A Family Affair (40 page)

‘Would you?'

It didn't look as if it was going to be a quiet evening after all. No rest for the wicked! She stuffed egg and beans into her mouth, chewing rapidly.

Paul appeared in the doorway. He looked surprisingly grim. Her heart sank.

‘Miss Freeman?' (The lady with pneumonia.)

‘No. It's a personal call. A man.'

She knew. Instantly, absolutely, without the slightest shadow of doubt. Some sixth sense was telling her, even without tossing that grim look on Paul's face into the equation. She picked up the telephone. There was a flutter in her stomach and her hands felt unsteady.

‘Hello?'

The voice confirmed it.

‘Helen? It's me. Guy.'

‘Guy.' She said it flatly, though her heart was racing. ‘This is a surprise.'

‘A pleasant one, I hope.'

Only Guy could say that, something so utterly facile and crass. Had he forgotten she had told him to get out of her life and stay out? Had he forgotten Paul throwing him out of the surgery?

‘Why are you ringing me?'

‘I need to talk to you.'

‘I thought I'd made myself clear. How did you know where to find me, anyway?'

‘Come on, Helen. It wasn't difficult. You are a doctor, after all.'

‘I don't want to talk to you, Guy.'

She slammed down the receiver, stood for a moment collecting herself. The phone rang again. She hesitated, half-tempted to ignore it. But she couldn't. It might be a patient. She picked it up, wary, angry.

‘Hello?'

‘Don't hang up again, Helen.'

‘Guy.'

‘I've left her.'

The blood drained from her face. Instantly she was shaking all over, every bit of her. She couldn't speak.

‘Listen to me, Helen. I've done it. I've left Marian.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘It's what you wanted, isn't it? I can't live without you, Helen. I've moved out.'

‘When? When did you move out?'

‘What does that matter?'

‘It matters to me.'

‘All right. Today, if you must know.'

‘Why?'

‘You know damned well why!'

‘I mean – why now?'

‘Helen – I don't want to have this conversation over the telephone. I want to see you – talk face to face.'

She hesitated.
It's too late
, she wanted to say.
I wanted you so much for so long and now the moment's passed.
But she couldn't. Some perverse part of her was being drawn to him even now, the old longings too deeply ingrained to be denied.

‘I could drive out to Hillsbridge,' he was saying. ‘I could be with you in – what – three-quarters of an hour?'

‘You mean – tonight?'

‘Yes.'

‘No,' she said, casting a glance at the living-room door, imagining Paul sitting there at the table, the picture of blissful domesticity. Except that the expression on his face when he'd returned from answering the phone had been anything but blissful. ‘Not tonight.'

‘Tomorrow then.'

Her thoughts and emotions churned in a whirlpool of indecision. When they'd first split up she'd felt like an amputee, missing him desperately. The void inside her had been enormous in spite of the fact that it had been her decision. Because of it, perhaps. But she'd fought the yearning for him and gradually the sense of loss had diminished. She'd filled the void with her work and now her life was on an even keel, a comfortable plateau. She shrank from the prospect of climbing back on to the roller coaster of highs and lows that their relationship had always been. And yet … if he really had left Marian, then she owed it to him to at least see him, talk it through, explain that things had changed – didn't she? Or was she simply kidding herself, grabbing with both hands the only excuse in the world that would allow her to see him again without going back on her promise to herself that it was over.

Into the silence he said, ‘Helen? Please!'

If he'd said again that he'd done it for her, she might still have found the strength to say no. She was under no illusion on that score. If it had been for her and no other reason, he'd have done it long ago, when her life had been on hold for him, when their affair had been blazing most brightly, or when her desperate sense of isolation had been at its height. There were other factors involved, she was certain, and if he had tried to pretend there weren't she would have mistrusted his sincerity. But that ‘Helen? Please!' came from the heart and she was remembering that other side of him that few people ever saw, the vulnerability beneath the apparent assurance, the fear of failure beneath the arrogance. Her heart lurched and she heard herself say, ‘All right. If that's what you want.'

