Finally, he looked up.
‘Get rid of him,’ he told her. ‘Tell him to get out of your house and never come back.’
She nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Now.’
Anna shut her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath, but there was no mistaking the authority in Vince’s voice.
She walked out into the garden, over to the bed where her paramour was forking over the earth. Vince watched them talking, saw the bloke gesticulating, objecting; Anna pleading. How could he have got her so wrong? How could he have wasted all those years, worshipping her like a complete idiot?
He stood by the door as the gardener headed back to the house. He wanted to punch him for his swagger. For taking Murphy’s money at the same time as shagging his wife. What kind of a bloke did that?
Vince stood up and put a hand on his chest as he passed him.
‘Don’t you dare touch her again.’
‘Or what?’ The bloke smirked. He was strong, but Vince knew he could take him on.
He smirked back. ‘Or you’ll be sleeping with the fishes.’
The bloke turned to Anna. ‘I’ll come back for my barrow.’
He managed to make it sound smutty. Anna didn’t reply. Vince looked at him in distaste. He was the archetypal bit of rough on the surface, easy on the eye, but he was obviously a total dick. What did Anna see in him?
Moments later, the front door slammed and they heard the Hilux start up.
Anna ran her hands through her hair. She looked as if the air had been sucked out of her; drawn and deflated.
‘So what now?’ she asked.
Vince felt a sick sense of unease in his stomach. He wished fervently he had stayed in Everdene and let Murphy sort his own life out. He had uncovered something far more unsavoury than the initial problem. Which now, on analysis, hadn’t really been a problem at all. Not compared to the scenario he was now dealing with. He felt so many things: revulsion for Anna, pity for his friend, shock. Regret that he had opened such an unsightly can of worms.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. He didn’t want responsibility for what happened next. Why should he be the judge and pass sentence? ‘I guess you tell Murphy that everything’s OK. That you forgive him.’ He couldn’t help a cynical laugh.
She shot him a look.
‘You’re not going to tell him?’
What would his friend want him to do? Vince tried to imagine. Would he want the truth, or would he want a lie? He thought, very probably, that for all Murphy’s bravado and ebullience, the truth would kill him. To know that his wife had been cuckolding him with the gardener?
‘I can’t tell him,’ he told Anna. ‘I just can’t. And your marriage is your responsibility. You’ll have to find a way to get through this yourself. It’s going to need work.’
Anna shuddered. ‘Ugh. Counselling? Such a middle-class cliché.’
‘Almost as clichéd as shagging the gardener.’
She sagged, sitting down hard on one of the bar stools.
‘Are you going to hold it over me for the rest of my life?’ She gave him a sour look.
Vince wondered how he could ever have thought her beautiful. ‘You say that like I forced you into it.’
She put her face in her hands. ‘Oh God.’ She looked up. ‘I’m going to have to tell him. Otherwise we’ll be living a lie.’
Vince didn’t answer for a while, as he turned the dilemma over in his mind.
‘Maybe it’s better to live a lie?’ he said finally. ‘I guess it’s called damage limitation. I don’t know that Murphy would be able to handle it. I really don’t. But I suppose it depends how you feel in your heart. Whether you’re prepared to put the work in, work out what was missing and why you did it. And do something about it.’ He gave a wry grin. ‘I sound like some self-help manual. I don’t know, Anna, to be honest. It’s a mess, I know that.’
She chewed on the edge of her thumbnail. ‘I still love him. I know that.’
‘And matey? Do you love him?’ Vince nodded to the barrow outside.
Anna scoffed. ‘No. No of course I don’t. That was about … sex. Sex and attention and … danger?’ She laughed, but it was mirthless.
Vince stood up. ‘I’m going to go. I’m going to leave you to decide what you do. I’ll just say we talked, and I managed to convince you there was nothing to those texts.’ He looked at her. ‘Because there wasn’t. You know that, don’t you?’
Anna shrugged. ‘It’s still not right.’
‘But it doesn’t give you an excuse to do what you did. Two wrongs don’t make a right.’
‘I’ll call him. When you leave, I’ll call him. Get him to come home. We can talk it all through.’ She stepped towards him and held out her arms. ‘Can I talk to you? If I need to?’
Vince held her, but reluctantly. All those times he had longed to pull her to him, and now he felt awkward. He couldn’t wait to let her go.
‘Course. Call me whenever you like.’
