A Crowded Marriage (19 page)

He put down his fork. Looked at me, surprised.

“How much more entertaining would it be if you and Charlie could just—just shag around to your hearts' content, with as many women as you liked and have absolutely no ties or responsibilities at the end of it.”

“Imo—”

“Wouldn't
that
be bloody marvellous!” And with that, predictably, I threw down the tea towel I'd been clutching, burst into tears, and rushed upstairs.

A bit later, as I sobbed piteously, face down in my pillow, Alex came up and sat beside me. He stroked my back. Rubbed between my shoulder blades.

“I won't take it, Imo. Won't take the flat.”

“No!” I sobbed, flipping over, my face wet. “Of course you must. It's hopeless going on like this. You're exhausted. Of course you must take it. It's just, I wish—”

“That I didn't have to. I know.” He sighed. A great weary sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. “Imo, I don't want to share a flat with Charlie Cotterall. Don't want to live with an overgrown schoolboy who still grades his farts for potency and picks his toenails and leaves the trimmings on the carpet. I don't want to be in some ghastly dive in Chiswick where the washing-up piles up in the sink and there's never anything in the fridge except beer and the only nourishment arrives on the back of a motorbike. I don't want to sleep in a tiny single attic room, listening to Charlie and Trisha humping away below. Believe it or not, it was not part of my plan at this particular stage of my life.”

His voice broke slightly at this. I had a sudden mental image of Alex ten years ago; leaving his elegant Chelsea town house in the morning for his job in the city; kissing the beautiful Tilly good-bye on the doorstep, dropping his two little girls in blazers and boaters at their private school in Eton Square. I wondered, not for the first time, if he regretted the breakup of the old order? Missed his old life? Even if he didn't, I could see that sharing a flat in Chiswick was not something he'd envisaged for his later years.

“But needs must,” he went on firmly, looking steadfastly at the carpet, “and frankly, at the moment, darling, I can't afford to look this gift horse in the mouth. Charlie doesn't want any rent, and—”

“I know,” I said quickly, sitting up and interrupting him, “you must. Of course you must take it.” God, this was humiliating enough for him; I mustn't emasculate him further by making him spell it out to me. “I'm just being selfish, Alex. It's terribly kind of Charlie and I'm just being…well…”

Insecure, was the word I couldn't say. I couldn't say I was scared: I mustn't let him think I was a clinging wife who couldn't let her husband out of her sight for fear of him chatting up a pretty girl. And let's face it, that's all Alex would do, chat. He did flirt, yes—God, who didn't—but he was absolutely all gong and no dinner. I mustn't lose sight of that. I must be confident and secure about this.

I reached for a box of tissues by the bed and blew my nose. Smiled at him.

“Of course you must take it, darling. And I'll tell you what. I'll pop up occasionally, shall I? Leave Rufus with Hannah, and maybe spend one night a week in the flat. Give Charlie and Trisha something to talk about.”

He hugged me delightedly. This was absolutely how he liked me to be: funny, positive, spirited—like Eleanor, I thought with a pang. And it was how I was going to be in future, I determined. Classy. Confident. Not needy and cringing.

“In fact, why wait for Charlie and Trisha?” he'd murmured in my ear. “Why not give the cows something to talk about now?”

And with that we'd slipped under the covers. He'd kissed my tear-stained face and then my lips, and then we'd made love: seamlessly, beautifully, wonderfully.

As I was running myself a bath afterwards, though, still smiling foolishly, I did wish that one day I could make love to my husband without congratulating myself. Did other wives monitor their love lives so closely, I wondered, dipping my toe in the water? Perhaps they did. Or, perhaps second wives did.

I turned to Hannah now as I put the milk away in the fridge, remembering my new, positive frame of mind: my half-f glass.

“Oh, yes, I persuaded him to take it, actually. Told him it was madness to pass up such a terrific offer. He'd be suffering from exhaustion, otherwise. I don't want him laid up in the Priory.”

“Yes, but a flat in town,” she said doubtfully. “With Alex's track record. Slippery slope, surely?”

I rounded on her, slamming the fridge door shut.

“Hannah, do I make snide references about Eddie's lack of control? Do I raise my eyebrows at him teaching at an all-girls' school, suggest he might be touching up some sixth former when he shows her how to scan iambic pentameters on a trip to see
King Lear
? Do I imply he might be bonking the science mistress in an empty staffroom when he's late home at night?”

“No, no, you're quite right,” she said hastily. “I said that without thinking. Just—a figure of speech.”

