Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

‘I thought I might publish it, you know—the diary.’

‘You should do. It’s beautifully written. I imagine that people who can read it without feeling guilty will be fascinated by it—there’s a big market for angst by proxy.’

Marta laughed. ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

‘No, not really. Are you writing anything else?’ She and Marta had arrived at a fragile peace and, by an unspoken agreement, had lapsed into pleasantries to protect it. Josephine sensed that they both needed time to reassess what was going on between them; Marta had disappeared for ages on the pretext of getting them something to eat but, when she finally returned with plates of cheese and fruit, neither of them had touched it. While Josephine had been glad of the breathing space, she knew that sooner or later they would have to face their feelings or something precious would be lost; superficial chats on social occasions were not what she wanted from Marta, and she was surprised again by how important the relationship had become to her. ‘What about another novel? I can’t imagine you idle.’

‘I’ve started something, but I haven’t got very far with it. And you? I kept an eye out in the papers for a new play, but there hasn’t been anything.’

‘No, I’ve gone back to crime. It’ll be out early next year.’

‘Please tell me I didn’t drive you to it.’

‘Not to the crime, no, but there’s a character in it you might recognise—an actress. I gave her your name and Lydia’s personality.’

‘Determined to couple us in one way or another, then,’ Marta said, turning the bottle in the grate to warm the other side. ‘How is Lydia?’

‘Up and down. Work’s dismal, but the cottage is heavenly. She spends as much time there as she can, I gather.’

‘You gather? Don’t you see her much?’

‘We drifted apart a bit after what happened at the end of Richard , and it didn’t help that Queen of Scots wasn’t quite the career boost that she’d hoped for. We’re still friends, but it’s all a bit superficial at the moment. She’s never really forgiven me for being the one who was there for you when you needed someone. I get the feeling she doesn’t trust me any more.’ She gave a wry smile and poured the wine. ‘With good reason, as it turns out.’

‘You saved my life, Josephine—literally. Lydia couldn’t have done what you did to make me believe in a future; she would never have said the right things. And I haven’t even thanked you for that, have I? All those pages of pouring my heart out to you, and I never once mentioned it. It must seem ungrateful of me, but it felt like the sort of thing that I should say to your face—if I ever got to see your face again. So thank you.’

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the soft crackle of the fire. ‘Sometimes I think it would have been kinder to let you do what you intended,’ Josephine said at last. ‘What you went through instead can’t have been easy. I was at Holloway yesterday.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘It started out as research for a new book, but really I went for you.’

Marta lit a cigarette and stared at her. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I wanted to understand. There’s so much that I don’t know about you, Marta. I met you as Lydia’s lover, and we’ve hardly seen each other—yet here we are, talking about love and deciding whether or not we should go to bed together.’

‘What do you want to know before you have your wicked way with me?’

Josephine took the cigarette out of Marta’s mouth and made her light another. ‘Don’t be so glib,’ she said irritably. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘No I don’t. I’m astonished and touched that you would bother to walk round Holloway just to understand what I’ve been through, but I don’t see why anything else matters.’

‘So if you could ask me anything at all, you wouldn’t bother?’

She shook her head. ‘Not if it was about the past, no. I don’t need to. How I feel about you won’t change just because I know what school you went to.’

Josephine flushed, and felt like a naive child who had failed to understand the simplest of life’s truths. The control she had marvelled at earlier was now all but gone and the power between them had shifted: at the beginning of the evening, it was Marta who had laid her soul bare, Marta who wanted something; now, Josephine wanted it too, and that made her vulnerable, as Marta clearly recognised. ‘Do you ever do what’s expected?’ she asked angrily.

Marta held up her hands in apology. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like a Victorian parent scouting for a suitable daughter-in-law, but are you really so surprised that I don’t want to dwell on things that are over and done with? My whole past is dead, Josephine. There’s no one left to testify to the person I’ve been for most of my life—no parents, no lovers, no children. Lydia is the longest connection I have, and I’ve only known her for two years.’

‘That sounds quite liberating to me—you can be anyone you want to be.’

‘It’s not liberating, it’s terrifying. It’s almost as if I never existed, because my whole history died with the people I loved. I used to think that was the peculiar hell of the very old, you know, to be the last of your generation; now I know how easily it can happen. I want someone who can testify to my future, not my past. Is that really so unreasonable?’

‘No, of course it isn’t, but if Lydia is the longest relationship you have, why not try to make it last?’

‘Because everything’s come to pieces in my hands, Josephine. How could I inflict that on her?’

Josephine couldn’t resist raising an eyebrow. ‘But you’re happy to inflict it on me?’

‘You’re different—you can take it. Lydia’s not as strong as we are—she glosses over things. It’s a useful talent to have and I love her for it, but it’s no good in the end. She just hands me a plaster and sings while I bleed; you amputate the arm and tell me to get on with it.’

It was an insightful comment, and Josephine was reminded of why she admired Marta’s writing. ‘So you do still love her?’

‘Yes. Not in the way I love you, but I still care about her.’

Josephine remembered what Mary Size had said about Marta’s needing something to rely on, and she knew in her heart that it wasn’t these extremes of emotion and snatched hours spent with her. ‘Then put the pieces back together, Marta,’ she said quietly, hoping that the sadness didn’t show in her voice. ‘The way you love me won’t help you do that. There are only so many limbs you can lose.’

Marta sighed impatiently. ‘You make it sound so straightforward. Apart from anything else, why should Lydia even think of taking me back after everything that’s happened?’

It was the first hint of acquiescence, and relief was the last of the emotions which Josephine felt. ‘Coy really doesn’t suit you,’ she snapped. ‘Of course she’d have you back. Surely you’ve read her letters?’ Her jealousy took her completely by surprise, and she realised suddenly that many of her reasons for bringing the couple together were utterly selfish: as long as Marta was with Lydia, there was no danger of losing her completely. ‘Anyway, it’s not up to me to tell you to make a go of it with her. I’m just saying don’t make me a reason not to.’

‘But you are. Damn you, Josephine—my head tells me to go to Lydia, but still I cling to this ridiculous dream that you and I might have a future together. I never dreamt when I started that bloody diary in February that by November I’d still be incapable of looking at anyone else because of you, but it’s true. Even then, I thought that seeing you would be a kill-or-cure method. That’s all very well, but you forget that sometimes those methods do actually kill.’ She drained her glass and rubbed her hands across her eyes. ‘You got me through prison, too, but if I’d known then what I know now—what your coming here today has taught me—I think I’d have turned my face to the wall and given in.’