‘You know I do.'

The momentary glimpse of the other Guy shuttered down again; he sounded almost smug, and some of her anger returned. He'd manipulated her – again! – and she'd let him. But it was too late now to change her mind. She'd agreed to see him.

She replaced the receiver and didn't know, honestly didn't know, whether she was glad or sorry.

Paul didn't mention the phone call. In fact he said practically nothing at all. His face said it for him. It had gone shut in, brooding. And the atmosphere had changed from relaxed to awkward.

‘Sorry about that,' she said.

‘No – not at all.'

‘It was … an old friend.'

‘So I gathered.' He didn't say he'd recognised the voice but she felt sure he must have.

‘I do have them,' she said. She meant to say it lightly, humorously almost, but it came out sounding strangely defiant.

‘Of course you do. It's none of my business. That was the deal, wasn't it?'

I've hurt him
, she thought.
Damn and double damn!
This was exactly the scenario she'd feared and been anxious to avoid.

‘Anyway, it's time I was going.'

‘Already?'

‘Things to do.'

‘Right.'

‘And I'm sure you have too.'

‘Mmm. I suppose.' She couldn't think what they might be. Her mind was on a single track rail. ‘Paul – tomorrow evening …'

‘It's OK. You don't have to explain.'

‘But …'

‘No! I need to practise my cooking skills. I can't rely on you all the time.'

‘Will I see … will you be in to the surgery tomorrow?'

‘I expect so.'

But she knew he wouldn't be. She knew he would be avoiding her. Again she swore silently. Why had Guy had to ring just when Paul was here? Why had he had to ring at all? And – the million dollar question – why hadn't she hung up on him a second time?

When Helen got home the following evening a large silver-grey car was occupying her usual parking space on the piece of land between the outhouses where Charlotte had once grown sage, parsley and thyme. Her heart thudded uncomfortably and her mouth went dry. He was here already and she still felt completely unprepared.

Once again it had been a busy day, with full surgeries and a long list of home visits, and Helen's mood had not been improved by the fact that Miss Freeman had died during the night. Helen had gone to the house to see her and issue a death certificate. Whereas yesterday it had rattled with her painful gasps for breath, today the hush of death was broken only by the sobbing of the other two Miss Freemans, her sisters, who had nursed her through the last painful days. All very well to try to tell herself there was nothing she could have done; Miss Freeman weighed heavily on her conscience. She should have gone back to see her last night and had one more go at persuading her to go into hospital where at least she could have had her last hours made more comfortable. She
would
have gone – if Guy hadn't phoned. But he had and she hadn't and now it was too late.

Helen pulled her car as tight into the side of the road as she could so as to leave room for other cars to squeeze through and got out. Simultaneously, the driver's door of the silver-grey car opened and Guy slid out. He was wearing a waistcoat over an immaculate white shirt and he reached into the back of the car for his suit jacket, which was hanging on a peg, before coming to meet her.

‘Helen.'

‘Guy.'

‘So this is where you live now.' He looked up and down the rank, managing to convey his surprise without saying a word and she knew what he was thinking: a miner's cottage was an unusual choice of home for a GP.

She could have explained, but she didn't want to. Why should she? It was, after all, none of his business.

She found her latchkey and unlocked the door. She didn't want to have a conversation out here in full earshot of the neighbours. A few curtains had already twitched up and down the rank, she wouldn't mind betting.

She went in and he followed her into the scullery. Again she could feel his eyes roaming around, missing nothing. She took off her coat, hung it on a peg in the hall and went back into the living room.

‘Do you want a drink?'

‘What have you got?'

‘The usual.'

‘In that case I'll have a G and T.'

She found some ice in the freezer compartment of her little fridge and mixed them both a drink.

