A Rural Affair (29 page)

Normally this would have had me purring with pride, but today I was distracted. I gave it the briefest of glances, flashed
a weak smile and crossed to the sitting-room window.

‘What’s up?’ Peggy narrowed her eyes and sat down, lighting a cigarette, watching my back. The children had run back to their
crayons in the kitchen.

I turned from staring out at the road over my little hedge. ‘You know that woman Phil was having an affair with? Emma Harding?’
Funny, I’d thought I was calm but my breathing was erratic. ‘She’s just married Simon Devereux.’

Peggy frowned. ‘Simon? Are you sure? I heard he was marrying someone terribly good-looking.’

‘Well, she is quite good-looking.’

‘But Phil was …’ She stopped.

‘Quite.’ I bit my lip. ‘God knows why women fell for him, Peggy,’ I said softly. ‘Anyway, she’s nabbed Simon now. A much better
prospect.’

‘Fast work,’ she murmured. ‘In your church too. Takes some doing. How did she know she wouldn’t see you?’

‘Well, she knew I wasn’t on the guest list, so I imagine she thought there was only a slim chance I’d be bustling round the
village, and even then it’s only yet another bride sweeping out of our oh-so-popular church, so why would I bother to stand
and stare? And it’s all over bar the shouting by then, isn’t it? When she’s out, showered in confetti? And who cares, frankly,
if a scruffy mother of two with egg down her front comes out of the village shop and does a double take?’ My words were coming
rapidly, like quick fire. Peggy was watching me closely.

‘I see. She didn’t waste much time.’

‘I’ll say she didn’t; she moved like flaming greased lightning. And the thing is, Peggy, since it
is
all so speedy, and now that she’s married and everything, surely it negates her claim to Phil’s will? I mean, if she’s relying
on another man’s wealth, why should she have some of mine?’

‘Yes, I imagine it might make a difference.’ She looked beyond me and blew a line of smoke. Then back at me, curiously. ‘I
should think she got the shock of her life, didn’t she? Not just seeing you, but knowing the financial cat was out of the
bag?’

‘Well, I would have found out eventually of course, but yes. I definitely found out sooner than she’d hoped. Ha!’ I barked
out a strange-sounding laugh. ‘She can put that in her pipe and smoke it.’

‘Sit down, Poppy,’ she said gently.

I crossed to the sofa and perched, still in my coat. Archie appeared again and toddled across to clamber on my lap.

‘Why don’t you ring your solicitor, find out where you stand?’

‘Really?’

‘Why not? Tell him what’s happened.’

It was the green light I’d been hoping for. ‘You mean now? On a Saturday? You don’t think it could wait till Monday?’ I was
already on my feet, setting Archie down, looking for my mobile. Not in my pocket. In my bag? No. Down the side of the sofa,
perhaps. I searched frantically, already rehearsing in my head: hello, Sam, it’s Poppy. No. Too familiar. Good morning, Sam,
it’s Poppy Shilling here.

‘Well, I suppose I did mean Monday,’ Peggy said slowly.

I turned, one hand between the sofa cushions. I must have looked disappointed. My face might even have collapsed.

‘But why not today?’ she said quickly. ‘Everyone keeps odd hours these days and a lot of people work at the weekend.’

‘They do, don’t they?’ I agreed eagerly, retrieving my phone. ‘And he did give me his mobile number.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’ Her eyes were steady. ‘Have you got some lunch, Poppy?’

‘Oh yes, there’s some cheese in the fridge.’

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘Well, there are some eggs.’

‘They’re quite old. A couple of weeks. Why don’t you come across to me and bring the children? I’ll make some pasta.’

‘No, no, Peggy, we’re fine. I’ll pop to the shop.’

I glanced up at her from my mobile, finger poised. Go, Peggy, go. I need to do this alone.

‘And thank you so much for looking after the children,’ I said breathlessly, knowing better than to pay her. She got to her
feet unwillingly. Slowly picked up her Marlboro Lights. I walked her to the door so she had little choice but to exit. ‘I’ll
see you later. Or tomorrow,’ I promised. ‘Soon, anyway. Thanks so much for coming.’

‘Look after yourself, Poppy.’

The moment the front door had shut behind her, I hustled Archie down to the kitchen and settled him with his sister at the
table, with juice and biscuits, making a long arm to flick on the television in the corner. Oh yes, it still came into its
own in extremis. Then I slipped back into the sitting room. Adrenalin was rushing around my body like nobody’s business. I
liked a plan. Liked it very much. It helped enormously to see a way forward. My heart was racing as I punched out his number.
It rang for a bit, then he answered.

