by Woolf, Emma
Even once she’d posted the letter, she wasn’t clear what she hoped for in return. It was enough to have written to him. Now she must put it out of her mind.
Lily was stretched full-length on the sofa in the living room, still in her bathrobe. She’d just finished talking on the phone to Harry. After a difficult few weeks, he was in good form again. “Last night was lovely,” he said. “I missed you all the way home, and you were my first thought when I woke up this morning.”
“It was a nice evening,” Lily said, “I loved the restaurant. And you seemed—I don’t know, happier, more relaxed. Are things better . . .” she hesitated. “Are things better at home?
“Oh, things here are . . . same as ever,” Harry said. “In fact, I’m being summoned right now.” He dropped his voice. “Apparently, I’m driving to the garden centre. You see my exciting Saturday plans. What about you?”
“Just pottering. Shopping with Cass this afternoon, and we’ll probably all have Sunday lunch at Mum’s tomorrow.”
“Gotta go,” Harry whispered. “Love you. Bye.”
Lily was used to the abrupt hang-up by now. As she put down the phone, she heard a knock at the door. “Is that you, Susan? Come in!”
There was the clack of high heels being slipped off in the wooden hallway and Susan popped her head around the doorframe.
“The fragrant Lady Archer!” Lily said. “How lovely to see you.” This joke about the disgraced politician Jeffrey Archer’s wife made them both smile, no matter how many times she said it.
“Have I woken you?”
“Not at all. I was about to jump into the shower, then Harry rang—which is why I’m not dressed. Let me make you a coffee or something.” Lily moved to get up from the sofa, but Susan shook her head.
“You stay right there, I’ve got the hamper waiting in the hall.” This was a large wicker hamper from Fortnum & Mason, originally a gift from one of her gentleman friends. She would periodically fill this with fresh fruit and vegetables, home-made soup, artisan bread, and other treats for Lily, and Susan being Susan, everything was of the highest quality.
Whenever Lily protested, Susan shushed her briskly, reminding her of the favours she’d done for her: “. . . anyway, you know I can’t cook, my dear. There’s some of that couscous you like, and some rather good lasagnes for the freezers, all made by the caterers. I had a party last night and they were cooking all day—it’s more than enough for me.”
“Now, to business.” Susan sat down on the sofa beside Lily. “I’m not going to take up your whole morning, but I’ve made coffee which we could have with these nice pastries. There’s something I want to ask you.” Rummaging in the large hamper she produced a silver thermos and a Tupperware box. “Cinnamon whirls from the House of Lords!”
She poured out steaming mugs of coffee. “It’s the Colombian stuff we like, freshly brewed. Now, what I wanted to ask, it’s about your mother.” Susan was always direct when there was something on her mind. “Do you think Celia gets lonely?”
Lily hesitated. “Mum? Lonely? I’m not sure. She keeps busy, but I suppose she might be a bit lonely sometimes. We’ve never really discussed it. Why?”
“Do you remember a few weeks ago when you and your mother were doing up the terrace? Patrick came round with some new garden furniture, and we all sat outside and had a drink.”
“Yes, I remember—the handsome chap with the driver—is that his name, Patrick?” Susan had plenty of gentleman friends, and Lily and Celia had assumed this was another one of her admirers. “He seemed very nice. Are you and Patrick . . . together? Are you a couple?” Lily wasn’t sure of the terminology—“boyfriend” seemed inappropriate for a man of his seniority.
“Me and Paddy?” Susan roared with laughter. “No, no, he’s my brother, two years older than me. Sorry, I thought I’d mentioned it, that’s why he’s got the private car and all that. He sits in the House of Lords too, we’ve both got the family title . . .”
Lily was laughing too by this point. “I didn’t know you had a brother, Susan! There was me, thinking he was one of your red-hot lovers.”
“Stop it!” Susan rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for lovers, red-hot or not! Anyway, ever since Patrick met you both that evening, he’s asked quite a few questions—specifically about Celia. I wasn’t sure if she liked him, or if she had a chap, or whether she’s quite happy on her own, thank you very much. I can’t abide matchmaking, there’s nothing worse than interfering in other people’s lives, but I just wondered . . . well, I thought I’d ask, that’s all.”
