A Perfect Marriage (2 page)

"Katie something-or-other.
Looks like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Bo Peep, and specialises in industrial law. Are we middle-aged?"

"Something
like
it. I see forty looming on the horizon."

I
She
peered into the mirror, looking for lines.

He strolled over and hooked an arm about her waist. "
It's
 
looming
faster for me. You're a very attractive woman. And ' you still will be when you're ninety. All the old gents in the nursing home will be making passes at you." He bent his head to kiss her.

Laughing, she turned her face so that the kiss landed on her cheek. "Don't, you'll smudge my lipstick. Anyway, I've got stuff on to make it last through dinner, and it tastes horrid."

Releasing her, he said, "Do you think we could nip down for a quick drink before Tom and Honoria arrive?"

She smiled at him. "You pour them while I put the fin wishing touches to the hors d'oeuvres."

They were on the deck, companionably sipping at their aperitifs when the doorbell pealed.

"You go." Celine swiftly finished her gin and tonic and picked up Max's empty glass. "I'll take these away."

When she came back bearing the hors d'oeuvres, he had their guests seated on the terrace. Tom stood up to kiss her cheek.
"Celine!
Lovely as ever."
He was a thick set man with sandy hair retreating in good order from his forehead, and friendly brown eyes.

"Thank you, Tom." She bent to put the plate on the table. "Hello, Honoria. Is Max looking after you?"

"Beautifully, thank you." Honoria wore her blond hair sleeked back into a chignon spiked with glittering combs. An apricot silk jumpsuit clung to a cat-thin figure, and a row of bracelets jangled down one arm. Max had once said that

  
 
whatever
Honoria wore, somehow he always saw her in form-fitting leopardskin and six-inch heels.

Max was filling champagne flutes with sparkling wine. "The latest vintage of Pelorus," he was telling Tom. "See what you think."

While they discussed wines, Celine asked Honoria about the Harding children, a boy and a girl of high school age. The subject occupied Honoria happily for twenty minutes, and when Celine excused herself to attend to the meal, Honoria picked up what remained of her second glass of Pelorus and followed, propping herself against the kitchen counter as Celine, declining the token offer of help, warmed bread rolls, removed the casserole from the oven, and placed the vegetables in serving dishes.

"It smells divine," Honoria told her.
"And looks wonderful, too.
I don't know how you do it. I can never have everything ready at the same time. The vegetables get cold while I'm fixing the meat, or the meat overcooks while I deal with the vegetables. Or the sauce goes lumpy, or I forget to serve the potatoes."

"If I had a family I'd probably find the same," Celine told her. "There always seems to be a child around with some urgent need when their mother's entertaining."

"I think it's an attention thing. They're afraid you'll get distracted and not remember them or something. Mine still do it, and they're teenagers! Here, can I carry something?" Honoria gulped the last of her wine and picked up the two dishes that Celine indicated.

Max and Celine had been on their honeymoon in the Cook Islands when they met Tom and Honoria. The Hardings had been married longer, but were only a year or two older, and the four of them had spent several evenings together watching island dancers or dining out at the various restaurants, and shared the expenses of boat trips and taxi rides. Fortunately the islands were well suited to Honoria's flexible notions of time. Even Max, after the first couple of days, had become quite relaxed about it.

 
After returning to New Zealand they had seen one another two or three times a year. Max and Tom enjoyed a casual male comradeship and while Max derived a good deal of what he deemed innocent amusement from Honoria's flamboyance and her ingenuous conversation, Celine appreciated her warm-heartedness and the shrewd judgement concealed behind an artlessly breathless manner.

Sometimes they talked in a vague way of sharing another holiday, but it had never got beyond talk. Perhaps all of them were secretly afraid of spoiling the memory.

When they'd seen Tom and Honoria off and shut the door, Max dropped the arm he had draped about Celine's shoulders, and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "Do you need any help to clear up?"

"Honoria and I have done most of it, and Alice will be here in the morning. You go and read
your
brief, or whatever it is you brought home."

