The Wonder Worker (48 page)

“How could he have done it?” I cried in despair. “How could he have brought himself to do something so—” but I could not bring myself to say any of the words which were no longer fashionable. No one bandied around words like “wicked” and “evil” and “corrupt” any more unless they were Bible-bashing bigots or those Islamic fundamentalists who had just protested about the latest Rushdie novel. The liberalism of the sixties had destroyed our moral vocabulary, and Mrs. Thatcher had so far been too busy stoking the fires of nationalism and capitalism to reinvent it.

“Funnily enough,” Francie was saying, as if trying to lower the emotional temperature of the conversation by staging a temporary retreat into casual chit-chat, “there was a case like this in the papers only the other day. Various women were hypnotised by their therapist who then used them for sex sessions. They were aware of what was going on but they couldn’t resist, and it was only after they came out of the hypnosis that they realised exactly what he’d done.”

Faintly I said: “What happened to him?”

“Oh, he was jailed, of course, but he was obviously just a run-of-the-mill wonder worker.”

I tried to speak but nothing happened.

“Nick’s quite different,” said Francie rapidly, “because he’s basically a devout priest. He’s just gone temporarily crazy because of your decision to leave him.”

“So it’s all my fault after all!”

“No, no, no, I didn’t mean that—” Francie, realising she’d put her foot in it, frantically tried to backtrack, but I was already rejecting another guilt-trip; I had finally seen the situation in the round. With a strength that surprised me I said: “Then isn’t the truth just this:
that although we all under stress can do dreadful things, we always have the choice whether to do those dreadful things or not? And if we do make the evil choice and behave bestially, shouldn’t we face up afterwards to what we’ve done and try to make amends to our victims? Nicky said sorry but he didn’t mean it,” I said, voice shaking, and suddenly anger was shoving aside my despair. “He was just going through the motions of apologising! If he’d really been sorry, he’d have taken full responsibility for what he’d done instead of telling me that I’d asked for it!”

“Oh, but that’s classic behaviour,” said Francie at once, bending over backwards now to support me. “Men guilty of that particular act often take that line. They’re in denial.”

The anger made me feel better, gave me the strength to pull myself together. I decided it was time to repair my appearance, but when I opened my compact I saw to my dismay that my state of disrepair was worse than I’d imagined. My supposedly waterproof mascara had smudged. With my shiny nose, damp cheeks, chewed lipstick and panda-like eyes I resembled a sixty-year-old clown.

“Shall I order a brandy?” said Francie resourcefully, seeing I was on the verge of collapse again.

“No, it’s no good using alcohol as a crutch,” I said with bravado, but then I spoilt this show of courage by dissolving into tears again. “Oh Francie,” I wept in utter despair, “I’m so totally wrecked! What on earth am I going to do?”

“Well,” said Francie, wonderfully cosy and sympathetic, “as a matter of fact, I
do
have one or two thoughts I’d like to share with you …”

V

“
First of all
,” said Francie briskly after I had begged her to continue, “you must get a divorce. No question about that. I know marriage is supposed to be for ever for clerical couples, but everything’s changed so much, hasn’t it, and nowadays a priest isn’t automatically washed up if his wife seeks a divorce—although of course the divorce has to be handled very discreetly with nothing sordid ever seeing the light of day. So you needn’t be terrified of wrecking Nick’s career, and as for his personal life … well, who knows? Maybe he’ll wind up falling madly in love with someone else.”

“Oh God, if only he would! That would certainly let me off the
hook, but apart from me the only woman he’s peculiar about is Alice, and I can’t see him ever wanting to—”

“Alice?” said Francie so sharply that I jumped. “
Alice?
Alice Fletcher?”

“Yes, they drool over the cat together, I don’t understand it, but I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with sex. So assuming there’s no hope at present of some gorgeous bimbo enslaving Nicky with a flick of her false eyelashes, how the hell do I drill it into his head that the marriage is completely finished?”

“Have an affair,” suggested Francie—very creatively, I thought. After all, she was a regular churchgoer.

“Good try,” I said with respect, “but I’ve done that. And when I confessed to him in Devon on Tuesday—”

“
You had an affair?
” gasped Francie.

“Well, actually I had three, but two were only one-night stands so they hardly count.”

“
One-night
—”

“Well, I had to do something, Francie! I was going mad with misery down there in Surrey!”

