A Perfect Marriage

by Alison Booth

  ‘Wanker,’ I supplied.

  We looked at each other. For the first time since I had come into the room we looked properly at each other, peering deep into each other’s eyes. Hers were a very dark brown, so dark as to be almost black, although I could barely see her left eye so puffed up was the surrounding flesh. She held my gaze for perhaps half a minute. Then she said: ‘I’m so sorry, Sally. Do please sit down again. I’ve been incredibly insensitive.’

  So I sat on the edge of the black leather Eames chair, and told her the history of Jeff’s violence.

  When I’d finished, she said, ‘I think we need a glass of wine, Sally, before we go any further.’

  While she was in the kitchen, I inspected my surroundings. The polished wooden floor was covered with an orange and red Persian carpet; the two huge sofas were upholstered in a coarse white fabric that I would find impossible to keep clean; the white-painted walls were hung with three or four vivid abstract paintings; the windows were uncurtained. The whole effect was of light and a minimalist good taste that would appeal to Jeff.

  Zoë reappeared after a few minutes with a tray holding a bottle of white wine, beaded with condensation, and two glasses.

  ‘Where’s Jeff now?’ I asked.

  ‘Maida Vale Police Station. He’s been charged with assault.’

  I inhaled sharply. Zoë had the courage to do something that I hadn’t and I felt a reluctant admiration for her. Then I thought of my daughter, and said, ‘Charlie mustn’t hear any of this.’

  ‘I’ve already laid charges against him.’

  ‘You can drop them.’

  ‘I won’t drop them. He’s a bastard. This is the only way he’ll be made to stop thinking he can bash up any woman he’s on with, just because she does something he doesn’t like.’

  ‘But we have to protect Charlie.’

  ‘Protect Charlie? Too right we do. For heaven’s sake, Sally, Jeff could have started beating up Charlie too. Didn’t you ever think of that? You’re an intelligent woman; surely that’s crossed your mind.’

  Intelligent but blind. Why had I never thought of this? Possibly because I had judged his actions as sexual when perhaps they were not.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late to back out,’ Zoë said.

  She handed me a copy of the News of the World. The paper had been folded over to reveal a picture of Zoë: her face was damaged and one eye shut. She was looking directly at the photographer when the picture was taken, defiantly holding her head high. I read the caption underneath: ZOË’S ZAPPED. I read on: The glamorous TV presenter of Rearranging Lives was assaulted last night. Police are holding a man for questioning. The rest of the article was devoted to Zoë. The assailant’s name wasn’t mentioned, and there was no photo of Jeff.

  ‘I didn’t realise you worked for TV,’ I said. This was a most unfortunate development, and for the moment I couldn’t see any way around it. Even if Zoë were not to press charges, there would still be a lot of publicity, and it was almost inevitable that Jeff’s name would be revealed sooner or later. Probably sooner.

  ‘You haven’t seen me on the box?’ Zoë’s tone was incredulous.

  ‘I don’t watch TV. I’m trying to finish my PhD so I don’t have much spare time.’

  ‘Oh, Jeff did mention something about that. But you can see my point. It’s too late to turn back.’

  ‘But you could drop the charges, Zoë. I know it’s too late to stop the media. But if you don’t press charges, there won’t be any court case. We’ve got to protect Charlie from all the publicity. We’ve got to do something.’

  ‘We’ll think of a way.’ She topped up my barely-touched wine glass, and poured another for herself. I was worried by this new development. If Charlie were not already attending school, she could have used my surname instead of Jeff’s; that would have afforded her some protection. Was it too late for that now? It would be hard to take her off to school on Monday with a new name when the school had known her by Jeff’s surname for the last two years.

  After a while, Zoë said, ‘The damage has already been done, from Charlie’s perspective. The media are onto it. And I’ve decided not to take time off work, at least not much. The show can go on. So there’s going to be a fuss whether I drop charges or not.’

  ‘But there’ll be less of a fuss if you drop charges. Think of it from Charlie’s point of view.’

  ‘But there are lots of Hectors in London. Why should anyone at school think Charlie’s father is Jeff Hector?’

