The Disappearance of Emily Marr (19 page)

Aware that I was both blushing and avoiding looking at Sylvie, I tried to compose myself. I began to update Sarah on the children’s evening, clinging to the safe ground of PG movies and clean teeth, but she interrupted me at once. ‘So long as they’re still breathing and the house hasn’t burned down, I don’t need the full audit.’ Her tone was droll, all her earlier warm gratitude now absent. ‘I’ll open a bottle of wine, shall I? Sparkling water for you, Sylvie?’

‘Yes, please,’ Sylvie said, seating herself several places from me, and her voice sounded artificially merry, almost shrill. I glanced at her for the first time. Her small face had a pixie’s prettiness to it, an effect enhanced by the cap of curls from behind which her anxious eyes peeped. Unlike the others, she had not removed her coat, giving her an uncertain air, as if she thought her safe harbour here might be removed at any moment. Perhaps it was this fragility that inspired such protectiveness in her friends, such fierce loyalty, and – I gulped at the thought – the reason why Arthur had stayed with her in ‘misery’ when he could have left at any time.

‘Have a drink with us, Emily,’ Nina commanded, sensing that I was about to get to my feet and scarper, and she and Sarah took the seats on either side of me as if to lock me down. Sarah sloshed white wine into the glasses, pushing one determinedly towards me; she was the tipsiest of the three, I saw, the most excited. Had she joined the coven? Or perhaps she’d always been in it. What had Marcus said that first time?
Not as friendly as she’d like
, that was it. Suddenly my throat was full of the fear that Sarah was delivering me to the other two as a kind of initiation sacrifice. Bring us the slut and you’re in.

‘Did you have a good time?’ I asked mildly. ‘I thought you might make more of a night of it.’

‘Not at our age, dear,’ Nina drawled, not quite putting me in my place, but not seeking to put me at my ease, either.

‘Oh, Emily can’t imagine what it’s like to be an old crone like us,’ Sarah said. ‘She hasn’t got a care in the world.’

‘If you say so,’ I said, using the light-hearted tone that worked well with ruder customers at Earth, Paint & Fire. Already muscular tension was causing aches in my shoulders.

I made myself look at each of them in turn; continuing to evade Sylvie’s eye would have been a sure sign of guilt. As our glances intersected, I felt a brief flare of how I would respond to her if we were meeting in more innocent circumstances, and I was surprised to register pity. I wouldn’t be drawn to her, not as I might be to Nina or even Sarah, were they not so overtly unwelcoming of me; she looked too needy, as if she could always find something to complain about. Even disregarding Arthur’s betrayals, I found it impossible to imagine their original compatibility at all. Had he really once desired her as he now did me?

‘Old crone’ was ironically brutal, of course, but the fact was that Sarah had been quite right in her comment: I
couldn’t
imagine being their age, I couldn’t imagine how it felt to be faded or threatened or replaced, to feel the need to be snide to my youngers. And yet, didn’t I know from the way twenty-year-old girls looked at me that they felt exactly the same about my age group? Perhaps for any generation the one just above its own is the most distasteful, even tragic, its company to be avoided at all costs. There is no solution to the unfairness of this, and few exceptions (my fascination with Arthur, for instance, but perhaps such instincts did not apply to the opposite sex). No, all you could do was try to experience your prime to the utmost while you were actually in it.

How you knew you were in it was not something I thought deeply enough about then. I connected it too readily with attractiveness to men, I suppose, and not enough to strength of character, to courage or grace – all of which, I know now, Sylvie possessed.

‘How’s the lovely Matt?’ Sarah asked me.

‘He’s very well, thank you.’ If I knew anything for sure it was that I should not reveal that we were in the midst of splitting up. ‘Really been getting into his biking now the weather’s better.’

‘I’ve seen him shooting down the hill a couple of times,’ Nina said, which surprised me as I did not know she had met him. Perhaps they’d been introduced the night of the Christmas party. ‘You know a cyclist was knocked down last week, just outside Sylvie’s house?’

‘I didn’t know, no. That’s awful. I hope he wasn’t badly injured?’ I looked towards Sylvie, whose loathing, or so I imagined, had until then prevented her from speaking directly to me.

‘No,’ she said at last. ‘A broken wrist.’

‘Unfortunately Arthur wasn’t at home to assist,’ Nina added, ‘but the medics were there in a couple of minutes.’