‘Hello!’ Deep, but cheerful. Not low and suspicious like Phil would have been if he didn’t recognize the number. No question
mark stuck on the end.

‘Hello, Sam, I’m so sorry to bother you on a Saturday, it’s Poppy Shilling here.’

‘Oh, hi, Poppy.’ A hint of surprise there, I thought.

I hurried on, explaining the situation, tumbling over my words, getting a bit muddled occasionally – I should have sat down
and thought this through, had a bit of paper in front of me with bullet points – but eventually I got my point across: that
my husband’s lover had, moments ago, tied the knot with a man of surely some standing. That she’d seamlessly cruised on in
her scheming little way, whilst I groped around in mine. But surely I’d got her this time?

‘And she was so shocked to see me, Sam,’ I rushed on. ‘I’m in the choir, you see, didn’t stalk her or anything, wasn’t lying
in wait; she had no idea I’d be there. She must have thought she’d got away with it!’

There was a long silence on the other end. ‘Well, I’m afraid she may have done just that, Poppy,’ he said eventually. ‘You
see, it makes no difference whether she marries or not. If she’s entitled to anything, her claim still stands.’

I stared out of my sitting-room window to the road. Felt
my tummy shrivel. ‘But – but Simon Devereux is well off! He’s a flipping Sotheby’s expert or something, works in Bond Street
–’

‘Christie’s. Yes, I know Simon.’

‘Do you? Oh, well then, you know! His mother practically lives in a mansion – I’ve seen it – and he’ll inherit it, apparently.
She can’t take my money and live in the lap of luxury with him, surely!’

‘I’m afraid she can. I’ll look into it, Poppy, but his wealth has nothing whatsoever to do with hers. And marriage, however
swift, is not an impediment to claiming on an ex’s estate.’

It was said kindly, but the wind was completely buffeted out of my sails.

‘He wasn’t her ex. He was mine.’

‘I know,’ he said gently. And perhaps with a hint of pity.

I wondered, suddenly, what sort of figure I cut: this wronged, cheated wife, whose husband’s lover was even now greeting her
guests at her wedding reception, whilst I was left panicking breathlessly. Rather a pathetic one, that’s what. Someone Frankie
might call a loser. All at once my life swam before me. I saw my younger self, charging confidently around London in the Renault
Five Dad had bought me and which I’d painted pink, managing three parties a night sometimes, the object of some attention,
usually with gorgeous Ben. A winner, surely. How, then, had it come to this? This breathless little widow, still in her coat,
hands tightly clasping her mobile, voice getting shriller as she complained to a man she held in some esteem, a man she might
even have been looking for an excuse to ring … complained that it simply wasn’t fair? How had I lost so much of myself over
the years? Where had it all gone? I felt detached, like a spectator, watching myself seep through holes, like sand
disappearing through a clenched fist. Only a tiny bit remaining in the palm.

‘It would be invidious, you see,’ Sam was saying as I sat very still, ‘to discriminate between a woman who was likely to get
remarried, and one who was not. A judge can’t possibly say: well, you look like the back of a bus, no one would want you,
so we’ll give you lots of money; and to someone like Miss Harding: you can’t have much money because you have every prospect
of remarrying.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘No, of course not.’

But he was imagining her. And he was right. She was good-looking. Not beautiful, but foxy. Sexy, a man would say.

‘But, as I say, I’m not instantly familiar with the law on this. The fact that she and your husband made the money together
makes it quite an unusual case. I’ll look into it and get back to you. Steady, Tess.’

‘Tess?’ I blinked. Who was he sharing my most shaming secrets with?

‘My horse,’ he laughed. ‘Sorry, I’m in the saddle at the moment. Riding out with the Armitages. But don’t worry, I hung back
when you rang. They’re out of earshot.’

‘The Armitages?’

‘Yes.’

‘The American ones?’

‘Yes, Chad and Hope. They’re keen to go hunting next week so I said I’d lend them a couple of horses from my yard. See how
they get on.’

My head swam in bewilderment. I shook it briefly. ‘You’ve lent them …’

‘Two hunters I’ve got spare. They need the exercise, frankly.’

I stared at a damp patch on the wall opposite.

‘Where do you live?’

I couldn’t help it. It just popped out.

‘Mulverton Hall,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘It’s near Leighton Park; not that far from your village, actually.’