  ‘There’ll be photographs. Stuff on the TV news. Someone at her school will find out. And kids can be so cruel.’ And how would Charlie feel about finding out her father could be violent? It would be hard for her to cope with that.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sally. This can be a lesson to him. We might prevent other women being hurt and even Charlie, in the future. And anyway, shouldn’t she come to terms with what her father’s really like?’

  I could understand Zoë’s point of view. She was brave and she was angry, and I could see that she was determined too. Maybe I could move away from London for a while, give Charlie my last name. Charlie and I could stay at my parent’s house in Cornwall. They would love that, and Charlie could go to school there until all the fuss had died down. I could take my work with me. I was on the writing-up stage and no longer needed to use the laboratory, so that would be relatively easy. In fact Charlie and I should leave for Cornwall first thing in the morning; I’d pack up some of our stuff that very night. I was determined to shelter Charlie from learning about Jeff for as long as possible.

  I left Zoë’s flat shortly afterwards, when we’d reached a decision of sorts. Zoë agreed to do all that she could to keep Jeff’s name out of the media. We both knew there was probably little chance she’d succeed. I gave her my parents’ phone number in Cornwall. She insisted on calling a taxi for me and – when it arrived – she came down to see me off. Before I could prevent her, she prepaid the driver.

  ‘I know this is difficult for you,’ Zoë said, as we stood side-by-side on the pavement next to the waiting cab. A chilling evening light angled across the quiet street and cast long shadows. Opposite us, parked cars were arranged like text between the punctuation marks of the plane trees. The only sign of life was the distant swishing of traffic from the Edgware Road.

  As Zoë kissed my cheek, she said, ‘If I’d thought you were still together when I met Jeff, I wouldn’t have slept with him.’

  ‘I bet,’ I thought, before squeezing her hand and climbing into the taxi.

  Chapter 10

  NOW

  At a quarter to eight, I get off the bus at South End Green, into fine rain. The flower-vendor is setting up his stall. Water drips off the canvas awning onto massed bunches of carnations and lilies trucked in from the Netherlands.

  My shoes are damp, and I’m getting cold feet about what to tell Helen. When I ring the doorbell, her voice on the intercom tells me to enter. The waiting room is as tidy as always; the carpet light beige and spotless, the sofa and armchairs upholstered in a terracotta-coloured coarse-weave fabric. The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece shows ten minutes to eight. I am early again.

  Apprehension begins to nibble at the edges of my resolve. From my perch on the edge of an armchair, I can view the hallway. Never once have I seen a member of Helen’s household. I used to occupy the waiting time by speculating about her private life, but this is no longer distraction enough. After unfolding my damp newspaper, I flick through the pages. US to put climate change ‘front and center’ of diplomatic efforts, Kerry vows; An Alaskan TV reporter makes an on-air exit to fight for pot legalization: Fuck it, I quit, she says; William Hague throws down gauntlet to Labour over Scottish MPs’ voting rights; Police force must rid itself of predatory men, says Commissioner.

  Now I hear a door upstairs open, followed by the thudding of feet down the stairs. A middle-aged man in a grey suit hurries past. He looks so smart, so much in control, that it’s hard to imagine why he needs to see Hel
en.

  Maybe I look like that too, in control of my life.

  After a few more minutes Helen comes downstairs. She is taller than me, and handsome, with a square tanned face and bobbed silver hair.

  ‘How are you?’ She smiles but doesn’t wait for an answer. She turns and trips quickly up the stairs again. Following close behind, I admire her narrow feet, well-shod in shiny black pumps.

  Her consulting room is directly over the waiting room and decorated in the same style. There is a thick white envelope on the coffee table. It is propped up against a square glass vase, in which heavily scented red roses are symmetrically arranged. My name is inscribed on the envelope, in black ink, in Helen’s elegant writing. It’s a work of art, my monthly account. Always left discreetly next to the flowers.

  Under the bay window is a sofa that I lie on during our sessions. Helen sits in a matching chair immediately behind my head. She can see my face if she wants to, but I can’t see hers.

