by Adele Parks
"What do you mean? All that cooking and cleaning and rearing and remembering his mother's birthday and darning and sewing buttons on his shirts and ironing and attending his bloody boring work functions and massaging his ego and rearing his children and being nice? You think it counts for something, do you, Connie?"
"Well, yes, I do actually," I answer honestly.
"Well, it doesn't."
I guess not. After all, it didn't count for me, not at the time, did it?
Rose turns to me and very seriously asks, "Did you know, Connie?"
"No. No, really I didn't. It seems so stupid now. I should have put two and two together. I knew she was having an affair with a married man. She even told me that her lover"—Rose shoots me a look and I stumble—"boyfriend"—wrong again, I settle for—"that he was called Pete. But I didn't know he was your Peter."
"He was always going to be somebody's Peter, if he was a married man. Maybe not mine, but someone's husband, someone's dad, someone's love, sweetheart, hope, future."
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It is very hot all of a sudden. I wiggle on my deck chair.
Rose has been remarkable about Peter's desertion. She has faced it with a quiet acceptance that has amazed me, and incensed Daisy.
"So, you're just going to let that bitch walk away with him are you? Without putting up a fight," Daisy had yelled.
"I can't force him to love me. I can't force him to stay."
Rose had arrived at our house on Saturday night. She didn't cry at all, although she necked a bottle of red and three straight whiskies, which did suggest that she wasn't totally unmoved. Luke and I had sat with her until she passed out. Then we went to bed and held each other. Very, very tightly. In the black silence I lay on his chest and he stroked my hair.
"Those poor children," he'd whispered.
"They are very young, they'll be fine. Poor Rose," I'd replied.
"It's so wrong." Luke squeezed me a little tighter. "How could Peter be so selfish?"
I felt like someone who has just crushed their Jaguar but has walked away unhurt. It could very easily have been Luke bunked up at Rose and Peter's. Sometimes it is disconcerting just how right Lucy can be. I figure it is her training in the city that gives her this sixth sense for so many things. Relief had not been the end of my package tour. I was acutely relieved that I was sympathizing with Rose and not the other way round. But as I lay in Luke's arms I felt crippled with shame. I was overpowered by the knowledge that I'd betrayed Luke and myself, my values, my hopes. Strangely I was grateful for the shame. It allowed me to be contrite.
"This is typical of Lucy, but I can't understand Peter," mused Luke.
"No," I mumbled and clung harder still.
The sad conversation with Rose contrasts with the elated call I received from Lucy.
"Why didn't you tell me that Pete is Peter?" I'd screamed down the phone. "Hang on." I dragged the phone into the downstairs coat cupboard and sat among packing boxes, anoraks and smelly trainers. Rose was still staying with us— this was a precaution against her hearing.
"I did. You didn't listen," answered Lucy clearly.
"Weren't there enough married men out there for you?"
"Don't be a hypocrite, Con."
Fair point. I heard Lucy light a cigarette, drain back her G8cT, and pour herself another.
"I didn't plan it," she defended. Her excuse sounded familiar.
"No?"
"No."
"But you didn't stop it."
"Look, Connie, if you want to call me a bitch, can you say it quickly but quite honestly, I don't think you are in much of a position to condemn."
I sigh, "No, I suppose not. But she's your friend. You knew when we were in that bridal shop that he was packing his suitcases to come and live with you. How did you manage to carry on the affair and still see Rose?"
"You're sleeping in Luke's bed every night, aren't you?" Her answer was cruel and accurate. It amazes me how brutal truth is.
"Don't tell me you're in love with him."
"OK, I won't."
Hmmm, now my curiosity was bubbling over.
"Go on, tell me. Are you in love with him?"
"I do love him." The words settled between us.
"Oh well then." I didn't know what to say.
"And he loves me." Naturally.
"Did it have to be him, Lucy?"
"Apparently, it did. It always was. From the day we hung
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out of the hall of residence window waiting to see what Rose's boyfriend was like, I was impressed. No other man has ever affected me in the same way. I'm not even going to say that I'm sorry. Because I'm not. I'm thrilled. I'm ecstatic."
