Close Relations (34 page)

Eric said: ‘One day I'll tell you about my wife. We were
happy, by and large. Other people thought so, no doubt. But it was more complicated than that.' He stirred the cream into his coffee. ‘When she died, oh, I grieved of course. I still do. But I also felt a shameful feeling of freedom.' He looked up. ‘I've never told anyone that.'

‘So we're quits.'

When they got up to leave her body felt weightless. Maybe it was the wine. They walked to the door. Passing one of the partitions she glimpsed a familiar face. It was Robert. He was talking to someone she couldn't see.

She opened her mouth to call out. A waiter said: ‘Excuse me, please.' She moved aside for the steaming plates. And then Eric held her elbow to guide her to the door. She thought: I don't want Robert to be a part of this, not just now.

And they went out into the street.

‘Gosh, Mum, I've read about Archie's in
Harpers
,' said Louise. ‘You are getting trendy.'

‘Aren't I just?' said Dorothy. ‘I had fishcakes with lemongrass. They were delicious.'

‘Leaving Dad's done wonders for your education. Watch out – lemongrass one minute, cocaine the next.'

It was the following evening: Friday. Dorothy had driven down to Wingham Wallace for the night. ‘I was quite an adventurous cook once,' she said. ‘When we were first married. But your dad didn't like things messed around.'

‘So what was he like?'

Dorothy had a hangover. She gazed at the dog basket. It was lined with the old tartan blanket they had used, long ago, for picnics. She felt the past detach itself and drift peacefully away. ‘It was like meeting an old friend who knew exactly what I was talking about. I feel about thirty.'

‘You look about twenty. Was he nice? Did he make a pass at you?'

‘Goodness, what an old-fashioned expression.'

‘Go on, did he?' urged Louise. ‘You mustn't let them get
too far on a first date.'

‘I'm sixty-three.'

‘
I
can't remember what a first date was like either,' said Louise.

They laughed. Later, Dorothy remembered that moment in the kitchen. The smell of roasting meat, the laughter. Louise questioning her as if their positions were reversed and Louise was her mother. The relapse into girlish confederacy. Even Monty joined in, wagging his tail and sweeping the letters off the dresser.

‘He fed me,' said Dorothy. ‘I've spent my life feeding everyone else.' She felt poised at the brink. It was such a lost sensation that it took her a while to identify it. She had forgotten the sheer, breath-taking adventurousness of it all – the
will-he-phone?
The
what-shall-I-say?
He had said:
One day I'll tell you.
What did that mean, that he wanted to see her again?

A car arrived. The door opened and Robert came in. He brought in a gust of cold air. ‘Hi, Dorothy.' He dumped down an overnight bag and kissed her on the cheek. He kissed Louise. He seemed in a good humour. Dorothy smiled at him, for he was included in her happiness.

Louise took the ice-tray out of the freezer. ‘Mum's been telling me about her date last night.' She pressed out the ice; it clattered into the glasses. ‘She's getting very upmarket. She went to that trendy place in Holland Park. Archie's.'

‘Oh yes?' Robert turned away to stroke the dog.

Dorothy should have realised then. Robert never stroked the dog. But she rattled on: ‘At last I've been somewhere that's trendy enough for you. What did you eat?'

Louise unscrewed the tonic bottle. It hissed. ‘What do you mean?' she asked.

Dorothy smiled at her son-in-law: ‘I meant to say hello but a waiter got in the way.'

The tonic had sprayed Louise. She wiped her hands on her sweater. Then she said to her husband: ‘I thought you were in Birmingham.'

THE COLLAPSE OF
Louise's marriage was spectacular. Imploded, it sank to its knees; it sank in a cloud of dust as if detonated by dynamite. The sight was awesome. For those who were jealous of this fortress – and there were many – there was a shameful thrill to its demolition. Even her sisters, who were basically nice women, who loved Louise, even they felt a brief frisson, though they admitted it to nobody.
It's not fair!
Maddy used to wail.
Lou's got off scot-free
.

Now the balance had shifted. At the beginning, her sisters tried to reason with her but Louise surprised them with the ferocity of her reaction. ‘The bastard!' she cried. ‘The pig! Know how long it's been going on? Six years. Since he dumped us out here.'