  At once I lie down and urge myself to get on with what I decided to tell her. But in spite of my earlier resolution, I can’t bring myself to talk about Jeff. Like the Alaskan reporter, I could shout, ‘Fuck it, I quit!’ before walking right out of here. Although tempted, I lie still. Although tempted, I say nothing. Is it through nervousness or stubbornness? I can’t decide which. The silence continues; the silence grows until it becomes a palpable presence filling the room and obstructing my thoughts.

  ‘Perhaps you want to tell me some more about your marriage,’ Helen says, after I’ve been lying speechless for some minutes.

  ‘Yes and no.’ I examine my hands. There are particles of dirt under two of my fingernails, traces of gardening last weekend. It’s too early in the day to talk about Jeff. I don’t want to be here. I should be at my office. I should be anywhere but here.

  I look at my watch: it’s eight-thirty. These minutes of muteness in Helen’s Hampstead rooms have cost me thirty pounds. I am about to speak when I hear a thumping of footsteps down the stairs; the front door clicks open and is slammed shut again. Stop looking for distractions, I tell myself. Spit out the past and talk. Tell Helen something. Tell her anything. Everything.

  ‘I met a man recently,’ I say, a random thought. ‘I really liked him.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Helen’s voice sounds non-committal, or perhaps she is offering encouragement. It must be dull for her to sit with a patient who doesn’t speak.

  ‘And do you know what I realised about him? That I recognised him.’

  I pause, but Helen doesn’t respond. For some reason I think of Celia, and a moment later of my mother. I haven’t seen my mother for several months, although we speak on the phone regularly and she will be coming to stay with us in a few weeks’ time. I resolve to blurt out to Helen whatever thoughts enter my head and see what she makes of them.

  ‘My parents live in Cornwall on the south coast.’ It’s strange to me, a scientist, to speak in a stream of consciousness, instead of carefully considering what I’ll say before opening my mouth. ‘They moved there twelve years ago when my father retired. My mother inherited the house from Celia.’ Of course I could be dissembling, trying to avoid talking about Jeff.

  Helen crosses her legs; I hear the rasping of her fine nylon tights. Afterwards I hear the sound of pencil on paper. Perhaps she is recording my family tree.

  ‘Celia was my mother’s maternal aunt,’ I add helpfully. ‘My mother was her favourite niece.’ Pausing, I wonder what Helen is making of my unstructured remarks. ‘Is this relevant, Helen?’ My question is motivated by a sense of mischief; I know she won’t offer me any guidance but I’m always interested in her reaction.

  ‘That is not for me to say, Sally.’ Helen enunciates carefully and, for the first time, I notice that she speaks with a very slight foreign accent; she has over-emphasised the last syllable of my name. ‘You will make any connections. Speak as freely as you wish, about whatever you like.’

  I restrain a smile: I wouldn’t want Helen to think I find her amusing. I begin to rabbit on about my parents, my normal loving parents. My lovely mother who has encouraged me in everything I’ve chosen to do, apart from that one decision years ago.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to stop there,’ Helen says.

  I am taken by surprise. Helen stands and glides across the carpet. She opens the door, her smile serene, while I struggle to bring myself back. I get up from the sofa and lurch out of the room, on the way picking up the envelope bearing my name. I fold it in two and slip it into my bag. I’m still stuffing my feet into my shoes as I stumble past Helen.

  Outside, the low grey sky is whitening, brightening. I decide to walk along Haverstock Hill Road to Camden Town. The traffic is heavy, and I overtake the crawling cars easily. But I feel exposed on this busy artery, and turn into a quiet side street of terraced houses. Even though it’s early October, exuberant plants crowd the small front gardens. This part of Belsize Park is as peaceful as any village.

  The character of the streets starts to change as I walk on: there are more flats, and fewer tastefully renovated houses. At Camden Town, the pavements are dirty and there are half a dozen beggars near the entrance to the Tube. One young woman, sitting on the pavement and leaning against the station wall, catches my eye. She is wearing dirty jeans and a low-cut T-shirt, revealing her breasts and a large expanse of blemished unhealthy-looking skin.

  ‘Any spare change for a cup of coffee?’ she says.

  Probably she will spend any change on drugs, at least so we’ve been told recently by a cabinet minister. We’ve all been advised not to give to the beggars on the streets of London. But I drop a couple of pounds into her outstretched hand. This young woman could have been me; she could have been Charlie.

