The Hummingbird and The Bear

by Nicholas Hogg

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Sam Taylor knows he should be content with his life; with a high-flying career in the city and a beautiful fiancée, his lot is better than most. But he can't help but feel something is missing.

When Sam meets enigmatic American Kay at a Cotswolds wedding as he holds out his umbrella for her in the pouring rain, he believes he has found someone who completes him. Throwing caution to the wind, Sam decides to risk everything and pursue Kay across the Atlantic to her native New York and the home she shares with her husband, Chris. Nicholas Hogg's novel is a taut and highly charged story of passion and adultery.

Set against the backdrop of the financial crisis, The Hummingbird and the Bear follows a powerful and illicit love from England to New York, from the known to the unknown. Both shocking and delightful, it confirms Hogg's position among the finest of today's young writers.

Praise for his previois novel Show Me the Sky:

"An assured and gripping debut." BBC Radio 3.

"Hogg performs a full range of literary circus feats... leading his reader on an exotic journey." Adelaide Advertiser.

Like a four-part harmony, Hogg balances these voices, strengthening the book's message of staying true to one's roots. Sunday Herald

"His subtle and clever novel weaves together five different narrative strands... plotted so artfully." The Big Issue.

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

WITH THOUGHTS OF OUR own fairy-tale wedding on the banks of the Thames, booked for the first week of May next year, Jenni and I watched the radiant bride float down the aisle.


‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘Look at that dress.’

It was a meringue piled upon another meringue, in my opinion. But at that point in my life the thought of a grand church wedding was still romantic theatre, not pantomime. Together we watched the bride and the bridesmaids and the pageboy walk the aisle of a church dating back to the eleventh century, the huge stone font covered in carvings of the apostles, no doubt baptising newborns and observing weddings since Norman times.

From Monday to Friday, Jenni was an assertive PA who shooed brokers around billion-dollar investment banks. Tall and slim, willowy I’d heard people say, and long blond hair with a Scandinavian lustre inherited from the Norwegian blood in her mother. Jealous men would’ve worried about the chat-up lines of testosterone-fuelled traders, the leering suits ogling her in a mirrored lift. But her slender figure belied a taut strength of body and mind, a sharp wit ready to cut down the barrow boys dealing millions. And her boss knew this too. Her rising status meant she could be doing anything from arranging a conference call to actually being the representative sitting before the screen.


Now she wiped a tear away with a handkerchief that matched her dress. And she cried some more during the ceremony, as did other guests, many whispering it was good luck that a tiny sparrow had flown into the church and fluttered over the vows.


‘I pronounce thee man and wife,’ intoned the priest. ‘You may kiss the bride.’

They embraced, and for that moment all the dreams of love and marriage were true.

 

On the church steps Jenni scanned the brooding weather. ‘Friendly clouds, friendly clouds,’ she repeated. ‘We just need sun for the photos, then it can pour down.’

I looked at the swirl of thunderstorms, the patches of blue sky bruised by rain showers sweeping across the Cotswold hills. Jenni looped her arm through my elbow as we stood clutching confetti, waiting in the shrinking sunshine, unaware that the timing of a shower could alter a life so drastically.

What if the rain had fallen on a different field, or blown over ten minutes earlier, or later?

Waiting on those church steps, on stone worn by centuries of guests attending ceremonies joining one to the other, if you’d asked me to tell you what it means to love, to give your body and soul to someone else, I’d tell you about Jenni.

Then the bride and groom appeared.

We threw confetti and rice, regaled them with cheers, our own hopes of happily ever after. The photographer was keen to get the shots in before the rain, and hurried the various groups of guests into position, shepherding different sides of the families on to the church steps.


In one photo the groom holds the bride, as if carrying her over the threshold of their new home, laughing, blissful, their hair and faces speckled with bits of brightly coloured paper. I remember this photo in particular, because it was the snap Jenni ordered from Mark and Briony’s Wedding Album. ‘Are you going to pick me up like that?’ she’d asked, setting the photo on the bookshelf in our Maida Vale flat, a red-brick apartment with an ironwork balcony we’d bought with my first six-figure salary last year. This mortgage was a statement, I believed, not only of success to myself, but to Jenni of my intentions, that I was serious about our future together. 





 

HUNDREDS OF GUESTS HAD been invited to the reception, and as the quaint Gloucestershire village had no venue bigger than a scout hut available Briony’s father had erected a gleaming marquee the size of a big top in a nearby field.


Like a procession of worshippers following two deities, the guests followed the horse and carriage through the narrow village streets. Local children ran and jumped and threw bunches of second-hand confetti picked up off the church steps. Hooves clip-clopped and so did our own heels and shoes. Bewitched by the romance of the occasion, Jenni was practically skipping along, ignoring my snickering comments about someone’s gaudy dress or fruit bowl hat. When the first spits of rain dotted the road she snapped, ‘No, no. Not yet.’