That first weekend, when it all blew up, Robert disappeared back to London. Her sisters drove down on Saturday. Like news of a death, it obliterated their plans; they forgot what they were supposed to be doing. Jamie and Imogen had gone off for the day; they still didn't know that anything was wrong.

‘It's me who's been stuck out here, raising the kids, servicing his bloody life!' said Louise. ‘Like a pit-stop, that's all I've been. And all this time he's been shagging this – this woman.'

Dorothy said: ‘I'm sure he still loves you. He's always loved you. Men have these, well, these peccadilloes.'

Louise glared at her mother. ‘What's got into you all of a sudden?'

‘It's just that – it happens,' replied Dorothy. ‘I should know.
Robert says he doesn't want to break up the family. Why don't you forgive him?'

‘Whose side are you on?' Louise demanded.

‘Go away somewhere quiet, the two of you, and talk it over.'

‘I don't want to talk it over.'

Outside it was raining. The four of them sat round the blow heater; nobody had the energy to get in some wood and light the fire. The house already felt unloved; despair had settled on it like dust.

‘Please, Lou,' urged Prudence. ‘Think of the children.'

‘I have thought of the children,' replied Louise. ‘That's why I've been fucking stuck out here for six years.' She spooned sugar into her tea; her hand shook. Unhappiness had coarsened her looks; her hair hung lankly. ‘I'm going to divorce him. I'm going to sue him for every penny, for every freezing, chilblained day I've spent digging up bloody potatoes so he can show the place off to his bloody friends.'

‘Louise, calm down.' Prudence sat beside her on the arm of the chair. ‘We've got to think how to tackle this.' She indicated Dorothy. ‘Mum and I, we've been through this. Join the club.'

‘I don't want to join the fucking club,' said Louise, and burst into tears.

Dorothy stared at the grill of the heater. There was something arid about its hum. ‘If only I hadn't seen him. It's all my fault. I've come barging into your lives like a bull in a china shop.'

‘I'm glad I know,' said Louise. ‘It all makes sense now.'

Maddy and Prudence gazed at her. Despite their equivocal feelings towards Robert the crisis shocked them deeply. Their parents' break-up was bad enough, but this was the destruction of an ideal. When people closed their eyes to picture a marital haven, it was the Old Vicarage they saw. How could Robert do this to their sister? It was as if he was committing adultery with their dreams. He had soiled them.

‘How could he?' wondered Prudence. ‘And with someone
who's nearly fifty too. And not nearly as beautiful as you.'

‘Pru!' said Maddy.

‘Oh, sssh . . .' said Prudence. ‘This is no time for political correctness.'

There was a pause. They gazed at their wrecked sister. ‘How could I have loved him?' sobbed Louise. ‘How could he have lied to me?'

Prudence passed her a Kleenex. She suddenly had a sense of
déjà vu.
On Christmas Eve their mother had sat sobbing in this very same chair.
I hate him! How could he do it?
She had sat there repeating the same words, for joy and sorrow call forth the same worn phrases from those experiencing them – phrases, like pebbles, washed up by the storm of human emotions and worn smooth by handling.

Her name was Deirdre. She lived in Essex, where her husband owned a garage. He was a compact, pugnacious man called Graham Frye; he had come to Robert's firm with plans to expand his business. This was seven years ago, when Robert and his family were still living in Chelsea. His children were children then and his marriage the envy of his friends. Louise had class, the class that comes with her kind of ethereal beauty. That she was a builder's daughter was neither here nor there, for Robert's City friends, brought up in the melting-pot of the seventies, came from a variety of backgrounds that would have been unthinkable in the old days. If anything, Louise's working-class roots only added to her allure, for unlike many of his friends' wives she seemed content to play a subservient role in Robert's life, caring for the children, creating a home and cooking the sort of cordon bleu dinners which their wives had neither the time nor the goodwill to cook themselves. Where Louise came from, women knew how to be women.

Robert's appreciation of his wife's qualities had not stopped him from having a series of affairs, fleeting ones dating from when the children were small. He had all the
qualifications for this: a lack of morals, a strong libido and, more potent than this, a devouring sexual curiosity that was almost infantile in its intensity. He was also a restless man, easily bored, and keeping secrets gave him a thrill. In other words, he was a classic philanderer. Until then, however, nothing had threatened the solidity of his marriage.

