by Joy Richards
Like all the French women in his dirty imagination, Corinne was the perfect mistress. She was a revolutionary in bed, and then lay there listening to him talk about his life. She didn’t mind hearing about his marital problems with Florence, about how he was worried Tim was missing out by not going to nursery, about how Florence’s mother was trying to pressure them into going on holiday with her to Crete.
Corinne rarely talked about herself. She was an interesting woman in her own regard, with interests and passions and friends she was happy to talk about but did not want to share with him. She always had time to text, in the middle of the work day or in the middle of the night. Crucially, she had no pretension to any more of his life than he was willing to give away. A couple of evenings a week, a sleepover every month or so. A handful of weekends, when he was supposed to be away at a conference.
She didn’t intend on staying in the country for long. This was an adventure for her, a short British interlude before going back to France and figuring out what to do for a grown-up job. It was the ideal affair: it came with a built-in expiration date. Since they had started seeing each other, John felt like a better husband to Florence too. He’d been less angry, snapped at her less. They had even, paradoxically, had more sex as he was getting his fantasies fulfilled elsewhere and could just get on with the business of keeping the marriage alive. She probably didn’t even care, as long as he kept being at her side, helped with bedtime routines and came along to family weekends. That worked fine for him. Sometimes he even imagined that she knew, that she had known all along and didn’t care. Maybe she was grateful she didn’t have to hold his attention anymore. Like those American polygamists on television, perhaps she felt as though she was delegating the aspects of her marriage she did not care for to someone else. Sex, dressing up to go out for dinner, listening to her husband talk about his small problems.
Of course, that couldn’t be true. Florence didn’t know. She could never sit there in front of him if she knew, without saying a word. Would she leave if she found out? In all honesty, probably not. They were building something, a family, and she wouldn’t throw it all away just like that. At any rate, the chances of him getting caught would drop significantly now they were moving to Surrey.
Once Corinne moved back to France, in a couple of years, it would be over. He wouldn’t do it again, he wouldn’t fall in another honey trap. He would behave himself and be there for his wife once she came out of her funk. It was perfect timing, really. Everyone should do this, it would save so many marriages. Most successful couples probably did do this, it was just never talked about. The best-kept marriage secret: have an affair.
7
Michael
It was all happening so fast. One day, they’d put the house on the market “just to see what it would fetch”. Another day, people were coming in for viewings. Then they had an offer. Then they had an exchange date. The whole process over before he had even really come to terms with the fact it was going to happen. For all that he’d been trying to push Claire, Michael very much loathed the idea of selling their home. Even though he proclaimed the contrary, he even enjoyed it now it was mostly empty. He felt heartbroken at the thought of leaving.
The estate agent had been wonderful. A kind girl, she understood immediately how much it hurt for them to abandon their home. She took care of everything, walked the prospective buyers through their rooms while chattering endlessly and answering all questions. Claire just sat there, on the old wing chair in the hallway they never ever used, stroking Marmalade and watching the people walk through. Mostly couples in their early thirties, mostly with one or two children. A handful of pregnant women. They all walked around the house and often made comments that while polite went straight through Claire’s heart.
“We could knock that wall through,” they would say, pointing at the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. “Maybe even that one,” they would add, pointing at the wall between the dining room and the living room. “Make it open space.” What was it with today’s youth and open-space living? Jacob’s house in Streatham was, or rather they had gutted it to make it so, turning all the rooms into one room, which somehow looked smaller and messier than all the original spaces put together. They loved it. Ah, every generation has its own stupid thing it does. That and kitchen islands. “We could put an island here,” had said the woman who was actually buying the house, standing right at the edge of the dining room.
“Florence, there’s no room to get around,” the husband replied, a large red-faced man with enormous shoulders and a terrible Oxford shirt that made him look even broader and, somehow, redder.
“There will be if you knock down the wall,” Michael had said, but they did not seem to understand him. Claire was pretending to read a magazine and refused to translate. They smiled, kindly, and moved on to dissect everything that was wrong with the utility room. Michael was used to his speech being an obstacle. It had started deteriorating in the late nineties, a delayed consequence of his brain injury. Just as he’d gotten used to the cane and the limping, down came the slurring and stuttering. Normally, he did not mind. After they stopped travelling in the mid-naughties, he’d kept working and the speech impediment had never stopped him from doing anything he wanted to. He worked mostly from home, and conducted all of his business by email and direct message. At conferences, Claire would come with him and translate. He’d even given a speech at Elijah’s wedding, with the help of the other groom’s father who’d read his hilarious jokes from flashcards.
But this time, for some reason, it really bothered him. How dare they not understand him as they came into his home and rearranged it as though it belonged to them already? “There will be room for an island if you knock down the wall,” he repeated, loudly and probably even less clearly. He realised he was almost shouting. The estate agent poked her head through, alarmed. She probably thought he was inches away from snapping, poor thing. The couple didn’t even acknowledge him. Young people are so cruel, with their superficial kindness. He’d been disappointed when they’d made an offer. Especially since it was an offer they could not refuse. Full asking price.
