The Other Half (5 page)

Outside on the gravel drive she jogged up and down, inhaling and exhaling to get used to the rhythm, and set off down the lane. She decided to follow her old route, thinking she would only manage one circuit.

Ah, the blue, blue sky, the fresh air pumping in and out of her lungs, the sound of her feet on the tarmac—
this
was why she loved running. She flew past neighboring cottages with their lovingly tended gardens—little surprise that Shere had won several “Best Kept Village” awards—pounded up and over the wooden footbridge by the ford, alongside the vegetable patches by the river, and as she raced on through the main street, past the antiques shop, museum, post office, and out on to the country roads, Maggie surprised herself.

Maybe I’m not
that
unfit, she thought, and it’s so rejuvenating being among growing things! There’s something about going to a gym that’s so phony—all that rowing and running and stepping on equipment made specially, surrounded by MTV and metallic décor and people puffing and panting. Why would anyone want to use those silly machines, when they can have contact with the outdoors, the feeling of being part of the bigger scheme of things? Surely exercise should be enjoyed in its natural setting: on rivers, in lanes, up hills, come rain or shine.

Spurred on by this appreciation of her surroundings, Maggie ran up the hill, with fields of ripening corn on either side of her. Then through the woods and past the farm, with its comforting whiff of cow dung and hay. This was where she bought her free-range eggs direct from the farmer’s wife every week.

I must get a commission for that piece I want to do on supermarkets’ continued selling of factory-farmed products, she berated herself. Instead she was writing an uninspiring feature on Christmas cakes aimed at women who planned menus months ahead of the festive season. Yet Jamie’s always on about how we need the money, she thought. If I have to compromise, it’s partly his fault. Perhaps we should never have taken on such a big mortgage.

Energized by frustration, she headed back into Shere at an impressive speed. She had plenty of stamina, and before she knew it, she’d done two circuits. As she rounded the corner into the village for a second time, a car passed her, and the woman driving gave her a friendly toot of encouragement. Maggie waved appreciatively.

Panting, she ran up the drive, and slowed to a walk. Well, she concluded, pushing damp hair off her forehead, maybe it wouldn’t take ages to get back to the level of fitness she’d previously enjoyed. Before Nathan was born, she’d even run the London Marathon once.

Later that afternoon Maggie had to go in to Guildford to pick up a book she’d ordered to help with the cake article.

“I think I saw you earlier,” said the woman in Waterstones as she checked the computer screen.

“Oh?”

“Running, in Shere. I honked at you.”

“Oh, yes. That was me.”

“You were running very fast.” Maggie was flattered. “Made me feel quite guilty—but I’m such a lazy cow, I drive everywhere.”

Maggie smiled. The woman was about her own age, with an open face and messy chestnut hair. She exuded warmth and friendliness.

“Do you live in Shere?” asked the woman. “I’ve just moved there myself.”

“I do,” said Maggie, thinking perhaps at last there might be a kindred spirit in the village. “In the big white house, on the corner.”

“That gorgeous Georgian one?”

Maggie was even more pleased. “You must come over.”

“I’d love to. I don’t know a soul nearby.” She put out her hand. “My name’s Georgie.”

Maggie introduced herself, shaking Georgie’s hand. “In fact, what are you doing on Saturday night?”

*   *   *

That evening, Thursday, was traditionally Jamie’s squash night. Maggie was more than happy for him to meet up in town with his old friend Pete once a week.

Letting him vent his work frustrations on a tiny ball within the confines of a squash court saves me a lot of aggro, she thought.

Tonight she decided to use the opportunity to visit her sister in Leatherhead.

Maggie and Fran were close, but their relationship was marked by a healthy sibling rivalry. Maggie was older by a year, and in a pale-skinned English way they looked alike, although Maggie was prettier. Both had married successful men within a couple of years of each other; it was partly when Fran saw Maggie being the focus of everyone’s attention at her wedding to Jamie that she’d decided Geoff was the man for her. Then Maggie had Nathan, and six months later Fran’s son, Dan, was born.

Luckily Dan and Nathan got on well and as they thudded about in Dan’s bedroom overhead, Maggie and Fran settled down for a chat in the kitchen.

“So.” Fran stretched out her legs and propped her boot-shod feet on another chair. “How’s your week been?”