"You're a wife in a million, you know that?" he said lazily. "Actually, I could probably be persuaded to leave it for tonight, if you're interested." Fractionally, he raised an eyebrow.

Celine laughed. "You," she said, "are full of wine and nostalgia. I'm not going to be responsible for seducing you from your work." She walked away from him across the hall.

Max looked after her, his expression pensive, and after a moment turned and went upstairs to his study.

In the bedroom Celine put on a pair of rose silk pyjamas before going into the bathroom and dropping her undies into the laundry basket. Max had given the primrose set to her, she recalled. He quite often gave her frivolous, sexy lingerie that she would seldom buy for herself. Unlike some men, he knew her size and didn't seem to mind shopping for intimate female apparel.

Perhaps when he'd watched her put on his gift earlier this evening, he'd fancied removing it himself. The first time

  
 
he'd given her a nightgown-red nylon with black lace frills smothering the minimalist bodice and circling the hem-and told her to put it on because he intended to take it off later, she'd laughingly accused him of wanting to own his woman, buying and controlling what she wore.

"You've been reading feminist literature," he guessed. "And what have you been reading?" she'd retorted.

"Playboy?"

"For the articles," he told her solemnly. "Actually, I haven't opened one since I was a teenager. I just saw this in a shop window and I thought you'd look good in it."

Celine had thought she looked like a tart, but hadn't said so. If he really wanted her to wear it, she didn't mind. No one else was going to see her in it.

Over the years his taste had refined, or perhaps he'd realised that she wasn't the black lace type. He still liked low-cut gowns with lots of lace, but he was more likely to buy satin than nylon, and choose muted or pastel shades. He had never given her pyjamas.

She had, of course, provided herself with some
specially
glamorous nightwear for their honeymoon. Some had been bought earlier, for the long weekend that they'd spent together, which they had both tacitly known was a trial run to test their sexual compatibility before they committed themselves to marriage.

She'd found Max a very satisfactory lover, neither hurried nor selfish, and plainly she'd satisfied him, too. There were few awkward moments, and on their way home he'd said to her, "Would you like to choose an engagement ring tomorrow?" From that point on they had never doubted their commitment to each other.

Celine got into bed and picked up her book from the bedside table. It was a sex-and-shopping saga that had been pressed on her by a member of her bridge club. She got through a chapter and a half before turning off the light.

"Do you fancy a few days away?" Max was putting on his tie in front of the mirror the next morning, while
Celine
 
straightened
the bed.

"You don't have another conference, do you?"

Max pulled the knot up to his collar and adjusted the tie. "I meant just you and me.
A holiday."
He turned to face her.

"Do you have time?"

"One of my clients has decided to plead guilty after all, so I could leave early on Friday, and take Monday off, too. Maybe we could go to the Bay of Islands, or Taupo."

"You've just been to Taupo."

"Hardly had time to appreciate the lake or the views, we were kept so busy with seminars. The hotel where we had the conference was quite good, and right on the lakeside. We could stay there if you like. Or we could just drive until we find somewhere we want to stop."

Tempted, Celine gave it a moment's thought.
"This weekend?
Oh, I can't, Max
: '

"Why not?"

"I'm collecting for the Pacific Hurricane Relief Fund on Saturday afternoon."

"I see. Right:'

"If I'd known sooner-" Celine left the bed and took her wrap from the wardrobe. "But they've had enough trouble finding volunteers, and at short notice-"

"Yes. Well, it was just an idea." He shrugged.

"Maybe we can do it some other time."

"If another client has a change of heart I'll let you know.

'It's about the only chance I'm likely to get.' Fancying he sounded ever so slightly grumpy, Celine said reasonably, "I have a fairly full schedule, myself. I can't just drop everything whenever you happen to have a free day or two."

"I don't expect you to," he answered. "Forget it. I'll see
You
downstairs"

When she got to the kitchen he'd had his cold cereal and two pieces of toast and marmalade, and was finishing his coffee. She took the crumb-dusted plate and put it on the

  
 
counter
ready to be stacked in the dishwasher, and poured herself some coffee.