This is Lucy! This is too much.
"That stuff about destinies, Connie. Well, you are right. There is such a thing. Pete is mine. I'm his. It is awful that other people are going to get hurt by this, but I'm worth it. So is he. I make him happy. Rose didn't. I'll make sure he's fair to her and that he is a father to the boys, but I love him."
This turn of events has given me a lot to think about. Naturally, I've compared Peter and Lucy's affair to my own. On the one hand I admire their courage to ruthlessly pursue their own happiness and yet simultaneously I abhor their selfishness. I realize now that marriages, even those of my friends, can break down. I stalk the thought. If Peter managed to leave Rose and the boys without being ostracized from life, then I could have left Luke. If I had wanted. Luke waves at me from the shed. My heart hiccups.
I'm staying put.
uke comes home from playing football wearing more mud than Kew Gardens and catches me watching my third black and white movie of the day. He flings open the curtains, the April afternoon sun reflecting on the TV, dazzling the stars.
"Ah ha. A near empty box of Milk Tray, half a box of Kleenex and at least three, no, four pots of tea"—he lists the debris I am immersed in—"looks like a successful afternoon." I shush him as Celia Johnson's clipped tones signal the end of Brief Encounter. I sigh and reach for the remote.
"Marvelous," I confirm, "Funny Face, Casablanca, and finally Brief Encounter."
Luke grins. "We've saved a fortune in the King's Road since you discovered cable."
Thinking about one of the lines in one of the films I ask, "Do you think you are more obsessed with me and interested in me than any other man has ever been, or ever will be?"
"No," replies Luke, calmly.
"No," I repeat, disappointed.
"No," he confirms. Damn and blast his honesty. If only he would humor me. Then he adds, "Anyone with any intelligence would be obsessed with you. I just got lucky that you let me be the one to have the most opportunities to show my interest."
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I look at his blond head bent over his bleeding knee and I suddenly feel very strange. Sort of sick and giddy. I don't know what to say, so I say, "Oh, Luke. You're bleeding." I jump up, concerned.
"Don't worry, it's only a surface wound," he laughs, limping over to me on the settee.
"I'm not worried about you, only the carpet," I tease to hide my feelings, as I fetch the TCP.
"Shit. That stings."
"Must be good for you then."
"I think this is more serious than we first suspected."
"Why?"
"It's the knock on the head. I'm hallucinating."
"Really?"
"I can smell cooking."
"Pig. I thought I'd surprise you. I've made a fennel and vodka risotto."
"The shock might finish me off. What's in there?" He points to the oven.
"Artichokes baked in foil with thyme."
"How did you know where to buy herbs?"
"I'm not completely useless," I say, pretending to be offended. Then I confess, "Actually, I rang Rose—she also told me how to put the extractor on."
"Pudding?" he asks incredulously, his open face hazing with confusion.
"Black currant
ice cream."
"Oh, Ben &c Jerry's," he smiles, relieved.
"No, homemade." I can hardly keep the smugness out of my voice.
"I think you're ill," he says with mock concern, "I think you'd better lie down. And the shock has left me dizzy. I think I better lie down, too."
So we do.
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We get up to eat my supper and drink a lot of wine. We are tempted to stay in bed but Luke understands the importance of my cooking and knows that I will be disappointed if he suggests we skip supper, however much fun we are having in bed. It doesn't taste all that good, so I fill up on the hazelnut whirls which lie forlornly in the Milk Tray box, previously beneath my notice. Luke valiantly eats everything and even insists that he is enjoying it.
He talks to me about his game of football and although my interest is sub-zero I really try to concentrate on what the difference is between a forward and a defender. He is in a particularly good mood because he managed a hat trick. I was not aware that they wore hats, let alone that they had to perform tricks with them.
"I might come and watch you next week," I offer.
"Really," he beams, "won't you be very bored? Wouldn't you miss your black and weepies?"
