Young Wives' Tales (50 page)

Mick pointed out that it wasn’t just Joe’s conduct with me that was unprofessional. He listed at least half a dozen incidents where Joe had gone completely
berserk with a junior member of his team and blamed them for problems that he ought to have resolved personally. Mick highlighted incidents where clients had expressed dissatisfaction or suffered financial losses. Mick made it clear that if he reported this latest incident to Ralph, Ralph no doubt would see it as the perfect excuse to fire Joe.

Joe must have recognized the non-negotiable sense in what Mick said because he quietly agreed to resign with immediate effect. No doubt he reasoned that it was better to search for new employment without a filthy black smudge of scandal hanging over his head. I understood that. I watched as he packed up his belongings and I thought, there but for the grace of God go I, or more specifically in this case, there but for the grace of Mick.

Without the continuous threat of exposure from the psycho stalker hanging over me, I quickly started to perform efficiently once again at GWH. I hadn’t realized how much mindspace I’ve been giving to worrying about Joe Whitehead. Now I’ve stopped jumping when my phone beeps to indicate an incoming text message. I no longer dread logging on to my e-mail account, I know I won’t be faced with dozens of messages from him, and when messenger pops up on my screen, I know it will be a sweet tiding from Peter. It’s an enormous relief.

Ralph has noticed that my performance and attitude have picked up and has had no reason to call anyone into his office to discuss my output, not me or Mick.
I still managed to get out of the office pretty sharpish this week, three nights out of five, and intend to go on doing so. I’m also planning to limit travel and will be relying heavily on video conferencing in the new year. But when I’m at the office I’m working harder than I ever did. I don’t want to have to give up my career. I am finding a balance. Balance, by its very definition, will mean that I have to forgo the largest bonuses and the heartiest pats on the back so that I can spend more time with Auriol and Peter. But that’s OK. After all these years trading commodities I’ve finally realized money comes and goes, time just goes, therefore the most valuable commodity is time and I want to spend as much of that as I can with my family. Simple really.

So I have Joe Whitehead to thank for my redefining my priorities and the notable increase in domestic harmony, albeit indirectly.

Of course, I’m not out of the woods yet. While my work life is less tremulous and stressful I am living on a knife-edge at home. The more time and effort I put into understanding and relating to Auriol (and therefore, among other things, winning the praise and respect of Peter), the more keenly aware I am that the stakes I’m playing with are frighteningly high. Rose could blow my world apart in one easy move. A few months ago I did not believe that my world was centred round my home life. I thought my world was wherever I happened to be; be that GWH, a spa, a cocktail bar or a five-star hotel somewhere hot. I used to rush out of the house
gratefully, away from the cloying domesticity, at every opportunity. Now, I wonder how I’d manage if I lost Peter and Auriol so soon after finding them, really finding them.

I called Rose with the intention of pleading my case and begging her to keep my secret. She was out when I rang and it’s not the sort of message one can leave on the answering machine. She didn’t call back and maybe that was for the best; I’m not sure throwing myself on her mercy is my most sensible option. It’s unlikely she’ll consider me a credible case for her charity and understanding. I consider whether it’s worth my denying everything. I could head off the threat of her spilling the beans by telling Peter that there have been some tiresome rumours circulating at GWH, all completely unfounded. He’d believe me. He trusts me. It is his trust that makes that option impossible. I’ve always played the affairs of the heart and loins by my own incomparable rules, not the same moral standards that the majority profess to follow, but there have always been rules. Rule number one, I can’t lie to Peter.

So, I am at Rose’s mercy. Nine days have passed since she let me know that she is aware of my infidelity. Every time the doorbell has rung since I’ve wondered if it is Rose, just popping round to reclaim what is hers by telling my love that I had sex with an ugly man. Her silence, to date, does not reassure me. Perhaps she’s waiting for the ultimate humiliating moment to expose me. The school nativity play, when her revelation could be savoured by our children and friends?
Christmas day? Or perhaps she’s playing a long game and is waiting until Auriol’s wedding day.

