The Birdcage (28 page)

During these brief excursions into extra-marital adventures she never lost her grip on her relationship with Guy and, so far, he'd found no grounds on which he could base his easily roused suspicions. To do him justice he'd worked hard to be more broadminded, to recognize her friendly, affectionate nature for what it was, and occasionally she felt guilty when she was deceiving him. Yet Sophie was right: Guy was not easy to live with and she needed her fix of irresponsible fun just as he needed those long hours alone at sea. And it
was
a fix: an addiction. She was incapable of resisting the opportunity to seize her pleasure and the prospect of a new, exciting partner was as tempting as the chocolate had been – just out of reach in the cupboard – in childhood. She could not concentrate on other things, could not forget its invisible presence: the vision of it was always there, pressing at the edge of her thoughts. Sooner or later she must drag the stool across the floor, climb up and reach into the cupboard for it so that she might feel the smooth stickiness on her fingers and taste the sweetness as it burst upon her tongue.

Simon was fun: he knew of a quiet, private place, a sunny, grassy patch screened by high banks of furze, where he'd spread his rug on the close-nibbled turf before opening a bottle of wine.

‘What makes me think you've done this before?' she'd asked idly, leaning on one elbow as she watched him.

‘Me?' He'd pretended surprise, indignation even. ‘Perish the thought.'

Yesterday, she'd hurried to meet him again, giving Bertie a walk along the way, parking beside his Land Rover Discovery, which blocked any glimpse of their secret place from the road. This time she'd taken her own rug from the car, laying it on top of his so as to make their bed more comfortable. She'd brought a picnic, which they'd shared, and later, much later, she'd lain in his arms, her fingers threading through his hair. It was fair and rather dry, soft to the touch, and a memory fleetingly distracted her.

‘You remind me of David,' she'd murmured and he'd answered sleepily, ‘David? Who's David? I thought his name was Guy. Oh, and, by the way,' he'd roused himself, ‘Marianne knows you're here on holiday. Sophie told her.'

‘Did she?' She'd felt languorous and contented in their sheltered corner, so hot that the sun seemed to melt her bones and suck caution from her brain. Bertie lay stretched in the shade of the furze, panting. ‘Should I phone her, d'you think?'

He'd frowned. ‘What would you say to her? I thought we'd agreed that you wouldn't see her.'

‘But then I didn't know that Sophie would be so quick off the mark to spread the glad news. It would be difficult anyway, wouldn't it, to see Marianne? With her being at work in Taunton all day?'

‘Mmm. I suppose it would look a bit odd if you didn't get in touch with her, though. Tell you what: if you telephone home between nine and six you'd get the answering machine and you could just leave a message.'

‘It's fortunate,' she'd replied, ‘that everyone who knows Guy wouldn't expect him to want to spend his evenings socializing, otherwise it might be natural to assume that we'd get together as a foursome.'

He'd grinned, making a comical face. ‘That might be tricky. I doubt I could be quite that cool. If Marianne suggests it I might have to invent a few late calls this week. Luckily, in my job I don't have a routine.'

‘Don't worry. Marianne will quite understand that Guy wouldn't be easy to persuade. He's having to make a couple of appearances at Michaelgarth, which is stretching his good temper. I think we're quite safe.'

Now, as she turned her head to look at Guy, she felt a pang of remorse at the way she'd described him, although it was true enough.

‘Do we have to go to supper again on Friday?' he'd asked. ‘We were there on Sunday.'

‘Oh, but I want to see my big brother,' she'd protested. ‘It would be a pity to miss him and we have to be away on Saturday morning . . . Are you sailing with Matt again tomorrow?'

She'd noticed his guilty frown with amusement but he'd shaken his head.

‘I thought it would be a bit much to desert you for three days on the run,' he'd admitted. ‘We could have tomorrow together, go for a walk over the cliffs and have a pub lunch somewhere.'