“Oh darling, I’m not blaming you—heaven forbid I should ever be judgemental!” cried Francie, fighting back her enthralled expression and oozing empathy again from every pore. “But wasn’t Nick devastated when you confessed?”

“Yes, but as the infidelity was all in the past and as he realised I’d never have been unfaithful if he hadn’t made me so miserable, he turned the other cheek and forgave me.”

“God, that man’s so Christian!” said Francie fervently, but realised a second later that this statement was hardly compatible with last night’s catastrophe. At once she pulled herself together. “Sorry. Let me concentrate. You had these affairs, you said—but good heavens, how amazing, how did you do it? I mean, men do so like to take the lead, don’t they, and they tend to back off if a woman comes on too strong—”

“I always chose much younger men and I took care to be either nannyish or schoolmistressy. They loved it.”

“Good God!” said Francie stupefied.

I decided it was time to haul the conversation back on course before she realised she was jealous. “Well, never mind all that,” I said rapidly. “Let’s focus on the main problem. How do I convince Nicky—”

“Hang on,” said Francie suddenly. “You’ve just given me an idea. Supposing you have another affair, but this time you pick a lover who’ll underline to Nick that this isn’t just a spot of adultery which can be blown away by a gale of Christian forgiveness; it’s cast-iron proof that you can’t stay married to him because if you do you’d wreck his ministry.”

“You mean the best way to wake him up is to shock him to the core?”

“Yes, if you were to pick someone who from the point of view of his ministry is absolutely
verboten
—”

“Well, I’m sure I’d have no luck if I tried to seduce the Bishop, and I can’t think of anyone else who—Francie! What is it? Why are you looking as if you’re about to explode?”

“Because I’ve just had the most fantastic brainwave! Darling, the solution’s simple: you must seduce Stacy McGovern.”

VI

The
waitress chose that moment to collect our plates but as soon as she had departed I said: “Francie, you’re nuts.”

“But it would show Nick, wouldn’t it? It would send him slamming up against reality so hard that he’d have no choice but to face the facts. He’s responsible for Stacy’s welfare—the implications would be horrific—”

“Which is why I could never do it. Poor little Stacy!”

“
Little?
That huge uncoordinated red-headed hulk? Listen, if you taught Stacy a thing or two you’d be doing him a favour! He’s so shy and emotionally retarded that he can only think of dating Tara Hopkirk!”

“Francie, I can’t seduce the curate. I may have my failings, but there are some lines I will under no circumstances cross. Seducing Stacy wouldn’t just be immoral; it would be naff.”

“But it would solve everything!”

I stared at her. She was bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, vibrant with enthusiasm.

“Well, I must say, Francie,” I remarked, “for someone who’s been off work for depression, you’ve certainly made a spectacular recovery! Have you ever thought of being a marriage guidance counsellor? You’d be on a perpetual high!”

Francie immediately looked contrite. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to sound as if I’m deliriously happy as the result of this ghastly mess—I’m just fired up because I’m so passionately keen to help you.”

“And I’m hugely grateful for the help. But as far as Stacy’s concerned—”

“Ros, I don’t think you can afford to pull your punches now, I really don’t. Can’t you see that you’d actually be doing Nick a favour by giving him the biggest possible jolt? He really does need to snap out of this dangerous fixation of his before it starts affecting his ministry.”

“I agree, but I still can’t see myself bedding Stacy … Who’s Tara Thingummy-jig?”

“Oh, haven’t you met her? She’s one of the church cleaners and looks like the back end of a bus.”

“But why should Stacy settle for anyone like that? What’s his problem?”

“My dear, how should I know? I’m not the one who’s the expert on young men! He can’t be gay, can he?”

I paused to consider this question. “No,” I said finally. “Not possible.”

“Well, I have to admit he does seem to be a hundred per cent masculine.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that Lewis would never consent to hiring a homosexual curate. He regards homosexuality as a handicap.”

“Lewis is so old-fashioned,” said Francie primly.

“Well, I don’t know,” I said, producing my compact again. “As a woman I can’t help thinking it
is
a handicap not to be able to relate in depth to the opposite sex. And as a woman I personally don’t like being rejected on the most fundamental level of all for reasons which make my flesh creep.”

“My God, Ros, you can’t go around saying that sort of thing nowadays!”