‘They’re based at the hospital, maybe,’ I said stupidly, anxious to avoid further mention of Arthur’s name or any reference to our little gathering outside the hotel.

‘How long have you been together?’ Nina asked me, and a jolt of shock made me widen my eyes and draw breath. I knew she had noticed this reaction, but it was too late to do anything about it. She had meant Matt, of course, not Arthur.

‘Er, nearly five years.’

‘Any wedding bells in the offing?’

I was able to laugh at this suggestion quite genuinely, and doing so relaxed me a little. ‘No. Matt’s not the wedding-bells kind.’

‘Are you?’

I hesitated. There was no longer any way of avoiding the fact that this was an inquisition and yet there was nothing to be gained by reacting defensively. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’m like every other woman, I think it would be nice to get married one day.’ To avoid tumbling into the trap of discussing the ‘right man’ for me, I steered the discussion towards a different cliché: ‘I’d like to choose the dress, plan how it all looked, that would be fun…’ I ran out of words, suspecting that any could be dangerous in this context.

At the mention of clothing, they all looked me over, a disarming experience that made me feel like a carton of eggs getting its sell-by date examined. With their eyes dipped, their faces were momentarily free for me to check: Sarah’s was disagreeable, bordering on hostile, Nina’s cocked in superior amusement, Sylvie’s… Sylvie’s was, inevitably, the most unsettling. She looked defeated, a wife already in mourning.

She knows, I thought.

Nina touched the sleeve of my cardigan, a sage-green shrug with a feathery fake-fur collar. ‘Yes, you obviously do the whole vintage thing, don’t you? I like the Lauren Bacall hair, the retro make-up. Old Hollywood: it suits you, you’ve got the right figure for it. If only more girls did the same, rather than starving themselves half to death in pursuit of an ideal that will one day be considered grotesque.’ But just as I hoped she’d been diverted by more political concerns, she zoomed back to me. ‘Yes, you’re quite a catch, aren’t you, Emily Marr? I do hope Matt appreciates what he’s got.’

I felt uncomfortable to hear this last comment, and stated so baldly, as a judgement rather than a compliment. There was also the clear inference that I’d been previously discussed and that the experience of me in the flesh was merely confirming an opinion formed earlier. ‘I just prefer old clothes,’ I said, blandly. ‘I love the fabrics and the colours. And they’re much cheaper than new ones.’

Nina mused, ‘Vintage clothing is a very feminine nostalgia, I think. Do you find that men like it, Emily? What is it they sometimes call it? Not second-hand, no one says that any more, do they?
Pre-loved
, that’s it.’

I was far too stricken by the implications of her remarks to allow images of Arthur into my mind, his unreserved approval of the silk blouses and pencil skirts, the stockings and suspenders, every detail designed for his pleasure. Even the perfume I wore when we were together was a vintage blend: he’d recently given me a beautiful old flask of it. I was glad I was not wearing it now, but saved it for him. ‘Some must do, I suppose. But I’m not sure Matt’s interested in anything except cycling Lycra.’

Nina laughed, seconded by Sarah. I liked to think I had scored a point for this little attempt at humour, and since it was probably the only one I
would
score, I got to my feet to leave. ‘Talking of whom, I ought to get back if you don’t need me any more. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. We’ve got three birthday parties in so it’ll be a long day.’

‘My God, that will be half the kids in the area,’ Sarah said.

‘Good to know our children are safe in your hands,’ Nina added.

‘I hope so,’ I agreed, with as much dignity as I could muster. ‘Thank you very much for the wine, Sarah.’

She followed me to the door and handed me the cash I’d earned. ‘Thank you, Emily, I really appreciate your coming to my rescue like this.’ Her glee was barely contained, her feet already pivoting from the door as she closed it, ready to dash back down to her debrief.

If I’d been offered the superpower of invisibility and been able to follow her back to the kitchen table and hear everything they said about me, I would not have taken it.

I told Arthur about the encounter when we met a few days later at the hotel. Until then, I had been in a paralysis of anxiety and couldn’t begin to communicate by text what had happened.

‘Hmm,’ he said, listening without interruption, as was his habit. ‘That
is
worrying. We need a new meeting place, somewhere less local. I’ll have a think. Your flat is going to be out of the question now as well, if Sarah’s on the case. That’s a shame.’

