Inside my chest I can feel my heartbeat, ticking away like a clock.
‘You remember Leanne?’ I say tentatively.
‘Yes, of course I do,’ Janice replies, spearing salad onto her fork. ‘You asked me that recently. Why?’
I watch as she shoves lettuce, goat’s cheese, olives and tomato into her mouth, getting the eating over with quickly. My own food sits there untouched. ‘Do you remember her friend, Vanessa? Did you ever meet her? Did I ever . . . talk about her?’
Of course she never met Vanessa, and of course I never talked about her. I never talked to her about anything. She quickly shakes her head as she sticks a piece of bread into her mouth, and raises her eyebrows for me to continue.
‘Well . . . she was Leanne’s friend from school, and I became friends with her, too. She had all these parties . . .’ I am stalling. I am having second thoughts.
‘And?’ Janice prompts in that schoolmistress voice that she used so often when we were little, when I’d have to stand in front of her, stumbling over my excuses for borrowing her pens or her doll, or whatever, without asking. And? she’d demand, hands on hips. And? till I confessed, and what a mistake that always turned out to be.
I lick my lips, not even sure what I want to say.
‘Eat your lunch,’ Janice orders, and so I cut up a piece of cheese, stick it in my mouth. She watches while I chew and swallow. It feels like cardboard in my throat. ‘And?’ she asks again.
‘Well . . . she died,’ I say.
And Janice mutters, ‘Oh,’ and puts down her fork.
‘When I was at college,’ I add quickly.
‘Oh,’ she says again. And she watches me, and waits for me to continue.
‘And recently I – I got back in touch with her brother.’
‘What did you go and do that for?’ she asks as if it was the most stupid, ridiculous thing.
And as if it was the most stupid, ridiculous thing, I say, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he want to meet you?’ she demands.
‘Yes,’ I say.
And she says, ‘Well, don’t.’ Followed by, ‘There’s only ever one reason why a man wants to meet a woman.’
‘No, there’s not!’ I am knocked by her cynicism, though, really, I should have expected it. What did I think: that we’d have a sisterly heart-to-heart? That she’d offer me her support and understanding?
‘Don’t meet him,’ she says. I stare at her, wishing I had never started this. She stares back at me and then states disparagingly, ‘You already have.’
For a few strained moments neither of us speaks. I prod at my salad with my fork, while Janice sits back in her chair, arms folded, and observes me.
And then she says, ‘Are you sleeping with him?’
I don’t answer. Suddenly it seems like none of her business. And I think how quickly we fall back into the roles of our childhood.
She leans forward, and says it again, a little louder this time so that if the people at the other tables weren’t listening before, they certainly are now. ‘I said, Are you sleeping with him?
‘I heard you,’ I hiss. My face is burning. I don’t know if I want to slap her or cry. ‘You think things are so hunky-dory with Andrew all the time – well, they’re not. Believe me, they are not.’
‘And you think the answer to that is to sleep with someone else?’ Her hand is on the table now and she curls her fingers into a fist and starts rapping a knuckle against her water glass. ‘Is he married?’
And I can’t stop myself from retorting, ‘Is Paul married?’
‘I cannot believe that you could be so stupid,’ she snaps.
‘And I cannot believe that you can be such a hypocrite,’ I snap right back.
‘You have a family,’ she says, and, as if it needs spelling out some more, ‘you have a child. And a husband who loves you.’
‘You see what you want to see,’ I say.
‘You stop it, Rachel, you stop it right now.’
I glare at her with my eyes burning. I can’t believe she is telling me what to do as if I was five years old again.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she says.
We part on bad terms.
I push the remains of my salad around my plate in sullen silence while Janice signals to the waitress for the bill. And then we pay and put our purses back in our bags.
‘Well then,’ Janice says when we are outside the restaurant, ready to go our separate ways. Usually we would wander around the shops together for a while, but not today. Not after that. ‘Give my love to Andrew and Jono, won’t you?’ she says sarcastically.
‘I wish I’d never told you,’ I say.