She'd been clever enough to greet the idea with enthusiasm. ‘I'd love that,' she'd answered, letting him see her pleasure at his suggestion, ‘though I don't want to spoil your fun. Perhaps you could go out again on Thursday or Friday?'

‘The tide's making it more difficult to get out early but Matt did suggest a few hours after lunch on Friday.' She'd watched him, seen the moment when he'd realized that a little give and take was in order here. ‘Of course I'd be back in plenty of time for supper at Michaelgarth.' He'd added casually, ‘It'll be good to see Saul.'

‘That's fine then,' she'd said easily – and he'd fetched the map so as to plan their walk.

Simon had been philosophical about it. ‘I'll cram my appointments into Wednesday and Thursday,' he'd said, ‘and keep Friday free. Usual place, about two-ish?'

She'd been relieved but not surprised to hear his ready acceptance, realizing that their little affair was nearly over and knowing that they would part good friends.

It was important, she told herself, that no-one should be hurt.

Unbidden, an image of Marianne's face as she'd looked on Sophie's wedding day presented itself before her inner eye: she looked so happy, seizing Gemma's arm, smiling at Sophie in her bridal gown and crying, ‘Doesn't she look gorgeous?': happy and trusting. And now Tilda appeared beside her with that direct look, those amazing cornflower eyes, and Gemma heard her saying: ‘I miss him so terribly but here at Michaelgarth I feel that he's close to us.'

She shut her eyes as if to blot out these images and rolled over quickly, pressing herself against Guy and hiding her face against his back.

‘Wake up, darling,' she said, rather desperately, and he stirred, groaning, and turned almost automatically, still half asleep, to take her into his arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

For once, Tilda and Jake were downstairs before Piers. She settled the baby in his bouncy chair and stood for a moment in contemplation: it was unlike her father-in-law to be late for breakfast. He'd been on good form the previous evening, making them both laugh, reminding her mother of youthful indiscretions, and Teresa – delighted and protesting in turn – had enjoyed herself enormously. It was later than usual before she'd set off on the half-hour drive back to Taunton but she'd refused to stay overnight, insisting that she had things to do first thing next morning.

Tilda pushed the kettle on to the hot plate, cut some bread for toast, but before she could decide whether she should wake Piers – perhaps take him some coffee – he came in.

‘Overslept!' He rolled his eyes at her. ‘A quick cup of coffee will have to do this morning. Morning, Jake.'

Despite his evident haste, he looked more peaceful, more rested, than he'd looked for many months. She watched him as he gulped at his coffee, making a face as he burned his tongue, and decided that there was a kind of banked-down excitement about him. He had the air of someone who had dressed with care, as if he might have an important date. Following so closely on his high spirits during last evening his demeanour puzzled her.

‘Alison phoned last evening before you got in,' she said, testing him. ‘Something to do with your holiday next week? I said you'd give her a buzz.'

His expression changed so oddly that she stared at him curiously. His bright look was transformed as if by shock and he stood quite still, like someone who had just remembered something that might prove an obstacle to a future pleasure. He put his cup down, feeling unseeingly for its saucer, his brow contracted.

‘Are you OK, Piers?'

He glanced at her, distracted. ‘Mmm? Oh, sure. I'm fine.'

‘If you say so.'

The sardonic note in her voice alerted him and he smiled quickly, collecting his briefcase and a cotton jacket, taking another draught of coffee.

‘I'm fine,' he said firmly.

Tilda raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘Good,' she said. ‘That's OK then.'

He paused by the door, head bent a little, biting his lips as he tried to see his way ahead.

‘Today is a bit . . . tricky. If I'm going to be late I'll give you a buzz.'

‘OK,' she answered. ‘Whatever.'

He smiled at her, went out through the scullery and presently she saw the car pass the open window.