“In this economy,” the estate agent had said, “I would take the money and run. Houses like yours don’t sell well at the moment.” He could see the frustration in her eyes. She wanted them to accept the offer and get her commission. No above-asking offers were coming. Probably fair enough. Their kitchen and boiler were the same from the eighties, when they’d moved in. The last time they’d done anything to the exterior of the house was in the nineties, and it very much showed.
They’d come back for a second visit, together, asking about schools and local nightlife. Then, a week later, the estate agent called. She sounded embarrassed. They wanted a third viewing. How odd. What else was there to look at? Also, they’d already made an offer. Were they changing their mind? In fact, only the woman showed up. She waddled in, pregnant, probably just entering the third trimester.
Claire had been out to the shops, so Michael had let her in himself. He’d brandished a pen and paper he used when he had to communicate with strangers and didn’t want to go through the whole rigmarole of repeating himself and pointing at things. She’d walked around quickly, not seeming very interested in any of the rooms. She’d asked to see the garden. He’d walked her out and they’d stood under a great big cloud of lilac flowers, admiring the view over the fields. They were Claire’s favourite flower: a fluffy symphony of pinks, purples and whites. She liked to open her bedroom window and breathe in their scent. He wrote this all out to her, and she looked surprised.
He wrote out a second message. “The back gate to the garden gives onto a path that connects with the local public footpath,” he’d scribbled. “Excellent walks!!!” Her eyes filled with tears. Oh Lord, what had he said? With four boys and one very even-headed wife, Michael was always worrying about making women cry.
“Have you been happy here?” she’d asked, looking way past him, at the top
s of the trees waving in the breeze.
“Very,” he’d said, without writing it down. She’d known what he’d meant.
“How long have you been married?” she’d continued. Surely, this was not a normal third viewing.
“Forty-three.” He’d written on the pad.
“That’s a long time.” She’d sighed. As a father, Michael had felt an instinctive impulse to give her a hug. She’d looked so lost. She was probably just hormonal, he’d thought, going through the pregnancy sadness. Claire had been inconsolable with all of her pregnancies, sobbing at anything from TV advertisements to nursery rhymes. When she was pregnant with Aaron, he had brought home some baked beans for dinner and she’d cried because they were so good.
The woman had left as quickly as she’d arrived. He hadn’t mentioned anything about that strange meeting to Claire. She had barely even asked about it: she had other fish to fry. Literally. Aaron and Penelope were coming home. Jacob, Elijah and Gideon were all coming down for a welcome back party. Claire was in her element, organising food, drinks and decorations. They were coming back from Yemen, he tried to tell her they would not care if the crabs on the barbeque were whole or just claws. She shushed him: her last boy was coming home. The whole family back together, in Surrey, for what was probably the last time given everyone’s schedules. She was going to throw the best damn party of her life, or die trying. Her determination made him a little sad. There would be no room for the whole family to stay over in the new place. The new hub for family events would probably be Jacob’s.
“That’s the whole point, love,” she said as he helped her unload the car of the last few party-planning items. “It’s their time now. All we need to do is go along and try to be helpful.”
“I know,” he said, limping into the kitchen with a paper bag full of croissants. “What are these for?”
“Breakfasts,” she replied quickly. “Nobody is going to be in the mood for a cooked breakfast the day before, are they?”
“Did you get the cherry yoghurt?” he asked. Aaron and Penelope were staying with them for a couple of weeks as they finalised their arrangements. Claire, typically thoughtful, had asked what they would like to find in the house, what they’d missed the most from home. For Aaron, it was prawn cocktail crisps. For Penelope, it was cherry yoghurt. Bless her.
“Of course I did.” Claire lifted up an armful of cherry yoghurts. Three different kinds. Also plain, and a separate cherry compote, because you never know.
He leaned over his cane, dangerously, and kissed her softly on her head. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too,” she replied, returning to the unpacking. “Now get to it. Elijah will be here in an hour.”
Late at night, Michael, Aaron and Elijah sat in the living room by the fireplace. Claire, Penelope and Elijah’s husband, Tom, had all gone to bed, as had Elijah and Tom’s son, Lukas. Father and sons sat up, drinking brandy and watching the fire. The party was the following day. They needed some time to catch up. As the middle children, Elijah and Aaron always shared a special bond.
“Dad, it’s really nice. Posh too.” Aaron was looking at pictures of their new flat. Tiny, filled with glass and light.
“Obviously the furniture in there is ghastly now,” said Elijah, who had come with them for the second viewing. “But you could really do something with the place. Give it a more homey feel.”
“I just didn’t think Canary Wharf was your speed,” Aaron said, still surprised.
“It didn’t even exist in its current form the last time your mother and I lived in London. We thought we would get a fresh start.” Away from their bad memories of the place, and from anything that might make them miss Surrey. Going for a totally new vibe.
