by Jennie Ensor
She took another mouthful of bisque. ‘I hope Laura will be alright.’
Paul didn’t answer. He’d put down his soup spoon and was still gazing intently across the room.
‘Paul?’
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ He frowned and made an impatient clucking noise. ‘Why shouldn’t she be alright?’
‘I told you, I had a feeling when she phoned that something was bothering her.’
‘She’s unemployed still. She’d be bothered about that, I should think. How on earth is she going to manage without a job?’
‘It wasn’t that. Not just that. There was something else.’ She couldn’t quite nail what it was. It had struck her that Laura was holding something back, something was definitely not right. The phone, though, made it even harder to communicate with Laura than face to face.
‘Did she say anything?’
‘No, nothing.’ She finished her soup and patted her mouth with her napkin, relieved that none of the liquid had found its way to her dress. ‘I’ll find out when I go over next week, I suppose. She’s asked me over for lunch.’ At long last, she silently added. She’d forgotten when she’d last visited Laura.
‘You invent things to worry about, Suzanne.’ He tore a piece of bread from the freshly baked sourdough roll on his plate, not looking at her. His mind was somewhere else, again.
‘Did you reply to your sister’s email?’ she asked, remembering his news of the previous week. His mother had no more than two months left, the doctors thought; the cancer had reached her brain.
Paul drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I told her I’m not going.’
The familiar frustration grew inside her. Why was he always so rigid about things?
‘Canada isn’t so far away,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been back once in all the time we’ve been together. You might not get another chance to talk to her.’
He gave her a warning look. Her instinct was usually to keep quiet so as not to upset him. This time, curiosity, or something else overcame it. He’d left home as soon as he could to get away from his parents. His father had been strict and distant, had cared only about him being top of the class, Paul told her soon after they’d met. And he’d hated his mother.
‘Was she really that bad?’
He tilted his head upwards, eyes shut, and let it rest there for a few moments. A rush of breath escaped his mouth as his eyes met hers.
‘She was fucking terrible. What she did to me …’ His gaze retreated from her and he went to some place she couldn’t reach. ‘I came seven years after Vicky. She never wanted me from the start. Vicky and Tania were everything to her, her perfect family.’ He paused. ‘I told you this before, didn’t I? There was some problem with her coil. I read about it in her diary. She didn’t want another child, and definitely not a boy.’ His mouth twisted into a smirk, making his face ugly. ‘But she was from a good Catholic family, so she couldn’t get an abortion.’
Although she had heard this before, it still shocked her to hear about his mother. She had met her briefly, during their three-day visit to London to see their son get married. Lucinda. A tall, thin Canadian woman, who carried herself like a dancer, his mother had been reserved, aloof at times, though hardly the ogre she’d expected. In contrast, his father, a heavy, boxy man, abrasively forthright in manner, had reminded her of a prowling bear. Paul had treated them both with cool politeness, as if they were an aunt and uncle he was obliged to tolerate.
‘Isn’t there a chance,’ she began cautiously, ‘that you two could heal the rift somehow? Or to at least come to some resolution. Once she’s gone, you won’t get another chance.’
‘Don’t you think I know that already?’
‘I’m just saying. It’s up to you, of course it is. It just seems such a waste, to shut them out of your life like this—’
‘Those are your issues. You can’t get over losing your parents, let alone Richard, so you try to turn everyone else’s into what you never had.’ His voice softened. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I know you’re only trying to help.’
Her own parents had meant so much to her; her father’s death in a sailing accident when she was eight years old was the worst thing she’d ever known, by far. Twelve years on, her mother was struck down by a lorry as she cycled to the shops. And then it was Richard’s turn. The unfairness of it all still rankled, especially when she was with people who’d never had to face such loss. In her worst moments, she wondered if she had been cursed.
‘So,’ Paul began, breaking off another mouthful of bread. ‘You’ll be off to that thing of yours next weekend?’
‘The retreat, you mean? Yes, I’ve booked a room.’ She braced herself for his reaction. He would no doubt tell her what a waste of time these mumbo-jumbo activities were, and try to persuade her not to go.
‘When are you leaving?’
‘Friday afternoon. I’m taking Jilly. She’ll share the cost of the fuel.’
‘You’re not back till Sunday?’
‘Around six in the evening, depending on the traffic. You’ll have to fend for yourself, darling.’
‘Oh, I’ll manage.’ He smiled. ‘I hope it goes well, Suze. And you get what you want out of it.’
Goodness, that was unusually positive. A band of tension left her neck and shoulders. They should go away more often.
As she was scraping up the last of her dessert, Paul’s head moved. His eyes were tracking something behind her. She turned around. The family of four were making their way out of the dining room. The parents were followed by the boy and, some way behind, the redhead. Her hips swayed as she walked. Her hair came down almost to her waist, shimmering sunset tones under the chandeliers.
Paul turned his head to follow her until she left the room. His expression as he turned back was odd, almost shocked. He picked up his large, tulip-shaped wine glass. When he put down the glass, there was only a purplish residue above the stem.