“Okay,” answered Maggie. Realizing this sounded rather downbeat, she went on more positively, “Actually, rather productive. I had a fun piece on aphrodisiac recipes to do for
Men
, and Jamie and I have been getting on a bit better.”

“Good. I told you, he’s just working too hard. Any sign of it letting up?”

“Oh, a leopard and his spots, you know. Though at least he’s been slightly more communicative recently.”

“Excellent!” Fran, who was a part-time teacher, sometimes sounded like she was giving Maggie’s life grades. “So does this mean you’ve been having more sex?”

Maggie smiled at the memory of their kitchen exploits. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we have.” She always felt slightly embarrassed talking about sex with her sister, who seemed to show no such reserve. Fran appeared to relish telling Maggie how well she and Geoff got on “in the sack.” It made Maggie feel inadequate.

“Mum.” Nathan came in and interrupted. “I want to watch
Ben 10
and Dan won’t let me.”

“Oh, darling, I don’t know if we’ve got time,” said Maggie.

Fran checked the clock. “It’s only half past six. Dan! Come here!”

Dan came into the kitchen, sheepishly.

“How often do I have to tell you that when someone comes to our house you must be nice to them because they’re the guest?”

“Nathan’s not always nice to me when I go to his house,” Dan retorted. “Last time he said I had to watch what he wanted because it was his DVD.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, boys!” said Fran. “I don’t care what Nathan does in his house, but when he’s here you play by my rules, and I say you’ve got to be nice to your guest. Now, scoot!”

The boys left the room, Dan stomping, Nathan grinning.

“Ooh,” exclaimed Maggie, “I forgot. I brought some food. It’s in the car. I thought we could have it for supper. I’ll go and get it.”

She returned with a big saucepan clutched to her breast and a couple of packs of fresh pasta balanced precariously on top. “It’s tagliatelli al amore,” she explained, putting down the pan.

Fran lifted the lid. “Mm, smells delicious!”

“Seafood sauce with oysters. Designed to woo a woman virtually all on its own.”

“So this is one of your aphrodisiac recipes?”

“Indeed, it is—the second batch, to test I’ve got it right.”

“I’ll put some on aside for Geoff. Can’t have him slacking!”

“Of course not,” said Maggie, as an unwelcome image of Geoff and Fran popped into her head. She wondered if they had sex every night. It sounded like it, but surely not. “Anyway, these things are best eaten fresh. Shall we heat it up now?”

“Let’s have a glass of wine first,” said Fran. “The boys can have their fish fingers in front of the television.”

A couple of hours later they were still in the kitchen. Fran picked up the bottle. “One more?”

“Better not—I’m driving.”

At that moment Nathan and Dan burst in.

“Mum…” said Nathan, kissing her.

Given Nathan rarely kissed her these days, Maggie knew he was after something. “What?”

“Can I stay the night?”

“I thought you two were at each other’s throats.”

“Oh, no,” said Dan sweetly. “Nathan wants to share a bath so we can have a go with my special intergalactic bubble wash.”

“We ought to get back for Daddy.”

“He’ll be all right,” encouraged Fran. “Why don’t you both stay over?”

“Go on, Mum,
please
,” whined Nathan.

“Go on, Auntie Maggie.”

“You could have some more wine then.”

Maggie looked at the bottle. It was rare these days that she ever had more than a couple of glasses, and she and Fran were having a satisfying rant about Tory sleaze. “Oh, okay,” she conceded. “Though no mucking around in the morning, Nathan. We’ll have to hurry to get you to school in time.”

“You’re a lovely mummy,” said Nathan, and thundered upstairs again.

“Start running the bath!” yelled Fran after them.

“Obviously the oyster feel-good factor.” Maggie reached for her bag and rummaged for her mobile. “I’d better tell Jamie we won’t be home.” She dialed his number. “Hi, it’s me—I’m still at Fran’s.” She could hear the sound of people laughing and chatting in the background. “Where are you?”

7

By the time they’d finished their main course, Chloë was feeling mellow, woozy, and well fed. Not being one to hold back, particularly after several glasses, she had given James the lowdown on her life. She’d started with her career and progressed to where she lived and her relationship with Rob, explaining they’d been roommates for years.

“Sometimes I think I’m closer to him than some of my straight friends are to their partners, but maybe that’s because there’s nothing sexual between us,” she said. She wound up with her current single status, though she was careful to make it sound very short-term.

