Olivia’s Luck (2000) (7 page)

“There’s no central heating,” warned Johnny, gazing around upstairs, but I could tell he was impressed. He was jangling his change in his pocket, which was always a good sign.

“OK, so we’ll put some in.”

“Oh, it’ll need more than that. It’ll need gutting, rewiring, replumbing, a new bathroom and a totally new kitchen. We’re talking big-time building works here, Liv.”

“So we’ll sell the house in London and use the money to renovate it.”

“Lots of money. Lots of time too.” But the jangling continued.

“Fine!” I laughed. “We’ve got plenty of both now! Oh gosh, you can see the cathedral from here! Look, Johnny, there, across the rooftops and – oh! Look!”

I had my head well out of the window now, marvelling at the view, but suddenly I popped it back in. I grabbed his hand and ran downstairs, pulling him out through the French windows, across the terrace to the lawn. As we slid down the bank on the other side together, we came to a halt at the bottom, panting. Johnny stared. There, tucked away behind a tall holly hedge and beneath a riot of ivy, was a small, brick-and-timbered barn. It was ancient, its roof was clearly rotten, but it was still standing, albeit by the skin of its teeth.

“I could keep the Bristol in here, maybe get Dad’s old Lagonda in too!” he said excitedly. He walked in and peered up at the beams.

“Quite!” I squeaked. “And you’d never get a double garage in London, no matter where we lived!”

He bit his lip thoughtfully, patted the thick old walls. Then he turned to me. “We’ll see, Liwy. Let’s go home and think about it; do our sums, and see, OK?”

“OK!”

We did, but I knew then he was as smitten as I was. The idea of being half an hour from Central London – which let’s face it, one could still be in Camberwell or Clapham – and living in a pretty period house with an acre of garden for me, and plenty of garaging for classic cars for him, was not to be sniffed at. We dutifully did our sums, consulted a few intelligent people who told us we were barking mad – and jumped in with both feet.

That autumn, Orchard House became our home and we were blissfully, ridiculously happy. So what if the eccentric East End builders we’d employed, together with their Greek sidekick, had practically moved in with us? So what if they watched our television, monopolised and stank out our lavatory, smoked my cigarettes and fundamentally ruled our lives? So what if the fires smoked and we were freezing to death, huddled in front of smelly blow heaters? So what if there were rats in the cellar and bats in the attic – all these problems were minor, could be sorted by Mac and the boys, and jolly well would be. Johnny surprised me by being very enthusiastic in the DIY department, I was ecstatic in the garden, squealing with pleasure as I uncovered more and more neglected plants, and Claudia was positively flourishing, happy at her new school, not needing her inhaler nearly as much, loving the garden, delighted to have trees to climb, a stream to fish, and plenty of friends to bicycle with in The Crescent. So all was fine. All was peachy. For a while, anyway.

Until…something happened, something…that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but as I say, I reckon it happened about five months ago. Something went wrong. And despite my frantic attempts at Twickenham tickets and ballooning weekends in France, my husband continued to stare out of rain-soaked windows. I’d lost him. And now as I sat here, at our kitchen table, in my paint-spattered checked shirt, staring at a photograph on the fridge that was taken seventeen years ago, I realised I was about to find out why.

I glanced up at the clock: seven forty-five. It seemed to me he’d been upstairs for ever, but it must only have been a few minutes. He’d come back on his usual train, after all. Suddenly I jumped. Yes, now I could hear movement on the landing. He was coming down. I quickly lit another cigarette and was just exhaling the smoke as he came past the kitchen door, jacket on, a case in each hand. He saw me sitting there, stopped, and then stepped backwards so he was framed in the doorway. As he gazed at me, his blue eyes were full of remorse. Blue eyes I loved.

“Sorry, Liwy.”

I nodded. Swallowed hard. “Johnn – ” I tried again; my voice wouldn’t work. “Johnny,” I managed, “is there someone else?”

He held my eyes for a moment, then slid them down to his shoes. “If you mean am I having an affair, then yes, I am.”

I squeezed my legs together hard. “And do you – ” Couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say the love word. “Is it serious?”

He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t…was never meant to be…but now…yes. Yes, it’s serious.” His eyes came back to me. “I’m so sorry, Liwy.”

I nodded. Raised my chin high. And then against my better judgement, out came, “So where does that leave me?”

He stared. I looked away quickly from the silence.

He hesitated a moment longer, picked up his cases, opened the front door, closed it softly behind him, and set off down the path.

“I
don’t believe you.”

“Please try to.”

“Liwy, you are
kidding
?”