‘There might be a rainbow,’ I ventured.

If there was I never saw it. When the shower fell it flashed from the sun like streaks of mercury. Those that had umbrellas popped them open.

‘Shit,’ swore Jenni, grabbing my arm and pulling herself closer for some shelter. ‘My hair.’

‘You’re the one who said an umbrella would bring bad luck.’

I took off my jacket and held it over her head until we got to the marquee. Other guests without umbrellas scuttled under the awning or back to cars parked just beyond the guy ropes.


‘I could do with some lipstick,’ said Jenni. ‘Let’s make a run for the car.’

We ran through the rain, Jenni now holding my jacket above her head until we slid inside and slammed the doors.

‘Good timing.’

‘Only just.’ Her hair was wet. She flicked down the visor mirror. ‘Fuck. It’ll be frizzy later.’

‘We’ll all be pissed by then.’ Buses had been laid on to take us from the reception to the nearest hotel, then back again in the morning to pick up the cars.

‘Is that still the plan, then?’ She was asking about my dawn exit.

‘You know it is.’ I had to be in London by noon to meet a senior analyst, and would be leaving Jenni to catch a lift later on.

‘Fancy scheduling a meeting the day after a wedding.’

‘Blame the Germans.’

‘You always do.’

‘He’s flying in from Frankfurt.’

‘You make it sound like an air raid,’ she laughed, fiddling with her hair.

‘It could be if he’s firing people.’

‘Not you?’ she asked, a mild concern.

‘Nein. I’m the star of the firm.’

‘Big head.’ Jenni playfully slapped my arm, again. A part of our relationship that had developed into an unuttered, habitual I love you. ‘How perfect was the horse and carriage?’


‘A bit Disney.’ 


‘True.’ She had the lipstick in her hand, readied. Then she turned, a spark in her pale blue eyes. ‘Are you going to smudge my lips if I put this on now?’

‘My advice is to let me kiss you first.’

And she did. I leant across the seats and kissed her hard until she abruptly drew away.

‘So weddings get you horny. That’s good to know.’

‘Must be the thought of all that fancy underwear.’

She kissed me back, and I wanted all of her, in the rush of the raindrops on the car roof, behind windows steamed with breath. I put my hand up her dress.

‘Not now, Sam.’

She was right. It was hardly the best spot to have sex.

But if we had made love there and then it would’ve been the last time I’d think only about her and not someone else. 




 

I NEVER UNDERSTOOD WHY men went to war, why men would die in the corner of a muddy field for the colour of a flag, until I saw her at the wedding. She wore a yellow dress and no shoes, a woman lit by electric cloud running through a storm with a pair of high heels dangled in her hands.


It was Jenni who called out for her to shelter with us.

‘You sure?’ she replied, ducking under the umbrella.

‘At least keep your hair dry.’

As simple as that. There she was against my shoulder.

I was standing between the two of them, raising the umbrella high over the three of us. I inhaled the aroma of some exotic perfume lifting off her bare shoulders. I was that close. I could have leaned forward and kissed her neck.

Or bitten her.

That close before we’d even said hello.

‘I’m Kay.’

She was American. We introduced ourselves, Jenni doing the ‘who invited you’ bit. Which was good, as I doubt I could have pulled myself together to make the necessary small talk. In that briefest of greetings, before she turned back to look where she was stepping, we were face to face, all eyes, lips and mouth. Too quick for any details, yet long enough for me to wonder what makes one person fall into another. And fall is the right verb. We don’t walk, shuffle, or decide. We fall, some further than others. Some without warning.


‘Hey,’ said Jenni, breaking step. ‘Be a gentleman and keep both the ladies dry.’


I was holding the umbrella further towards Kay, letting the rain fall on Jenni’s hat and dress.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ I laughed nervously.

The rain smacked down on the umbrella, harder, and the three of us pressed closer as we walked, bumping hips, bodies. We high-stepped the puddles and runnels, and then ran like frightened children when lightning forked into the next field.

‘Oh my God,’ screamed Jenni.

The thunderclap crackled about the valley, and I ushered us all into the marquee. Drenched guests stood about in shock. Soaked hats and limp flowers, outfits ruined.

Then Kay waltzed in with muddy feet.

‘Not quite the entrance I was hoping to make,’ she laughed.

Jenni laughed too. And so did the nearly drowned others, glad of distraction from their bedraggled hair and running make-up, happy to let this American woman steal the show, which she did.

I stood back and shook the umbrella. I was looking, but I wasn’t. Not looking at her copper skin wet with rain, how she cheekily lifted a glass of water from a passing waiter and poured it over her slender feet, a private moment public, the thought of her preening in a scented bath.