Guy looked oddly out of place in the small homely room, she thought, so handsome, so immaculate, the light from the wall lamps which she had switched on catching the flecks of silver in his dark hair and making them sparkle. She handed him his drink; as he took it the light caught his cufflink too, solid gold against the pristine white of his shirt, and the gold signet ring he wore on the third finger of his right hand. Was he still wearing his wedding ring? she wondered. But his left hand was out of sight and she could not see.

She sipped her own drink. The gin and tonic tasted good in her dry mouth and beat a path to settle a little uneasily in her empty stomach. But it was doing what she had intended it should – settle her jangling nerves.

‘Well?' she said.

‘Do you have to be so aggressive?' He half smiled.

‘I'm not being aggressive.'

‘That's how it feels to me. Don't let's quarrel again. Not now.'

‘I've no intention of quarrelling. I never wanted to quarrel.' But she could hear the edge in her voice. She took another sip of gin and tonic and tried to sound less strung-up, more conversational. ‘So – what's happened between you and Marian?'

‘I told you. I've left her.'

‘There must be more to it than that, Guy. I can't believe you just packed your bags and went.'

‘There was … an altercation that brought things to a head. I think she had suspected for some time that there was someone else, but didn't want to believe it. Then when she was sorting out some suits for the dry-cleaners she found a hotel bill in a pocket – you remember when we went to London that weekend? – saw a show – what was it?'

She ignored the question. She didn't want to be trapped into becoming nostalgic. She wasn't even sure she believed this version of events. She found it difficult to credit that Guy had a suit – any suit – that hadn't been cleaned for so long.

‘Did you tell her it was over?' she asked.

‘You know Marian. When she loses it there's no reasoning with her. Anyway, I didn't want to. It was just the chance I've been waiting for. She said our marriage was nothing but a sham and I didn't argue. It's the truth, after all. To all intents and purposes it's been over for a long time.'

‘So it wasn't so much that you left her – more that she threw you out.'

He tossed back the remainder of his gin and tonic.

‘What difference does it make? The fact is – I'm free. We can be together – as long as we keep it discreet for a while.'

‘Discreet. Yes. I thought we
had
been discreet. Now I suppose I'm likely to be cited as co-respondent in a messy divorce case.'

‘That can be avoided. I'll call in a professional corespondent and get the necessary photographs taken. There's no need for you to be involved.'

‘Well, thank you for that.' Helen felt a twinge of guilt for her suspicion of Guy's sincerity. At least he'd thought about the likely repercussions for her if something like this got out in a small rural town. People here were less likely to be broad-minded than in the city; she could so easily have lost the respect of a good many of her patients and with it any chance of the partnership.

‘Nobody will think twice about it,' Guy said. ‘Everybody knows that stage-managed adultery is the quickest and easiest way of ending a marriage.'

‘That's true, I suppose.' But the sordid overtones made her cringe inwardly. She mentally viewed a brief distasteful image of a half-naked Guy in bed with a strange woman – a hard-up out-of-work actress, a prostitute even, in some seedy hotel room waiting for an equally seedy private investigator to burst in and snap them, and wondered just how such things were arranged. But she didn't ask – didn't actually want to know.

‘Where are you living?' she asked.

‘I'm staying with George and Isobel temporarily.' George Carmichael was a surgeon friend and golfing partner of Guy's. ‘Hopefully though it won't be long before I get a place of my own. I've looked at a couple of flats in Clifton, but neither of them is quite suitable.'

‘You didn't waste much time,' she said. ‘If you only left Marian yesterday.'

A faint colour infused his cheeks.

‘I can't afford to waste time. It doesn't look good, not having an address of my own, and kind as George and Isobel are I don't want to impose on them any longer than necessary.'

‘All the same …' She looked at him shrewdly, reading him like a book. ‘You'd looked already, hadn't you?'

‘Well – actually yes.'

The ice inside her began to melt.

‘Oh Guy …'

‘I told you, Helen, I can't live without you. I've tried, believe me, I've tried, for the sake of the children. But I'm not sure I was doing the best for them by staying. I wasn't much of a father …'