Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon (7 page)

She thought of phoning Bethan to see what she was doing, but was reluctant to admit to rowing with Martin. Bethan and Cliff, both so sunny-natured, never seemed to quarrel, though she supposed they must. She left the foyer for the rawness of outside; it was a grey, miserable day, a hint of drizzle in the air, no trace of yesterday’s transforming sunshine.

Ruth. Ruth was the person she’d like to go to now. But that was impossible; Ruth would be at Holtby Hall, and Anna wasn’t sure where that was, knowing only that it was out in the Essex countryside. Even if she Googled it, she’d need to drive there, and didn’t want to add to Martin’s annoyance by taking the car without asking. Although she’d passed her test while still in her teens, she hardly drove now; living in London, there was little need. When they used the car it was invariably Martin who took the wheel, mainly because if Anna drove he was a bossy and fidgety passenger. Anyway, how could she run to Ruth and say she’d had a row with Martin, expecting Ruth, of all people, to sympathize?

I’m on my own, she thought, when it comes down to it. That’s how it has to be.

She waited for a bus. If one came quickly, she could be back at the flat before Martin. She would pretend nothing had happened; that was usually the best way to get over a disagreement. But if he wasn’t there, she’d have a quiet afternoon by herself, reading or watching TV.

As soon as she entered the flat, she knew it was empty. She was half disappointed, half relieved. If Martin came in, he’d probably shut himself in the spare bedroom that served as his study, hardly emerging for the rest of the day. She imagined a scene in which she apologized for saying those things, put her arms round him and kissed him, led him into the bedroom. But the fact remained that he was unlikely to thaw until she was safely bound by a contract of employment with Burton Brown.

He wants to control me, she thought, and her resentment hardened.

Now, with the afternoon to fill as she pleased, she felt only apathy. When the phone rang, she picked up quickly, expecting Martin’s voice.

It was her father. ‘Anna, love? I’m glad you’re there. Have you got a minute?’

‘Hi, Dad. Yes, of course.’

A pause, then: ‘I’m a bit concerned about your mum. She’s started to behave a bit oddly.’

‘Oddly, how?’ Anna’s voice came out tight with anxiety.

‘Well – she’s suddenly taken against the idea of selling the house. Says she doesn’t want to move after all.’

Anna assimilated this in silence, surprised only by her lack of surprise. She tried to find suitable words. ‘But it was her idea, wasn’t it? What – pull out now, when your buyers are keen?’

‘Well, I think that’s the point. It’s suddenly hit her. Yes, we’re all ready to proceed, solicitors engaged – and how can we disappoint them, the Baverstocks? They’re all set. They’ve paid for their survey, looked into schools, made plans.’

‘She’ll come round. This is a wobble.’ Anna offered the assurance she knew her father wanted. ‘It’s a big thing to adjust to.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said her father. ‘But at the moment, she’s adamant – wants me to ring both estate agents and call the whole thing off, tomorrow morning.’

‘Is she having second thoughts about the Cranbrook house? Is that it?’

‘I don’t think so. She can’t bear the thought of packing up and moving, that’s what she says.’

‘I don’t blame her for that. It
is
daunting. I’ve said I’ll help, any time she wants.’

‘Thanks, love. I know you will. But there’s more to it than that. She … doesn’t seem quite herself, in other ways.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well – switched off from everything. It’s hard to say, exactly – so, I thought maybe you could come down, see if you can find out what’s at the bottom of it? Maybe one evening next week?’

Anna looked at her watch. ‘I’ll come now. I’m not doing anything.’

‘Oh, thanks, love. I’d be glad of that. Martin too?’

‘He’s not here. I’ll come on my own.’

‘Ring me from the train, then, and I’ll pick you up. Oh – don’t say it was my idea, will you? She’s not here now – she’s popped next door. I’ll make up something, tell her you phoned and were at a loose end.’

‘OK, Dad. See you soon.’

Purposeful now, Anna draped her damp swimsuit and towel in the airing cupboard, changed out of her exercise clothes, put on a little make-up, and checked that her wallet and Oyster card were in her bag. She wrote a note to Martin saying
Gone to visit my parents
, adding, in case he misunderstood and thought she’d run home for sympathy,
Dad phoned – worried about Mum
. As an afterthought she wrote
Staying overnight
. She put a nightdress and washing bag into a holdall, together with a smart top and trousers for work tomorrow.