“And it has an elevator,” Elijah said. Michael realised he was referencing a previous conversation he must have had with his brother. The idea of his children worrying about him, discussing his health over the phone felt foreign to him. It felt like a few months since he was fussing over his own parents, trying to get them to act their age.
“So you’ve found a job at King’s then?” asked Elijah, shifting the conversation to employment.
“Penelope has and they’ve offered me a place too,” replied Aaron morosely.
“I thought you’d be happy,” said Michael, with no need for a pad and paper. His children understood him without fail.
“I am happy, really. It’s just not what I imagined I would be doing.” MSF had offered him an office job, but Aaron loved the thrill of helping people hands-on. And he was more than qualified to work in emergency medicine.
“You’ll be the only one of us to actually work in a hospital,” chimed in Elijah. He was a GP, Jacob was exclusively doing research at UCL after a few years spent trying to balance science with his clinical career. Gideon, of course, had been a journalist for longer than he’d ever been a doctor.
“Yippee,” Aaron whispered slowly, staring into the fire.
“All right,” Michael said. “What would you like to do instead?” Would parenting never end?
“Well…” Aaron’s face lit up, licked by the golden light of the fire. “There is something.” He leaned forward as he spoke, a glow of excitement spreading over his face. “Penelope has a friend who has been looking to set up a space for unaccompanied minors, children who have come through hell to get to the UK and have nobody. A refuge. Many of them are still recovering physically, so they need medical supervision, but it’s mostly about teaching them to settle in, helping them heal.”
“That’s amazing!” Elijah chimed in. “Why aren’t you doing that, instead?”
“It’s more of a pipe dream than anything else. Penelope helped her friend get an application for funding together, but the way the system works means we are unlikely to get funding unless we already have a space set up.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s really fucked up. They only support initiatives that are stable.” He made quotation marks with his fingers, frowning with disgust. “And that means that unless you already have an established place and at least some staff on board, you’re never getting through the first stage of triage.”
“That’s awful.”
“I know. This government, man.”
Michael couldn’t help but smile. His children were so much like him, he could see himself in them more and more every year.
“How much would that cost?” Claire appeared in the door. She was in her pyjamas, holding a glass of cold water.
“Oh, Mum. It’s not the sort of thing you could just… it’s a lot of money.” Aaron was embarrassed. His mother could never stop solving problems.
“Why not?” She came over and sat on Michael’s armrest. She turned round to talk to him. “Our new house is quite a lot cheaper than our current house. We have money left over.”
She wasn’t wrong. Of course, all the boys would have to agree. It would all be theirs, one day, and Michael didn’t want to go around spending their inheritance without regard for their futures. But if they agreed, and they probably would, then why not? They were getting a fresh start, why not give one to the kids?
The morning after the party, Claire took Jacob, Aaron, Elijah and Gideon for a brisk country walk. As they got back through the gate, he could see her face: she was beaming. There were actual tears in Aaron’s eyes, and his brothers were taking turns wrapping their arms around him. Then they took him and Penelope out for a nice dinner at the Horse and Groom and told her. She actually cried, big tears rolling down her cheeks. Four hundred thousand pounds, enough to get a starter space. They could make such a difference, she told them in a cracked voice. There were so many kids waiting for a chance like this. And just like that, it was settled.
And then, in another flurry of important things happening too quickly for him to keep track, it all became reality. Aaron politely declined his A&E job. Penelope would take hers and was actually looking forward to it. They found a property, a four-bedroom near Gatwick: slightly r
un-down, but with a lot of potential. They put in an offer, a little below asking price, and it got accepted. There was someone else offering more, but the vendors were moved by their cause. Sometimes it paid off to have faith in humanity.
Claire called her old publisher and over the course of a ten-minute phone call she sold him a book of short stories collected from the first intake of children. The proceeds would go straight back to the refuge, help expand it. Aaron filed their application for government funds and heard back in record time; they were in business. Terrifyingly, a list of children appeared, and a date for them to move into the refuge.
“It’s going to be a tight turnaround,” Aaron said, standing in the kitchen of their Surrey home. The timeline of events was scribbled in colourful marker over a large piece of paper taped to the refrigerator, like when they were kids.
“You exchange on the 31st.” He pointed at the chart. “Hopefully complete on the 10th. We’ll then exchange and complete on the same day, on the 13th. We’ll move in on the 13th and get to work cleaning up the place, which gives us barely enough time before the children move in, on the 29th.”
“That is tight,” said Michael, “but we’ve been through worse, haven’t we?” They had. Aaron had sat his GCSEs three hours after they had landed back in the UK after a nine-month assignment in Madagascar. Jacob and Gideon had once relied on a twenty-five minute airplane connection across terminals to make it to Aaron’s wedding. They were a family that planned for success.
“The main problem could be not getting the refuge ready in time.” Penelope slipped on her trainers. She was commuting every day into London, driving to Denmark Hill for her job. It was exhausting, but it would get easier once they moved closer to the city.
