Infidelity (14 page)

17

C
oming to terms with the fact that all my weekends were to be spent alone was a challenge. I badly needed distractions.

I began by exploring the well-worn tourist tracks. All of them helped pass the time and some of them took my breath away with their beauty, grandeur or, occasionally, their grubbiness and decrepitude. Everywhere I went, there was a slightly disappointing air of familiarity, doubtless the result of a lifetime's steady diet of British books and films.

I spent one Saturday afternoon over a lazy lunch with Fox and E at a bistro on Richmond Hill. Getting there was a hairy ride. E might have been very good at his job – something in the PR department of a renewable energy firm, though Sarah had told me the Saxe-Hopetouns were so wealthy E didn't really need to work at all – but his driving and navigational skills fell well short of acceptable community standards. Fox was no help. She talked the entire way from Vincent Square to Richmond, mostly about Sarah, and appeared oblivious to a series of wrong turns, near misses, blasting horns and raised fingers.

Those hours in the company of two of Sarah's oldest and most trusted friends passed all too quickly. Fox and E regaled me with tales of their university days, and with the highs and lows of their brief professional career as the ‘First Wednesdays' a cappella group; the nadir a gig in a club where they were booed from the stage by a drunken crowd impatient for the next act – a stripper – to appear. They gave me a remarkably frank account of their own various couplings and uncouplings (though not even hinting at any with each other), and a sympathetic assessment of the emotional damage they'd seen inflicted on Sarah through the miserable years of her marriage to Perry. They talked about the wonderful house in Littleton and their happy times there, but there was no mention of money, except in the context of Jelly, whose father, they told me, had made a fortune by yielding to a takeover bid for his chain of betting shops, died prematurely, and left every penny to Jelly.

Fox turned out to be a gynaecologist. She talked enthusiastically about her pregnancy, less so about her husband, a senior marketing executive in the pharmaceutical industry, based in Basel, whom she'd met when he was a sales rep. Neither she nor E referred to my reason for being in London, though I felt sure this had not been kept secret from them. It was easy to see why Sarah thought these two would end up together: they seemed like a bonded pair that afternoon, more solici­tous towards each other than most of the established couples I knew.

When the time came to return to London, I opted for the train and they seemed happy enough to go off together, leaving me to mooch around Richmond until it was time to go to the station.

On the following weekend, I spent Saturday with Philip, who I call my cousin though we are actually the offspring of cousins – my mother and his father. I hadn't seen him since we both spent Christmas at his sister's place in Winchcombe.

Philip was a rising star in paediatrics at Great Ormond Street where he seemed destined to carve out his career. Thanks to his father and my mother being English, we both had EU passports, making us the envy of our friends with Australian passports who were treated as aliens at Heathrow.

Philip and I grew up in different cities but spent many school holidays together and should have remained closer than we had. Even so, there was a lot of shared history, and I had kept in touch with his father Robert, who still lived in Brisbane, where he was struggling to come to terms with his wife's rapid descent into dementia.

I had agreed to join Philip on his weekly row on the Thames at Henley. We were both rowers at our schools, but he had kept it up in a more serious way than I had. (A dinghy on the Serpentine, Sarah lolling in the stern with a long skirt and straw hat, wouldn't have qualified as ‘rowing' for Philip.) He visited his club every Saturday to take whatever was available for a morning on the river. Sometimes he rowed with a scratch four or eight, sometimes in a single scull. On the day of our visit, he announced that we would take out a couple of Thames skiffs, in obvious deference to my rusty oarsmanship.

He collected me from Vincent Square at dawn and by seven-thirty we were on the river. It was a brilliantly clear morning, crisp and cool, the river's surface disturbed only by the dipping of oars as far as I could see in both directions. The clinker-built Thames skiff lacked a sliding seat and outriggers for the oars, and was more like a sleek, slim rowing boat than a racing shell, but it was well suited to my long-neglected technique.

‘Nothing competitive, Tom,' said Philip with a grin. (He knew me of old.) ‘Don't overdo it – I'm in paediatrics, not cardiology.' Philip was slightly shorter and much bulkier than me. He still looked more like a rugby forward – or a rower – than a paediatrician, though his manner had never been exactly blokey. He was always the brightest boy in his class and no one who knew him was surprised by his academic and professional success. Since moving to London, he had adopted tweed jackets as his off-duty uniform.

We pushed off from the pontoon. Philip pulled briskly away from me and was off upstream before I was properly settled.

Soon I was into my rhythm, recalling, in spite of the limitations of this craft, the old excitement of being part of a racing eight. Nothing else in my youth quite matched it. No other sport ever made such physical demands on me, nor offered such rewards. None ever approached the exhilaration of rowing in a crew. The only boys from school I have stayed in touch with were fellow rowers.

Glancing over my shoulder, I could see Philip coming back down the river towards me. Soon we were level and we rested on our oars near the bank.

‘Very Ratty and Mole, isn't it?' Philip said. ‘Would you prefer to be in something a bit more slippery?'

‘I'm fine as I am,' I said, ‘but I'm more than happy to potter along on my own if you want to take out something more serious.'

‘No, this is good for me. You have to work hard to generate much speed, though. Let's go an hour or so upstream. Take plenty of breathers if you need to. There's a place we can stop for coffee. We can take it easy on the way back – there's enough run in the river to drift, if we want to.'

‘Lead the way,' I said, knowing the ‘we' who could take it easy, or who might want to drift, was actually me. Philip was as fit as ever and keen for some strenuous rowing.