Waiting for the Piccadilly Line train at Russell Square, she heard the phone conversation over again, noticing this time the unfamiliar tone of her father’s voice: a note of helplessness, of trying to deal with something beyond his grasp.

Home. Part welcoming, part stifling, it was always the same. It was the one certainty in Anna’s life. Until the autumn, and her mother’s astonishing announcement, she had taken for granted that it always would be. Common sense said that her parents should have left Sevenoaks years ago, but common sense hadn’t, till now, been strong enough to let them pull free.

It was impossible to imagine other people living here. How could they? The house was Rose, and Anna belonged to it; so did her parents. Of course her mother would never be able to clear the rooms and close the door behind her for the last time. It would signify a final parting with Rose, consigning her to the past. Never would her mother do that, until it was forced on her by age or disability.

Whenever Anna went back, the house claimed her, stripping away the years. It told her she’d always be her parents’ daughter, Rose’s younger sister, always thirteen, allowed to the brink of adolescence but no farther. She was trapped there, pinned like a specimen on a collector’s board. The family was caught in waiting, no longer complete. They didn’t dare speak too loudly; they were careful with each other, too careful. There was no escape from that huge, unexplainable absence, a black hole that had sucked them in and shrunk them to a singularity, a full-stop.

Anna hadn’t been home since Christmas. Her visits to her parents weren’t frequent, not because of any deliberate avoidance, but because it was always easy to find something to do rather than set out for Sevenoaks. She was more likely to see them in London on one of their trips to the theatre or an exhibition, or to meet her mother for Saturday shopping at John Lewis or House of Fraser. Her father had recently retired, and her mother had worried that he wouldn’t have enough to do; but in fact Don filled his days happily with a range of interests and outings, golf, and various DIY projects. Sandra had her part-time job – every weekday morning as receptionist at a health centre – and spent Wednesday afternoons in the local Oxfam shop. To all outward appearances, they led comfortable, purposeful lives.

Both parents were transparently pleased that Anna had settled with Martin, so presentable and well-grounded, even if her mother would have preferred him not to have a divorce behind him, and two sons. Anna’s father liked to give himself credit for her new stability; it was through him that she and Martin had met, eighteen months ago.

Anna had recently split up with Simon, an aspiring but idle artist, with whom she had lived since her student days in Southampton. When they parted, her finances were in a mess; she asked her father for advice, he passed on the name of an adviser recommended by his accountant, and Anna made a telephone call. Martin sounded approachable, and offered to come round to see her one evening. After a dispiriting search, she’d found a tiny flat she could afford, at a stretch, in Lewisham. It served as a base, at least, while she looked for something better.

At first, she thought Martin was considerably older than her. He was businesslike in a dark suit, sitting on the only chair she had, while she wore jeans and a baggy sweater and sat on a bean-bag that was spilling its stuffing. She’d forgotten he was coming and hadn’t even tidied up; the flat was full of cardboard boxes and carrier bags still waiting to be unpacked. He was too smooth to interest her at first glance, although she registered his even features, flawless skin and well-cut dark hair. His shirt was white and crisp; she imagined a wife at home, ironing it for him. He talked and talked about fixed-term investments and TESSAs as if Anna knew what it all meant. Quickly bored, she tried to assume an expression of at least vague intelligence. She wanted him to sort it all out for her; she didn’t want to take an interest or make decisions. Eventually he glanced at her just as she was stifling a yawn. He broke off in mid-explanation, smiled, and said, ‘I’ve lost you, haven’t I?’ He had beautiful teeth, and so kindly and genuine a smile that she started to look at him differently.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m clueless about all this.’ He must think it a daffy, ingenuous thing to say:
Look at me, so charmingly disorganized
. She wondered what he thought of her drab flat, with posters Blu-tacked to the wall, and bare boards showing at the edge of the carpet. He must think her a slob, not to have made more of the place. Along with the dutiful wife, she imagined a brand-new executive house with a double garage, and someone to do the cleaning; she added a couple of kids, a boy and a girl, who went to private schools and had violin lessons.

Taking out a sleek diary, Martin told her that he’d go away and draw up details, and come back in a few days. She leaned over discreetly to look at his handwriting as he entered the new appointment: small, firm and precise.