An uneasy sensation pooled in her gut. First it had been that girl at Katherine’s party. Then she’d caught him waving to the leggy girl at number 39, who went past with her family’s dog – a huge Boxer that always snarled at Marmaduke. The other Sunday, Paul had stopped cleaning the car and stood chatting to her on the pavement. She’d seen them from the bedroom window. It looked as if they had been conversing for quite a while, with frequent smiles on both sides. She hadn’t made out any words. After a minute or so she’d become uneasy, standing there behind the curtain like a paranoid wife, and had hurried back downstairs before anyone saw her. And now, this girl. All of them would still be at school, not even halfway through their teens. That was odd, wasn’t it?
She tossed the thought away, wondering at herself. Surely, she couldn’t be jealous of girls who were young enough to be her own daughters – or granddaughters? She was putting two and two together and making five. When he chose to be, Paul could be charming and friendly with all sorts of people – men and women, young and old – it was just his way.
They took their cognacs into the lounge. The embers in the grate glowed red. As they sat down on the sofa there was a sharp crack, then a thud as a large log fell, sending up a shower of orange sparks. Suzanne relaxed. She was glad to be away from the formality of the restaurant. They talked of the places they wanted to visit, and friends they would like to see in the years ahead, while they were still healthy and active.
She put her hand on Paul’s.
‘Do you think we’ll still be together in another twenty-five years?’
‘I’m sure we will, Suze, if we’re still around by then – if you haven’t worried yourself to death.’ He swallowed the last of his cognac then squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs.’
She followed Paul along the hall, her heels tapping on the polished wood floor. They passed the enormous antlered head that lunged out of the wall and began climbing the stairs.
A sudden blast of sound from below startled her, like someone banging on a giant gong with all their strength. She s
topped, jerkily, nearly losing her footing on the stairs.
‘Oh my God! What’s that?’
‘Careful, you’ll knock that cat over. It’s only the grandfather clock.’
Heart thudding, she stepped away from the window ledge, which bore a heavy-looking statue of a creature bearing some resemblance to a cat – a sinister, wolfish cat. It was wobbling, but wasn’t going to fall, thank goodness.
The lamps on either side of their bed cast a yellowish glow over the room. A vase of mauve heather stood on the antique dressing table, which had been polished to a high shine. Suzanne opened a small window and leaned out, taking a deep breath of soft, clean air. The sky was huge and so magnificently black, not the patches of washed-out, yellowish brown they had at home. Stretching across it, the lacy swathes of the Milky Way. There were too many stars to take in, as if a child had thrown handfuls of glitter at a black canvas. A rush of awe inside her. How could anyone not look at this and marvel? The universe was vast, unknowable, and greater than anything anyone could imagine. It made her worries seem insignificant.
Paul unfastened her shoes then removed her dress. They kissed on the bed with an unusual intensity, then he undressed and they started to make love. Her responses seemed muffled, weaker than usual. Suddenly, he stood and moved her to stand against the window frame. He thrust harder from behind. She shivered in the cool air, hoping it wouldn’t take too much longer. Then, without warning, she began to moan. Her body had come to life. He moved more urgently, pushing her into the wall. A shudder went through her, a gasp escaped her mouth. The orgasm thrilled her, its unexpected intensity drenching her.
Lying in the darkness, wrapped in his arms, thoughts of their marriage came and went. Were things really as bad as she’d imagined? Their sex life might be less varied and, in general, less passionate than it once had been. It certainly wasn’t over, though. Emotionally too, she’d felt closer to Paul this weekend than she had for a long time. Had he just needed a break from the demands of work? Or could this all just be an act he’d put on to please her, mindful of their anniversary? Was he secretly fed up with her, waiting for an opportunity to meet someone else?
No, that was ridiculous.
Although she willed them to stop, the thoughts carried on. Perhaps he had met someone already. He was always so keen to leave for Putney on Saturdays. If he wasn’t interested in Jane, could he have his eye on Emma? After all, she was young, slim, attractive.
Emma? No, that was totally crazy. Emma wasn’t even a teenager. Her husband wouldn’t be attracted to a child of twelve. He was helping Jane, that’s all, doing her a favour.
God, she really was getting paranoid. This had to stop. She wasn’t going to let herself become one of those sad women who lived in permanent fear of their partner straying. She had to trust Paul – at least, until she had a good reason not to.
9
Laura
10 March 2011
Laura sat up and rubbed her eyes. She felt sluggish, unrefreshed from her night’s sleep. The sun glared through a gap in the curtains. At least there was one good thing about being unemployed: no one gave a hoot if you spent half the morning in bed. Then the dart of memory, a shadow falling and darkening everything. This was the day. Her mother would be here in just two hours.
In the bathroom, Laura splashed her face with cold water. The basin and mirror weren’t particularly clean and patches of mould were sprouting from cracks between the tiles. She inspected the rest of the flat. In the living area, the carpet looked wearier than ever, alongside the meagre furniture and a clutter of newspapers, the discarded cups and CDs. In the kitchen, unwashed crockery queued next to the kitchen sink. Above it, bottle-green cupboards flaked paint.