‘Thanks. And I’m sorry …’
‘Don’t apologize to me.’
‘No, I mean I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into it. It must be difficult for you.’
‘Hey. What are friends for?’ He supposed he was her friend too. He picked up his keys and walked out of the kitchen. She didn’t follow him to the front door, and he was grateful. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
In the car on the way home, Vince felt strange. A mix of emotions and questions whirled round. Had he done the right thing? Should he have let Anna get away with it? Should he have told Murphy? Did he really trust her not to cheat on Murphy again? Was her affair a one-off, borne out of a need for attention she wasn’t getting, or were the reasons for it darker? And did Murphy’s behaviour have some bearing on that?
It wasn’t his place to play God, Vince decided. Murphy and Anna would have to sort out their marriage for themselves. He would always be there for his mate. And he would give Anna the benefit of the doubt, for the sake of the children if nothing else. He didn’t have the right to be judgmental and tear the family apart. Not really.
Once he came to terms with making the right decision, a huge sense of relief settled on him. Because, he realized, there had been a significant side effect to all of this: the part of his mind that had always been occupied by Anna was free. He no longer worshipped or longed for her. When he thought of her now, he felt a mild distaste. Not the agonizing torment of unrequited love. It was almost as if a curse had been lifted. He could live his life like a normal person now.
He felt slightly elated. He turned up the radio and put his foot down, letting the car eat up the miles. He couldn’t wait to get back, sit on the step of the beach hut with a beer, watch the sun go down into the sea knowing that the next day he would wake up with optimism.
As he came back down the hill into Everdene, suddenly the sea looked bluer and the sun looked shinier. Everything sparkled. He stopped the car for a moment and looked down at the bay. Suddenly, he realized he could now make decisions on behalf of himself. Everything was to play for. He was no longer tied down by his obsession. He was free.
Every year, when the day dawned, Ange woke with a horrible stone of dread in the pit of her stomach. She had to go, and she wouldn’t dream of not. It was more than Dave’s job was worth to miss it. It was a tradition, the Annual Partners’ Picnic (their capitals, not hers). They got a proper posh invitation, the kind you were supposed to put on the mantelpiece, but they didn’t have one so she stuck theirs on the fridge with a Homer Simpson magnet. Crowfield and Sons hired a beach hut for the day on Everdene Sands, and organized a minibus to take everyone. It was a posh minibus, with leather seats, and it meant everyone could have a drink. When they got there, the men played cricket on the beach while the wives … Well, the wives sat and gossiped and drank champagne.
Ange found it torture. She really did. She’d far rather be playing cricket with the blokes, but that wasn’t done. Oh no. For a start, the wives had to dress up. For a picnic on the beach! The others would all be immaculate in their tiny linen frocks, their make-up perfect and their hair blow-dried to within an inch of their life. Dave had offered to buy her something new if she wanted it, but she didn’t. She wasn’t bothered about wearing the same dress that she’d worn the year before. She only had one, because she didn’t really do dresses – she was a leggings and baggy T-shirt girl. It was all she could do not to rebel and stick on her leggings that morning, but she couldn’t let Dave down, so she pulled the dress out of the wardrobe and put it on. Annoyingly, it showed up the burn marks from the afternoon she’d spent in the garden the weekend before, when she’d forgotten to put sun cream on, but she didn’t care. Just because the others all had perfect spray tans, didn’t mean she had to have one.
The problem was, Ange wasn’t Crowfield’s idea of a partner’s wife. Any more than Dave was their idea of a partner, but they’d had to make him one because he was such a tour de force in the sales department. He had the patter, and he could talk the talk anywhere. Since he’d been in charge, sales of ball bearings had quadrupled, and nobody knew quite how he did it.
Ange knew how. It was because he was a grafter. It was because he did his homework on people, and what they needed, and worked out the best way to woo them. She’d watched him on his laptop late into the night, crunching numbers, working out how to do deals. Caring. Nobody else at Crowfield cared as much as Dave did. They were all too busy choosing their next Range Rovers or booking skiing holidays.
Ange knew she didn’t fit in. She didn’t do ladies’ lunches, or play golf, or have Botox. She was a manageress at the bingo hall. She didn’t do it for the money, because Dave brought in a good whack; enough for both of them. She did it because she loved it, and the other wives just didn’t get why you would work if you didn’t have to. She was only part-time, but she really looked forward to it. She’d go mad if she woke up every morning and didn’t know what to do with herself, like them. They were obviously bored out of their brains – you could see it in their eyes – but they’d never admit it.