‘To put it mildly!’ I cried, but as usual no evidence of concern disturbed the glacier of his face. It stood to reason that he would be experienced in containing a crisis, or in not letting a situation get critical in the first place, but I was not. Having turned over the episode repeatedly and even lost sleep over it, I was livid with fear and melodrama. That detail about a cyclist being run over replayed itself as a sinister threat; and the sly way Nina had said ‘pre-loved’, all that had been missing was a raised eyebrow in Sylvie’s direction.
Good to know our children are safe in your hands
… Was not the unspoken second part of that clause,
if not our husbands
?

But how
could
they know? A coincidental meeting of neighbours outside a local hotel: that was all they had. Whichever, if any, enquiries Sarah might have made at reception afterwards, surely no staff member would have divulged the details of a confidential booking. Meanwhile, Arthur deleted all texts and call logs religiously and so could not have left clues that way; in any case, he had separate mobile phones for his family and work and I contacted him on the work one. There could be no calamitous mix-up of contacts. No, the answer was they couldn’t possibly know. I was in the grip of paranoia and it was making my thoughts wild, reckless.

‘I understand if you’d rather just dump me,’ I told him bleakly. ‘I’ll kill myself, but I’ll understand.’

He looked at me with that perfect earnestness of his. ‘Tell me you don’t mean that, darling?’ He made an attempt at unbuttoning my top – normally we’d be undressed and in bed by now – but I captured his fingers in mine, pressing them to my sternum.

‘Feel my heartbeat, Arthur, it’s out of control. I feel hunted, and no wonder! It’s not as if I’m not guilty, is it? Everything they suspect is true!’

‘You just need to hold your nerve. They’re messing with you, believe me.’ Keeping his hand on my chest, he leaned forward and kissed my throat, moving once again in the direction of the exposed groove of cleavage, the first button of my top. I eased his head back up. I needed him to look at me, to acknowledge the catastrophe, to be the one I could count on to believe
me
.

He did not fail me. He stopped trying to kiss me and pulled me back to sit next to him on the covers, the pillows stacked behind our backs. He wore his gentle, willing face, the one I imagined he needed for more fearful patients, the ones who asked the same questions over and over. ‘OK, let’s talk about this properly. Did Sylvie say anything to you herself?’

‘No. She hardly looked at me. It was all Nina. Everything she said seemed to have some other significant meaning.’

‘Yes, it would. Don’t forget she’s a professional, she’s been on the
Today
programme and
Question Time
and God knows what else. Of course she’s going to get the better of you, that’s her job. It’s a confidence trick, a bluff. I know it’s scary, but it’s a trick all the same.’

I gazed at him. When he spoke like this, as an unquestioned equal to Nina and her ruling ilk, I saw how out of my league I was. Without his protection, I was the easiest of prey.

‘I promise you she doesn’t know anything, not for sure. If Sylvie had a shred of evidence, she would have accused me by now. You mustn’t worry about this, my love. This is for me to handle, and I will. Please trust me, all right?’

‘All right.’ And his words did reassure me. His sureness about Sylvie and the likelihood of her confronting him had to be based on experience as well as instinct. But my exposure to his wife’s circle had raised other questions, ones I could not help voicing. ‘So have you ever had an affair with one of them?’

‘One of whom?’

‘The coven. Nina and that lot.’

Arthur laughed. ‘No, of course not. I’d be ritually castrated if I so much as tried. They have their code of honour, that gang. It’s quite admirable, really.’

‘But
you
don’t?’

‘What, have a code of honour?’ He furrowed his brow, as if he’d never been asked such a searching personal question before. ‘I’ve never thought of it like that.’

‘But how could you not? It’s obviously wrong to be unfaithful to your wife. You said she’s been upset in the past, she gave you that warning? You must have thought about it then?’

This, of course, was the central contradiction of my situation, the one that presumably vexed mistresses the world over and that I’d previously avoided contemplating in any depth: how could a man be the beautiful soul his lover believed him to be when he was capable of such wilful unkindness to the mother of his children? That instinctive reaction to Sylvie I’d had, to pity some unnamed weakness in her: it was all too convenient to believe Arthur had ceased to find her attractive because of the same failing, and yet might it not be the case that the weakness had developed because of his neglect?