I spot her straight away in the throng of parents milling around the school hall, munching unnecessary calories and sipping cheap mulled wine. She’s wearing her hair in an up-do. I wouldn’t have expected it to suit her (they can be very ageing) but it does, she looks modern and confident. My vulnerability obviously suits her. She’s carrying a plate of mince pies and is offering them around. No doubt they are homemade. I did donate mince pies for today’s event but they were shop-bought. Still, Auriol was pleased, because I forgot all about the contribution for the harvest festival. Small steps.

Peter sees Luke already seated on the skinny benches set up for the audience. Luke is surrounded by coats and bags spread to guard a bunch of places, no doubt at Connie’s instruction. Peter heads over to chat to him and keep him company. I tell him I’ll catch up and push in the opposite direction and head towards Rose.

‘Hello, Rose.’

‘Hello, Lucy, you are looking marvellous as usual,’she says as her eyes quickly scan my chocolate brown velvet trousers and rollneck jumper from Joseph.

I wonder if I’ll sound sincere if I tell her that I think her hair suits her. The moment is lost when Rose adds, ‘You seem to become lovelier with every misdeed you commit. You are a regular Dorian Gray, aren’t you, Lucy?’

I smile coolly. ‘I’d rather not have to live with your
jibes from now until eternity, Rose. Do you think we ought to talk about what you know?’

‘What’s there to talk about? You are committing adultery. Situation normal.’

While Rose’s talk is fighting talk, I notice she has lowered her voice and she glances apprehensively to left and right as she delivers her barbed comment. She doesn’t want the other parents to know of my disgrace; after all, I am associated with her. I take comfort in her conventionality. Rose smiles at a kid who helps himself to the last mince pie and then puts the plate to one side.

She folds her arms across her mammoth chest. ‘The power balance has changed, hasn’t it, Lucy?’she says. I stare at her. I don’t see how. ‘I am in control for once. I am top dog and you are waiting to see what
I’ll
do.’

I
am
waiting to see what she’ll do, but nothing has changed. I’ve lived my life under Rose’s shadow. Will Peter propose to Rose? Will he leave Rose? Will Peter propose to me, after Rose? Will we buy a house near Rose? Will we send our daughter to the school Rose chose? And so on.

‘I’ll be frank, I’m enjoying this,’she says.

‘I’m sure you are,’I concede.

‘You’ve never given me a second thought, Lucy, and I feel rather wonderful, rather powerful, now that you
have
to think about me. I bet you’ve thought of nothing much besides me for several days now.’

Rose is understandably excited but despite her protestations that she’s enjoying this situation she seems
rather more manic than thrilled. Being nasty doesn’t suit her. Dullness is her worst offence.

‘Is that what you believe? That I rarely think of you?’I ask. ‘I’ve rarely thought of anything else for years.’

She holds my gaze, trying to ascertain my level of honesty. I meet her eye. I’m telling the truth. For all of Rose’s faults she’s not stupid. She warily weighs up what I have just said.

‘You’re a horror. You’ve ruined everything with your greedy, relentlessly selfish ways. You stole my husband and broke up my family and it appears even that wasn’t enough for you.’She hisses this angry statement. I rather admire her bluntness.

We are both aware that this is the shoot-out at the old chaparral. It’s been a long time coming. I’m rather looking forward to a bit of honest mud-slinging; I’ve always resented Rose’s pious acceptance of Peter’s and my betrayal. Her seemingly timid, obliging nature has never rung true. Surely she must have been angry with us; it seems gutless not to say so.

I glance at the clock. The nativity is due to start in fifteen minutes. As much as we fear and loathe one another, as much as we are desperate to ‘have it out’, neither of us is willing to miss a moment of the nativity. The twins are villagers, Auriol is a tree, we both think our children have been miscast and they demand our support all the more because of that.

Rose is probably making the same calculation. She must decide that she has less than fifteen minutes worth of rant in her, or that she can’t wait a moment
longer to blow my life apart, because she orders me to follow her to one of the classrooms where we’ll be undisturbed.

Once we are quietly ensconced among mini table and chairs, powder paint and plasticine, I announce, ‘I’m not having an affair with Joe, if that’s what you think.’

‘I don’t know what to think. He said you were,’she replies.

