A Most Desirable Marriage (5 page)

‘I’m outside. Can I come in?’

‘Now? Why?’

‘I need to pick up some things.’

His voice wrenched at her gut. It had been weeks since she’d spoken to him and she didn’t know how to react.

‘I won’t take long . . .’ he was saying.

She began to drag herself out of bed, the phone still clutched in her hand.

‘Yeah, OK. Just a minute, I’ll come down.’

Pulling on her T-shirt and pyjama trousers, then her dressing gown, she glanced in the bedroom mirror. She looked like a recent arrival at rehab: her face was drawn, her eyes red, her hair squashed and tangled. Her dull, dehydrated skin was saved only by the edge of a tan. She groaned. Of all days, she thought as she quickly downed the glass of water she always kept by her bed – which was definitely the day before yesterday’s – brushed her hair and slapped a dollop of moisturizer around her face.

Lawrence was standing on the path, texting on his phone when she eventually opened the door. He looked well; tanned and fit, his white shirt rolled to his elbows. She noticed his bike propped against the wooden fence and it was seeing this, the machine that had been for ever joined at the hip with her husband, his obsession, his uncomplaining companion, that made her want to cry.

‘Hi.’ He glanced at her and she could tell he was surprised. ‘Sorry, I thought it’d be a good time . . . it’s nearly ten.’

When they were together it was rare for them to stay in bed later than seven-thirty; they both naturally woke around that time. And ten o’clock was when Jo would have a break from writing, a cup of tea. She suddenly resented him knowing this about her.

‘Late night,’ was all she would say, but she took pleasure in the slight narrowing of his eyes as he took in her dishevelled state.

She held the door for him. He passed her, so close she could have touched him. They both, from habit fostered over decades, walked through to the kitchen, where her husband leaned against the work surface next to the kettle, his hands behind him, holding on to the edge of the wood as if for support.

‘I just need to pick up a couple of maps and a few more books,’ he said. Lawrence had a huge collection of maps from a lifetime of travelling, which stretched over three shelves in his study.

‘You’re going away?’

‘Umm . . . yeah . . . last week in August.’

‘Where?’ She asked because she knew what his answer would be, and she knew it would hurt her, and she wanted it to. She particularly wanted him to see that she was hurt.

He looked suitably embarrassed. ‘Sardinia.’

‘So you, with your fertile brain and a zillion maps, couldn’t find anywhere else to go on this vast planet? You had to choose
our
place, the place we’ve been to a thousand times . . . together?’

‘I wanted . . .’ Lawrence stopped, knowing, perhaps, that whatever he said he would be digging a deeper hole for himself.

‘You wanted to what? Show Arkadius?’

He didn’t reply, just shifted awkwardly against the work surface. Jo sat down on a kitchen chair. She was battling a third presence in the room. But it wasn’t Arkadius so much as their decades-old and hitherto unquestioned love hovering between them like an impatient ghost, waiting to be acknowledged. She could tell that he was sensing it too. All they had together now was reduced to these stilted, angry sound-bites.

‘I still haven’t heard from Cassie.’ Lawrence may mistakenly have thought this was safer ground.

‘She’s embarrassed. She doesn’t know what to say to you.’

His lips pursed. ‘What shall I do?’

Not my problem, Jo thought, enjoying a moment of Schadenfreude that her husband wasn’t having it quite all his own way.

‘Keep trying, I suppose.’

‘If you speak to her—’ He stopped, obviously seeing the look in her eye. ‘No, OK. I won’t ask.’

Jo was dying for a cup of tea – her head was emitting a regular dull, dehydrated thud – but she didn’t want to offer him one, then have to sit with him, watch him across the table, remind herself of what was now clearly the past.

Lawrence drew himself up, away from the side. ‘I’ll just get what I need,’ he said, still hovering, brushing his white hair back from his face, waiting for something, she wasn’t sure what. ‘Was it a fun night?’ he finally asked.

‘Yeah, great,’ she said. ‘A friend of Donna’s, a Swedish guy . . . we got a bit wasted.’ She tried to sound casual, as if this were something she did all the time, deliberately not mentioning Donna’s presence. Let him think it was more than just a few Grey Geese.

‘Oh . . . good. That’s good.’

She thought he was doing the same thing in return, playing the same game of studied nonchalance. Or maybe he really didn’t care that she’d been out with another man. Maybe he was relieved.