  Chapter 11

  NOW

  Zoë phones me on Tuesday night, wanting to know if I’ve made any progress in telling Helen about Jeff.

  ‘I spent the last session talking about my mother’s Aunt Celia.’

  ‘Only you can know if that’s relevant,’ Zoë says, laughing. ‘But you did say you’d begin this week.’

  ‘It all takes time. I’m getting ready to tell her, I promise. It’s not going to be easy, though.’

  ‘You never thought it would be, did you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Any news from the dream-boat?’

  ‘No. I thought he might have phoned by now, but he hasn’t.’

  ‘The cautious academic type. Maybe you should call him.’

  ‘I’ll give him till next weekend and try then.’ Yet I know I won’t do this; my words were merely to keep Zoë quiet. But perhaps if he hasn’t phoned me in a couple of weeks’ time, I could send him an email.

  ‘There’s no way I’d wait this long.’

  ‘I know, Zoë. But that’s the way I am. Slow and steady.’

  ‘And that’s why we love you, Sal.’

  * * *

  Twelve noon on Wednesday. I have finished two hours of lectures, and have an hour spare to read the papers for the graduate-school board meeting at one o’clock. Kate, one of the administrators, knocks at the door of my office. For a moment I wish I’d locked it: I need the full hour.

  ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ Although Kate’s face is oval, the overall effect is of a triangle with its apex in the centre of her forehead. Her mouth is too wide, and its width emphasises that her hazel eyes are too close together. The overall effect is striking and very attractive.

  ‘Not at all.’ I find my eyes drifting to the pile of papers on my desk.

  Kate grins. ‘I’ve booked you in to see the college photographer next week. Your photo’s the only one outstanding on the departmental website.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find an old picture that’ll do instead.’ I hate having my photograph taken, and if I can find a reasonable one at home I’ll save an hour or two during the week as well.

  ‘I’ve heard that before. You’ve also got a phone message.’ She hands me a piece of paper with a nu
mber written on it. ‘A Professor Anthony Blake, from Imperial College, but he said he was phoning from the States. You just missed him; he called about twenty minutes ago.’

  My heart starts to beat faster. I glance quickly at the slip of paper. ‘He’s visiting the States. But this is a London number.’ I begin to blush, as if I’m a schoolgirl, and to cover my confusion, I deliberately knock a pencil onto the floor. I don’t want the ever-perspicacious Kate to make any inferences about Anthony.

  ‘You’ve got to stick the area code in front of the number. They’re five hours behind,’ Kate says while I’m crawling about on the floor under my desk to retrieve the pencil. ‘It’s the Boston code, 617. He asked if you could call back as soon as possible.’

  Kate took me under her wing when she joined the department four years ago. Sometimes it’s as if she’s five years older than me rather than the reverse. She deals with four other academics, all men, but my gender works in my favour here. She does all sorts of things for me that she would never do for my male colleagues.

  Now I’ve recovered my pencil and myself, I feel able to look Kate in the face. Though I’m very fond of her, I don’t want her monitoring all my activities. ‘What’s the rush?’ My blushes have gone but my heartbeat is still too fast.

  ‘I promised him you’d call before your meeting. He said he’s going to be away for most of this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the message.’

  Kate smiles once more. It’s as if she knows I want nothing more than to speak to Anthony Blake. After she leaves, I lock the office door. There’s not enough time to phone Anthony before the board meeting, I tell myself, and I should read the papers beforehand. But I try picking up the phone, and punching in a few digits of the number Kate has given me: my hands are shaking too much to continue. I put the receiver down, and try experimenting with what I might say when the phone is answered. ‘Hello,’ I tell my empty room. ‘Can I speak to Anthony Blake please?’ My voice sounds quite calm, so I try a little more. ‘Hello, Anthony. It’s Sally Lachlan here.’ But my vocal cords have become tense, the words I speak sound strangled. I’m too agitated. I can’t do this. It’s far worse than standing up in front of a lecture hall of three hundred first-year students doing Introduction to Biology. I can’t return a simple phone call from a man I hardly know.