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They arrange to meet at the riverside in an hour, on the bench in front of the Pitcher and Piano. In town, Samantha calls in at Courlanders, the jeweller’s. She chooses two plain gold bands, gives them the candle for Peter’s ring size and tells them she’ll pick them up the following Wednesday. She will present them to Peter on Thursday when she announces her surprise. Yet again, she feels a surge of excitement. Taking control is a buzz.
She heads back up George Street and takes the right turn down past the Curzon to the riverside. The bench is empty, so she sits and watches the boatbuilders on the quay. The air smells resinous, the faint whiff of varnish and sawdust, the cooler damp notes of the river. A pale shadow falls.
‘Hey.’ Aisha is standing over her, hands on hips. She is dressed in Lycra sports kit and is even managing to sweat attractively. She cocks her head and pulls out first one earbud then the other, before turning off the iPod clipped to her sports vest.
‘Thought I’d multitask,’ she says.
‘Impressive,’ Samantha replies, aware that on the outside she must appear confident, relaxed, whole, when in fact she is afraid, tense, in pieces. In her belly, a hot flare of nerves rises at the thought of what she must now find to say and what it will mean for her and Aisha. But as of last night, when a plan clarified itself in her mind, her life has been no more than a play; that’s all it is, all it can be for now. She just has to grit her teeth and take it scene by scene.
Aisha plonks herself down on the bench. ‘So you said it was all fine?’
Samantha pauses a moment before rolling her eyes in what she hopes is a self-deprecating way. ‘So, I’m such an idiot. I remembered when I got home that Peter’s niece is in town. He actually told me she was coming and he, like, even said he was taking her to the theatre. But this was weeks ago and I forgot and I don’t think he mentioned which play it was or I would have remembered. I thought he had a meeting but that’s next week. I’d read the calendar wrong.’ She makes herself laugh. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.’
Aisha frowns, her brow knits. ‘Sorry, I … His niece, did you say?’
Peter has no sisters or brothers. If Samantha knows this, Aisha sure as hell will. Christ, lying is complicated; how do people do it?
‘Niece, cousin,’ she spits out. ‘Something, anyway, I can’t remember. Jen, her name is. Jem. Jemima.’ Shut up, Samantha. Really.
‘Jemima?’
‘Something like that. Gosh, I’m hopeless, aren’t I? Baby brain! Anyway,’ she blusters – horribly, awkwardly, unable to look anywhere near Aisha’s face, focusing instead on her neon-pink running shoes, ‘I do have some exciting news, although maybe I shouldn’t tell you until you’ve processed—’
‘No,’ Aisha says, though her voice is small. ‘You can tell me anything, Sam – you know you can.’
‘You’re not going to be pleased.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Trust me, I do. But remember I said last night not to judge? Well, the thing is, Peter asked me to marry him again and I … I said yes.’
‘You saidyes?’
‘I did.’ Samantha closes her eyes a moment against the shocked expression on Aisha’s face, opens them to see it still there. Oh God, this is hard, so much harder than she thought. Lying to Peter is one thing, but …
‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ Aisha is looking out at the river now, her hands clasped in her lap. There is an almost imperceptible film of tears in her eyes. Samantha wishes she could tell her everything, almost does. But it’s best that Aisha despairs of her. It will protect her later.
‘I know you had a rough time with him,’ she says gently. ‘And I know he’s been a shit, trust me, I do. But I have to believe in second chances.’ That’s twice she’s saidtrust me. It’s the phrase Peter always uses. Funny that it should enter her speech habits now, when she is at her most dishonest.
‘You think he’s changed.’ Aisha’s voice is flat.
‘I think he’s got more to lose,’ Samantha says. ‘I think he’s getting older and his power is ebbing away. Like King Lear, if you like.’
‘Come on, he’s not that old, Sam.’ Aisha is still frowning, but her face relaxes a little. ‘But yeah, he’s vain and foolish, I suppose. Cruel when he wants to be.’
Samantha exhales heavily. If there were a trapdoor to her life before meeting Peter, she would pull the lever and drop through this second. Rewind. Start again. Hold on to her plastic glass of wine and say,Actually, this wine is fine, thank you. I’m staying right here.Meet some skinny, awkward boy, have too much to drink, go home for not very good sex but maybe get the hang of it eventually, together, on equal terms. Except for Emily, of course.
‘I know this is hard for you,’ she says. ‘But I want to book a surprise honeymoon and I think the passports are in the safe. Don’t suppose you know the combination, do you?’
They are both looking out onto the river now, to where a tugboat chugs merrily along, its blades rotating nineteen to the dozen at the back, the water churning white.
‘I don’t know it exactly,’ Aisha says, her voice dull. ‘But I’ve got a strong feeling it’s the year of Caravaggio’s birth. Or death. One of those. Fifteen something. Sorry not to be clearer.’ And with an air of finality that makes Samantha’s guts churn, she stands up and puts one earbud in, then the other.
‘I’ll see you around,’ she says.
They both know that this is it, this is where their friendship ends, but Aisha’s smile is kind, her eyes soft. She is sad too, unbearably so. Samantha has to look away.
‘Good luck, Sam,’ she hears Aisha say, the words a rock in her chest.