When he left soon after, his precious maps of Sardinia tucked discreetly between two books so as not to give offence, she made herself the tea she was longing for and sat down, mulling over this latest uncomfortable encounter with her husband. It was then that she suddenly realized it was Lawrence’s birthday. She’d remembered it all week, of course, but the vodka had done its worst. She sat up straighter. Had he intentionally chosen today to come round? Was he expecting a card or something? It seemed an odd day to choose if he wasn’t. For a moment she felt bad that she hadn’t even said Happy Birthday. He would think she was being deliberately mean. Jo wondered if either Cassie or Nicky would ring him. She doubted it, certainly in Cassie’s case. But Lawrence took family birthdays very seriously. There would always be presents, a homemade cake, some sort of celebration to mark the passing years.

As she took her cup to the sink, she glanced up at the cork board, where Nicky’s birthday photo from three or four years ago had pride of place among much more ancient holiday snaps. Faces glowing in the light from the chocolate cake candles, all smiling, Matt even looking happy, Lawrence waving to her as she took the picture. Tough, she thought, staring at her husband’s features. You chose Arkadius.

17 August 2013

‘It’s not good news. I spoke to Frances and she really likes your new treatment. She said the bisexual theme was “very real”, I think was how she put it. But . . .’

Jo groaned. ‘But she’s not going to publish it.’

She had spent quite a bit of time researching bisexuality online, not just for her book but in the vague hope of understanding Lawrence’s behaviour better. It seemed to come down to the plain fact that some people are attracted to others, regardless of gender. And although the number of people who actually defined themselves as bisexual – now defined by some as ‘pan-sexual’ – was small, according to Stonewall, there were thought to be many more who simply had an ‘aesthetic, romantic or sexual attraction’ to more than one gender over a lifetime. This was a crumb of comfort to Jo. Clearly you didn’t need to have actual sex with both to feel bisexual. So maybe Lawrence hadn’t until now.

One man she emailed reminded her that most people had preferences within a sex – blonde hair, small breasts, fat/thin etc – so why did everyone think it weird when the preferences included both genders? Jo saw his point, but still couldn’t imagine herself having sex with a woman. It certainly, by all reports, was not an easy option to identify yourself as bi. ‘No one understands,’ another correspondent complained. ‘People think we’re greedy, helping ourselves to both sexes. And promiscuous. Although they can’t prove it, because we aren’t, not any more than any other group.’

She and her agent, Maggie, were seated on stools at the counter of a tapas bar in Soho, each with a glass of cold white wine. It was barely six and a Tuesday, the small bar still almost empty. By seven it would be crammed and noisy.

‘Not exactly. She’s prepared to give it a go . . . very kind of her I must say . . . but she’s only offering two five, divided into the usual three chunks.’

Jo sighed. ‘Two and a half grand? Bloody hell. I got three times as much last time. It’s not worth doing for that.’

‘Well, don’t be too hasty. It’s just the publishing industry is in dire straits at the moment. And if you get a smaller advance you’ll make the money on royalties more quickly.’

Jo could hear Maggie struggling to put a positive spin on it.

The frenetic white-jacketed chef, cooking on a grill against the wall, reached over from behind the wooden counter, delivering a white dish of hot, salty green
pimientos de padrón
, placing it between them with a flourish, followed swiftly by a platter on which lay thin slices of Serrano ham overlapping each other at one end, while on the other was a heap of small crumbly nuggets of parmesan cheese. The room was hot and smoky from the cooking.

Maggie picked up one of the peppers by the stalk and popped it in her mouth. ‘Ooh . . . hot!’ she flapped her hand in front of her open mouth. ‘But yummy. Love them, don’t you?’

Jo nodded, but she found her agent’s news had robbed her of her appetite. She was beginning to be really worried about money. Lawrence was helping her out at the moment, but she knew that couldn’t last if her husband was going to set up on his own. She had no pension beyond the miserly offering from the state and it wouldn’t be long before Lawrence would ask her to sell their beloved house. The thought made her feel sick.

‘You know you can’t rely on royalties,’ she said.

‘Yeah, look, it’s not great. I can probably get her up a bit. But she keeps repeating the fantastical/supernatural spiel – for the hundredth time. The implication is you’re being perverse not changing your style.’

‘So I can churn out the same as everyone else? Seems pointless.’

‘I know you like Frances, but I think we need to consider looking for another publisher. One who sees you a bit differently.’

Maggie was silent as she made short work of the ham and cheese. She was in her early fifties, plump, pale, hard-working, usually dressed in serviceable black or navy and dealing with three teenaged boys who took up too much of her time.

‘Would the others sing a different song?’

‘You still have enough kudos from
Bumble and Me
to get their attention at least.’