“I’m not bloody kidding. Would I kid about something like that? Molly, do me a favour, don’t quiz me on the phone. I’m really not up to it. Just get over here, OK?”

There was a stunned silence. “But I’m shocked. Honest to God, I am so unbelievably shocked!
Johnny!
Of all people!”

“
Molly!
”

“Yes! Right. Right, I’m coming. And Imogen?”

I swallowed. “Please. But, listen, could you tell her?”

She paused then: “Course I will, darling. I’ll see you soon.”

Half an hour later Molly was ringing my bell. I opened the door to find her clinging to the doorframe, hugely pregnant, panting hard, one arm holding her bump and the other, just about holding Henry, who at eleven months was puce in the face with fury, screaming and kicking to be set free. Molly’s dark curls were damp with sweat, her eyes wild.

“Jesus Christ,” she gasped, “don’t let anyone talk you into unprotected sex in October. I tell you, lugging three extra stone around in a heat wave as well as this little bugger is no joke.”

“I think sex, protected or otherwise, is rather off the agenda for me at the moment.”

“Oh, Liwy!” She dropped Henry, put her arm round my neck and hugged hard. “Liwy, my love!” I gulped gratefully into her damp curls, feeling her bump against me.

“Fine, I’m fine,” I muttered finally. “Come on in.”

She followed me into the chaos of my tiny kitchen, neatly sidestepping a clothes horse laden with wet washing, noting, I’m sure, the tottering pagodas of washing-up in the sink, the newspapers on the floor soaking up the rush matting which had got drenched when the washing machine overflowed, but happily releasing Henry into it all, like a ferret down a burrow.

“So when did he go?” she gasped, collapsing into an old Lloyd Loom chair and lighting a cigarette.

“About two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks ago!” She sat up. “My God, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Couldn’t.” I plucked a cigarette from her pack. “Couldn’t speak to anyone for about a week, Molly; couldn’t even get out of bed. I finally broke it to Claudia, who I’d been fobbing off with a Daddy’s-got-a-conference-in-New-York-again line, and then when she’d gone off to school, collapsed in a heap again.”

“How did she take it?”

“She said she knew. Suspected, anyway – had done for a while. She’s not stupid, Mol.” I bit the skin round my thumb.

“And is she OK?”

I sighed. “Seems to be, but you know how Claudes is. Never lets much show and takes everything in her stride, but you can never really tell with children, can you? All the books say the emotional scars and all that sort of scary baggage come later.” I gulped and dragged on my cigarette.

“Books?” scoffed Molly. “What do they know, a bunch of half-baked psychologists spouting out their university theses? Listen, she’ll be fine. God, it’s
you
I’m worried about. Has he spoken to you?”

“Oh yes. He rang last week to speak to Claudia, and when I picked up the phone he very sweetly gave me his telephone number in case I should care to call him. Or Her? I asked. Sorry? he said. Well, I explained, surely it was Her telephone too? Oh, he said hurriedly, he’d just meant in case of an emergency. I felt like saying the only bloody emergency would be getting the gore off my hands when I’d finished disembowelling the cow.”

“Ah. So there is a cow?”

“Oh yes, didn’t I mention that? Most definitely there is. That’s why he’s gone.”

“But you don’t know who she is?”

“No idea.” I gazed beyond Molly, out of the window. “No idea at all.”

She dragged hard on her cigarette. “Jesus,” she muttered, flicking ash on to the newspaper on the floor beside her and shaking her head in disbelief. “Jfesus. And you didn’t see any of this coming, Liv? I mean – is this a complete and utter bolt from the blue?”

“Total. Well, the girl and the moving out bit is. He certainly didn’t leave any clues – no lipstick on shirts, no condoms in pockets or anything – but…” I hesitated, “if I’m honest, Mol, I knew something was up.
Have
known something was up for ages really. I just stupidly never thought it would be this.” I gave a hollow laugh. “An affair! Never thought it would be an affair, for heaven’s sake, the most obvious thing in the world!” I reached up to a shelf for a wine glass, but as I tried to find a space amongst the debris to set it down and pour Molly a drink, I realised my hand was shaking violently.

She got up, took the glass and reached into the fridge for the bottle.

“He’ll be back,” she said firmly, pouring out a large one and handing it to me.

“Of course he will,” I said quickly, grateful for that, wanting her to say that, wanting more.

“After all, this is what men do, isn’t it?” she said warming to her theme, knowing she’d hit the right note. “I mean, this is the seven-year itch, isn’t it?”

“Twelve.”

“The flighty forties – ”

“Thirties.”