‘I wish you hadn’t, too,’ she says. ‘Rachel, how can you be so selfish? I won’t let you do this – you’re my sister!’
‘And you’re my sister. I thought you might understand.’ We stand there, glaring at each other. I think of how I’ve had to listen to her going on about Paul, I think of all the lies she’s quite happily had him telling his wife. But it’s one rule for Janice and quite another rule for me, obviously.
‘Andrew doesn’t deserve this, Rachel,’ she says.
‘So what are you going to do?’ I have to ask. Are you going to tell him?’
‘What are you going to do, Rachel?’ she asks and, having got in the last word, she turns and walks off into the crowd.
If I had a key to Simon’s flat I would go there now. I would make myself a coffee and curl up on his sofa and try to find myself some calm, some peace. Just being in his flat would be enough; just having somewhere to go, to be close to him. Somewhere I could think, and try to steady my head.
But I have no key, and nowhere to go except home.
For a while I hang around Covent Garden, looking in one or two shops for the sake of something to do, but I feel all wrong, so out of place among the hordes of animated teenagers and tourists crowding the narrow walkways. The general merriment grates at the blackness of my mood, and so reluctantly I start wandering back to Waterloo.
I can’t believe I was so stupid as to try and talk to Janice.
She won’t tell Andrew. Surely she won’t. If she did, she would be the one to hurt him. But nor will she forget, either, or let it go. And what am I supposed to do? Tell Andrew myself, or just stop seeing Simon? Neither is an option. And I’m certainly not just going to go and do whatever Janice tells me. How can she think to preach to me, when what she is doing is no better?
I know an affair can’t drift on and on, forever. But nor can a stagnant marriage, either. I feel trapped whichever way I turn. Jono’s face rears up inside my head, a reminder of my guilt. How could I ever leave Andrew? And yet I will not stop seeing Simon. I cannot. I think of the emptiness of the days before I met him and I am flooded with panic; I cannot possibly go back to that. And why should I?
I cannot leave Andrew because of Jono, but does that mean I should resign myself to a life without love, without happiness?
But then I think of Simon, down in Kingham with his wife and family. I think of how he easily he shuts down his life here in London every weekend and goes back to them. And he’ll have plans with them, of course he will; they’re probably talking about them now as they walk across the fields together, or snuggle down back home in front of an open fire. I am not part of his plans. There is no need for me to be. I am here in London; his family is tucked safely away down there.
I walk back across Waterloo Bridge and my eyes are fixed on the Oxo Tower. I need to talk to Simon. I need to talk to him just because I cannot bear the thought of him being so cosied up with his wife when I am here, feeling like this. I have never called him at weekends before, but he’s never actually told me not to. And I’m sure he could speak for a short while; I’m sure he could find a way.
I walk faster, and as soon as I am across the bridge I run down the steps to the South Bank, away from the noise of the traffic. My heart is hammering as I ring his number, but he can always pass me off as his secretary or somethin
g with a work query, or his housekeeper even. Somewhere there is an irony in that.
The phone rings, but he doesn’t answer. Instead of leaving a message I ring again, and again he doesn’t answer. So this time I do leave a message. I say, in as neutral a voice as I can manage, ‘Hi, this is Rachel here. Could you call me, please? As soon as possible.’
And then I loiter about, hoping that he’ll call me straight back. For twenty minutes or so I wander past the booksellers and the skateboarders, phone in hand. It’s all I can do to stop myself turning around and walking east along the river, towards his flat, but what is the point in that? What is the point – but nevertheless I do turn anyway, and start walking under the bridge, back up the Thames. And I’m willing him to ring me. I’m wondering if I dare call again if he doesn’t. I walk towards his flat, as if I’ll find myself some solace just by walking the familiar route. And I’m just outside the Oxo Tower, wondering what to do now, when at last my phone does ring.
But it’s Janice.
‘Where are you?’ she barks, and I wish I’d checked the number before answering.
‘Nowhere in particular,’ I answer somewhat frostily. ‘Why? Where are you?’
‘I’m at home,’ she says impatiently.
‘Would that be alone?’