They obviously thought Ange was a bit common. Well, maybe she was, but at least she knew how to have a good time. That was why Dave loved her. She didn’t walk around as if she had a bad smell under her nose. And she liked a laugh, which they didn’t, by the look of them. Oh, and she was overweight, which was probably the biggest crime in their book. In Ange’s view, they all looked as if they could do with a good meal. They picked at their food, and they all had personal trainers, and went running, and did yoga classes. Torture, if you asked Ange. She liked her grub and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
Which was why she had been appointed catering monitor at the picnic. She’d done it for the past six years. The other wives all brought hampers, great big wicker things with leather handles, filled with bone china and cut glass to serve the food on. You didn’t need proper plates and glasses on a picnic, for heaven’s sake. You only had to wash them when you got back. What was the point?
This year, though, she’d decided to do things differently.
When they arrived at the beach hut, Ange was already red-faced and perspiring from the walk. The others were all as cool as cucumbers in their huge black sunglasses. They spread out their tartan picnic rugs and unfolded their deckchairs, then took off their dresses to reveal miniature bikinis, mostly black with big silver buckles. Ange felt awkward, as ever, not sure where to sit or indeed, even how. They all managed to sprawl elegantly. She looked as if she had collapsed in a sweaty heap.
She looked around. The scene looked like an advert – the shabby chic beach hut with the bunting hanging over the front, and half a dozen beautiful women lounging in front of it. Only Ange was out of place; the fly in the ointment. The one the photographer would be waving out of the picture.
She dug her bare toes into the sand, enjoying the feeling of the grains running over her skin. She wished she’d taken time for a pedicure. The others all had immaculate toes, cherry red or dark plum. Yet another fail, she thought. But really, when you thought about it, what was the actual point of painting your toenails?
It was funny, because Dave didn’t feel out of place with the other partners in the same way she did. It must be a bloke thing, she decided. They just got on with it; mucked in. She could see them all, engrossed in their game – competitive yes, but in a healthy way. They didn’t bully each other, getting one up with their clothes and their thinness and their jewellery. Sometimes she thought she didn’t like women very much. There was always some low-lying sense of competition to throw you off kilter.
And it was all too easy to find yourself sucked into the game. She knew she was playing it today by what she had done. But she couldn’t bear another year of it. She had to make a statement by getting one up. Did that make her as bad as them? She didn’t think so. She wasn’t doing it because she felt better than them. She was doing it to feel better about herself.
‘New dress?’ The MD’s wife Rosa looked at her over the top of her Chanel shades.
Why did she even ask when it was obvious it wasn’t? ‘No,’ replied Ange. ‘No point, really, when I only wear one once a year. I’m not a dress person.’
Rosa said nothing. She didn’t need to. She tried another topic of conversation. At least she was having a go at being polite.
‘Have you been away this summer?’
‘No,’ said Ange. ‘I’m not a hot weather person or an abroad person either. Happy pottering about at home, really.’
Dave had offered for her to go wherever she liked. She looked on the Internet but couldn’t begin to imagine herself in any of the destinations. They were quite happy firing up the barbecue for themselves and a few friends over the summer, and having the occasional day trip. What was wrong with liking home?
‘God, I’d die if I didn’t get away. We went to Dubai. The children’s club is amaaaazing – didn’t see them from dawn till dusk. I just lay on my sun lounger all day, reading, and the waiters bring you whatever you want to drink.’ Rosa put a beringed hand up and clicked her fingers to indicate that was all she needed to do to summon the attention of the staff. Her diamonds twinkled in the sunlight.
‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ said Ange, who couldn’t see the point of having children if you were going to bung them in a club all day. She felt bad enough that her two had to go to her mate’s today for the picnic.
By one-thirty the sun was still high in the sky, and Ange arranged one of the parasols over a table so they could keep the food in the shade. She could see the other women exchange knowing glances when she took the lid off her cool box. Little smirks, as if to say: ‘Here come the pork pies’. She was going to wipe the smile off their faces today.
She spread out a pretty checked tablecloth and began to produce her wares, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat.