Robert had travelled up to Colchester to check out Graham Frye. He remembered that day – grey, damp, no sense of the momentous within it waiting to be released. Frye's garage was a sprawling place – workshops, a showroom; he had the Saab agency. It was situated next to the Stour estuary and he had already expanded into boat repairs. His scheme, for which he was seeking planning permission, was to go into partnership with a local businessman to build a marina. ‘That's where the future lies,' he said, ‘leisure.'

It was an ambitious plan which needed a large capital investment. Robert was an adventurer; he had always been attracted by small men with large vision. Even then his firm was dominated by pension schemes and management buy-outs, and it was to become more so. Robert was considered a maverick, a wild card – brilliant, but needing to be kept on a leash. Frye's plan attracted him with its riskiness and by the end of the morning he had made up his mind to recommend it to his board.

It was then that Frye's wife came in, carrying a tray of coffee. They were sitting in the office. The window was open; outside was a squealing commotion of gulls.

‘Sorry it's late,' she said. Her voice was low and melodious. ‘I had to go to the post office.'

‘This is my wife, Deirdre,' said Graham.

She put down the tray and shook Robert's hand. She was a full-breasted, mature woman, with soft brown hair. She wore a cream blouse and silky cardigan; she had that indefinable look, rare amongst the English, of wearing expensive underwear. She was by no means beautiful but she looked at ease with herself, something he had only found in continental women. He found out later that she was half-Irish,
half-French. She looked at his shoes. ‘I see he's been dragging you through the mud. Are you cold? Shall I close the window?'

Robert shook his head. He felt at peace, as if within his body his organs had settled into their proper places. He felt that all his life he had been waiting for this woman; it was as simple as that.

Maybe he exaggerated, with hindsight. Maybe it didn't happen all at once. She said, later, that she had found him unsettling. ‘This wolfish man. I thought,
I can't trust him.
I thought,
Under his clothes this man is thick with hair, like an animal.
' She said that she had sensed him sniffing her and she hadn't liked it.

That was later, much later. They didn't sleep together for over a year; she wouldn't let him. She was married; she was a devout Catholic. He wore her down; when he wanted something badly he always got it, in the end. Finally, when they became lovers, it seemed the most natural thing he had ever done in his life. She was the warmth in his heart; she was his woman, his soul-mate. From the begining, he didn't feel that he was being unfaithful to Louise. In fact, it was the opposite; when he was with Louise he felt unfaithful to Deirdre. She understood him; she healed the broken pieces of his past. She loved him unequivocally, the way his mother had never managed – his flaky, inadequate mother – and in a way that made his relationship with Louise, despite the children, seem flimsy and shallow-rooted.

They went on like this for years. Deirdre refused to leave her husband and he had to accept this. For a man of his character, he was remarkably patient. But Deirdre made him a better person – he told himself that he was even a better husband to Louise. That she never found out somehow sanctioned it too, as if it were blessed by God. He saw Deirdre maybe twice a week; they had snatched afternoons together, the odd night in London. The rest of the time he sleepwalked – pleasantly so – and nobody seemed to notice. Deirdre was simply there, in the fabric of his life, keeping him sane. Until a year ago, when things began to change.

On Sunday night Louise's sisters and mother left. Robert returned. He looked so terrible that, just for a moment, Louise pitied him. The next morning he drove Imogen to the airport; she was going to France on a school study trip, she would be away until Easter. Jamie, too, went away, up to York for some Open Day at the university; he was going to stay away for a couple of nights with some friends who were in their first year. Still neither of the children knew, or seemed to guess, that anything was wrong.

Robert and Louise were alone in the house. They closed themselves away from the world like wounded animals. He didn't go up to London; he took the week off work. If she could have felt anything, she would have felt gratified by this. They closed themselves off from the sunshine which mocked them at the windows, showing up the dust. The weather was suddenly beautiful, outside in the world where life seemed to go on as if nothing had happened. The holidays had started. At the school, an Easter Fair was being prepared; Louise should have been helping. The local cubs tramped along the lane outside the house, whistling.