The morning passed in a dream of recollection and yearning. I watched the crews passing up and down this famous stretch of river – oars dipping and swinging in beautiful rhythm and coxes shouting lustily – and gave myself up to nostalgia. There was more than rowing involved, of course: I was remembering myself as an eighteen-year-old everyone had said was brimming with potential but who, as time went by, had never quite known how to fulfil it. On the return trip to Henley, Philip rowed beside me whenever the traffic on the river allowed it, and I idly speculated about the effort required to get my fitness to the level where I could join him on the river every week. My aching calves, to say nothing of the blisters already forming on both hands, suggested it could be a long process.

We returned the boats to Philip's clubhouse, showered and changed and headed for the Red Lion and an early lunch.

‘Been to Henley before? It's charming. We'll take a walk later,' Philip said.

Over lunch, we covered family matters. Philip mentioned that his father was talking about coming over to the UK to see his grandchildren for the first time.

‘He can't say he hates flying because he's never tried it. But he genuinely hates the thought of flying, as you know.' (I had often heard Philip's father on this subject. He was as aggressive about it as most non-flyers.) ‘I've told him we can drug him into a stupor for the journey. He just might do it this year. I think he's finally accepted that Mum doesn't know who he is and wouldn't miss him if he didn't show up for a few weeks.'

‘She's worse?'

‘Not in her general health, no. I think she's got years left in her, but that's no comfort to Dad. All their plans for retirement . . . reduced to daily visits to that nursing home – to a woman who is his wife in name only.'

We ate on in silence and I caught Philip looking intently at me.

‘Anyway,' he said with a smile, ‘tell me about it.'

‘About
it
?'

‘About her.'

For a mad moment, I thought Philip could see into my mind. I had been thinking of Sarah, trying not to dwell on where she might be and what she might be doing and inwardly fizzing at the prospect of her return to me on Sunday night. (‘One, two, unbuckle my shoe,' she had shouted last Sunday as she came through the front door of the apartment, flinging her arms wide, raising her skirt and kicking her legs like a can-can dancer, sending her shoes flying.)

‘You mean Sarah? Sarah Delacour? The woman I'm staying with?'

‘I mean the woman you're in love with.'

I could feel myself colouring, as much with pleasure as embarrassment.

‘Is it so obvious?'

‘I've known you since you were . . . what? Six? I think I'm qualified to read the signs. Dreaming. Not listening properly. A silly grin on your face half the time. Man of your age. Come on, Tom. Who is she?'

Philip had never married, though his mother had thought he was Brisbane's most eligible bachelor when he was a medical student, and his dark wavy hair, clear blue eyes and athletic prowess had ensured a steady supply of girlfriends. But Philip had always been clear about his ambition to do exactly what he was now doing. When he turned forty, he had told me he was probably going to have to settle for ‘second-round offers' from women whose first marriages had failed. He had appeared quite jaunty about that prospect.

A little cautiously, I told him the story of my meeting with Sarah and the rapid development of our relationship. He expressed immedi­ate pleasure on my behalf and an interest in meeting her: ‘Why not tonight?' This was a man I knew I could trust, so I decided I'd better tell him the whole story, Perry and all.

‘I don't want to pry,' he said, pondering my summary of the situa­tion, ‘but do you have any reason to suspect the story about the husband mightn't be quite as you're hearing it?'

‘How do you mean? Her friends have told me their version of it, and it matches.'

‘I mean the illness. MND sometimes hangs on much longer than you're suggesting. Up to twenty percent of sufferers survive more than ten years. Her husband might have a long way to go yet. Not my field, of course, but I think you should look into it a bit further. What if he lingers for a decade or more? I don't want to sound too pragmatic – that might be one of my problems where women are concerned. But I wouldn't like to see you caught in a situation like that, Tom. I mean . . . I make no judgement about it, of course. That's your business, and Sarah's. I just can't imagine it would be easy for you – for anyone – to handle this if it went on too long.'

‘I know. I'm no saint, Philip. I couldn't easily sit in a box on the shelf, waiting my turn. I know we've jumped the gun as it is. But, no, I think she's telling me everything she knows. I think she expects him to be gone this year. Sounds a bit callous, doesn't it? Except that this is only a marriage in the strictly legal sense. It's been that way for years. She's not a callous woman, I can assure you.'

‘I'm no expert in matters of the heart, Tom. Look at my track record – or lack thereof. I can easily see how this could have evolved. Although – forgive me – it sounds more like an ambush than an evolution. I suppose I'd like to think you might be able to hold something back, that's all. Just in case. Just for a while. Just for your own protection.'

I shook my head. ‘Too late for that, Philip. While I was telling you the story, I was imagining how it must look to you. Don't squirm when I say this, but this is actually a unique experience in my life. Not just loving her madly – you don't want to hear about that – but finding someone I can be this close to, in every way, on every level. It's uncanny. It's brilliant.'

Philip looked into my face, searching, I suppose, for a sign of hope. A sign that I might not have capitulated entirely. I knew he would find no such sign. (
No, no, no, my heart is fast/And cannot disentangle.
)

He smiled at me. ‘Hopeless case. I can see that. Can I just say one other thing? Sarah is keeping something in reserve, obviously, so I wonder if she wouldn't be expecting you to do likewise. Otherwise, it's all on her terms, that's all I'm saying. Have I gone too far?'

‘Not at all, Philip. Not at all. I have these conversations with myself, as you might imagine. I know I look like someone caught in a web. But I'm a grown-up. Such things often are messy. I also know that Sarah is the only woman who's ever felt absolutely right for me.'