The Good Wife (7 page)

Conscious that I was spying, I stepped back from the window.

As I was making coffee Chloë ambled into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing up so early, Mum?’ She sniffed. ‘Coffee. Great. Can I have some?’

‘Have you been out all night? Did you have anything to eat?’

Chloë shook her head and her long hair flew around her shoulders. ‘You always ask the same questions, Mum.’

‘Sure. We were up all night.’ Sacha, who had followed her in, fetched the cups from the cupboard. ‘No big deal.’ He smiled at me teasingly. ‘Can’t you remember?’

‘Dimly,’ I replied, with a touch of acid. ‘How was the club?’

Chloë and Sacha’s eyes met, and a private message was exchanged. ‘Brilliant.’ Chloë’s voice was a note higher than normal.

I hacked at the bread and slotted two slices into the toaster. ‘I hope you didn’t do anything… silly.’

Chloë’s eyes flashed me a warning.
Don’t go there
.

‘Yup…’ Sacha unzipped his leather bomber jacket and arranged it over the back of the chair. ‘The club isn’t bad. The boys and I might just do a gig there to help out.’

Sacha tried so hard not to imply that they were desperate for any gig. He would never admit that, two years on from its formation, the group’s progress to fame and fortune had hardly lifted off the ground.

Chloë hunched over her coffee. There was faint flush on her cheek and a faint smile on her lips. She looked happy and untroubled.

The toast was stuck in the toaster so I pulled it out – spraying a waterfall of crumbs on to the floor – and put it in front of them. ‘Have some Tuscan honey.’

‘What’s wrong with English honey?’ She feathered her impossibly long eyelashes. ‘Or anything English, for that matter. It’s Italian pasta, Italian ham, Italian this, that and the other.’ Again she fluttered her eyelashes and Sacha watched, seemingly enraptured. ‘You must go this year, Mum, get it out of your system.’

I fetched the dustpan and swept up the crumbs. ‘As it happens, I’m planning to go with your grandfather.’

Chloë raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘So you say.’

While they ate and drank, I sat at the table and puzzled over the agenda for the Stanwinton homeless-persons committee. Afterwards, Sacha got to his feet and lifted his prized jacket off the chair. ‘Bedtime,’ he said, and disappeared.

‘What about you, darling?’

Chloë drained her coffee and hunkered down beside me. ‘You mustn’t interfere, Mum. Not any longer.’

I slipped my arm round her. There was a smudge of honey at the corner of her mouth, and I nipped it away with my finger. ‘He’s your first cousin, Chloë.’

Chloë’s happy look vanished. ‘He’s my first everything, Mum. He’s my blood and bone. He knows me. I know him.’

‘He’s your first cousin,’ I repeated.

Chloë straightened up. ‘Forget it, Mum,’ she said, in a flat voice that was new to me. Then she, too, was gone.

I looked up and out of the window where, like black and bruised plums, summer rainclouds were gathering.

Later that morning, Chloë and I sorted through bags of discarded clothing that had been dumped in our garage. ‘There’s so much, Mum. I don’t see why we have to do all this.’

I upended a bag, and a drift of grubby sweaters and trousers spread over the floor. Their smell – musty, used, depressing – made us recoil.

‘Ugh,’ Chloë said. ‘Throw them away.’

I surprised myself by saying heatedly, ‘I can’t. They might be useful. Someone might need them.’

Chloë inspected a second bag. ‘Actually,’ she pulled out a pink cardigan that looked suspiciously like cashmere, ‘there’s quite a nice one here.’

I gathered up an armful of clothes and plodded into the kitchen, where Brigitte was cleaning the sink. ‘Could you put these through the machine?’

She took a step back. ‘These are not nice.’

‘No,’ I agreed, ‘but they’ll be better when they’re washed and ironed.’

Brigitte loaded them sulkily into the machine and banged the door shut.

Chloë had followed me in and handed Brigitte the detergent. ‘It’s a funny old life,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s OK if I keep this cardigan?’

I gave Meg a lift to the doctor on my way into town. She snapped the seat belt into place. ‘Sacha tells me that you’ve… been talking to Chloë about Sacha. I gather you don’t approve of him and Chloë being together so much…’

I eased the car out of the gateway and into the road. I should no longer have been surprised by the way information circulated in the house. ‘Does he discuss everything with you?’

‘Mostly. We’ve always talked. As you know.’

It was unfair, but the remark set my teeth on edge. ‘Chloë edits any confidences she grants me.’