Lily thought back to that evening. She remembered a tall, silver-haired gentleman, who come to think of it did resemble Susan around the eyes. He’d helped his driver to carry the wrought-iron garden table and chairs through from the car; he had seemed vigorous and strong for his age. He and Celia had chatted happily on the terrace while Lily and Susan went inside to get wineglasses. Later, they had strolled around the garden, discussing possible sites for the vegetable patch.
“Let me ask her,” Lily said. “As far as I can remember, they got on well. And I think Mum could do with some male company. Or maybe, rather than us saying anything, maybe they could just meet again?”
Susan looked at her, eyes flashing with the germ of an idea. “Aha. You’re absolutely right. There’s nothing worse than being set up on a date, but if they happened to be here at the same time . . . I’m in the mood for a garden party, especially with this wonderful weather and all the planting you’ve done outside, you and Celia.”
No wonder Susan ran so many committees, Lily thought, she was a born organiser. Already she was reaching for her handbag and pulling out her reading glasses, her slim fountain pen, and her crocodile-skin Smythson notebook. Put her in charge of venues for a party, caterers, and guest lists, and Susan was in her element.
“You have your shower and get dressed, Lily—and then, come downstairs; we’ll have a sherry and put our heads together. We’ve got a garden party to organise.”
You have no right. Harry gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. This had become his hopeless mantra whenever the jealousy got unbearable: when Lily referred vaguely to an evening out, or answered a text message in his presence, or left early to meet “a friend.” Harry knew it was that ex of hers, David, and he couldn’t stand it. He’d promised Dr. Christos that he wouldn’t follow her again, but he had, several times, during that spring and summer.
In September he caught the end of a phone call as she walked along the corridor outside his office: “Sure, come over at seven. Of course, I totally understand. You know I’m here for you.” Was Harry imagining a flirtatious tone in her voice? Why didn’t she speak like that to him? Hating himself, he’d gone to wait outside her flat again that evening, hidden under trees on the opposite side of the road. It was just getting dark, and he could see the lights were on in the top two floors of the house. Just after seven p.m. a silver sports car drew up, and he knew it must be David, a tall, athletic-looking guy in his early thirties. He parked the car and got out, holding a bottle of wine.
Harry had been drinking since he left work, and he had to restrain himself from running over and grabbing the guy. Who do you think you are? What do you want with Lily? Who do you think helped her buy that bloody flat? He knew he had to get hold of himself.
They didn’t leave the flat. Harry stayed there, across the road, for several hours, getting colder, smoking, looking up at her windows. A Deliveroo motorbike arrived with pizza around eight. He went into the pub on the corner and threw back a couple of whiskies. Hours went by, it seemed, and still the man didn’t leave.
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” he told Dr. Christos. “I waited for ages, then went into the pub on the corner opposite her flat until closing time. I’d drunk three or four double whiskies quite quickly and I was full of anger and booze. I thought if I confronted him—this ex of hers, David—maybe Lily would realise how much she was hurting me.”
&
nbsp; “Go on,” Dr. Christos said.
“I stormed up to the front door and pressed Lily’s bell. She was asking over the intercom who it was, but I just kept my finger on the buzzer because I wanted her to come down and talk to me. In the end, David came down, which was the worst thing which could have happened.” Harry shook his head. “It was grotesque. I was ridiculous. Drunk, stumbling, shouting at him, did he know who I was, did he know who’d bought Lily that flat, God knows what else I said . . .”
“And your hand?” Dr. Christos gestured towards the large white bandage on Harry’s right hand.
“Oh. At some point I was threatening him, and I swung at him and ended up punching the front door, or maybe the wall beside the door. It was when Lily came down. She was dressed but barefoot—she looked so beautiful. I couldn’t take it, I was convinced they’d been in bed together, and it made me want to kill the man. I mean, he had his chance with her, their relationship ended years ago, so what’s he doing back on the scene?”