I took a towel from one of the caterers and stepped forward. Jenni was there, I know that. Otherwise I might have bent and dried her feet. Not because I wanted to, but because it was the thing to do. She thanked me, smiled. By not looking her in the eye, I was looking. Again. Looking at her painted toes, the way her black hair shone like wet coal.


I quickly slipped back to the circle of onlookers, watching as Jenni helped her balance into her shoes. 




 

THE WEDDING RECEPTION WAS the usual orchestrated procession of thank yous and toasts, glasses of pink champagne cordially raised in appreciation of fathers, mothers and brides. On rows of tables bedecked with flowers and attended by a legion of uniformed waiters, we sat and politely listened to the parents’ gentle anecdotes. Until the speech of the best man, a rugby-playing currency trader I knew via a friend in the City. Perhaps he was already a little drunk, perhaps he was a stand-up comic trapped in a suit and tie, but it was one of those rip-roaring performances that rock a wedding with laughter, inspiring guests to knock back drinks with merry abandonment.


I heard, and laughed, at most of the jokes, but not all.

She sat two tables away. A yellow flame burning at the corner of my vision. I took wide, sweeping looks of the marquee to hide my stares.

Of course she was with someone else. I was hardly surprised by this. But neither did it mean anything.

So was I.

I was drunk before the end of the meal. I can’t recall what was on the menu, what food I ate. Possibly duck? Some stringy game bird I chewed without tasting. My senses had been overloaded, burned out. And I know this sounds fanciful. If I’d heard something similar from a friend, that he or she had been sitting with the one they’d pledged to marry, consumed not by thoughts of a rosy future with their betrothed, but of whether a woman across a crowded room was seated next to her husband, I’d have passed it off as juvenile, wanton lust.


He looked a little older than her, silver in his hair, early forties. He looked like a man who’d made money, a man who usually got what he wanted.

From where I sat, I couldn’t see if she wore a ring or not. Though I could certainly see the engagement ring flashing on Jenni’s finger, the brilliant cut diamond I’d bought in a Bond Street jewellers.

‘Don’t get too pissed,’ she leant over and whispered, resting her hand on my thigh. ‘I want a dance with you later.’

She also reminded me that I had to be on the road at seven o’clock in the morning.

‘I’ll have a couple of coffees.’

‘You’ll need the whole pot at this rate.’

 

The bride and groom took the floor for the first dance. He twirled her a little awkwardly to begin, and they quickly gave up the pretence of knowing any choreographed steps as she nestled her cheek against his. Jenni leant into the crook of my shoulder. ‘That’s better than them learning some crowd-pleasing tango.’


Watching the newly-weds hug and sway, I forgot about Kay and thought of Jenni. I forgot the heat of Kay’s body, her bare shoulders, her silky hair over the back of my hand. I was free, content with my future, the woman pressed against my chest, Jenni’s scent, Jenni’s hair. This was how she slept, how we fitted together in bed, arms curled around each other till morning.


But then again that flicker of her yellow dress at the corner of my vision. The way a flame might catch the corner of a piece of paper, or a photo, and burn its way into the centre of the picture. 




 

‘CHRIS SEGUR.’ HE PUT out his hand to be shaken. He had the tanned skin of a weekend sailor, broad shoulders and a heavy frame. A man who probably played golf on a workday and closed business deals over lunches of smoked salmon. ‘Kay told me you kept her dress dry.’


We gripped hard and vigorously shook, alpha males. I bumbled something about there being plenty of space for the three of us. Jenni, flushed with champagne, launched into chatter with Kay about her outfit, while Segur and I did the obligatory intros.

‘Mark’s my guy in London.’ Segur pointed his glass towards the groom. ‘Now he’s got a wife to slave for, I’ve really got him pinned.’

I faked a laugh for the comment, and noted the offhand tilt of his glass to point out a man across the room. He bragged about hedge funds and profits, an American show of money where we British would hide. But still, a blowhard’s introduction.

‘She’s quite a catch, too.’ He nodded towards Jenni. ‘You tied the knot yet?’

‘Next year,’ I replied. ‘And already planning.’

‘You’ve got that right.’

‘Planning’, I’d said. Yes, perhaps I already was. When he launched into a monologue on the predictions of an oncoming financial crisis, I focused on Jenni, standing chatting with Kay at such an angle that when I looked over Segur’s shoulder, and then over Jenni’s, we stared past our partners and directly into each other’s eyes.


And when she immediately dropped her gaze, her sparkle, I felt caught out, a fool. And rejected. We’d passed no more than a greeting and I’d been hurt by a woman who was talking to my fiancée.