When he came back the following week, on a humid July evening, he was less formal, in rolled-up shirtsleeves, with no tie. He wore glasses this time; Anna thought he looked good in them, almost better than without. He’d brought a folder with her name under a plastic label on the front,
MS ANNA TAVERNER.
She hadn’t specified Ms; he’d got that right by himself. She sat beside him while he talked through the details. Even with all the windows open, it was sweltering in the flat. It was so humid that Anna felt the air clinging to her like sweat if she moved. She had showered and changed after work, but before Martin had finished explaining the various documents in the folder she felt dampness clamming her face. Even his white shirt was wilting a little around the collar, and in the V of its unbuttoning his skin glistened beneath a film of perspiration. He was slightly built, barely an inch taller than Anna, with a well-proportioned, compact body that looked fit and toned. Occasionally he took off his glasses and rubbed his wrist across his forehead. His eyes were hazel-brown. Anna decided that she liked having him in her flat and would try to keep him there a bit longer.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked abruptly. It would have to get cooler soon; she was desperate to get out of the room, to splash cold water over herself.

He looked relieved. Anna went into the kitchen, washed her face and hands and fetched the bottle of Chablis that had been chilling in the fridge. They drank all of it and she opened another. By the time he left, after she’d made him strong coffee, Anna knew that he was divorced, living alone, and had two sons; that he was thirty-nine, eight years older than her; that he’d been brought up in Worcester, but his parents now lived in Spain; that he usually wore contact lenses but found them uncomfortable during the pollen season; that he read mainly political biography and popular science, but liked Ian McEwan and Ian Rankin. She spent much of the evening looking at his hands and forearms and his mouth as he spoke, wondering what it would be like to go to bed with him.

Ten days later, she found out. He took her out for dinner; she wore a dress and put her hair up, such was the novelty of going out on what she could call a
date
, a proper date with a grown-up man. Afterwards they came back to her flat, drank coffee, talked; then Martin looked at her and said, ‘Well.’ It was a question. ‘I suppose I should be going.’

‘You don’t have to.’

They undressed each other in her bedroom. Anticipating this, she’d shoved all the clutter into cupboards, and had changed the bed linen that morning. It was highly satisfactory. As she’d expected, Martin made love as well as he did everything else.

‘What was your first impression of me? That first time you came round?’ she tried to get out of him, after he’d stayed twice more.

‘I thought, here’s someone who’s bloody clueless about money.’

‘No, seriously,’ she persisted. ‘You don’t end up in bed with all your clients, I suppose?’

‘Far too time-consuming. Besides, most of them are male and not even slightly tempting. You’re fishing for compliments.’

‘That’s right.’

The alarm went off, ignored by both of them. Martin stroked her shoulder with a fingertip.

‘I thought you were interesting.’

‘Oh? Interesting in what way?’ Anna could see only a muddle of hopes and doubts, desires and vague good intentions.

Martin considered, then said, ‘There’s a lot you keep hidden.’

‘But doesn’t everyone? Don’t you? Surely no one wants to be so transparent that everything’s on the surface?’

‘Perhaps what I mean is – you haven’t found your way yet.’

‘Have you, then?’

‘Maybe. There’s the boys. There’s work.’

‘And is that enough? Don’t you wish you were with them all the time? Don’t you have regrets?’ It was the nearest she had come to asking about his failed marriage.

‘Course. Hasn’t everyone?’ His eyes were closed. ‘Regrets that would eat me up, if I let them. I don’t let them.’

‘But how do you stop?’

For answer Martin rolled over and began kissing her, and her arms tightened around him until the alarm shrilled again and the demands of the day took over. When she thought about it later, she wondered if he saw her as a distraction, or as his salvation. Maybe, in return, he could save her from herself. Or was that expecting too much?

She wanted him to have seen something unique in her, something unknown, as yet, even to her. She thought she loved him;
I am in love
, she told herself, when she ached at the thought of not seeing him for two days, when she yearned to find him beside her when she woke, his eyes warm as he smiled, sleepy and short-sighted.
Whatever ‘in love’ means
. It felt like playing a role, living up to something she’d read about, seen in films, as if being in love was a constant, a state to be achieved and hung on to. Everything about this new relationship surprised her: the speed of it; that she could get involved with someone like Martin; that he chose to involve himself with her. She caught other women’s glances at him when they were out together, and was part thrilled, part ashamed of the inner voice that exulted:
He’s with me! Look! I’ve got a proper man!
It couldn’t last. She kept expecting him to end it, to announce that he’d found someone more confident, more elegant, part of the grown-up world he seemed to inhabit so easily.