The next morning, sitting in the dining room, she reads the local papers. It took him half an hour to dry their clothes with a hairdryer. Breakfast is surprisingly delicious; bacon crisp against his tongue, buttery potatoes laced with red onions. A pot of coffee sits between them.
‘Oy.’ He nudges her foot under the table. ‘Can you pass me one?’ He gestures to the papers. The rain has stopped and he’s looking forward to a long hot bath back at the B & B.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ she whispers suddenly. ‘What do you think?’ She slides an article in front of him; he looks at the headline: Sheepdog walks 240 miles home.
‘You want a dog?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure we’re ready for the commitment.’ She kicks his foot.
‘Not that one – look, below.’ Old farmhouse for sale, 4 acres, rural setting.
‘You’re crazy.’ He laughs and fidgets with the jam jar.
‘I’m serious – look, it’s cheap!’ He peers at the details.
‘There’s a reason for that: you’re paying for a pile of stones. We could go to the beach, get them for free.’
She sighs. ‘You’re no fun.’ Standing, he pushes back his chair, kisses her ear. He catches a glimpse of the receptionist hovering outside the door, watching.
‘Come on, let’s see if the road’s open again, catch a lift.’
For the second time in twelve hours he’s being driven by a stranger, sitting in the back of a van with Ada up front charming the postman, who has agreed to drop them back at their car, assuming that they’re happy to drive his delivery route.
‘It’ll be good to get a tour of the local area,’ she exclaimed enthusiastically. It seems inevitable that the route would pass by the abandoned cottage from the paper. Ada bubbles with excitement, clutching the newspaper in her lap. The postman is telling her about the fat lady who lives on the right, whose husband left her for the local landlady, and the man who lives in the closest cottage, who used to own half the land in the area but lost it all when he gambled it away.
‘Not long now,’ the postman offers, turning slightly. He shrugs. ‘Not as keen as the missus, then? Don’t blame you – wouldn’t touch it myself.’ Ryan doesn’t answer. He’s been transplanted into the middle of someone else’s fantasy and this trip to Wales is starting to feel like a very bad idea. The van stops a few metres back from an iron gate.
‘It’s one of the downsides to this location, the gates. Nine in total,’ the postman announces. ‘This land used to have multiple owners, so they divided it with gates and walls to separate the cattle. Now it all belongs to one farmer, but the gates remain.’ He tuts loudly and gestures to the surrounding fields. ‘The walls are crumbling so the gates are pointless, cattle and people roam as they please but God forbid a driver forgets to close the gates behind them. Fastest way to piss off the neighbours. Pain in the arse, if you ask me.’
‘People are sticklers for rules,’ Ada sighs. ‘Darling, can you open the first gate, please?’ She leans back and squeezes his hand.
The door is ripped from his fingers. The rain may have abated and the sun broken through, but relentless winds roll across the fields. As he struggles with the rusty lock, he catches his finger in between the frame and the gate. ‘Fuck.’ Back in the car, dishevelled, he abandons any pretence at civility. At the second gate she jumps from the van to open it. Finally, the ninth gate is opened and closed. The postman pulls the van over to the side of the road.
‘I’ll wait for you here,’ the postman informs them. ‘The road’s too bumpy to drive down; it’d be the first thing needing doing, should you buy it.’ Ryan’s about to insist it’s not necessary to delay the man further for a whim, but Ada is out already, walking between the potholes, arms open wide and face turned upwards.
‘She’s refreshing – you’re lucky.’ The postman winks.
His flip-flops have seen better days and the shorts that have only just dried out toughen up in the cold air. They should have gone to Greece, or Bermuda. What were they thinking? He hurries to catch up with her. The road is steep and tree lined with forestry land pushing in from both sides. In the distance he glimpses her golden hair, which she has released from its ponytail. The main road is out of sight when he sees the cottage, tucked into a clearing in the forest. Admittedly it’s more intact than the photo led him to believe, a shape of a house at least. He’s aware of his pulse racing. Ada runs towards him. As she pulls him towards the cottage he feels a knot unravel in his chest. She leads him to the front door.
‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ He had intended to feign interest to pacify her, but as he takes it in, the crumbling granite walls and the fireplace open to the sky, he can’t ignore the enthusiasm skipping in his throat. His mouth is dry. It’s like nothing he’s ever considered. He’s used to designing new homes, passive houses that leave a minimal imprint, frames that can be erected within days. Watertight, airtight, full of glass and light.
‘It’d take us months to rebuild.’ Instantly he regrets saying it. She claps her hands and embraces him. ‘Hypothetically,’ he adds.