I could take advantage of Rose’s frank confession. Clearly, she has her doubts about whether Joe told her the truth. I haven’t time to ascertain how well they know one another and under what circumstances his confidence occurred. None of that matters right now. I could flat-out deny him. I might even be doing her a favour. But there’s something so hideously low about denying your wrong-doings, it’s almost like committing the crime twice. I can’t do that.

Besides, I’m not given much of a chance. Rose apparently has six years of grievances to dump at my door and only fifteen minutes to do it in. She doesn’t waste a second.

‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Lucy?’

I stare at the rows of trays that secrete away the children’s work books, tins of crayons and snacks for breaktimes. I wonder if she’s really expecting an answer.

‘I think so.’

‘I doubt it. You stole my husband and therefore, indirectly, my best years. I wasted my twenties, my youth, on Peter. You stole my memories and a significant part of my future. You deprived my children of
their birthright – an involved, on the spot, father. You deprived me of my enormous family, and I wanted to live in the country, among wild flowers, birds, even grass snakes. But I’m locked here in London in the smog and shoddiness.’

‘Rose, you live in Holland Park, you can’t complain.’

‘We live very comfortably, and if living in London had been what I wanted, then I’d have nothing to complain about, but it wasn’t. I wanted their childhood to be about adventure, discovery and wonderment, not piano lessons and SAT results.’

I’m shocked by this. I’ve always thought that Rose loved the rigidity of being an Alpha mum in central London. I thought she enjoyed being defined by the amount of after-school activities she could cram into her kids’day.

‘I hate it that you have chosen how and where my boys live,’she adds.

‘I don’t see it that way. It’s the other way round.’

‘I have to stay near Peter but Peter isn’t in the same house because he left us for you. We can’t just up sticks to Australia or even North Yorkshire. I’m responsible for maintaining that relationship between them, a relationship that you did your best to destroy. I don’t suppose you stopped to give that much thought when you were whipping off your knickers for my husband, did you?’

Her anger is mounting. I scrabble around for a consolation to offer up.

‘At least you get to stay at home enjoying your kids.
I have to go out to work and we can’t afford four kids either because we are maintaining you.’

‘You’re not doing me any favours, just the minimum legal requirement. Besides, there are times when I’d like to buy posh suits and hang out at the coffee machine.’

‘My work involves rather more than that and you know it.’

‘Yes, and you love your job, you’d hate staying at home with Auriol. You don’t even like children but you still insisted on having the daughter that should have been mine.’

This accusation was true up until very recently. I can’t expect Rose to believe in or understand my recent change of heart, so I don’t contradict her. Besides, there isn’t opportunity, she’s in full flow.

‘And what you did to me isn’t a thing of the past, you know, Lucy. I’m still being hurt by it. Do you know, Sebastian once asked if he could live with his dad? My heart broke, shattered into a million little pieces, but I said he could if he really wanted to and I asked him why he wanted to. He said it was because you and his father allowed him to play on Game Boy all day and never made him do his homework.’Rose looks at me with contempt.

‘I hated Peter, quite decisively, in that moment. He’s often stooped to the lowest trick in the book, allowing the twins to do as they please, watch TV and eat ice cream, never insisting on a regular bedtime or brushed teeth. In some ways that seems like a bigger betrayal than shagging you. I’ve seen your parenting skills. I
know that both of you opt for the line of least resistance. An army of nannies, endless treats, never as much as a hint of discipline. You don’t care enough to engage with Auriol. You don’t care enough to say no and I’m left mopping it up. But all of this I could accept, if you had loved him.’

Rose is quivering. It’s cold in the classroom but I think she’s shaking with frustration, rage or disappointment – a storm of emotion – rather than the low temperatures. But she is not weeping or yelling and suddenly I am struck by the dignity of her silent enduring. She no longer seems gutless or timid. I do not think her quivering upper arms are ridiculous, they are almost noble. I respect her. I know why my love was married to her. I know why my best friend sings her praises. I know why my child likes being in her company.

I’ve always known. That has been my problem.

‘I do love Peter,’I tell her. It sounds silly saying something so big among endless Topsy and Tim books and multiplication tables. ‘I love him as much as you did, perhaps even more. Who knows? How can you measure and compare love?’