by Parks, Adele
‘You were perfect,’ Eddie murmured. The compliment settled on her, took effect like the first sip of crisp champagne; it trickled through her, causing her to dance on the inside, as his rare but coveted compliments always had. ‘The perfect mistress,’ he added, immediately fast-forwarding through the delightful drunken haze and flinging her into a regretful hangover. He had not changed, then. She leant close to him and heard him whisper, ‘You never asked awkward questions.’ Clearing up his definition of perfection.
No, she had never humiliated herself or embarrassed him by asking questions. She never asked if she was his only current mistress, or whether he was still sleeping with his wife. When she first found out, through gossip in the office, that his wife was pregnant with a second child, she thought she would die. The jealousy ripped at her innards, tore at her mind, lacerated her body. She thought she would not be able to touch him again. She stormed into his office and threw a hole punch at his head. Before then, she’d never given him any hint at how she felt about him. How she was his. She hadn’t ever said she loved him, although he said it to her often enough. She had doubted him; she thought he was the type to be quite loose-lipped when it came to saying as much to women.
He’d been mesmerised by her apparent indifference, but her obvious jealousy captivated him entirely. For the first time in his life he wanted to please a woman more than he wanted to please himself. He’d slammed his office door closed, silenced her angry yells with hot, hard kisses and then he’d had her up against the wall, just yards away from where their colleagues were typing and filing.
‘You were awful,’ she said with a smile.
‘Wasn’t I?’ he replied with eminent pleasure.
‘Not in the least perfect, by anyone’s standard.’ She made sure she sounded as though she was joking – that was always her way with him – but as she said it, she realised she was still angry. She hadn’t thought this was the case; she’d told herself she’d reached a state of indifference years and years ago. Immune. The letter had exposed her as a fraud. She was not immune. To him, or to the consequences.
‘We had something for a while there, didn’t we?’ A dying man could say it as it was.
‘Yes, yes, we did.’ A liberated woman could admit that much. They’d carried on for another year and a half after she’d found out about him impregnating his wife.
‘We could have had more.’ Eddie squeezed her fingers with his own, but it wasn’t an affectionate squeeze; he was trying to hurt her. His grip nipped spitefully; if he’d had more strength, he might have caused some real pain. Was he angry too? More angry than she was? Or was he simply sulking because he hadn’t got his own way? She had never known whether Eddie’s longing for her was genuine love or a complex mix of selfishness, desire and convenience.
It was true that he had talked of a life he could imagine for them, but she would not let him leave his wife. She told him time after time that that wasn’t what she wanted. But he hadn’t listened to her. He hadn’t believed her. He’d been sure she must love him. No doubt he’d reasoned, what woman could resist? But it wasn’t just about the two of them, was it? Or even about them and their existing partners. When Eddie Taylor had talked about their future, he had a cornucopia of dreams and plans. They might live abroad – America, France or even Australia. They might move to Hollywood and pitch his scripts; they might drive around Europe in a camper van; or they might just rent a flat in W1 and make love every day. In none of his visions did he mention their children.
She would not leave her girls.
It had been horrible. He’d turned up on her doorstep in Wimbledon. The girls weren’t even in bed; Lisa had answered the door to him. Clara had sobered up in an instant. It was as though someone had plunged her into an icy sea. Her first thought had been horror, then disgust. His selfishness had astounded her. Why hadn’t he listened when she’d told him she was never going to leave her family? How could he have left his own? She’d felt ashamed. Deeply, darkly ashamed. She told herself that she’d never loved him; that it had simply been a case of her weak body commandeering the situation, because how could she have really loved such a wild and selfish man? She begged him to go away, and when that didn’t work, she demanded it.
‘I’m not sure we could have had more really,’ she commented. The expression in Eddie’s gaze shifted an infinitesimal degree. The happy reminiscing shifted to something harder and colder, like frost solidifying a tumbling brook. Not everyone would have noticed, but Clara had always picked up on the nuance of his moods; she suspected that part of the reason he had found her so attractive was because she found him so interesting. She’d always feared that ultimately his feelings for her were really all about how he felt about himself. How awful, as she believed this to be true of Tim as well.
‘So, what did Clara do next?’ Eddie asked. The curiosity was shaded by a hint of sarcasm. Eddie probably still believed Clara ought not to have had a next, at least not one that didn’t involve him.
Tim had been very understanding and had accepted her apologies and explanation. Magnanimously, he’d even recognised his part in bringing about the crisis; he admitted that perhaps he hadn’t fulfilled his role as a husband on every level.
‘I stayed.’ Eddie made a humph sound. Clara wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact that breathing was obviously difficult, or because he was disgusted by her answer. ‘As I always said I would,’ she added. She and Tim had agreed that breaking up the family was the wrong thing to do. They’d been very adult, very sensible. Tim had started to pay her more attention in the bedroom. It wasn’t passionate – he did not consume her, he did not crawl up under her skin – but it was well executed, careful, thoughtful and, most importantly, fruitful. They conceived Mark. ‘I had another child, a son.’