‘Yes,’ she snaps. ‘That would be alone.’ Then, ‘Have you thought about what I said?’
I don’t answer. I mean, what on earth does she expect me to say? But I do turn around and start walking back to Waterloo.
‘I mean it, Rachel. You stop seeing him, do you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ I say. ‘And perhaps you better stop seeing Paul.’
‘For God’s sake, Rachel, do you have to be so childish? This isn’t about me.’
‘But why isn’t it about you?’ I half-shout into the phone. ‘I mean, tell me, what’s the difference?’
‘There’s a huge difference,’ she snaps back. ‘You’ve got a family worth saving.’ And she hangs up, leaving me wishing that I had done so first.
I take the train back to Surbiton and walk the ten minutes back to my house with a horrible, sinking feeling dragging at my heart. It is starting to get dark, and the end-of day gloom settles heavily over my shoulders. Simon hasn’t called me back. I rang his number twice again from the train, and both times it switched straight to his voicemail. He’d turned off his phone.
The light is on in our living room, and as I walk up the pathway I can see Andrew there on the sofa, slumped down in front of the TV, watching the football. Somehow this makes me even more depressed.
I hate this time of day, always have done.
I open the door and call out, ‘Hello’, but nobody answers. I take off my boots and hang up my coat, and then I just stand there for a minute, bracing myself. I can hear the faint fire and judder of the PlayStation from upstairs; Jono is up in the spare room. And from the living room comes the quiet, monotonous roar of the football, broken every now and then by Andrew hissing Yes! or Oh, no! at the TV. And yet here in the hall, the sound that I hear most is the silence. It greets me like a wall.
Again I check my phone. I cannot believe Simon hasn’t called me. Was it really too much to ask that he should escape just for a minute or two? It is nearly half-past five and I wonder what he is doing. If they were out for the afternoon, they will be back at home now; there are children to feed. They will be warm and snug in their country home, drinking tea, resting, before doing whatever it is they will be doing tonight.
He could have phoned me.
Maybe he still will, but for me it will be a surreptitious phone call now, if he does; I’ll have to lock myself away in the bathroom, I won’t be able to talk.
I feel myself, fitting in and around things. I feel myself, clutching at air.
Slowly I climb the stairs.
‘Hello, Jono,’ I say, from the doorway of the spare room. He is gripping the controller of his PlayStation, his eyes transfixed upon the screen. Not for even a second can he look away.
‘Hello,’ I say again. ‘Have you had a nice day?’
He grunts. He says, ‘What’s for tea?’
And I watch him for a moment; I watch how he frowns, so intent on zap-zap-zapping at whatever monsters there are on that screen. I see the flush on his face, the glare of his eyes. I hate the PlayStation. I didn’t want to get it, but he pleaded and pleaded. I’ve got nothing else to do, he cried, no one to play with. And so guilt had me giving in; guilt that we’d sent him to a school too far from home for there to be friends nearby. And guilt that he is an only child.
I wonder what it would have been like if I’d had my baby daughter. I wonder what she’d be like now, filling our house and our lives with her girlish laughter and chat. Had she lived, none of us would be so alone.
Downstairs, I force myself to venture into the living room. Andrew is sitting forward in his seat now, glued to the screen. It would seem that the match is reaching its climax. I stand beside the sofa.
‘I’m home,’ I say, because it appears that he hasn’t noticed.
‘Have a good day?’ Andrew asks, without looking away from the TV.
‘Not particularly,’ I say, but he doesn’t hear. Somebody has just scored a goal. Andrew sits back in his chair, lets out a sigh of disgust. The referee blows his whistle and the commentator starts shouting over the crowd. The game is apparently over.
I stand there a while longer. Eventually Andrew says, ‘How’s Janice?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘You’ve been seeing a lot of her lately.’ There are people talking on the TV now; men in suits with slicked-back hair and ruddy faces, ex-footballers and the like, ripping apart the game. Andrew watches them. And he listens to them. Or so I think.
‘Not really,’ I say.
‘Well, you seem to be going into London a lot.’
