Never Too Late (5 page)

Maggie… A small, rueful smile flickered briefly over her lips.

When was the last time anyone but my own side of the family and close personal friends had been allowed to call me Maggie?

The day she had plucked up courage and told Iain of her pregnancy he had been very firm on the issue. “Don’t fret about anything now, Margaret,” he’d said. “We’ll be married in 3 weeks and you’ll never look back. I’ll make a good life for you and our child.”

“Margaret?” she queried, puzzled. “Why Margaret all of a sudden? Everyone’s always called me Maggie – you included.”

He’d shaken his head emphatically. “That may have been good enough up to now but you won’t be working class any more. Not as my wife, oh no!” He’d taken her hand and stared intently into her eyes. “We are very upwardly mobile, as the current expression has it,” he’d promised her. “There’ll be nothing but the best for my son.”

That was so typically Iain – he wanted a son so he could conceive of no other possibility than that she was carrying a boy. And as usual he got what he wanted.

Then Chloe had come along but there were to be no more children, for all they tried so hard. It had been a bad time for her when she was finally told that the state of her Fallopian tubes precluded all possibility of an unassisted pregnancy, and Iain would never have agreed to that. Thank goodness her mother had come on an extended visit from Vancouver to help her through that period, a time when she had bordered on clinical depression for a while.

She’d really missed her parents since they’d emigrated to Canada to live with her older brother and his family. Nine hour flights with two young children were not to be tackled lightly, especially as Iain could never make the time to join her, so visits had been few and far between. Had the children felt the lack of close contact with their grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins? Who could tell? It was too late now to worry about it.

Chloe had left home now, too, to take up her first job in the City after completing her degree. That had seen another change to her name – Chloe preferred to call her Meg if they met by chance in town and her colleagues were with her. She tried to make it seem like a compliment that she wanted to call her that rather than Mum, saying that not many girls had mothers who still looked young and stylish enough to be taken for an older sister.

Have I ever had the chance to make any decisions about my life? What could be more fundamental about your knowledge of yourself than your name, and yet other people keep changing it for me. And I let them! Is it because I love them or a personality flaw?

Be honest, Maggie, you never stand up for yourself, never decide anything of any real importance.

Iain never asks for agreement or permission. He assumes I’ll fall in with his plans. Chloe never waits for permission. She just gets on with it, and woe betide anyone who disagrees with her plans! They’re right to make decisions about the things that affect them. It’s obviously something lacking in me.

She paused in the hallway, in front of a mirror with a beautifully carved and gilded frame. They had found it in a tiny junk shop hidden down a side alley in Watchet while they were on holiday in Blue Anchor Bay. The children, and the business, were still very young, money had been tight, but Iain had seen how much she loved it and bought it for her anyway. Her reflection showed what she thought of as mediocrity – a middle aged woman of medium height with medium brown hair of medium length and unremarkable grey eyes.

No wonder I seldom look in mirrors, and people seldom look at me. Thank goodness I didn’t curse Chloe with my looks, my remarkable blue-eyed blonde will o’ the wisp daughter.

Chloe had phoned earlier letting her know she and James would visit the following Saturday.

That will be lovely, an unexpected treat. But what on earth had those cryptic comments about Natasha been about?

Maggie struggled to remember if she had met Natasha but no face came to mind. She couldn’t recall Chloe mentioning her before but lots of things seemed to pass her by when it came to Chloe’s hectic life. What had Natasha and Chloe fallen out about anyway? None of it had made much sense but there was certainly some bad feeling there. Goodness knows what the details were. Maybe she’d find out on Saturday.

As she went to check that the study windows were locked for the night Maggie supposed that her sigh had been self-pity at her loneliness and lack of direction in her life. Her hopes were proving forlorn that Iain would ease up at work, to start preparing for their retirement by spending more time with her, doing all the things that they had promised each other they would do once the children were grown up. Had he even noticed that she’d been here alone waiting for him all this time? He was now 54, a vigorous, healthy man still, but would she only get a share of his time when the infirmities of old age forced him to slow down? What on earth was she to do with herself in the meantime?

She had married at 17, straight from college, and knew nothing of the world of work. Iain’s male ego had insisted from the first that he be the breadwinner, and poured scorn on women who left their young children to other people’s care whilst they selfishly pursued their careers. She had the impression he really believed that women shouldn’t have careers, period. Yet how did he reconcile that with his obvious admiration for the career women clients who had been to their house for meetings?

She’d observed him so many times when hosting business meals for him. If the client was attractive as well as successful she herself might as well have been one of the table decorations for all the attention she got. He’d always been a man of conflicting passions and beliefs, a total enigma at times even to those who knew him well, and, she had to admit, that was part of what she found fascinating about him.

At least work had never been an issue between them. At first she had her grand new home to try and make comfortable and inviting when they moved in just a month before James’ birth. Then Chloe followed just 18 months later. It was amazing how much time children needed, what with ferrying around to their various clubs and private lessons, help with homework, finding ‘lost’ sports kit, feeding the army of friends they so often brought home, support at school functions...

Their needs were never ending but there was nothing she wanted to do more than be there for them whenever they called. And now they so rarely called, especially Chloe.

When the children were older, Iain had pointed out innumerable barriers to her trying to start a career, even when both James and Chloe were at university. It would have been so nice to get some support and encouragement from him.

He was right, of course, Maggie told herself. She had no skills to offer and would never be a match for the bright young things she saw all around in the City, on the TV, in the papers. They all seemed so energetic, intelligent and just brimming with confidence.