I knew it. Of course I knew it. And I knew the story too. Old, pretty, not exactly derelict, but crumbling. And tenanted,
because the owner, who no one had ever met, lived in America. Except recently he’d returned, minus his beautiful American
wife, who some years ago had left him. Even more recently he’d given up the London house and returned to the one he’d grown
up in, in the country. Ditched his City career to work locally, have a different sort of life. He was a lawyer, Angie thought.
But no one really knew, as I say, much about him. Besides the fact that he kept horses. I took a deep breath; let it out shakily.
The reality that was Sam Hetherington’s life paraded before me in glorious technicolor, like an Easter Parade, with decorated
floats, marching girls twirling batons, whistles and drums: an American tradition, of course, but how appropriate. A glorious
spectacle. This wasn’t a faintly shambolic solicitor in a chaotic office at the top of some creaky stairs, one that, in a
secret corner of my heart, I’d looked at, liked instantly, recognized almost, and thought: I could have a tiny chance with
that. This was a very different screenplay to the one I’d dreamily created in my head. The one where he returned to his lonely
rented bedsit every night, above a shop maybe, and thought wistfully of the young widow he’d advised that day. This one spelled
out in bright, sparkling, neon lights:
Out of your league!

This was a man who got on famously with Chad and Hope, the new pin-up couple in our village. Who knew Simon Devereux – no
doubt they were family friends in that
local, big-house sort of way – and who would soon, no doubt, be introduced to Emma, Simon’s wife. Within a twinkling they’d
be having dinner parties. Chad and Hope, Simon and Emma, Sam and – ooh, let’s see … Emma’s best friend, um, Lucinda. Worthington-Squiggle.
Squiggs, for short. A leggy, horse-mad beauty, who would take one look at Sam across the dinner table, his easy smile, his
relaxed manner, would glimpse his beautiful house which everyone said was heavenly but unloved and surely needed a woman’s
touch, and before you knew it I’d be singing the Gloria at yet another wedding. Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, me and Molly – no
doubt with a carer apiece – before toddling back to my cottage to cook liver and bacon.

‘Right. Well, sorry to have bothered you, Sam,’ I said, breathing very shallowly. Very unevenly. ‘I’ll, um, wait to hear.
Should you decide there’s anything in it for the wronged wife,’ I couldn’t resist adding.

‘I’ll let you know,’ he assured me, no doubt steadying his impatient steed, keen to catch up with the others, and not, therefore,
catching my tone; which was just as well, for what was it, Poppy? Sarcastic? Bitter? But he needed to get on. The Armitages
were doubtless even now galloping across his immaculate parkland, down by the lake, the grand house perched on the hill: Hope,
riding side-saddle, in a full-length black habit; Chad, bareheaded in breeches; Sam, in a dripping-wet white shirt, clinging
and faintly ruffled.

We said goodbye. I sat in my coat, on my goose-poo sofa, knees and hands pressed tightly together, cold and knowing. I should
light the fire now, get some lunch. Go rally the troops in the kitchen. Not leave my under fives at the table, albeit safely
strapped in Archie’s case, but be in there making biscuits, ‘Nellie the Elephant’ on the CD, being effortlessly
cheerful. But my life didn’t feel cheerful. I gazed at the damp wall. I thought I’d spotted in Sam someone a bit like me,
who needed a stitch or two on his shirt sleeve, a few patches on his life where it had come unravelled. I’d been attracted
by that; had perhaps looked forward to some cosy comparisons, some mutual sharing of sob stories. But his life wasn’t like
mine. It was in much more shape. Of course, he didn’t appear to have children, which helped, but men were generally more baggage-free
anyway, weren’t they? Look at Angie’s Tom. He had two children but was carefree – although according to Peggy that relationship
wasn’t without its problems. A liking for extreme sports, which Tom didn’t share, had raised its head, bungee jumping, in
particular. Well, Tom didn’t have to bungee jump all day, did he? I hope the fucking rope breaks, Angie had hissed. And even
if it did hit the rocks – the relationship, not Tom – men were still, by definition, able to pick themselves up, dust themselves
off, slap on a smile and say: hi, Lucinda! Oh, Squiggs, is it? Lovely to meet you. Glass of champagne?

The doorbell went, making me jump. From the kitchen came the sound of the children’s voices: less happy now, more shrill and
fretful. Something I should pounce on before it went critical. Archie screamed very loudly in sudden outrage, as Clemmie no
doubt pinched his last biscuit. I shut my eyes tight. One read terrible stories in the papers, ghastly ones. But who hasn’t,
on occasion, sympathized with the young girl in the high-rise flat, alone with three small children, driven to distraction,
driven to shaking her baby? Who hasn’t wanted to jump up, storm into that kitchen, pull Clemmie roughly from the table, shake
her arm and shout in her face about being mean to her brother, about being a little cow, then slap her leg hard? Archie was
roaring fit to bust now, giving it both barrels. There’d been one in the
Mail
just
the other day, about a girl who’d simply gone away. Shut the door to her flat, two small children inside, and got on a train
to Edinburgh. One was only six months old.