I look at him. Andrew never comments on how I spend my time. ‘I don’t always see Janice,’ I say. ‘I have other friends. And sometimes I go shopping.’ I hear myself sounding defensive and my heart starts beating a little faster. ‘Why?’ I can’t stop myself from asking. ‘Do you mind?’
‘No,’ he says somewhat wearily, still looking at the screen. ‘I don’t mind.’ And then, more pointedly, ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
Finally, at nearly ten o’clock, I get a text message from Simon.
I’ll call you on Monday is all that he says.
SEVENTEEN
On Monday, as on every Monday, Andrew gets up as soon as the alarm goes off. He groans and drags himself out of bed. Instantly I am wide awake, though I pretend that I am not. I lie there with my eyes shut, listening to the sound of the shower running, and my entire body is tense with the cold reality of what I am doing.
Andrew comes out of the bathroom and quickly he dresses. And then, as usual, he comes round to my side of the bed, leans over, places one hand on my shoulder and gently shakes me.
‘Rachel,’ he says. ‘Rachel.’ And like the thorough, reliable person that he is, he will not go until he knows that I am awake.
I have no choice but to open my eyes. And there he is, my husband, peering down at me.
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, and I stretch and turn away.
I hear him go down to the kitchen. It is my cue then to go and wake Jono. And so I put on my bathrobe and make my way along the landing. Jono’s door is shut, and when I open it his room is dark and silent, and redolent with the scent of boy. He is lying on his side, still in the deepest of sleeps, with his face squashed against the pillow and his mouth slightly open. His forehead is furrowed into an intense, fixed frown. As I watch, I see his eyes flickering slightly beneath their lids as he dreams.
I kneel down beside him and watch him as he sleeps. For these few moments before I must wake him, and before the daily hell of the morning breaks loose and he is ripped away from me, I can look upon him and I can love him, as I have always loved him. I can wallow in that love; I can steal it and feast upon it, before he sees me and push
es me away. These moments are mine. I look at him; I gorge myself. My beautiful, beautiful boy. I would never hurt him, never. I tell myself this, and guilt floods like cold water through my veins. Jono loves his father. He loves us both. When he was younger he used to come into our bed in the mornings; we’d hear the creaking of the door as he pushed it open and the soft pad of his feet upon the floor. Then nothing for a moment as he stood at the end of our bed, wondering if we were awake. And if we were, we’d pretend that we weren’t; we’d wait. And then we’d feel the duvet lifting off our feet as he climbed in and snuggled his way up the middle, coming to rest like a tight sausage between the two of us.
We were happy, weren’t we, the three of us? We were a family, however small. When Jono stopped coming into us like that, we felt his loss like a void. There was a gap in the bed that it seemed neither of us could cross.
I move closer to him now, and I feel his breath across my face as he exhales. I move a little closer still, and he opens his eyes suddenly and jolts as though shocked. Quickly his eyes come into focus and he pulls away from me.
‘What are you doing there?’ he demands.
‘It’s time to get up,’ I say.
He sticks out a childish hand to hit me away, and turns over. Slowly I stand up, and I lean over him, and as Andrew did to me, gently shake his shoulder.
‘Go away,’ he mumbles.
‘Come on, Jono, it’s time to get up.’
And again he says, ‘Go away.’
I time things, so that Andrew is going out of the door just as I come downstairs. The kettle is still warm and I make myself a coffee. And I think of Simon, sitting on the train up from Kingham, on the long, early Monday-morning commute from one life to another. I wonder how they part, he and his wife. By now they will be used to it; she probably doesn’t even get up to see him off. Perhaps he even leaves her sleeping in bed with a kiss, as Andrew used to me. Not for a moment do I think that Simon really loves his wife, nor she him. Otherwise how could they live apart as they do? At the very least they must have some arrangement, some blind eye to turn. I cannot be the first woman Simon has taken back to that flat, however much I’d like to think that I am. I try to detach myself, to think myself offhand, relaxed about it all. I remind myself what it was like back in that house in Oakley; how sex was passed around like an affectionate hug. It is only uptights like me who make such a big deal of it.
The Child Inside Page 18