First, there was a flask of cool, creamy watercress soup, which she poured into little shot glasses and popped on a tray: into each glass she put a tiny slug of truffle oil. Then she laid out a rough game terrine, wrapped in bacon, and a basket of poppy-seed rolls, followed by tomato tartlets criss-crossed with anchovies and scallops on a minted pea puree and chicken coated in breadcrumbs and garlic and parmesan. Then she piled the sweets onto a cake stand she’d brought with her. Macaroons in pastel colours – pale green with pistachio cream, pale pink with rose cream. Strawberry shortcakes, raspberry tartlets, lemon cheesecakes …
‘Where did you get all this?’ asked Rosa, in a strangled voice.
‘I made it,’ Ange replied carelessly. ‘I seem to have so much time on my hands now the kids are both at school.’
Rosa and the others gawped at her, then exchanged glances, not sure whether to challenge her. Ange could see they didn’t believe her. They thought she’d bought it all in from some smart caterer and put it in her own dishes to make it look as if it was homemade.
Rosa pointed at the macaroons.
‘Surely not those?’
‘Yes,’ Ange nodded. ‘Terribly fiddly. And, of course, you have to remember to separate the egg whites two days in advance. It helps give them volume,’ she explained airily, picking up her shot glass and hiding her smile behind it.
They were all staring at her food. She could see they were starving. They were practically drooling.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Don’t let it spoil. One day won’t hurt. You can run it off on the beach later.’
They didn’t need any second telling. Ange watched in satisfaction as they snatched up delicacy after delicacy, cramming their mouths full and nodding in approval. She passed them a plate of baby chocolate éclairs, the chocolate glaze gleaming.
‘Eat them, before they melt,’ she urged. They stretched their hands out greedily.
It had taken her a whole year to reach this standard. A year of evening classes at the local college, faffing about with piping bags and bain-maries and sugar thermometers. She could now make choux pastry and béarnaise sauce and fancy fondant potatoes. Of course, she’d had loads of disasters along the way, but she wanted to prove, just for once, that she could do something that would surprise them. That she wasn’t just a bingo manageress, to be laughed at. And she could tell she’d impressed them. They were united in their admiration. She felt a glow inside, which was infinitely preferable to the sense of inadequacy she usually had amongst them.
Eventually, the men arrived, hot from their cricket, and hurled themselves down on the rug expectantly. But as they started to look at the food on display, they looked disappointed, somehow.
‘Where’s the pork pie?’ asked Martin, the finance director.
‘And the scotch eggs?’ demanded Phil, the lawyer.
‘And the cold sausages?’ finished Ron, the MD. ‘A picnic’s not a picnic without cold sausages.’
The men all looked at Ange. There was disappointment and confusion etched on all their faces. She laughed, and got up to fetch her second cooler.
‘I brought some extra, just in case,’ she told them. ‘I know how you lot work up an appetite.’
And she started to unload the real food. They all groaned with delight as she chucked them each a packet of cheese and onion crisps to be getting on with.
‘Good old Ange!’ proclaimed Ron, as Rosa gave him one of her death stares. ‘We can always rely on Ange to provide a good spread.’
Ange rewarded him with an old ice-cream tub stuffed with cold bangers.
‘I’ve got a jar of piccalilli if you want to dunk them,’ she offered. She could see each of the wives shudder inwardly.
As the sun began to drift downwards, and people began to doze off, soporific and contented, Dave came and lay down beside Ange on the rug.
‘Crowfield’s just told me I’m in line for vice president,’ he whispered.
Ange looked at him. They knew the job was going to be vacant soon, but neither of them had ever dreamed Dave might be in the running.
‘How?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘He says I’m a maverick. But I’ve got the right values. He says it’s mine, bar the formalities.’
‘Oh.’ Ange thought about the news. Of course Dave had the right values. That was why she’d married him. Vice president? She wanted to laugh with glee, but she didn’t want to draw attention. What on earth would the other wives say? They’d all be spitting. It was the job they all wanted for their husbands.
She smiled to herself. Fourteen, they’d been when they met. In the youth club in the village hall. They’d never looked back. Never had eyes for anyone but each other, and they were as happy now as they were then.
‘I love you,’ she said, as quietly as she could. ‘And I’m so proud.’
Dave winked at her as he crammed in a piece of pork pie.
Ange wanted to reach over and give him a great big smacker on the cheek, but she didn’t think public displays of affection would go down well. That wasn’t the role she was playing today.
Today, she was the perfect partner’s wife.
The vice president’s wife. Maybe.