“Cassie, it was awful. He’d left work early and had clearly been drinking for hours, I’ve never seen him so drunk and out of control. He was shouting at David, throwing punches and lunging . . .”
“Lunging at David?” Cassie couldn’t help laughing. “Mixed martial arts and twenty years younger than Harry?”
“I know,” Lily said. “And the ridiculous thing is, there’s absolutely nothing going on between me and David. We were sitting upstairs on opposite sofas, discussing his ex-wife. He’s still really cut up about their divorce, and apparently she’s been ringing him, and now they’re both wondering if they’ve made a mistake. We ordered a pizza, discussed David’s marital woes, and watched Newsnight. You do believe me, Cass, nothing happened with David?”
“Of course I do. I’m more concerned about Harry, though. He sounds dangerous.”
Lily got up and closed her office door, speaking quietly into her phone. “He’s not dangerous. It was the alcohol more than anything, he was off his head. After I came downstairs and asked him to leave, he started swearing and crying and said he should never have wasted his time on me. He lurched into the road trying to hail a black cab, cars swerving around him and blaring their horns. David was so kind, though. He calmed him down and called him an Uber and smoked a cigarette with him till it arrived.”
“What is Harry’s problem?” Cassie sounded outraged. “Does he actually think he has rights over you? It’s none of his business if you choose to see David, or any other man for that matter. He’s the one who’s married with children, not you. You’re a free agent.”
“I know, Cass, I know. I love Harry, but this is wrong. I don’t know what he thinks he’s seen, whether he’s been listening to my calls or what, but I’ve honestly never cheated on him. It was terrible seeing him crying and pitifully drunk, with that swollen hand, and he wouldn’t let us take him to the hospital. I didn’t know what to do, how to get him home safely.”
“Seriously, Lil, Harry is delusional. I always liked the guy, but this is nuts. You should report him to the police for what he did last night. If it’s not assault, it’s definitely stalking.”
“I don’t want to report him,” Lily said, her voice flat with exhaustion. “I love him, but he’s really troubled right now. After David left, around eleven, I sat there on the living room floor and I felt . . . unsafe. I looked around my flat, wondering if there were cameras hidden in corners, if Harry’s accessing my phone and things, you know?”
“I’m sure it hasn’t gone that far,” Cassie said. “It sounds like last night was a terrible combination of booze and jealousy, but hopefully it was just a one-off. Is he at work today—have you spoken to him?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Lily said. “We had a departmental meeting this morning, and he didn’t show up. His office door is closed and there’s no sign of his laptop or jacket. Everyone’s asking me where he is. I think maybe he had an appointment with his shrink, but I’m not sure. I’ll give it a few more hours and try calling him before I leave here.”
* * *
I thought things couldn’t get any worse, after finding Harry’s phone and discovering—well, basically everything. All these months I’ve lived with that knowledge, all the places he’s been with Lily, all the lies he’s told me, all the money and love he’s been lavishing on her, and yet I’ve said nothing. Why? Because I’m too scared to confront him, I suppose. Because it always comes down to this: I confront him, tell him I know everything, then he says, “Yes, it’s true and I want a divorce . . .”
And then what? Remember in Florida when I confided in Polly and she told me that Andrew had done the same thing, but she left it and eventually it blew over . . . I wanted to believe her—and I almost convinced myself in the end that it was the right choice, the dutiful, morally right choice. I was being a good wife, thinking of our family unit, thinking of the boys’ future, keeping us together. I told myself that Harry’s fling was just a midlife crisis, a last spark of passion as he feels his male virility ebbing away (OK, that bit was from Poll), all middle-aged men do it, boys will be boys, etc.
But it wasn’t just a fling, and it hasn’t ended. Since I’ve known the truth, I’ve become cleverer and he’s become lazier. I can read him like a book, the “late nights in London doing work things” are evenings with Lily. I can smell the unfamiliar scent on him when he gets back—her shower gel, deodorant or detergent, whatever it is—a woman knows when it’s not from her home. I can see at a glance the hastily rearranged shirt and tie, the damp tousled hair. Don’t tell me that’s normal at midnight after a long working day. With a couple of checks—on his phone (still no password) and his bank balance—I can see he’s spending as much time with her as ever. It still upsets me, of course. But like I said in my last blog, until I decide what to do I’m sort of . . . well, living with it.