‘Very nice.’
When Mark was three months old, Tim had told Clara that he was sorry, but he didn’t think he was going to be able to have sex with her again. He explained that he was gay, that he’d finally come to terms with it and wanted her to as well. She had heard the doors slam shut. She was trapped. She could not pack up the three children and chase after Eddie Taylor. He did not want her three children. By that time he might not have wanted her either; no doubt he would have moved on. And she did not want anyone else.
She’d been struck with inertia. After an extended bout of exhaustion and confusion and a profound but relatively brief bout of depression, she’d agreed to Tim’s suggestion that they just carry on as they were. One big happy family.
And they had been happy. There was a lot of love. Tim was her best friend. Not every wife could say that about her husband. The children had everything: a stable home, devoted and loving parents, private schooling, foreign holidays, sunny picnics, seaside visits, happy memories. She’d had a sense of order, a sense of place. Everything other than the sense that she was desired. But nothing was perfect.
28
Dean
‘Tell me some more about Martin,’ said Dean. Jo stared at him and blinked twice. ‘He wasn’t in your favourite moments.’
‘Sorry?’
‘When you listed your happiest moments on the plane today, you never mentioned him.’
‘Can’t a girl be independent?’ Jo bristled. She was so clearly stalling for time.
‘They can, and it’s lovely when they are, but you’re not. So why didn’t he feature?’ Dean really wanted to know. He really wanted her to think.
‘Oh my God. I don’t know why,’ she answered with an anguish that could be nothing other than heartfelt. She put down her hot dog; as delicious as it was, it clearly stuck in her throat. ‘I mean, we did have great times. Obviously. We used to go to the movies, trendy bars and smart restaurants. We were always having friends around for dinner parties; those evenings were such fun. We went on mini-breaks and compiled a wedding list. Great times, fun times,’ she repeated firmly. ‘I mean, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, right?’ She held up her hands, indicating that she was taking in the b
right, light city.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Dean tilted his head a fraction towards her. His fringe flopped in front of his eyes and yet he held her gaze. He knew what effect this particular move had on women. He’d been told before that his gaze ran through them, that his eyes were amazing; one woman had actually described them as ‘a constellation of bright blue tones’. No doubt Jo, with her shamefully romantic imagination, would be thinking about diving into sparkling Mediterranean seas or similar. Though he’d actually prefer it if she was thinking about the question he’d just asked.
‘No, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that he was the One for me. This is it. This is my big romantic moment,’ she muttered.
He wasn’t convinced, and from the way she was nervously fidgeting, he doubted even she was.
‘So tell me how you know this Martin guy is the One.’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’
Jo took a deep breath and thought about it. She’d try to be truthful, as far as she was able; Dean could trust her to be that. The issue would be, was she being truthful with herself? ‘You see, I felt it so keenly when I was talking to Lisa in the London bar, and again in my mum’s kitchen.’
‘Right.’
‘I was convinced I had to stop Martin marrying someone else. That I had to have him for myself.’
‘Hmm.’
The intensity and certainty of the decision was clearly eluding her now. As she glanced around, aware of other couples laughing and bickering, chatting and joking, she looked panicked and frightened. Dean almost felt sorry for her.
‘Well, he’s decent, you know, kind, and so many men aren’t. You’ve just said as much yourself. He wasn’t ever unfaithful. He didn’t so much as look at another woman once. That didn’t seem such a big deal when we dated, I took it for granted, but five years of single life has taught me that fidelity isn’t a given.’ She sighed. ‘In fact, the opposite is the case. Fidelity is as rare as pixie dust; you can’t imagine how often men ask me to be discreet.’
‘Meaning?’
‘They want me to be their mistress, or not even that; sometimes just a quick lay.’
‘And is that tempting?’ Dean knew women who were happy to be both or either on occasion, sometimes in the hope that something bigger might blossom, or as a last resort. He got it – it blanked out the loneliness for a while – but he found he didn’t want Jo to be one of those women.
‘Never,’ she replied firmly. ‘I tell those guys to take a hike. I’ve never been the bit on the side.’ She paused, and then looked momentarily guilty.
‘The encounter you mentioned on the plane, the one you said was married?’
She picked up her cocktail and drank a healthy slug. ‘OK, I’ve never intentionally been the bit on the side. Sometimes they don’t mention they’re married until after they roll off the Durex.’
‘Charming.’
‘Isn’t it.’ Jo looked weary.
Dean was confused. He was glad, even relieved, that Jo wasn’t the sort of woman who was prepared to share; on the other hand, he was irritated, even revolted, by her faulty reasoning. Wasn’t this further proof that the dream she hankered after simply didn’t exist? Married men slept around, single women sucked it up. How could that be the recipe for happily ever after? It wasn’t even as straightforward as that. His father’s mistress – the important one, the one Eddie Taylor had abandoned his family for – had been married too. Immorality and disappointing behaviour wasn’t gender specific. Indeed, it was the widespread nature of it that depressed Dean. How could Jo know all this and yet draw the conclusion that somehow she’d buck the trend, somehow she’d fall madly, deeply, truly in love? How could she think that was going to happen with a man who was planning on marrying someone else? She was so blinkered. So self-deluded. So frustrating. So …
Hopeful. Dean shook his head. Hope wasn’t something he usually admired, and certainly had never harboured. Being hopeful in the face of such overwhelming evidence was simply idiotic. He felt he had to explain as much to her. It was his duty.