I knew I was behaving like a schoolboy in raptures over his teacher, or any other fanciful, ridiculous and unrequited attraction. Resolved to take back command of my own body, I apologized to Segur and slipped my arm round Jenni’s waist. ‘Let’s dance.’

She laughed to Kay. ‘Whisked off my feet.’

I danced with my wife to be, a woman I’d been waking up next to for the last three years. Below the glitzy disco lights I kissed her neck and told her I wished our own wedding was tomorrow. And I really did. I was afraid of the schism Kay had so suddenly caused, and hugged Jenni tighter, pushing my pelvis against her hips. We were one again until a change of song and Jenni made a run to the Ladies.

I headed to the bar despite promising I wouldn’t.

A broken promise.

Broken promises.

I was drunk. I felt heavy, as if walking across the surface of a planet with stronger gravity.

I looked around for Kay. And Segur. But I was too pissed to see much further than my own nose. So when he appeared in the mirror behind the bar, I thought I might turn round and find him gone. One moment I was poking in my wallet, the next moment he was there, as if beamed down by a spotlight in the roof, a stark light, that for the briefest second seemed to reveal a crueller being before the amiable businessman held out a note and paid for our rum and Cokes.


‘Still standing, then?’ he joked as we clinked glasses.

Guests were drifting away. Buses had begun ferrying those worse for wear back to the hotel. When I asked him if Kay had already left I thought I’d revealed myself, but he replied, smiling, ‘Early night. She’s got a flight to New York tomorrow, and I hear you might be able to help me out?’

‘Help you out?’

‘I have to be in Glasgow Monday. And I know I should be the gentleman and drive her to the airport, but what’s with the trains in this country? I book a first class ticket from Stroud to Marylebone and then find out they want to put her on a bus.’

‘Sunday is repairs day.’

‘Track replacement, or something. Sounds like a goddamn train set.’

I asked if she was flying from Heathrow.

‘That close to where you’re heading?’

I said it was, and felt a sharp jolt along my spine.

‘Be great if she could jump in. I have a car service, but I hardly trust the shmucks to find this place by tomorrow morning.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said. ‘I’d be glad to.’

When he shook my hand I could smell her perfume on him.

‘I owe you one.’ He reached into his blazer and pulled out a silver case filled with business cards. ‘Here. You get across the pond much?’ 


I told him I did. ‘New York’s a happening city.’

‘Can’t compare. Next time you’re in town be sure to look me up. You like football?’

‘Not soccer?’

‘No, no. American football.’

‘Great game,’ I said. ‘But not as good as rugby.’

He laughed, and, as bigger men often do, affirmed some higher status by manfully slapping my shoulders with his bear paw hands.

‘We tackle without pads and helmets,’ I added, contesting the hierarchy.


‘Hell, call me if you hit New York and I’ll take you to a Giants game.’ He shook his head. ‘Not as good as rugby, my ass.’

We arranged that I’d drop by their room in the morning. ‘I owe you one,’ he repeated. ‘I mean it.’ He then opened his leather wallet and pulled out a thick roll of notes. ‘At least let me get your gas and lunch.’

Of course I refused the money.

‘Don’t say I didn’t offer.’

Perhaps a little perturbed because I hadn’t accepted the cash, he slipped the notes back into his wallet and again patted me on the shoulder. ‘Maybe I can throw some business your way.’ Then he shook my hand and wished me goodnight. As he walked off I imagined nailing him with a rugby tackle, clattering him across the dance floor.


I also wondered if he’d touch his wife’s naked body with the same palm that had just shaken my hand.

By the time Jenni came back I’d drunk both our rum and Cokes. 




 

‘YOUR ALARM,’ MUMBLED JENNI. ‘Switch off your alarm.’ I swore. Sunrise hit the hotel curtains. It seemed that only minutes ago I was standing with a drink in the bustle of the reception.


‘Do you have time for a shower?’ Jenni addressed me from beneath the sheets. ‘You smell like a brewery.’

I sleepwalked into the cubicle, scrubbed and scoured. Once I’d towelled myself dry I looked at my puffy face in the mirror. ‘Fuck.’

‘You’re still pissed, aren’t you?’

‘Tell me about it.’ Whisky and rum seeped from my pores. ‘If I wasn’t on taxi duty I wouldn’t have even got up.’ And that wasn’t a lie, either. If I wasn’t due outside Kay’s room I’d have cancelled the London meeting.

Jenni was sitting up against the headboard, watching me dress. ‘For God’s sake don’t get pulled over. You’ll lose your licence.’

‘That would be handy,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Imagine me handing accounts a receipt for a year-long taxi service.’

‘Exactly.’

I leant forward and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll drive carefully.’

‘You do that.’ 


I brushed the hair from her face and kissed her again, on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you later.’

Before I closed the door she said, ‘Tell Kay it was nice to meet . . .