As for the more mature women, the women of her own generation whom she saw on the news, they were so powerful they frightened her. How did they manage to look so cool when they had so many employees to care for and such huge budgets to manage? How had they dared to stand against the male competition they were bound to have met along the way to their exalted positions?

Maggie imagined her CV, or résumé as her brother would call it. She knew of the importance of a CV from the time and effort that Chloe had repeatedly spent on hers, ensuring each version hit just the right note for that particular job application. Chloe had agonised over the placement of every word, the nuances of what she said and, just as importantly, what she did not.

First comes the name and address – no problem there. Then the ‘mission statement’ – would ‘I want to find out what it’s like to work’ be sufficient? Hardly! Then comes the tricky part. Employment history and experience.

1978 - present

Self-employed   Housewife

Mmmm. Wouldn’t really interest a potential employer would it. A wee bit bare. How about if, instead of ‘housewife’ I put private tutor, counsellor, nurse, chambermaid, kitchen porter, chef, cleaner, taxi driver, gardener, seamstress, laundress, Blue Peter ‘here’s one I made earlier’ guru… All true, but not really the point. How would Chloe phrase it? Extensively skilled and flexible in multidisciplinary environments? Proficient multitasker? Excellent time management skills?

She admitted to herself she didn’t have a hope in hell of even getting invited to an interview, let alone landing a job. What employer in his right mind would prefer her to someone with real experience?

When she turned forty she had felt a degree of excitement. It had seemed that this would be a turning point in her life, the start of something new. But neither her birthday not the new millennium had been significant after all. Now she saw 43 approaching and she had achieved nothing in the intervening years. She hadn’t even succeeded in pinning Iain down as to whether he would be at home to celebrate it with her. Or were he and the children planning a surprise party for her?

Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely – but unlikely
, she had to admit ruefully. To be fair, Iain made as little fuss about his own birthdays as he did over hers, but just once to be really cosseted and made much of.

Just to have his undivided attention again, just for the one day, well that in itself would be the most wonderful gift he could give me.

Iain’s business had gone from strength to strength since the early days, the demand for new houses and offices keeping the contracts coming in a steady stream even at the lowest points of recession. For the last 20 years or so the company had been split into two divisions. One was the commercial side, and housing at the lower end of the market. Then there was his own special baby, the very expensive, very individual houses he created for a very select clientele. He seemed to find delegation of responsibility difficult, though. Despite having a very capable team of loyal and highly skilled staff, he still kept a close personal eye on all the sites, no matter where in the country. Which, of course, meant more nights in hotel bedrooms than in his own bed, with her.

It was frightening to find it becoming a disturbance to her sleep on the few occasions they now shared the marital bed. She used to long for more time cuddled into each other and now she occasionally caught herself wishing for single beds.

Does he, too, feel we are drifting apart? Is that partially the reason he stays away from home so much? What am I doing wrong? Am I just too boring compared with all the glamorous, powerful people he came into contact with through his work?

She passed through the hallway to double check the deadlocks on the front door. Unconsciously her feet moved in time with the comforting, sonorous ticking of the grandfather clock. All the doors had been locked for many hours but still she made her nightly inspection tour of doors, windows and alarm settings, feeling slightly silly, paranoid even, but knowing that she would never be able to sleep unless she had made her customary last checks.

Their house was large and very comfortable. She loved the way light flooded the dozens of huge windows (thank goodness she no longer had to clean them herself!), especially the play of colours spilling through the stained glass windows at first landing level. The twelve acres of land it was set in gave her great pleasure in the day, especially once James’ childhood enthusiasm for gardening had fired her own. At night, though, she felt rather vulnerable, so far from neighbours and the road, screened from view with so many trees.

Iain had been determined to have his business up and running before the birth of what he was certain was his son and heir. It had been a gamble borrowing that much money to buy the land and build this house but he had been proved right. It had been the showpiece he had needed for his design and building skills. It was magnificently framed by a curving brick wall and wrought iron gates, leading to a sweeping drive round the huge front lawn he had paid his workmen so much to get absolutely perfect.

It led to the first contract being safely signed and sealed within a month of them moving in. That had been for a house just a mile down the road, but word of mouth and a few select magazine articles had seen to his skills now being in great demand throughout the country. These days it was he who vetted the clients rather than the reverse.

Iain’s great skill was the knack of grasping the essence of a client’s personality, creating a house that reflected their taste and lifestyle, encapsulating their aspirations in stone, bricks and mortar. He offered the full service, from finding the land, through the design and build of the house, to interior design and landscaping.

All the client had to do, if that was what they wanted, was to sign the cheque, but Iain always tried to get them involved, passionate in his belief that your home profoundly affected your whole life. It should nurture and protect, stimulate and welcome, soothe and calm away the stresses of life in this crazy world. Hence the need to get to know the client so well, he had told Maggie in the early days. What was one man’s stimulation was another man’s insanity. We are each of us unique and our homes should be too.

His clients tended to be women whose wealthy businessmen husbands were prepared to give them carte blanche to satisfy their whims, so long as it didn’t involve any time or effort on their part. Occasionally, especially when it came to exclusive London apartments, Maggie got the feeling that the woman she had just met or heard of was not the wife of said businessman, but she had learned early on not to enquire too closely into the details of Iain’s work. He sometimes wanted a charming and elegant hostess but he made it plain that he did not appreciate, and indeed would not tolerate, what he saw as interference.

The clients were drawn first to the dream of having something for themselves from this very sought after designer, wanting to claim for themselves some of the kudos his work attracted. To have a house by Iain McTavish was to proclaim loud and clear that you belonged amongst the elite.