"No, I'd like it." I pause. I am glowing with his love-making. We really have made love. Not acrobatics, not gymnastics, not a sparring competition where we see how many stances we can each take. It was not duty, or guilty, or perfunctory. I lost myself to him. I began to confuse his body and mine as I melted into him. My body is his again. My heart is his.
My secret is mine.
"Luke." I have to tell him. I have to confess. Honesty is the best policy. How can we ever be close again if I have this huge secret hanging over me? How can we ever recover the intimacy that we experienced in the very beginning? It is fairest all round. Only when he knows all of me can he decide if he wants to be with me. I panic as I follow this line of thought. What if he decides he wants to leave?
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You all right?"
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"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" Suddenly there is a vast expanse of silence, miles of the stuff, gallons of the stuff, an eternity's worth. I search for the words. The explanation. I hunt around the silence but draw a blank. How can I explain myself? I can't. We both listen to the clock ticking and Everything But The Girl playing on a neighbor's stereo. There are no right words for something so wrong. Silence is the best policy. What would I gain from telling him about John? Ease my conscience, destroy his peace of mind?
"Let's make a toast," he says, refilling my glass.
"What to?"
"Here's to life."
"Did you say 'here's to love' or 'life'?"
"I said 'life.'"
"OK. To life." I am a bit disappointed.
"And love."
"Here's to love," I say smiling.
"It's one and the same to me." He nods.
"What do you mean?" There's silence again. He traces my eyebrow with his finger.
"Connie, I know I'm not big on the romantic gestures and I probably don't tell you often enough. Christ, you're such a romantic I don't think it would be possible to tell you often enough, but, I do love you. I love you. You are my life. Your love is my life."
There is a monster lump in my throat and I want to say something as wonderful back but I can't think of anything big enough. Instead I squeeze his hand. Luke goes on.
"I know I don't always say the right thing, or seem to be concentrating on you, but you are everything to me. I live for you. All the work I do is to build us a great life. It's my way of looking after you." Luke, normally so quiet, is now on a roll. "And although you are very complicated and I know that I don't always read you properly, I'll never stop trying. I want to
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explore your mind, all the different scenes. Because you are the most challenging, interesting, fascinating woman I've ever met."
Did he just say fascinating?
"Did you just say 'fascinating'?"
Luke blushes and begins to clear the plates. "I just realized that we don't often tell each other that stuff anymore."
I listen to him scrape plates and let the cat out. He comes back into the dining room. I am sitting in the exact same spot he left me in. I can't move.
"Luke, I love you." I mean it so much I'm terrified. He nods.
"Fancy a game of cards?" He's obviously had enough deepness for one evening.
"No, Luke." I can't explain myself, so instead I am as generous as I know how to be. "I'd like us to agree to something." I drain the last drops of wine from my glass. "I'd like us to agree that if we are ever making each other unhappy, we should call it a day. We shouldn't torture each other."
Luke's response surprises me. "Oh no," he says, looking shocked, "no. I'd have to find out why I'd started to make you unhappy or even stopped making you happy and I'd have to fix it."
I stare at him amazed that he can move tenderness and generosity to such a new and exalted plane.
"Connie, I'm never going to lose you or let you go." He holds my hand very tightly, as though he thinks I am about to run out of the door there and then. Which couldn't be further from the truth, because I know that I want to be exactly where I am now. I want to be holding this man's hand. I want to be this man's wife.
Much later we go to bed and my drunken slumber is interrupted by the sound of the fax machine downstairs chugging
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into action. I feel Luke stir too. The fax machine groaning into activity in the middle of the night is a rare, but not unprecedented, occurrence. I roll over and just as I am about to bury my head under the pillow, I notice that Luke is getting up.
"What time is it?"
"2:45."
"Can't it wait until the morning?"