“The classic mid-life crisis, the ‘oh my God, where did my youth go, am I going bald and does my willy still work?’”

“Precisely.”

“And then before you know where you are, he’ll be crawling back here with his tail between his legs, and you’ll be force-feeding him humble pie for weeks! Actually, it’ll probably be the making of your marriage, especially if you sort of worry him for a bit.”

“What – you mean dither about having him back?”

“Exactly, do a bit of, ‘Ooh, Johnny, I’m not so sure. You see, I’m making my own way now. I don’t know whether you’ll fit into my amateur dramatics group, my gym classes, my – ’”

“‘Tennis lessons with the wolfish young pro’?”

“Much better! And then all of a sudden he’ll see his whole life slipping away into a grotty little flat with yet another Fray Bentos meal put in front of him by a floozie who can’t iron shirts, and in that split second – which is all it takes – he suddenly won’t be able to remember what on earth he saw in her, and he’ll be positively
begging
you to have him back!”

“Well, quite.” I took a huge gulp of wine. I’d been doing quite well there, but the mention of the floozie who might not wield an iron spectacularly but who might have other, more exotic talents, made me feel slightly less gung-ho. “Bastard,” I muttered.

“Oh yes, that goes without saying,” Molly agreed, “but –
Henry, no
!”

She lunged as Henry, left to his own devices, was quietly helping himself to the delights of a tool box left open by the builders and about to insert a six-inch nail down his oesophagus. Molly grabbed it, but then a frantic struggle ensued with Henry intent on keeping that nail, and prepared to sink his brand-new teeth into his mother’s hand to secure it.

“Ouch! You little – ” She bared her teeth viciously at him and snarled back. Miraculously, he dropped the nail.

“Well, that certainly worked.”

“Oh yes,” she panted, pinning him to the ground in a half-nelson. “He bit me the other day, you see, and I bit him back – in Tesco’s, actually. Caused quite a stir in the checkout queue. Someone even ventured to ask if I was fit to have another baby, to which I replied no, I’m not, so give me your address and I’ll let you have it. And there’ll be plenty more where that one came from, I assured the rest of the queue. At the rate I’m breeding, no one need go empty-handed.”

I smiled. Within weeks of giving birth, Molly had fallen for that fatal old wives’ tale which tells you you can’t get pregnant while you’re breast-feeding. Now, on the point of having two children under thirteen months, she was living proof that you can. Married to a lovely, penniless actor called Hugh, who was always
just
on the brink of making that big Hollywood break but meanwhile doing Bonio adverts to tide them over, she lived from hand to mouth in a tiny rented cottage not far from here that was possibly even more squalid than mine. But Molly didn’t see the damp marching up the walls, or the confetti of final demands on the breakfast-room table; she had Hugh, she had Henry, she had her bump, and she was bright enough to know that was more than most. Molly had always been effortless, unashamedly herself. She wore anything that came to hand – jodhpurs, felt hats, crochet waistcoats – making fashion decisions faster than a speeding bullet, and I’d often felt that if I were more like Molly, it might give me more confidence, more vigour, make being myself less of a labour. She’d never felt she had a thing to prove, you see – which reminded me.

“Did you get hold of Imogen?”

“Yes. She said she was working late, just locking up the gallery, but she said she’d come straight down, be here about nine. Actually, the way she throws that Mercedes about I’m surprised she didn’t get here before me.”

“How did she sound?”

“About what?”

“Well – when you told her about me.”

“Oh. Oh well, to be honest, I could hardly hear her – her mobile was cracking up – but, well, shocked, I suppose.” She frowned, trying to remember.

I reached across and grabbed another one of her cigarettes, then paced the little room nervously. I gazed out of the window. The light from the caravan just across the stream at the bottom of the garden shone out like a beacon in the fading evening light. Mac and the boys, sick of trawling in from Billericay every day and getting stuck on the M25, had asked if they could stay during the week, and since it was in my interests to have them start at eight o’clock rather than ten, I’d said yes, fine, as long as you accommodate yourselves and don’t expect me to put you up. Bed and breakfast, I’d presumed, down the road somewhere, but the next thing I knew their truck had arrived dragging a socking great caravan. Later that afternoon, after they’d put in a hard day’s work, Claudia and I had stood and watched, fascinated, as they’d bustled around it like three little housewives; pulling down beds from the walls, making hospital corners with the sheets, getting crockery out of dinky little cupboards and even plumping up cushions on the banquette seating, before settling down in front of the telly, a six-pack between them, a vindaloo apiece, with no nagging wives, no bloomin’ kids – feet up and all ready to watch the footy. Magic.