“We don't
have
a choice, I'm afraid. We don't
want
to have flatmates at our time of life, believe me,” I said, shamelessly parodying Alex. “We don't want to live a—a beer-and-biryani lifestyle, any more than we want to live in a crappy little grace-and-favour cottage in the sodding countryside, thanks to Lady fucking Muck!”

Hannah stared at me, frozen. Her grey eyes were huge with meaning and her head jerked slightly to the left. Towards the back door, behind me. I swung round and nearly swallowed my tonsils. Eleanor was hovering, embarrassed, on the back step.

“Sorry, only I would have knocked, but the door was wide open so I—”

“Oh God, yes, come in, come in!” I said getting up, flustered, and knocking my chair over backwards. I picked it up, horrified. Golly, had she heard? She must have. How
awful
. “How lovely to see you. You know my sister, don't you?” I was aware that my face was burning.

“Yes, we have met, haven't we?” smiled Eleanor, stretching her hand across the table. “It's Hannah, isn't it?”

“That's it,” said Hannah, getting to her feet to clasp her hand, clearly surprised she knew her name. She pulled down her skirt and flicked her hair back as she sat down again.

Despite my confusion, I couldn't help noticing the startling disparity between Hannah, huge and lumpen in her ethnic dress, and Eleanor, glowing with good health, copper curls shining, slim figure encased in skin-tight jodhpurs and a red shirt.

“Been riding?” I hazarded stupidly.

“Well, it's such a glorious day I thought I'd take Cracker for a gallop. I've tied him to your fence outside. Hope you don't mind!”

“No! Not at all. I mean it's…your fence,” I said awkwardly.

There was a silence as we all digested this. My face, by now, was the colour of her shirt.

“Cup of coffee?” I rushed on, brightly. “We were just finishing lunch, but there's some cake, so do—”

“Oh, no, I won't stay, you're very kind. No, I just came to see if you were around this weekend. Only the weather's supposed to be wonderful on Sunday and we thought we'd have a barbecue. Do say you'll come.”

Well, if she had heard me, she'd obviously forgiven me pretty swiftly.

“That's very kind, but actually, Hannah and Eddie are coming for lunch here on Sunday. They're bringing Mum with them.”

“But that's marvellous—come too!” She turned to Hannah. “Do, it would be great to see you both. I don't feel I've really got to know you and Eddie, and you only live in the next village. I've heard so much about you from friends. You're a potter, aren't you?”

“Oh, well,” Hannah demurred, “that's putting it a bit strongly. I dabble.”

“More than dabble. I know people who've bought your pots and I've seen them too—they're beautiful. I'd love to come and have a look one day.”

“How kind,” Hannah murmured pinkly, flicking her hair again, clearly deeply charmed. “Yes, you must come. I don't have many at home because there isn't room, but I've got a wheel at school. And we'd love to come to lunch, only as Imogen says, we have got Mum…”

“Oh, but I adore your mother! And she can give me advice on my hideous formal garden with her marvellous plastic flowers.” She giggled. “I do think that's inspired, don't you?”

“Mum is…full of inspiration,” Hannah agreed.

“Good, well, that's decided then. We'll see you all on Sunday. About one o'clock? Dead casual.”

“As long as Alex hasn't got too much work,” I said firmly. “He's so busy at the moment, he's working weekends. I'll have to check.”

“Oh, don't worry, I've already spoken to him. I couldn't get hold of you so I rang, and he said he'd get everything done on Saturday and leave Sunday free.”

I stared. “Right.”

“And isn't it marvellous about the flat?”

“The…flat?”

“Well, it'll ease the commute, won't it? Honestly, I don't know how these men do it. I get completely exhausted whenever I pop up to London.”

“Are you there a lot?” asked Hannah in a pally-wally way, resting her elbows on the table and cupping her face prettily in her hand. I shot her a look that went beyond loathing.

“
Far
too much at the moment,” groaned Eleanor. “We're working on the winter collection, you see. I don't know if you know, but I've got this shirt business. We only do white shirts, but in lots of different styles. I started it with a friend.”

“Yes, I'd heard,” said Hannah eagerly. “It's The White One, isn't it? Haven't you had some publicity recently in the
Guardian
?”

“We
have
! How clever of you to know that.”

They glowed at each other.
Puke.
I seized a knife to cut the cake, holding it like a dagger and wondering which breast to plunge it into. Would it take more than one stab, I wondered, to kill? And would it make a terrible mess? Blood-splattered windowpanes?

“And at the moment, we're frantic. Completely rushed off our feet. So much so that I've decided to stay in London for a bit. I really can't be doing with all that to-ing and fro-ing.”

