Everything Emma knew about adultery had come from TV dramas of the Seventies. She associated it with Cinzano and Triumph TR7s and cheese and wine parties, thought of it as something the middle-aged did, the middle classes mainly; golf, yachts, adultery. Now that she was actually involved in an affair – its paraphernalia of secret looks, hands held under tables, fondles in the stationery cupboard – she was surprised at how familiar it all was, and what a potent emotion lust could be, when combined with guilt and self-loathing.
One night, after sex on the set of her Christmas production of
Grease
, he had solemnly handed her a gift-wrapped box.
‘It’s a mobile phone!’
‘In case I need to hear your voice.’
Sitting on the bonnet of the Greased Lightning, she stared at the box and sighed. ‘Well I suppose it was bound to happen eventually.’
‘What’s up? Don’t you like it?’
‘No, it’s great.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘I just lost a bet with someone, that’s all.’
Sometimes, walking and talking on a clear autumn evening in a secret part of Hackney Marshes, or giggling at the school carol service, drunk on mulled wine with their hips touching – sometimes she thought she was in love with Phillip Godalming. He was a good, principled, passionate teacher, if a little pompous sometimes. He had nice eyes, he could be funny. For the first time in her life she was the subject of an almost obsessive sexual infatuation. Of course, at forty-four he was far too old and his body, beneath the pelt, had that slipped doughy quality, but he was an earnest and intense lover, sometimes a little too intense for her liking; a face-puller, a talker. She found it hard to believe that the same man who stood in assembly to talk about the charity fun run would use that kind of language. Sometimes she wanted to break off during sex and say ‘Mr Godalming – you
swore!’
But nine months have passed now, the excitement has faded and she finds it harder to understand why she’s here, loitering in a school corridor on a beautiful summer’s evening. She should be with friends, or with a lover whom she’s proud of and can mention in front of other people. Sulky with guilt and embarrassment, she waits outside the boys’ loos while Phil washes himself with institutional soap. His Deputy Head of English and Theatre Studies and his mistress. Oh good God.
‘All done!’ he says, stepping out. He takes her hand in his, still damp from the washbasin, dropping it discreetly as they
step out into the open air. He locks the main door, sets the alarm, and they walk to his car in the evening light, a professional distance apart, his leather briefcase occasionally banging the back of her shin.
‘I’d drive you to the tube, but—’
‘—best be on the safe side.’
They walk a little further.
‘Four more days to go!’ he says jauntily, to fill the silence.
‘Where are you off to again?’ she asks, even though she knows.
‘Corsica. Walking. Fiona loves to walk. Walking, walking, walking, always walking. She’s like Gandhi. Then in the evening, off come the walking boots, out like a light …’
‘Phil, please – don’t.’
‘Sorry. Sorry.’ To change the subject, he asks, ‘How about you?’
‘Might see family in Yorkshire. Staying here, working mostly.’
‘Working?’
‘You know. Writing.’
‘Ah, the
writing.’
Like everyone, he says it as if he doesn’t believe her. ‘It’s not about you and me, is it? This famous book?’
‘No it’s not.’ They’re at his car now, and she is keen to be gone. ‘And anyway, I don’t know if you and me are all that interesting.’
He’s leaning against his blue Ford Sierra, gearing up for the big farewell, and now she has spoilt it. He frowns, bottom lip showing pink through his beard. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I don’t know, just …’
‘Go on.’
‘Phil, this, us. It doesn’t make me happy.’
‘You’re unhappy?’
‘Well, it’s not ideal is it? Once a week on an institutional carpet.’
‘You seemed pretty happy to me.’
‘I don’t mean
satisfied
. Good God, it’s not about sex, it’s the … circumstances.’
‘Well it makes me happy—’
‘Does it? Does it really though?’
‘As I recall it used to make you happy too.’
‘Excited I suppose, for a while.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Emma!’ He glares down at her as if she has been caught smoking in the girls’ loos. ‘I’ve got to go now! Why bring this up just as I’ve got to go?’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘I mean for fuck’s sake, Emma!’
‘Hey! Don’t talk to me like that!’
‘I’m not, I just, I’m just … Let’s just get through the summer holiday, shall we? And then we’ll work out what to do.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do, is there? We either stop or we carry on, and I don’t think we should carry on …’
He lowers his voice. ‘There is something else we can do … I can do.’ He looks around, then when he’s sure it’s safe he takes her hand. ‘I could tell her this summer.’