Why had she suggested her mother come here – and what were they going to have for lunch? She removed a cookery book from the shelf, leafed quickly through its glossy photographs, and returned it. The recipes were far too complicated and time-consuming. It would have to be pasta.
After a quick shower, she set to work with as much vigour as she could muster. The physical effort of cleaning helped her to stop thinking about what would happen later that afternoon. Every time she paused for a few moments, the knowledge of it returned, along with a sloshing and roiling inside her gut, like something nasty was stuck there.
At 1.30pm Laura sat down and waited for the buzzer. Everything was ready. The dirt and mess had gone and every surface gleamed expectantly. Fresh fruit salad in glass bowls. A bottle of wine chilled in the fridge. A vase of assorted bright flowers from the local supermarket overlooked the table, which was now covered in the unused tablecloth her mother had given her. A clean, folded towel on the bathroom rail.
Ten minutes later her mother arrived, wafting a crisp floral scent, a daffodil-yellow silk scarf tied at her neck.
‘Hello, darling.’ Her mother stepped inside, arms opening for a hug. ‘You’ve got the flat looking spick and span. I love the new cushions.’
‘Thanks, Mum. How was your weekend away?’
‘The hotel was fabulous – we had champagne in our room when we arrived, breakfast in bed.’ Her hands began to dance, as they always did when she became enthusiastic.
‘What about Dad? Did he enjoy it too?’
‘He was happier than he’s been for ages – that was such a relief. I wasn’t treading on eggshells the whole time.’
After her mother had visited the bathroom, they sat down at the table. Out of the window they could see a squirrel leaping about on the corrugated roofs of the row of garages below.
‘Mmm, this is very good.’ Her mother waved a fettuccine-laden fork. ‘How’s the job hunt going?’
‘Not so well. Everyone wants someone with loads of experience. Having a degree makes no difference.’ A first-class degree probably put people off, she thought. They’d assume she was the clever but impractical type, who wouldn’t know how to liaise with printers or send out mailshots. And they were right, weren’t they?
‘What about that job you went for the other week? The editorial assistant at that magazine?’
‘I haven’t heard anything. I don’t think I have much chance of getting on the shortlist, to be honest.’ Over a hundred people had applied, they’d told her; they’d been interviewing all week. They’d asked her to list her three biggest career achievements, and why she’d had so many jobs since leaving university.
‘Will you be OK to pay the rent, darling? What if you don’t find a job for a while?’
‘I should be OK. I’ve got some money saved, and I’m getting Jobseekers Allowance now.’
That was being optimistic, she knew. Her student loan was nowhere near paid off. The small amount she’d managed to save was dwindling rapidly. The JSA wasn’t nearly enough to cover the rent, and her housing benefit, so they told her last week, could take another month to arrive because of a claims backlog.
‘We can always lend you some money to tide you over, if you need it.’
‘Thanks, Mum, but I’ll be alright. I’ll find something soon, don’t worry.’
Taking a handout from her parents would be admitting that she was still a child who couldn’t look after herself. Worse, it would be her father’s money – her mother earned peanuts compared to him.
‘You know you’re always welcome to come and stay with us for a while,’ her mother went on. ‘I know you don’t like the idea much, now you’re so independent, but it might be more sensible than renting.’
‘Thanks, but no. I’m sure something will come up soon, Mum.’ The words came out a bit too sharp. But she couldn’t live in the same house as him again, not even for a week.
Silence grew in the room like an invisible fog. Her mother looked out of the window, sending off a cloud of hurt and disappointment. Laura concentrated on eating more of the pasta on her plate. Somehow or other, she had to tell her mother the truth. But how? She and her mother didn’t do heart-to-hearts. How would she go about destroying this false conception of her father? Should she dismantl
e it in one blow, or slowly, piece by piece? And what if what her father said about the breakdown was true, and telling the truth about Dad triggered another one?
‘I’m glad you asked me over. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance for a good talk, just the two of us.’ Her mother paused, a trace of a smile on her face. The sun was turning her hair into a halo of golden threads. ‘It would be good to meet up now and then for a chat, do you think? You’ve been so preoccupied lately. We don’t even talk on the phone nowadays.’
Laura didn’t reply immediately. She had an instinct to defend herself. But what her mother said was true. She’d kept Mum just out of reach, not letting her get too close. It was as if the silence she’d kept about her father for all these years had come between them, and squeezed out all the normal things they might have talked about, all the closeness they might have had.
‘I know, Mum. I’m sorry about that.’
It sounded lame. She wanted to say something better, but could think of nothing else to say. Laura picked up the plates and took them into the kitchen; she placed a spoonful of ice cream in each glass bowl, on top of the fruit salad, and brought them to the table.
They were quiet again. Outside, the roof glared silver, making the room bright.
‘Do you think there’s something strange about Dad?’
The words came out of her mouth before she knew it. Her mother froze, a piece of kiwifruit impaled on her fork. Then she put down the fork and laughed.
‘So many of the things Paul does are strange. He seems to get stranger as time goes on, are you thinking of anything in particular?’
Laura dug her spoon into the fruit and let it stay there. It would be so easy to tell her now, the easiest thing in the world.