Jo had written the book five years ago. A story about a neglected teen with a loyal cat who saves her from all kinds of dangers with his strange psychic powers. It had been a success, even optioned by a television company, although the adaptation had never seen the light of day.

‘I’ll give it some thought. I think Helen at Johns, Carr might get you.’ Maggie glanced at her watch. ‘Christ, got to go. Mark’s in Berlin and I daren’t leave the three musketeers alone too long, they’ll get ideas.’

She grabbed her bag from the floor, looking hassled suddenly. Jo knew she had a long journey back to Hackney and would probably have to cook supper when she got there.

‘You OK to get this?’ Maggie asked as she reached to kiss her on the cheek.

‘Of course,’ Jo said, not wanting to think about the bill yet. ‘I’ll stay a bit and finish my drink.’

Maggie pulled a face. ‘Wish I could stay with you.’

Watching her hurry off along the street, Jo felt suddenly bereft and had a ridiculous urge to cry. Instead, she ordered another glass of white which was deliciously cold and citrusy, and picked at the remains of the tapas, the sharp, nutty texture of the cheese sitting pleasurably on her tongue. Lawrence would like this place, she thought, unable to stop the tears filling her eyes.

‘Is this seat taken?’ A man in a well-cut blue suit, about her age, with slicked back grey hair, rimless spectacles and an incipient paunch was indicating the stool that Maggie had just vacated.

‘Not any longer.’

He didn’t appear to understand. ‘So I can sit here?’

‘Of course.’

‘Sorry . . . I couldn’t hear you.’ He sank on to the stool gratefully, clutching his briefcase to his chest.

‘Phew.’

Jo smiled. Normally she wouldn’t have dreamed of responding to a strange man in a bar, but tonight she found she wanted company. He ordered a large glass of red and some spicy sausages, then turned to her.

‘Can I get you another?’

‘Thanks, but I’ve probably had enough.’

‘One more can’t hurt, can it?’ His smile was charming, lifting his otherwise heavy jowls. ‘What was it?’

She told him.

‘So . . . what’s upsetting you?’

‘Me?’ Jo was taken aback.

‘When I came in . . . you looked as if you were crying?’

His accent was polished and confident.

She didn’t know what to say.

‘Don’t tell me. Some bloody fellow’s gone and broken your heart.’

She couldn’t help laughing.

‘We’re a bunch of bounders and bastards,’ he went on, warming to his theme, despite Jo not having said a word in reply. ‘Apart from me, of course. I’m honest Joe, reliable as the day is long.’ He took a large gulp of wine and gave a contented sigh. ‘Needed that.’

‘Bad day?’

‘Terrible. Non-stop since eight-thirty this morning – except for a break for a dodgy prawn sandwich, which is probably killing me as I speak – and not a deal in sight.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘I’m a mediator. I . . . well, I mediate. Company disputes. Conflict resolution. They argue; I sit with them till they stop.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘You’re being polite.’ He munched on one of his sausages with relish.

‘I’m not. It must take some skill.’

His tired eyes lit up suddenly. ‘I do love it. I just find it fascinating, waiting for the chink in the armour, playing back to them what they’ve actually said, not what they think they’ve said. Offering solutions. It’s bloody satisfying when it works.’

‘And bloody frustrating when it doesn’t?’

They talked easily together, ordered more wine, more food. By eight-thirty the noise made conversation difficult and they were being jostled from behind by the crowd leaning over them to buy drinks.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here. My flat’s only in the next street. This is my local.’

‘Thanks, but I should get home.’

‘Now? It’s so early. I promise I have no ulterior motive except some cold wine in the fridge and no one to enjoy it with.’ He was raising his eyebrows at her, the expression in his eyes amused and self-assured.

‘I can’t come to your flat. I don’t even know your name.’

‘Easily solved. Hugh Davenport.’ He held out his hand and shook hers firmly as she introduced herself. Then he reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed a card, holding it up to her. ‘These people can vouch for me, can’t you, Jesus?’ He pronounced it as a Spaniard would: Hey-zoos.

The man who had been doing most of the grilling of the tapas turned his sweaty face towards them and grinned at Hugh.

‘You want me tell this lady you not a bad boy?’

‘Something like that.’

Jesus shrugged, turned to Jo. ‘I kill him tomorrow if he try anything. You just let me know.’

‘See?’ Hugh already had his hand in the small of her back, guiding her out into the Soho night.

Jo tossed a mental coin in her head: she liked him; she didn’t fancy him; he really was a mediator, his card said so; he knew the chef at the tapas bar who obviously liked him too; she was too old to be a target for sex; it was early, she didn’t feel like being alone; she was bored to death with her life.