It grew dark and the waitress came out and lit small candles on the tables. James shifted his chair nearer, and as the atmosphere became more intimate, Chloë led him to reveal he’d grown up in Sussex, that he had a sister, and had been to the university in Bristol. Silently congratulating herself on her discoveries, she brought him back to the subject that had intrigued her earlier.

“So.” She reached to pour them each a final glass. “Tell me about this ex. Why do I remind you of her?”

“I’m not sure.” He frowned.

Chloë waited.

“You do look a bit similar.”

Chloë blushed. “Really? What was she like?”

“Oh, you know, smallish, about so high…” He gesticulated. “Curvy, sort of voluptuous.”

“You mean she was fat?”

“No, not at all. Just very, um, hourglass. What I think of as a real woman.” He twisted his glass. “Not conventionally pretty, but kind of sexy. At least, I thought so. And dark—like you. Though what really reminds me of Beth is your energy, your vibrancy. You’re a bit like her—sort of feline … and you have a similar spark.” He looked directly into her eyes. “It’s quite something.”

Chloë was speechless. Help, she thought, fascinated, flattered, and frightened all at once. Clearly Rob
has
hit the nail on the head. She needed a few minutes to ground herself—she hadn’t expected him to reveal so much, so fast. She switched to the other subject she wanted to find out about.

“So what’s your wife like, then?” Perhaps he’d gush about her. If he was clearly unobtainable, she could prevent herself rushing in headlong.

“Maggie? She’s, um, very different.”

“What, physically?”

“Yes. She’s quite tall. Blond. Leggy. Sort of naturally athletic.”

“Sounds lovely,” said Chloë, genuinely. It was the way she’d always hankered to be.

“And she’s more reserved, I suppose. Not introverted exactly … just contained. Sometimes I’m not sure what’s going on with her.”

“Oh.” Chloë was confused, but curiosity had her on the edge of her seat. “What made you go for two such different women? Beth, I mean, and her?”

“In all honesty I don’t know. I guess I may have been a bit on the rebound from Beth when we met, though I certainly didn’t realize it at the time. I’d finished with Beth, after all.”

“Why?”

James hesitated. “I guess I got scared. Found her too much in some ways. Then, when I met Maggie, she seemed less of a handful, less upfront, more manageable. Oh, she had her passionate beliefs—animal welfare, her vegetarianism, and so on—and I loved that. Still, emotionally she was a lot less demanding—more English, if you know what I mean. We started seeing each other and one thing led to another, and here I am.” He stopped again. “Actually, that’s not quite true. One thing did lead to another, but not in the way I’d planned. Maggie got pregnant, you see.”

“Oh? Before you got married?”

“Well, not exactly. We got married when we found out she was pregnant.”

“But wouldn’t you have gotten married anyway?” Chloë was agog.

“I’m not sure,” admitted James. “It’s not as if I didn’t love her—I did. I still do. We’d been living together for a couple of years, all her friends and her sister were settling down, and then, wham! She gets pregnant.”

“So how old were you both, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I was thirty-one, she was thirty-two. It was nearly seven years ago.”

“I see.”

“What?”

Chloë stopped herself—to say what she really thought wasn’t appropriate, either personally or professionally.

“Go on,” urged James. “I’m interested.”

Oh, to hell with it. “It’s just it never ceases to amaze me,” Chloë burst out, “how many women seem to get
accidentally
pregnant in their thirties. Until that point they can find their way to a packet of condoms or the pill with their eyes shut, then, ‘Abracadabra!’ They forget completely about them.”

“That’s rather unsympathetic of you.” James seemed taken aback.

Chloë flushed, guilty she’d been so outspoken. “Hmm … Actually I do understand. I’ve been feeling a bit like that myself. There we all go, trundle, trundle, through our twenties, having one relationship after another, focusing on work, no huge pressure to settle down … then oops! Before we know it, time is running out. But only for us women; men are happy to carry on for as long as they feel like it. Enjoying relationships, yes, yet unwilling to commit to anything more. So is it any surprise some women resort to that time-honored tactic—the ‘accidental’ pregnancy?” She indicated quote marks in the air. “They may not acknowledge it even to themselves, nonetheless their motives are sometimes more complex than they seem.”