‘I don’t want you to tell her, Phil …’
‘While we’re away, or before even, next week …’
‘I don’t want you to tell her. There’s no point …’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘No!’
‘Because I think there is, I think there might be.’
‘Fine! Let’s talk next term, let’s, I don’t know – pencil-in a meeting.’
Heartened, he licks his lips, and checks once more for onlookers. ‘I love you, Emma Morley.’
‘No you don’t,’ she sighs. ‘Not really.’
He tilts his chin down, as if peering at her over imaginary glasses. ‘I think that’s for me to decide, don’t you?’ She hates that headmasterly look and tone of voice. She wants to kick him in the shins.
‘You had better go,’ she says.
‘I’ll miss you, Em—’
‘Have a nice holiday, if we don’t talk—’
‘You’ve no idea how much I’ll miss you—’
‘Corsica, lovely—’
‘Every day—’
‘See you then, bye—’
‘Here …’ Raising his briefcase, using it a shield, he kisses her. Very discreet, she thinks, standing impassively. He opens the car door and steps in. A navy blue Sierra, a proper headmaster’s car, its glove compartment packed with Ordnance Survey maps. ‘Still can’t believe they call me Monkey Boy …’ he mumbles, shaking his head.
She stands for a moment in the empty car park and watches him drive off. Thirty years old, barely in love with a married man, but at least there are no kids involved.
Twenty minutes later, she stands beneath the window of the long, low red-brick building that contains her flat, and notices a light on in the living room. Ian is back.
She contemplates walking off and hiding in the pub, or perhaps going round to see friends for the evening, but she knows that Ian will just sit in that armchair with the light off and wait, like an assassin. She takes a deep breath, and looks for her keys.
The flat seems much bigger since Ian moved out. Stripped of the video box-sets, the chargers and adapters and cables, the vinyl in gatefold sleeves, it feels as if it has been recently burgled, and once again Emma is reminded of how little she has to show for the last eight years. She can hear a rustling from the bedroom. She puts down her bag and walks quietly towards the door.
The contents of the chest of drawers are scattered on the floor: letters, bank statements, torn paper wallets of photographs and negatives. She stands silent and unobserved in the doorway and watches Ian for a moment, snorting with the effort of reaching deep into the back of the drawer. He wears unlaced trainers, track-suit bottoms, an un-ironed shirt. It’s an outfit that has been carefully put together to suggest maximum emotional disarray. He is dressed to upset.
‘What are you doing, Ian?’
He is startled, but only for a moment, after which he glares back indignantly, a self-righteous burglar. ‘You’re home late,’ he says, accusingly.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘Just curious as to your
whereabouts
, that’s all.’
‘I had rehearsals. Ian, I thought we agreed you can’t just drop in like this.’
‘Why, got someone
with
you, have you?’
‘Ian, I am so not in the mood for this …’ She puts down her bag, takes off her coat. ‘If you’re looking for a diary or something, you’re wasting your time. I haven’t kept a diary for years …’
‘As a matter of fact I’m just getting my
stuff
. It is
my
stuff, you know, I do
own
it.’
‘You’ve got all your stuff.’
‘My passport. I don’t have my passport!’
‘Well I can tell you right now, it’s not in my underwear drawer.’ He is improvising of course. She knows that he has his passport, he just wanted to poke through her belongings and show her that he’s not okay. ‘Why do you need your passport? Are you going somewhere? Emigrating maybe?’
‘Oh you’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ he sneers.
‘Well I wouldn’t
mind,’
she says, stepping over the mess and sitting on the bed.
He adopts a gumshoe voice. ‘Well, tough
shit
, sweetheart, ’cause I ain’t going
nowhere.’
As a jilted lover, Ian has found a commitment and aggression that he never possessed as a stand-up comedian, and he is certainly putting on quite a show tonight. ‘Couldn’t afford to anyway.’
She feels like heckling him. ‘I take it you’re not doing a lot of stand-up comedy at the moment, then, Ian?’
‘What do
you
think, sweetheart?’ he says, putting his arms out to the side, indicating the stubble, the unwashed hair, the sallow skin; his look-what-you’ve-done-to-me look. Ian is making
a spectacle of his self-pity, a one-man-show of loneliness and rejection that he’s been working up for the last six months and, tonight at least, Emma has no time for it.