And now this. I don’t know what to make of it. We had people coming for dinner last night, the house master and his wife from Joe and Dan’s school. Apparently it’s expected of us, to invite the house master for dinner, everyone does it. The evening had been arranged for ages, and I’d reminded Harry about it over breakfast. He said he’d clear his diary and leave the office early, he even said he’d pick up flowers and wine on the way home.
So much for flowers. He simply didn’t show up. He didn’t even ring with an excuse. I must have called him ten or twenty times, until our guests arrived, at which point I had to invent a work-related reason for Harry’s non-appearance.
They left around eleven thirty p.m., sympathetic and clearly embarrassed for me. I cleared away dinner, trying to work my rage out on the kitchen surfaces, smashing a few wineglasses along the way. I kept thinking what I’d say to Harry when he got back, how he’d let me down yet again, what a terrible impression we’d made on the boys’ house master. I was so angry but I had no energy for another pointless argument, yet more recriminations on my side and more lies on his.
It was nearly one a.m. and I was getting into bed when I heard the familiar crunching of cab wheels on gravel. Harry stumbled up the driveway and started ringing the doorbell. He had no cash for the driver, no house keys, and he was holding a bottle of something, whisky I think. One of his hands was swollen and bleeding, and it looked like he’d been crying. All my anger evaporated. Harry was drunk and confused and pitiful. In twenty years of marriage, I’d never seen him in such a state.
I paid the driver and went straight back upstairs. Harry stayed downstairs all night—I don’t think either of us got any sleep. And Daniel said something strange at breakfast. He said he’d woken in the night and Harry was standing beside his bed, not saying anything, just standing there. Joe said Dan was probably imagining it, but I don’t know.
It was a few days later, around half past six, when Harry left the house. He’d barely slept since the scene outside Lily’s place. He’d been drinking his way through the nights, sitting in the dark kitchen, wandering around the garden smoking, his hand still swollen
and his body aching with despair. He had seen Dr. Christos but it hadn’t helped. Nothing helped.
That morning something inside him shifted. He got into the car as if driving to the early train to London, but somewhere along the way he realised he wasn’t going there. He skirted the train station, turned at random onto a road out of town, away from his home, away from the school, the shops, this familiar neighbourhood where they had lived for more than ten years. After a while he found himself on the motorway heading for the south coast, the place he grew up, where he had been happy as a boy. He kept visualising the sea and the sky, open space and emptiness. A way out.
He was driving fast on the motorway, gripping the steering wheel tight, beads of sweat on his forehead, his jaw clenched. His thoughts were racing, caught in a spiral: Lily, Dan and Joe, the confusion, needing to sleep, the pain in his back, everything ruined, never seeing them, touching her face, Pippa’s anger, Lily’s tears . . .
Harry drove blindly towards the sea and the sky, fleeing the mess he’d made of everything. His bridges were burned now and there was no way back. He pulled out a cigarette but he couldn’t light the damn thing, he couldn’t hold the lighter steady. He needed to put his head in his hands, his head was too heavy, but his hands were shaking, and he was hot, so hot, he was burning up. It was a cold morning but his hands were slippery with sweat and his shirt was sticking to his back.
He found the button for the window, then there was a rush of cold air and the relief of a breeze through the car, somewhere the sound of birds. He closed his eyes for a moment and rested his head against the window frame. He swerved and opened his eyes, gripping the steering wheel tighter, aware that he was driving too fast. The air cooled him and he felt calmer but very weak. The road ahead was a blur. More slowly now, he saw vivid images of the people he’d loved: Dan and Joe when they were first born, tiny and soft and new. The baby daughter who had lived only a few hours. Pippa walking down the aisle towards him, so young and full of hope. His father’s face when he was dying. Lily’s smile.