‘Tell me,’ Meg searched in her bag, ‘is it my son you object to, or my genes?’

‘I love Sacha, and Chloë shares your genes.’

Meg flipped down the passenger sunshade and used the mirror to apply bright red lipstick, while I wrestled with a gyratory system which had been expressly designed to send drivers mad. ‘You know, Fanny,’ she said, ‘we were once better friends.’

I felt her stare burn into my cheek. ‘Meg,’ I said, rashly. ‘I’ve been thinking that it’s time to make a few changes.’

As ever, she was as sharp as a knife. ‘You want to chuck me out?’ Then she gave one of her laughs. ‘I would if it
was me.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears; an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. ‘Does Will know what’s on your mind?’

‘I haven’t discussed it at length. But Chloë will be leaving home fairly soon, and I thought maybe… maybe it’s time for a smaller house.’

‘Will wouldn’t like that. He’d never chuck Sacha and me out.’ She shot me a wary look. ‘And you wouldn’t either, would you, Fanny?’

‘Won’t Sacha be leaving home too?’

Meg flung the lipstick into her bag. ‘Yes.’

Rather as my mother had departed from Ember House virtually empty-handed, Meg had arrived in Stanwinton with almost nothing, just a suitcase and a small bag of Sacha’s clothes for his weekend visits. ‘I couldn’t cope with choosing,’ she’d said.

Years later, when I talked to Rob at Sacha’s eighteenth birthday party, he told me he had begged Meg to take it all – furniture, clothes, china – but she’d resolutely refused, telling him she wanted space for her grief. Rob had been puzzled by this, but, in a curious way, I felt it made sense.

Meg raised her hands in front of her. ‘Look, only a little tremble. I’m improving. The other night was just a lapse. I am going to try for another job, you know.’

‘Sure.’ I drove into the surgery car park and dropped her by the entrance.

Meg gripped the door handle. ‘But I’m not quite sure enough to cope on my own.’

I leant over to close the door. ‘Meg,’ I called after her. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

*

After the committee meeting, I drove up to London. It was raining again. I peered through the windscreen. My father made a big thing of the Italian summer and, not for the first time, I realized why. Oh, to be there where it was so hot in the valley that if I sat under an olive tree, and looked up, the leaves would resemble flickering tongues of fire.

Will had left a note on the hall floor of our London flat where I would be sure to tread on it: ‘See you at the embassy. Don’t forget Pasquale. Plse don’t be late.’

Of course I was. I made the mistake of taking a bath and, as I soaked, the phone rang twice. The first was a journalist from a broadsheet saying they were planning a piece on possible future senior figures in the party and could they interview my husband? I told him to contact Will’s office. The second was Will’s private secretary, warning me that if I spoke to anyone from the Italian delegation I should steer clear of anything remotely political. The word had been passed round all the wives. What do I steer on to? I wanted to know.

‘There has been a recent find of Etruscan bronzes that are considered very fine,’ he replied.

I traced a pattern of hearts on the steamed-up mirror in the bathroom. ‘Talk me through the bronzes.’

‘Unfortunately, Mrs Savage, they’re well… rather erotic. But you can keep off the detail. And… Mrs Savage… if you could avoid the words “car” and “tax”… the negotiations are at a rather tricky stage.’

Hobbled conversationally, and late setting out, I took a taxi to where Will was waiting for me. He smiled and
kissed my cheek, but his grip on my arm was almost painful. ‘You’re late.’

‘Traffic.’ I laced my fingers through his and made sure I got in with my list of topics to discuss. ‘We must talk about Chloë.’

He squeezed my fingers and then dropped them. ‘What about her?’

‘Her and Sacha. I’m a bit concerned.’

‘Meg says that’s nonsense. They’re just very close, as cousins sometimes are.’

‘You’ve talked to Meg? I’ve been trying to ring you all week, but you were always busy…’

‘Hallo, Ted.’ Will transferred his attention smoothly to one of his fellow ministers.

A good champagne was served in a long, narrow reception room. Obedient to my briefing, I talked about weather and flora to an ambassador who was dressed in a multi-coloured tie, and about wines to a junior consul, who informed me he had been brought up on beer. I took Antonio Pasquale aside and astounded him with my grasp of Italian and Italian wine. When we said goodbye he kissed my hand and I knew I had done a good job.

Back in the flat, Will made straight for the drinks tray, which was unusual, and poured himself a glass of whisky. ‘I’m whacked. Pasquale’s wife was a nightmare.’

‘We ought to eat something.’