“Oh, right. Have you got a place there, then?”

“Piers's mother has a flat in South Ken.”

“Oh, perfect. No, thanks, Imo.”

“No cake?”

“No.” She gave a prim little shake of her head as if she never touched the stuff and turned back to Eleanor. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“Yes, it's just sitting there, and she never uses it, just down the road from the Natural History Museum. And actually, I quite fancy getting away from all the mud for a bit. I sometimes long for a cappuccino on a pavement, long to get a bit of good old carbon monoxide into my lungs!”

“Oh, I know the feeling,” groaned my sister. “Yes, it would be nice to take the straw out of one's mouth occasionally. Imogen even found a piece of straw in her knickers the other day, didn't you, Imo?”

“No,” I said icily.

There was a silence.

“Right, well, I must go,” determined Eleanor, slapping her whip against her leather boot. “Cracker will be getting impatient. It was lovely to meet you properly.” She shot Hannah a special smile. My sister looked captivated. “Toodle-oo. See you on Sunday. I'm
so
pleased you're all coming.”

And with that she gave us a cheery wave and the benefit of her pert little backside as she sashayed off across the grass, back to her mount. I watched her untie a huge bay gelding and spring effortlessly into the saddle, and then she spun him round on the spot, pointed his nose up the hill, and galloped off over the horizon in a cloud of dust.

When she'd disappeared from sight, I swung round to face my sister. “Why didn't you snog her?”

“What?”

“Well, you were flirting with her, chatting her up—why didn't you go the whole hog, wrestle her to the floor and stick your tongue down her throat?”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” she scoffed.

I was so furious I could hardly speak. I slammed around the kitchen, throwing plates in the dishwasher, chucking the salad bowl in the sink.

“I can't believe you said yes to lunch,” I fumed, my voice shaking with emotion. “I thought you didn't like her, couldn't bear her and Piers and their stuck-up ways!”

“Actually, I thought she was charming,” she mused, cutting herself a slice of cake and picking the chocolate icing off the top with her nails. “Sweet of her to comment on my pots.”

“Flattery,” I spat, snatching the cake from under her. “And you're not having that.”

“Why not?” She looked up, astonished.

“Because you said you didn't want it!” My eyes blazed at her as I threw the cake in a tin, jamming the lid on and tossing it in the cupboard. “God, you were the one who told me to watch out for her, said she was after my husband!”

“Yes, but I think I was wrong about that. I mean, after all, it was years ago, wasn't it? And I very much doubt she'd have you down here if she was after Alex. Too obvious. No, I've revised that theory.”

“Oh, have you?” I snarled. “When it suits you!”

“Be interesting to see the house, though.” She narrowed her eyes speculatively and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms against her large bosom. “I've never been up there before.”

“And that's what she's banking on,” I spat. “That your nosey-parker instincts will get the better of any
real
instincts you might have about her!” I scraped the remains of the coronation chicken noisily into the bin with a fork.

“Don't you want that? I could have taken that home for Eddie's supper.”

“Tough.” I threw the bowl in the sink. Swung around to face her. “And how dare she have spoken to Alex already?” I was trembling with rage. “Christ, I only knew about the flat last night, and there she is telling
me
about it. What is she—phoning him every day?”

“I think she said she rang him to ask about lunch when she couldn't get hold of you, remember?”

“Couldn't get hold of me? I'm here the whole frigging time! I'm welded to the place, never go anywhere except to feed her bloody cows!”

“Do calm down, Imogen. You're sounding like a jealous schoolgirl. And anyway, if she
was
after him, she'd hardly be mentioning the fact that she'd rung him, would she? She'd be keeping that very quiet.”

“That's where you're wrong,” I hissed, a little too manically perhaps, waving a dirty fork in her face. “That's where she's so clever! It was the same with Tilly, the same pally friendship, the same holidays abroad and then—
wham!—
in she goes, under the wire. It's a smokescreen, you see, a cover—what, me and Alex?” I opened my eyes innocently, aping Eleanor. “Lord, no, we're just good friends, always have been. Oh, she is
so
smart, Hannah,
so
smart, you have no idea. She manipulates people, draws them into her web. It's her forte. I mean, Christ, look at you! A couple of days ago you thought she was scheming and untrustworthy. Remember the gymkhana lady, Sue, who had a team Eleanor wanted Theo in, and—and the one she got to make curtains right before Christmas and then snubbed at church? Blimey, didn't take you long to forget them, did it? Didn't take long to get round
you
!”