“I’ve just said it.” Steeling myself I faced my nightmarish reflection in the mirror and finally began to make the necessary repairs. “Can you get the waitress and order coffee? If she looks at me in my present state she’ll run screaming from the room.”

Francie obediently ordered the coffee but was still rattled by the fact that I’d expressed my deeply unfashionable views without batting an eyelid. Apparently it was all right to advocate even the naffest form of adultery; adultery was just fine. But if one so much as
breathed a word against a bunch of people prone to sodomy, one was absolutely beyond the pale.

“As a matter of fact I don’t give a damn what homosexuals do,” I said as I finished off my repairs by powdering my nose. “I just wish to hell they’d have the good taste to do it discreetly like the rest of us and stop whingeing about being persecuted. I hate whingers—which reminds me, I do apologise for this awful whinge all the way through lunch! I’ve been far worse than any homosexual activist! Now darling, tell me about
you
and
your
problems!”

“Oh, they’re all trivial,” said Francie quickly, “not even worth mentioning, but how sweet of you even to think of asking when you’re in this terrible situation … Are you sure you’re so dead against seducing Stacy?”

“ ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’ Yes, I draw the line there, I’m afraid.”

“I think you’re a saint,” said Francie. “If I’d been through what you’ve been through, I’d seduce Stacy out of a lust for revenge.”

“If you’d been through what I’ve been through, you’d be lusting only for freedom from fear, I assure you.”

Francie at once invited me to stay with her but I said no, Nicky would only turn up and break the door down. She then made the more practical suggestion that I should see a top divorce lawyer at the earliest opportunity, and she promised to ask Harry to recommend someone as soon as he returned from Hong Kong. “And meanwhile,” she added, “if you won’t take refuge with me I think you should go to Phyllida. Isn’t her husband keen on hunting? He could defend you with a horsewhip if Nick went on the rampage.”

“Tommy’s keen on shooting too. I don’t want him reaching for a gun.”

“He sounds exactly the kind of macho thug you need—fly to Phyl without delay!”

But I had no desire to appear wimpish to my sister and anyway ghastly Tommy was quite capable of siding with Nicky in the name of masculine solidarity. I began to think I might have to adopt a pseudonym and disappear for a while until the boys came home from school to chaperone me. Where would Nicky never dream of searching? Northern Ireland was a possibility, but I didn’t want to risk being blown up. I could disappear into Europe but no, I had to go to a place where English was spoken because I was too upset to cope with speaking a foreign language …

I suddenly realised I was on the pavement outside Fortnum’s and Francie was kissing me goodbye. Gratefully I kissed her back and told her how wonderful she had been. What a blessing it was, I reflected as I took a taxi back to the City, to have such a loyal and devoted friend supporting me as I struggled to survive this horrible crisis …

VII

When
I reached the Rectory my lack of sleep and my emotional exhaustion combined to overwhelm me, and locking myself in Benedict’s room again I escaped into unconsciousness beneath the duvet.

Later, when I was waiting for the kettle to boil for tea, I went into the drawing-room to pull the curtains, and as I glanced down into Egg Street I saw Stacy chatting with a stout girl who looked as if she might be Tara the cleaner. I stood watching them. They talked on, unaware that they were being observed, but at last Stacy turned away and as he did so he saw me standing at the lighted window.

He waved, smiled, bumped against my car which was parked in the Rectory’s forecourt.

I waved and smiled back before drawing the curtains.

As I made the tea I realised that Francie had been right; if I were to seduce Stacy Nicky would be forced to face the truth that I was determined to end the marriage, and then once he was facing reality he would see that he had no choice but to let me go. Moreover the sooner this happened, the sooner I would be free from fear. Even if I now did a runner to Northern Ireland, I’d still be living in terror in case he somehow managed to trace me, and meanwhile what on earth was I going to do when he returned to the flat after work that evening? Supposing he wanted to have sex with me again to make sure everything really was forgiven and forgotten, as I had put it so glibly in my terrorised state last night? Supposing—and this was even more frightening to contemplate—he tried to “talk it all through” with me in an attempt to provide “healing,” and somehow managed to brainwash me all over again? He didn’t need to resort to hypnosis to be highly manipulative, and if he once more piled on the emotional pressure I might crack up altogether and become like one of the women in that horrifying film
The Stepford Wives
, a doll-like creature with no mind of her own, utterly subservient to her husband.