‘Where’s this “sweetheart” thing come from, Ian? I’m not sure if I like it.’
He returns to his search and mumbles something into the drawer, ‘fuck off, Em’ perhaps. Is he drunk, she wonders? On the dressing table, there’s an open can of strong cheap lager. Drunk – now
there’s
a good idea. At that moment, Emma decides to set out to get drunk as soon as possible. Why not? It seems to work for everyone else. Excited by the project, she walks to the kitchen to make a start.
He follows her through. ‘So, where were you then?’
‘I told you. At school, rehearsing.’
‘What were you rehearsing?’
‘
Bugsy Malone
. It’s a lot of laughs. Why, you want tickets?’
‘No thanks.’
‘There’s splurge guns.’
‘I reckon you’ve been with someone.’
‘Oh, please – here we go again.’ She opens the fridge. There’s half a bottle of wine, but this is one of those times when only spirits will do. ‘Ian, what is this obsession with me being
with
someone? Why can’t it just be that you and me weren’t right for each other?’ With a hard yank, she cracks the seal of the frosted-up freezer compartment. Ice scatters on the floor.
‘But we
are
right for each other!’
‘Well fine then, if you say so, let’s get back together!’ Behind some ancient minced beef crispy pancakes, there is a bottle of vodka. ‘Yes!’ She slides the crispy pancakes to Ian. ‘Here – these are yours. I’m granting you custody.’ Slamming the fridge, she reaches for a glass. ‘And anyway, what if I
was
with someone, Ian? So what? We broke up, remember?’
‘Rings a bell, rings a bell. So who is he then?’
She’s pouring the vodka, two inches. ‘Who’s who?’
‘Your new
boyfriend?
Go on, just tell me, I won’t mind,’ he sneers. ‘We’re still
friends
after all.’
Emma gulps from her glass then stoops for a moment, elbows on the counter top, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes as she feels the icy liquid slide down her throat. A moment passes.
‘It’s Mr Godalming. The headmaster. We’ve been having this affair on and off for the past nine months, but I think it’s mainly been about the sex. To be honest, the whole thing’s a bit degrading for both of us. Makes me a bit ashamed. Bit sad. Still, like I keep saying, at least there are no kids involved! There you go—’ She speaks into her glass. ‘Now you know.’
The room is silent. Eventually …
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Look out the window, have a look, see for yourself. He’s waiting in the car. Navy blue Sierra …’
He sniffs, incredulous. ‘It’s not fucking funny, Emma.’
Emma places her empty glass on the counter and exhales slowly. ‘No, I know it’s not. In no way could the situation be described as funny.’ She turns and faces him. ‘I’ve told you, Ian, I’m not seeing anyone. I’m not in love with anyone and I don’t want to be. I just want to be left alone …’
‘I’ve got a theory!’ he says, proudly.
‘What theory?’
‘I know who it is.’
She sighs. ‘Who is it then, Sherlock?’
‘Dexter!’
he says, triumphantly.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake—’ She drains the glass.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
She laughs bitterly. ‘God, I wish—’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. Ian, as you well know, I haven’t spoken to Dexter for months—’
‘Or so you say!’
‘You’re being ridiculous, Ian. What, you think we’ve been having this secret love affair behind everyone’s back?’
‘That’s what the evidence seems to suggest.’
‘Evidence? What
evidence?’
And for the first time, Ian looks a little sheepish. ‘Your notebooks.’
A moment, then she puts her glass out of reach so that she won’t be tempted to throw it. ‘You’ve been reading my notebooks?’
‘I’ve glanced. Once or twice. Over the years.’
‘You
bastard—’
‘The little bits of poetry, those magical ten days in Greece, all that yearning, all that desire—’
‘How
dare
you! How dare you go behind my back like that!’
‘You left them lying round! What do you expect!’
‘I expected some
trust
and I expected you to have some dignity—’
‘And anyway I didn’t need to read them, it was so bloody obvious, the two of you—’
‘—but I have limited reserves of sympathy, Ian! Months of you moaning and moping and whining and hanging round like a kicked dog. Well if you ever turn up out of the blue like this and start going through my drawers, I swear I will call the fucking police—’