“She didn't get round me, she simply asked me and Eddie to lunch and I accepted. Now grow up.”

“And now she's going to be staying in London at the exact same time as Alex,” I seethed.

“Oh, for heaven's sake.”

“And wasn't she quick to tell me that, hmm?
Very
quick off the mark to get that out into the open so I can't turn round and say—I didn't know! Didn't know I'd be the one parked down here, stuck in the frigging mud while they're both up in town. It's her modus operandi, Hannah, can't you see that? She
doesn't
sneak around,
ever
, she's
so
much bolder than that. She's, she's brazen!” I fixed her with feverish eyes.

She shot me a pitying look as she got to her feet, plucking her handbag from the back of her chair. She swung it over her shoulder.

“Imogen, she's staying in London because she's got a business to run, she told you. A winter collection to get out. Honestly, you're starting to sound a bit unhinged. I'm beginning to wonder who needs the counselling around here.” And so saying, she gave me an arch look then swept past me out of the cottage, stalking off through the mud in her heels to her car.

When she'd gone, I stood at the window, staring blankly at the wet fields encased with little dry-stone walls, arms crossed, my hands clutching the tops of my arms tightly. I was trembling slightly. Suddenly, on an impulse, I went to the kitchen drawer. I pulled out a pad and a pencil and sat down at the table. I chewed the end of the pencil feverishly for a bit, then I wrote a list of all the reasons I
should
worry about Eleanor, and all the reasons I shouldn't. When I'd finished, I stared at it. Under “Should Worry”
I'd written:

1. Still beautiful.

2. He loved her once so could fall for her again.

3. More likely to now he's in such close proximity.

4. Light years ahead of you socially (charm,
savoir faire
, confidence, etc.).

Under “Shouldn't Worry” I'd written:

1. All over years ago.

2. People don't go backwards.

3. No one shits on their own doorstep.

4. He's your
husband
, for crying out loud!

I stared at the second list. At number four. Yes. Of course. Hannah was right. I was being ridiculous. Quite, ridiculous. Suddenly I felt stupid for making such a scene in front of her. Well, thank God it was only Hannah, I thought, tearing the paper off the pad and scrunching it up. Only my sister. Thank God I hadn't got it all off my chest while Eleanor was still here, before she'd swung a leg over Cracker. I imagined her astonished face as I let rip, saw her hazel eyes widen. Then I imagined her telling Piers about it later over supper—“You know, darling, I'm really rather worried about her.” I got up quickly from the table and threw the ball of paper in the bin. Then I took it out, tore it into shreds, and threw it back again. I stared at the bits of paper lying there on the lettuce, the act of someone who had something to hide. Hurriedly, I fished the bits out, scrunched them into a tiny ball and glanced around the kitchen for a match. No matches. On an impulse, I put the ball in my mouth. And then, through the open doorway, I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror, trying to swallow. Slowly, I took the ball of paper from my mouth and dropped it in the bin. I bowed my head and stood for a moment, in silent contemplation.

After a few moments, I made myself walk calmly to the cupboard under the stairs. As I crouched down and drew out my comfort blanket, I noticed my hand was shaking. I stared at it. Made a fist. What was happening to me? Why was I behaving like this? And what about that leaf I was going to turn over, the one that would make me all confident and classy, all shiny and new? As I straightened up, my duffel bag of paints over my shoulder, I couldn't help feeling it was offering some fairly weighty resistance.

***

Later, as I stood at my easel in the orchard, knowing I had barely an hour before I collected Rufus, which wasn't nearly long enough, but knowing too that this was the only way to clear my head and banish the demons, I calmed down a bit. It wasn't hard, actually. Although I was loath to admit it, there really was something about this place; something about capturing the movement of nature—those beech trees, for example, their delicate lime-green leaves casting lacy patterns on the grass, or the chestnuts with their heavy swirling skirts and secret depths—about responding immediately to light and colour that was so exhilarating, so exciting, it almost took my breath away. It left no space in my head for gnawing doubts.

I worked quickly, my brush moving in swift, confident strokes across the board, until I reached the point—and it came quicker outdoors—when my strokes were less measured, more impulsive, and I entered that heavenly phase where I almost lost consciousness and painted from instinct, the paint seeming to fly by itself on to the canvas, giving depth to clouds, trees, hillsides, in a way that later, as I came up for air and blinked at what I'd done, made me giddy with pleasure.

Occasionally, during one of these moments of oblivion, the inevitable happened: a splash would fall on my nose, then another, then finally one on my canvas, and by the time I'd come to my senses and unscrewed the board from the easel, hurrying across the meadow with it face down, desperate to get it back to the cottage, the skies were opening.