His flat was up a narrow, steep flight of stairs, two floors above a sports shop. It was obviously his London pad rather than his home, as it was sparsely furnished with laminate wood flooring and basic John Lewis in conservative navy and beige. There was nothing in the fridge but six bottles of the same New Zealand Sauvignon and an opened packet of coffee tagged shut with a yellow plastic clip. He probably has a wife and four children in Hampshire, Jo thought, although there were no photographs to prove this.

‘God, glad to be out of that mayhem. I usually get there earlier.’

‘You go to the same place every night?’

‘I’m only in town two at the most. My home’s in Kent. But yes. It’s easy and quick. I often have work to catch up on.’

‘Don’t let me stop you working.’

‘Oh, not tonight. Sit down, I’ll open a bottle.’

He also pulled a packet of cheese straws from the cupboard and splayed them in a bowl, then sat down beside her, there was no choice. Jo suddenly wished she hadn’t come. Hugh had been relaxed in the bar, but now he seemed to have something on his mind which was making him tense, as if he too were regretting her presence.

‘One glass and I’ll go,’ she said.

‘Will you excuse me while I make one phone call?’ He drew his mobile from his pocket. ‘Won’t be a sec.’ He disappeared into the bedroom and was gone a long time. Jo was just on the point of tiptoeing out, when he reappeared, his tie and suit jacket off.

‘Sorry, sorry . . . had to call my daughter. She’s had a problem with a leak from the upstairs flat and the bloody man won’t cough up for the damage. I talked to my solicitor today and I wanted to let her know what he said.’

‘Please, I really should go.’ Jo was already on her feet, the glasses of white almost untouched on the table in front of them.

‘Don’t . . . don’t go yet, Joanna. I’m a hopeless sleeper and I loathe television. What can I do for the next few hours if you run out on me?’ Again, the charming smile, the pleading eyes. ‘Anyway, it’s a terrible waste of good wine.’

She sat down again.

It took them a while before they finished the bottle. Hugh asked her about her work, her family, Lawrence – he was a good listener, obviously a prerequisite of his job – making her laugh with his boyish humour. She found out almost nothing about him. This is my life now, she thought. Sitting on strange sofas with men I don’t know, hoping, I suppose, if I’m very lucky, to fall in love with one of them someday. But falling in love seemed a ridiculous idea. She loved Lawrence, and however much she told herself not to, her heart continued to yearn for just one look from her husband’s blue eyes that said he loved her too.

When she got up to go, a little wobbly, Hugh got up too.

‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ she said, as they stood by the door. ‘I was in need of company tonight.’

‘The pleasure was all mine.’

He held her gaze, as if asking her the question. She said nothing, so he began to draw her towards him, lowering his head as if preparing to kiss her. Why not? she asked herself. But her heart wasn’t in it, her body only remembered the way Lawrence’s body fitted so well with her own, and she drew back from the strangeness of another mouth.

‘No?’ Hugh had a quizzical smile on his face.

‘Sorry,’ she replied.

He shrugged. ‘It could have been nice. But maybe we’re a bit old for one night stands.’

She laughed. ‘Put like that . . .’

He held the door open for her at the head of the dark stairs, reaching to push the press-button timer switch. Jo couldn’t see a thing in the dim light.

‘Will you be all right getting home? I could call you a taxi . . .’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Ring me if you feel like it. You know where I am of a Tuesday night.’

‘I will,’ she said, although she knew she wouldn’t and she was sure he knew it too.

*

‘I really don’t think it’s such a great idea to go to a strange man’s flat alone, darling. You’d only known him for ten minutes.’

‘I know, but he seemed OK. I did think about it.’

‘Hmm . . . not exactly reassuring. You’ve got to be much more careful. You’re a novice at all this. He could have been anybody.’

‘Well, he was “anybody”. But if I’d met him online, as you keep suggesting, would it have been any safer?’

‘You’re not supposed to go back to a strange man’s flat
wherever
you meet him. Once you’re alone with someone, anything can happen.’ Her friend’s tone was aunt-like and severe.

‘Yeah, well it almost did. He sort of offered to kiss me.’

‘NO!’ Donna shrieked, pulling the pottery wheel, on which spun another fledgling pot, to an immediate halt. ‘So all this shrinking violet behaviour is a front! You’re a shameless flirt, Joanna Meadows. Two men trying to take possession of your lips in a week? That beats my recent batting average into a cocked hat!’