Max got to his feet, saying, "I'd better get going." He came round the table to drop a kiss on her cheek.
"'Bye."

Briefcase in hand, he headed out the door, turning to close it. Celine was standing with one hand on a chairback, putting the coffee cup down on the table, and he paused,
then
came back to her, sliding his arms about her.

He pulled her close and kissed her properly, taking his time. Celine put her hands on his arms, kissing him in return.

Easing reluctantly away, his eyes lazy and lustrous, he murmured, "See you tonight." And then he went and picked up the briefcase, this time closing the door firmly behind him.

At five o'clock Celine was in the bath. She'd filled the tub to halfway before getting in, and used a generous dollop of scented bath foam. She'd spent the morning shopping for groceries and getting her legs waxed, and the afternoon in the garden. Then she'd had a refreshing swim in the pool and come upstairs. At intermittent intervals through the day she'd recalled with pleasant expectation Max's kiss and his parting words.

She soaked in the bath for half an hour, feeling wonderfully decadent and pushing the faucet with her toes every so often for more hot water.

After drying herself off, she used body lotion and a matching spray perfume before she smoothed on a light, creamy makeup and pink lipstick, and made up her eyes with a subtle hint of violet shadow, finishing with the charcoal grey mascara she favoured, softer than black but less obvious than blue.

She was humming as she took from its hanger a cool, sleeveless, lavender silk fastened on the shoulders with thin ties, the graceful skirt flowing from the hipline. "It suits you," Max had approved the first time she'd worn it. "Makes your eyes look like pansies."

 
Her eyes were neither blue nor brown, the inner irises dark gold, the outer part a deep but indeterminate colour that changed subtly with what she wore. Looking in the mirror, she supposed that for a woman in her thirties she looked really quite good. Her figure had scarcely changed since the day she had married.

If she'd had children, her bust, which she'd always felt was on the meagre side, might have become fuller, her trim hips wider. Honoria complained that it had taken a vicious regime of dieting and exercise to regain her figure after she'd had her babies. Celine wondered if she'd have minded so much.

She'd probably never know. She and Max had both had tests after she'd been off the pill for two years. "No apparent abnormality," they'd been told. The middle-aged doctor had worn half-glasses and a beard that made him look like a Victorian schoolteacher. "Go home and try to re, tax," he'd ordered them, as though giving them a hundred lines. "Give it time."

They'd left relieved that they'd been pronounced normal, and for a while every time they made love they'd sternly advise each other to relax, and then dissolve into mutual laughter.

But after a time the joke wore thin.

They'd made tentative enquiries about the possibility of a medically assisted pregnancy.

"Even if we were accepted for the programme," Celine confessed, after studying the available information, "I'd feel like a laboratory specimen. Is it very important to you
... ?"

"No," Max had said promptly. "I was afraid it was to you. I'd go along with it if you wanted to, but..."

They'd decided that while other people might find the numerous tests and procedures worthwhile, it wasn't for
diem
.

"We could enquire about adoption," Max suggested; but hesitantly he confessed, "Only I'm not sure how I'd feel about a child that wasn't really mine."

"If you couldn't feel it was yours, it wouldn't be fair to the child." Smiling a little sadly, Celine added, "I guess we're stuck with each other."

Max had reached across the bit of the sofa lying between them, and taken her hand, drawing her to him. "That's fine with me," he told her, and put his arm about her so that she could rest against his shoulder.

Celine had closed her eyes on a couple of small tears that she hadn't allowed to fall, and said goodbye to the shadowy child who had haunted the recesses of her mind.

Neither she nor Max believed in hankering for what might have been. You could say
,
she supposed, that their marriage was built on that very foundation.

There had, of course, been occasional setbacks and doubts and the odd argument. But they were both mature, self-aware people. They liked each other a great deal, and from that liking and their determination to make a good marriage, they had built a loving and faithful relationship, envied by many of their friends whose marriages or long term love affairs had broken up amid shards of bitterness and recrimination.