of toast. Ivy grew up the wall beside her. On the other side of the road was a vast chapel built by a private-equity billionaire. It was here that she had spoken to the students earlier. Each time she came to one of these events she expected to be greeted by an empty hall, by spiky atheists intent on disrupting the meeting. But the rooms were always full. To see so many hopeful, upturned young faces, it gave her hope herself.

On the train back to New York she slipped her shoes off and tucked her legs beneath her on the seat. She was reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe . Mouse had sent it to her. It was the edition they had given to him for his nineteenth birthday. He had crossed out their message and written underneath it. The new inscription read: For Mummy and Baby Glass . She smiled. The sun was going down as the train moved out of the leafy New Jersey countryside and into the vast urban sprawl that surrounded New York. She liked to listen to the strange place names as they edged towards the city: Rahway, South Amboy, Secaucus. There was something terribly exotic about it all, even though the towns themselves were ugly smears of industrialised wasteland.

Abby sat back in her seat with her hands resting across her tummy. She knew she wouldn’t feel a kick for another month, knew that there was still a long way to go. But the baby was blessed. After everything that had happened, after all the heartache and the loss, the baby had to survive. It was only fair. It kept the world in balance.

She spoke to the baby sometimes. Only just moving her lips, a half-whisper. She told it about its father. She told it about Lee. She spoke about David. She shivered with excitement as they pulled into Penn Station. She said a little prayer as the train clunked and hissed to a stop. God, please look after the baby. After that, I really don’t care what else happens, just please let the baby survive. Amen.

*

Marcus was drunk. He had stopped at Bergdorf Goodman on the way home from the Course office on 52nd Street. He wanted to buy Abby a dress. They had a fundraising dinner at Trinity Church on Wall Street that evening. Abby was on the train home from one of her university sessions. He had walked through the dimly lit corridors of the mazelike department store until he came to a large room full of beautiful dresses. There was some sort of event being held. A group of women in their sixties stood around drinking champagne. Their hair was immaculately coiffed, their nails dripped red varnish, diamonds hung from earlobes and wattled necks and wide lapels.

Marcus began to wander around the room looking at the dresses. He held one up to the light, trying to make out whether it was black or navy blue. One of the older women came up behind him.

‘You buying something for the girlfriend, sweetie?’

‘It’s for my wife, actually.’

‘Oh, don’t you have the cutest little English accent? So it’s for your wife. It’s for his wife, Carmella.’ She took the dress from him and held it up against her, looking critically in the mirror. ‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll like this. Now what does she look like? About my build?’ She was tiny, her wasp waist held in with a large black belt. Marcus smiled.

‘Oh, no. She’s very tall. And she’s pregnant.’

‘Wonderful! How far along is she?’

‘Coming up for four months.’

‘Well, we must have a drink to celebrate. Come on, take a glass of champagne. Carmella, Nicole, get the girl to bring this young man a glass of champagne.’

Marcus took the glass, feeling rather dazed.

‘Now she’ll want something slimming. Is she showing properly yet? Does she have a bump?’

‘No, not a proper bump yet.’

Marcus drank almost an entire bottle of champagne with the ladies, who he discovered were members of an exclusive Bergdorf Goodman loyalty club. He left carrying a beautiful gold dress, another bottle of champagne slipped into the black-and-white carrier bag.

He walked along the concrete and steel canyon of Fifth Avenue until he reached the great green breath of the park. The sky above was a deep blue. The sun touched the uppermost branches of the trees. He browsed the bookstalls that had colonised the railings along the south-east corner of the park. The first leaves were appearing on the trees above him. He bought a copy of Fitzgerald’s short stories and walked across the busy street. He made his way into the Frick Gallery, flashing his membership pass at the guard on the door, who recognised him and smiled.