‘Too tired.’

‘So am I.’ I kicked off my shoes and curled up on the sofa. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’

Will sighed. ‘Haven’t the energy.’

‘Oh.’ I studied my feet, encased in their light, evening tights.

‘I’m sorry, darling.’

I reached for the cushion and hugged it. ‘How would you feel if Dad and I went on a trip to Italy?’

Will snapped to attention. ‘When?’

‘While Chloë’s away. September probably. We haven’t settled on anything yet.’

‘Without me?’

‘Yes.’

Will put down his glass and came and sat down beside me. ‘Of course you must go. I know what it would mean to you.’ He paused. ‘But do you have to go this year? There is so much on…’ He took away the cushion and put his arm around me. ‘I need you on board.’ I sensed the energy flowing back into him as he concentrated on bringing me back into the fold. ‘Just at the moment, I’m not sure I could manage without you.’ He took another gulp of the whisky. ‘Perhaps I’m being selfish.’ When I did not reply, he said sharply, ‘Fanny, are you listening?’

I raised my eyes and saw my old Will: the clever, funny, passionate, committed man with whom I had fallen in love, and I wondered what he could see in me, and whether or not he was looking.

‘Ours is becoming a curious marriage,’ I heard myself say. ‘I’ve been trying all week to talk to you about your daughter… where do I come in the queue?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ This was said with a flash of irritation.

‘It’s true.’

He caught my chin. ‘Is this because I talked to
Meg? She just happened to phone at the right time, you idiot.’

‘Partly.’ I shook his hand away and started to pick at the braid on the discarded cushion. ‘I mind about that.’

He sighed. ‘I honestly don’t think there’s any need to worry about Chloë.’

‘But I do worry about her. And I worry that I have to worry about her on my own.’

‘When she goes to Australia, she’ll forget Sacha; she’ll meet other people. It’s not so odd at her age to have a passion – if she does – for someone unsuitable.’

He was probably right, but I’d had enough politician’s answers for one evening. I heaved myself to my feet and went over to the window and looked out at the dull summer night. ‘I would like to go away with my father, Will. I don’t think he is all that well, and I’d like to spend some time with him.’

‘Rather than with me…’

I turned round and glared at him. ‘I’m going to forget you said that.’

Will set his glass down on the table with a snap. ‘Did you really suggest to Meg that she move out?’

‘Not exactly,’ I replied. ‘The idea was proposed, but not voted upon.’

‘Don’t you think you should have discussed it with me first? She’s upset and unsettled, and it can’t be good for her.’

‘Discuss things with you? What an excellent idea. I’ve being trying all week. Shall I see if Mannochie can squeeze me into your schedule at some point? Perhaps during one of your surgeries – between erroneous gas bills and the
violent neighbours…’ I made for the door. ‘But right now I’m going to bed.’

As I walked down the corridor, he called after me, ‘I can’t hurt her, Fanny. I can’t abandon her.’

6

Will and I arrived back at Ember House from our curtailed French honeymoon in the small hours, smelling of the melons I had insisted we buy, which had filled the car with their sweet, ripe aroma.

Early next morning, we stumbled out of bed, hoicked clean clothes out of the unpacked suitcases, and drove into Stanwinton. Mannochie met us at the party headquarters on the high street.

Will was immediately claimed by a party apparatchik and Mannochie materialized at my elbow. ‘You must meet the chairman of the association and you must get on with her.’

‘Will I be put in the stocks if I don’t?’ I asked, and realizing that it did not sound very amusing, wished I hadn’t.

The headquarters seethed with people, and was stuffed with chairs, photocopiers and baskets overflowing with brown envelopes. The persistent sound of telephones piped above the movement and activity. Mannochie piloted me towards a table where a woman was directing an elderly couple on the sorting of pamphlets. ‘No slacking,’ she addressed them collectively. ‘No mistakes.’

‘Pearl, this is Fanny.’

A heavy woman, she pulled herself to her feet. ‘About time.’

Did she always speak in such staccato sentences? A gust
of nervous hilarity threatened but I said, ‘Will and I got here as fast as possible. We drove through the night.’

Pearl Veriker should have met me before –
wives have to be vetted –
but at the time she had been in hospital. Tall and long-nosed, she did not trouble with fashion. Her cotton shirt clashed with her skirt and she wore flesh-coloured tights with white fretworked leather lace-ups. Her scrutiny, however, was clever and merciless. Eventually, she held out her hand. ‘I’ll call you Fanny since we’ll have a lot to do with each other.’