‘And you think it follows that because this guy wasn’t unfaithful to you, he must be the One?’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘How old were you two when you dated?’
‘Late twenties.’
‘So you were at it all the time.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m just saying that most healthy dating couples in their twenties have a lot of sex and so he probably didn’t need to mooch about.’
‘Lovely. You’re saying that the only reason a man would be faithful to me is if I shagged him senseless and he didn’t have the energy to look about.’ Jo was offended.
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying this Martin guy was untested. Maybe he’d have been different in his mid-forties.’
‘No. I think he’s the faithful type.’
‘Then how are you planning to lure him away from his current fiancée?’
Jo looked shocked. She clearly hadn’t given her plan enough thought. Flustered, she began to loudly list her ex’s other attributes. ‘And he’s good-looking. Well, at least good-looking enough. Maybe he isn’t the sort of guy who makes girls stop in the street, but he’s tall.’
‘You mentioned that,’ said Dean calmly as he sipped on his drink. He oozed the confidence of a man who did make women stop and stare; he was the recipient of many double-takes.
‘I’d like to have tall kids. And he has a good job. I’m not really too bothered about cash, but I do want to be with someone solvent.’ Jo sighed. ‘I know I am coming across as shallow, but I’m not. My reasons for wanting to marry Martin are complex.’ She reached for her cocktail and took another enormous gulp; Dean doubted she could even taste the drink. The millions of lights from the street lamps and from the windows of the shops and skyscrapers that framed the park no doubt were blurring as she fought back the tears that suddenly, treacherously brimmed. Dean refused to succumb to his feelings of sympathy or even pity. This woman needed to wake up.
‘Amplify,’ he insisted.
‘Must I?’
‘Can’t you?’ Dean waited for her response; prepared to bide his time but not prepared to let her off the hook. There was a breeze building, easing the warm day into a cool evening. Dean welcomed it. He felt that they both needed to calm down, but he wasn’t sure why, exactly. He was always aware of the size of the city he lived in. His world was vast. He was small. He understood as much and even took a perverse comfort from it. He didn’t kid himself that he was consequential, and therefore he was able to be careless without being irritated by twinges of guilt. Jo was small too. So was this Martin bloke, but she didn’t seem to get it. They were all insignificant bit players. There was no such thing as fate or destiny. She and Martin were not meant for one another in some magnificent way. Life was chaotic. How could she put so much faith in one man to have dashed across the globe, chasing a wispy concept? He marvelled at the self-confidence that was required to have such thoughtless hope and blind faith, even as he disdainfully mocked it.
‘I guess the truth is, I’m thirty-five years old. And I’m lonely.’ Jo allowed the word to settle on the table between them. It was a humiliating but truthful and clear word. He’d assumed she must have doused any flicker of self-awareness at puberty and was therefore shocked by her response. ‘Have you ever thought that the only thing you really want to do is screw up your life into a tight ball, like you might screw up a piece of paper, and chuck it away?’ She glanced at him from under her eyelashes. It wasn’t a flirtatious move; it was genuine shyness. Even this strangely guileless woman with a penchant for over-sharing was struggling to admit to such gloomy despondency.
He had thought this himself, on many, many occasions, but had never heard anyone divulge as much. He did not dare move in case she thought he was nodding; empathy would expose him. She tried to smile, but he knew it was one of those painful, necessary
smiles that was entirely about outward appearances and nothing to do with inward emotions.
‘Have you ever thought there’s nothing you can do except start again but in the same instant realised that there’s no chance of that, as few of us ever get the chance to start again?’
‘Except Buddhists,’ said Dean with a gentle grin. He would never own up to having had those thoughts, however long ago he had them; he’d never disclose as much, so he hid behind humour. Jo grasped at the straw he’d offered her and tried to jest too.
‘Yes, but even then there’s a lack of control that bothers me. I don’t want to start again as a cockroach, or a goat herder in south-east Alaska for that matter. Plus, they’re not supposed to drink.’ She reached for her cocktail, sipped it as though to make her point. They fell into another silence, but this one was sharper than those that had gone before; it had an edge to it. She wasn’t finished; she had more to say. ‘I’m sure you think I just want a big wedding, that I’m hung up on the day itself.’
‘Well …’ He had the decency not to finish the sentence, which would have involved either lying or hurting her feelings.
‘Everyone thinks the same. I’m a joke to my friends and sister, probably to my parents. They think I’m some desperate man-hunting Bridezilla, without sense or reason. But it’s not about the day.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘I could take it or leave it truthfully. I mentioned my parents have been married for an eternity.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I told you I think that families are important, worthwhile. Such a support.’