"No, I'm expecting a fax from Australia about the slate for the restaurant roof, this is probably it. I can't sleep knowing that it's in the in-tray, deciding my fate and the fate of thousands of others, men, women and children." He raises his eyebrow with good humor and adds, "Especially children, Con." I fail to see the joke. He stumbles downstairs and I toss and turn, moving my pillow, trying to mold it into the shape of Luke so I can go back to sleep. I only just close my eyes when he comes back upstairs and into the room. I throw back the duvet to welcome him back to bed but he doesn't get in. He puts on the light, momentarily blinding me. As I blink away this rude interruption, I mumble, "What's up?" Something clearly is. His face is white, granite. He throws the fax he is carrying onto the bed. It flutters and then rests.
"This fax isn't for me. It's for you, I believe."
I know immediately that it isn't a work fax. Regret pierces, I gave John all my numbers; work, home, mobile, e-mail, fax, in the days when I was desperate for him to contact me. I know the fax is from John. Not that John has ever sent me a fax before, I just know. As I should have known that, sooner or later, my world would fall into tiny pieces.
The fax is handwritten in large, illegible letters. It reads:
Greenie, I have to have you now.
The second "have" is underlined a number of times.
"So, Greenie ..." Luke hesitates as he uses my premarital
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nickname, a foreigner in our married home, "what's this about?" His voice is barely a whisper. He offers me a look which is at once hopeful and accusing. His eyes are small beads of confusion and horror. "I'm sure there's an innocent explanation." Now his face is pleading. And right now I'd sell my soul to be able to laugh and reassure him that, of course, there is an innocent explanation, or at least to be quick enough to come up with a convincing excuse. An excuse that would allow us both to climb back into bed and fall back to sleep, in our safe, little world. As I open my mouth we both hear the fax lumber into action again. Luke speeds out of the bedroom and leaps downstairs.
I slowly get out of bed, put on my dressing gown and snail my way downstairs. I feel like Anne Bol
eyn sailing down the Thames, toward the Tower. When I get to Luke's office he is sitting at his desk watching the machine churn out another fax. This one is even less legible than the first, but it is legible enough. It reads:
Greenie, I want you. I want you in every sense. Now! Now!! Call me, you have to call me. I have to have you again.
Then as an afterthought he'd added,
I'm in the office.
As I read the word "again" I hear the nails being banged into my coffin. My mind swiftly orders the pieces of the puzzle. John's been out on the town. He's drunk gallons. He's tried to pull. He's failed. He's stumbled into the office to pick up his weekend work or call a cab. He's still randy so finally he's thought of me. I cannot think of a convincing lie that is going to whitewash this evidence. I look at Luke. He looks as though
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I've physically assaulted him. He is bruised and shocked, he is obviously in excruciating pain. The tiny thrill that I'd felt in my abdomen, that John had got in touch, is snuffed out in an instant. We say nothing as the fax churns into action for a third time. I glare at the incriminating machine, just shut the fuck up. The third and final fax reads:
Greenie, how does the song go? "Let me rub you up and down until you say stop. Let me play with your body, make you real hot. Let me do all the things that you dream of. I can't forget the curves of your body and it makes me feel so naughty."
It's a song! The bastard. It's a song! I hadn't realized up until then that the erotic, naughty talk wasn't even original. It's a song. Luke, still silent, waits until the fax is finished and then switches the machine over to telephone. As he does so, it immediately rings. He picks it up and I want to die. I can see from the way he knits his brow and pulls in his lips that he is enraged, stunned, pained, confused, yet he keeps all of this turmoil out of his voice as he calmly says, "No, you can't speak to her. This is her husband and I say you can't speak to her, she's in bed."
My head is reeling. I want to talk to John. Then I don't. I want to shout at John. And then I don't. I want to scream, why? Why now, you bastard? Why after weeks of silence? But I don't. I want to reassure Luke but I can't. I want to comfort Luke but I can't. I want to say to Luke that it isn't what it seems, but it is. I want it to be something different, but it isn't. I hold my breath, I am waiting for anger or for accusations, for tears, for insults, waiting for a chance to justify myself. A cold prickly tension creeps up my legs, the back of my knees are sweating. What an odd place to sweat. I can hear the immersion heater and a couple of drunks in the street, laughing. I