Today, it was the wind that was against me. I hunched my back against a strong north-westerly and impatiently brushed hair from my eyes as it whipped around my face. Occasionally a leaf stuck to the canvas, sometimes even a feather. A feather? I picked it off and carried on, but then another one landed on my palette, and another. I frowned as I removed them with my nails from the swirl of Prussian Blue, and surfaced sufficiently from my creative reverie to wonder where they were coming from. I glanced around. Stared. A horrific scene met my eyes. A large hen—Cynthia, one of my precious Silkies—lay about twenty feet away, decapitated.

I froze, paintbrush poised, transfixed. Then, hastily chucking my palette on the grass, I fled across, both hands clutching my mouth. Omigod, omigod! I glanced around in terror. I wondered if there were more. Had he killed them all—for he, I was sure, was the fox—and had he left them all in the same sorry state as my lovely lady Cynthia? Heart pounding, I tore round to the compost heap where I knew they liked to hang out, gossiping and jostling, and saw, to my intense relief, that a fair-sized squad was perched on top, pecking at the grubs and worms as usual. Most of them were there, surely? I counted feverishly. Ten, eleven, twelve…no. There should be fourteen. Cynthia was one, but another was missing. The big brown hen, Mother Theresa, and—oh sweet Jesus—the chicks!

I rushed to the barn where Theresa often retreated, preferring its dark cavernous shade and shelter for her babies, and as I adjusted my eyes to the gloom I saw her, at the foot of the hay bales, keeping watch over a dead chick, all the others missing. Oh Christ, had they all been…? I looked at her. Her dark, button eyes communed silently with mine. Oh dear God, they'd all been taken, eaten, except this one little scrap, this chick, which…yes. I crouched. It was still moving. It was still alive! To the hen's consternation, I picked it up, took one last tortured look around—no, all gone, all of them—and ran, with it cupped in my hands, to the house. What would Rufus say? Oh, what would he say? I had to save one. I had to!

Theresa followed anxiously, legs planted wide apart as she put her head down and charged, feathery skirts billowing around her, hot on my heels as I barged through the back door and lunged across the table for the phone.

“Marshbank Veterinary Practice?” said a familiar voice as Theresa skidded round the table after me on the lino floor.

“I need the vet,” I whispered. “Fast.”

“He's on a call at the moment. Can I give him a message?”

“Yes, tell him it's an emergency. Tell him to get over to Shepherd's Cottage on the Latimer estate right away, please.”

I put down the phone. The chick was getting weaker, I could tell, its little yellow body going limp in my hand, eyes half shut. It needed warmth and it needed it quickly. With Mother Theresa still at my feet, nervously shadowing my every move, I hastened to the old solid-fuel Rayburn. I'd cursed it when we'd first arrived, wondering who on earth, in this day and age, was prepared to shovel coke into their cooker, but now I blessed it for its constant heat. I opened the oven door and tentatively put my hands in, cupping my precious bundle. Too hot? Roast chick? I glanced at the mother. Yes, perhaps it was too hot. Maybe I should have left it in the stable where she'd been keeping an eye on it? It had certainly had more movement then.

“Sorry—sorry,” I whispered, scuttling back outside again.

Across the yard we hastened, Theresa and I, and into the barn where I lay the chick down on the same patch of hay. Maybe she would sit on it; cover it with her feathery warmth. She didn't seem inclined to, and after nudging it with her beak in a desultory manner, wandered off to peck in the dirt. I watched her go in horror. No! No, come back! She was sauntering towards the door. Towards the others on the dung heap. Screwing up all my nerve and holding my breath, I lunged—and picked her up. A nasty bundle of brittle bones and feathers squirmed and flapped horribly in my hands, but I held on tight and, at arm's length, deposited her on her offspring. She gave an indignant squawk and bustled straight off again. I watched her go, impotently.

“You've got to keep it warm,” I begged, brokenly. “It'll die!”

She shot me a sharp look and went back to her mates.

Desperate now, I kneeled over the chick in the hay. I breathed hard on its little yellow body, as if I were misting up a windowpane. I couldn't actually bring myself to give it the kiss of life, couldn't—you know, go beak to beak—and it smelled ghastly, like a bad chicken nugget, but I was convinced I was getting somewhere. I was just getting into a rhythm, bending forward on my knees as if at some religious devotion, breathing out with a loud “HUH,” ruffling the feathers, when I became aware of footsteps behind me.