Tilda switched on the television, flicking through the channels, and sat down at the table with her breakfast. Eating her toast, talking to Jake, leaning to set his toys dancing on the bar across his chair whilst he smiled gummily at her, she continued to wonder what had happened to Piers. It had been ages – well, before David died – since she'd seen him as light-hearted as he'd been last evening. He'd been so obviously enjoying himself, so carefree; as if he'd been relieved of some weighty load of fear or guilt. Of course it could simply be that something had happened at the office that had solved a long-term problem; eased some financial crisis. He was not in the habit of sharing his problems with her; not, she suspected, because he felt that they were none of her business, but because he didn't want to add to her own troubles. At least he didn't try to make light of them by attempting to move her into another relationship but nor did he encourage her to discuss them. Man-like, she thought, he didn't want to probe about in her inmost psyche but was quite ready to listen if she wanted to talk.

They each suffered from an almost morbid anxiety of upsetting the other by occasional bursts of insensitivity. Sometimes – just now and then – she found that she was able to forget about David completely: she'd be watching a television programme and find herself shrieking with laughter and Piers would wander in and she'd wave at him, still laughing, and then think: oh, God, David's dead and I'm laughing! – and be overwhelmed with shame and horror and misery. It wasn't that Piers had ever looked censorious or wounded – quite the opposite, he liked to see her happy – but nevertheless the guilt was there. It happened in reverse too, and this, she reminded herself, was one of the downsides to living together: in this area they were inclined, between them, to keep opening the wound simply by their awareness of the other's pain.

‘But I don't want to forget your daddy; I love him,' she told Jake rather desperately. ‘I shall always love him. But how do you learn to live without someone? How does it work?'

She began to unload the dishwasher, putting the things away, longing for David to come in from the scullery.

‘What's the matter with you?' he'd ask. ‘Got a face like a bottom that's been put in a colander and sat on!'

She thought: He'll never say things like that to Jake. Never see him grow and be proud of him. He'll never play cricket out on the hill with Jake, like Piers did with David, or take him up on Dunkery to watch the sun set, or go sailing out of Porlock Weir.

She wept silently as she'd learned to lest she should upset Jake, her back turned to him, her face buried in the teacloth. As if he sensed her unhappiness, he began to grizzle too, and she wiped her eyes and went to him, lifting him out of his chair and sitting with him at the table. Settling them both comfortably, she unbuttoned her shirt and began to feed him, smiling down at him as he watched her, his tiny hand patting gently at her breast as he sucked.

The car came slowly past the window and into the garth; a door slammed and she heard footsteps crossing the cobbles and coming in through the scullery. A tap on the door and Alison appeared.

‘Hello,' she said. ‘Not a difficult moment, I hope? Oh.'

Tilda watched her, outwardly calm, as she lifted the remote control to switch off the television. She knew that the ‘Oh' – although giving the impression of being taken by surprise – was actually meant to imply that it was rather odd and not quite done to sit at the kitchen table feeding one's baby whilst watching a chat show on the television. Alison wasn't a truthful person, Tilda decided; she existed behind a framework of expressions and actions that she would deny should they be challenged. She liked to control without appearing to manipulate: she was self-seeking whilst pretending that her own aims were in the best interest of another person; in this instance, Piers. Almost at once, Alison proved this point.

‘I still find it a bit of a shock to see you sitting there when I come in,' she said with a bright little laugh. ‘Piers must find it quite a sea change. It was always so quiet when I popped by before.'

‘But then you wouldn't have got further than the scullery, would you?' asked Tilda, also brightly. ‘Not at this time of day if Piers was at the office, I mean.'

Alison coloured: she disliked the inference that her relationship with Piers wasn't close enough to have merited her being given a key to the house.

‘I've brought one of my fatless sponges,' she said, ignoring the remark, placing the cake tin on the table. ‘I know how Piers loves them.'

She glanced about her, looking for new evidence of Tilda's habitation, always anxious lest there should be signs of a more permanent occupation.

‘Would you like some coffee?' Tilda pulled herself together, remembering that this was Piers' house and Alison was his friend.

Please, she found herself praying to no-one in particular, please don't let it be because of Alison that Piers was like he was last night.

‘I'll put the kettle on.' Alison hurried to the Aga. ‘Do you drink coffee with . . . you know?'