‘I knew you’d come around when you saw it,’ she is saying, and he’s trying to find the right words to let her down, but even as he flounders he knows that he won’t find them because this pile of boulders in the middle of Welsh farmland feels as if it has been waiting for him. They round the corner of the cottage and emerge into the clearing beyond, where sheep scatter among the trees. They walk up the slope, his thighs screaming from the efforts of yesterday, up to the skyline and to where the ground levels and grasses flatten.
She passes him the map the postman has lent her. The Mawddach Estuary glitters in the midday sun below them and Barmouth sparkles beyond. In the distance the mountains of Snowdonia stretch out in mist-soaked peaks and the Llŷn Peninsula juts out defiantly at the edge of the horizon, at right angles to Bardsey Island, which rises anxiously from the sea. Turning 180 degrees, he sees the cottage down below them, nestled beneath the ridge of Tyddyn Shieffre. He sees the forestry land encroaching on the cottage and the brambles that spread like fingers latching onto the ruined windows and door. For as far as the eye can see there’s no sign of a single person. He closes his eyes and opens them, willing something to shift and cast doubt, but the sun splinters above their heads and though there’s every reason to turn and walk away, when she wraps her arm around his waist he knows that this must belong to them. A shiver runs through him. It is not theirs to take, but they have made a habit of taking what does not belong.
‘Our own private vista.’ Ada smiles and he knows that she has won; his judgement blurred. They walk back up the broken driveway slowly. As the van comes into sight, they see the postman pacing beside it.
‘I thought you weren’t coming back,’ he says, opening his door and throwing himself into his seat heavily. ‘I’ve a job to do, you know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ada says, ‘we got distracted by the view.’ Ryan clambers into the back of the van, his thoughts filled with the cottage that has already changed everything. London seems farther away than ever as the engine starts and they pull off, the postman muttering ‘tourists’ under his breath. Has it really been only four months since this whole thing started? He has a sense of hurtling towards something even as he knows he should be turning away.
Rules of an open marriage #2:
Our arrangement is a secret between us
London, December 2015
Emily coils her hair into a chignon and clips it high on the back of her head, smoothing a stray hair behind her ear. Standing back, she tilts her head. Too old: she’s forty-three, not eighty-two. Unclipping it, she lets her hair fall over her shoulders. She prefers herself like this, more natural. She applies grey eye shadow to her eyelids and dabs highlighter onto her cheekbones. She pinches her lips hard and smiles to see them flush with colour. The best makeup in the world doesn’t compensate for this good old-fashioned trick, learned when she was eight.
Turning sideways, she examine
s her profile. She wishes her breasts were larger, but nothing is perfect. She refuses to fall down the slippery slope in pursuit of perfection that so many of her peers have. She knows too well how it starts with a simple nip and tuck. It’s inevitable that a few months later her nose would be too pointy and her lips too swollen. Before she’d noticed, she’d be walking around looking like an inflatable doll on steroids. She’s going au naturel and to hell with anyone who complains about it. Perfection is relative, anyway.
Her legs ache from her bike ride, but this is how she’ll preserve herself, with exercise and healthy food. She’s glad that she had boys and does not have to deal with the neurosis and stresses of teenage girls. She’s not sure she could handle the self-doubt and the diets. There’s enough to worry about without adding to the list. She remembers her disappointment when she was twelve and she got her period; the wondrous anticipation of becoming a woman clashed disappointingly with the reality, the mess and inconvenience, and the depressing realisation that she was stuck with this for the next forty years at least. There were other things too: the realisation at fifteen that her breasts were not going to get any larger, that she would never have a cleavage to display without stuffing her bra; that there was nothing silky about legs and armpits and pubic hair. Then, soon after, the discovery that this thing called sex that they’d talked about as sacred was a perfunctory and clumsy affair, ultimately unsatisfying. And then, at university and finally an adult, a dawning comprehension that at this point, fully grown and equipped with freedom, she was not at liberty to pursue her increasing sexual libido with whom she pleased, as there were now expectations – such as commitment and monogamy – attached to the transactions. And then of course there was Charlotte, who could have changed everything, but didn’t after all.
Her phone beeps and she thinks uncomfortably of the message she received earlier from her student, Leo. It’s not like anything untoward has happened and he’s a great writer, but she does regret giving him her number. Her husband comes into the bathroom behind her.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he says, brushing his lips against her neck. ‘Don’t be long, we’re running late.’
‘One minute and I’ll be down,’ she says, doing up her necklace and giving herself a final once-over in the mirror. In the bedroom she gets her handbag and checks for the essentials – car keys, lipstick, envelope with tickets to give him later, her surprise. She’ll give it to him after the ceremony, once they’re alone. It’s been so long since they’ve been away together without the boys. Every time she thinks of getting on that plane a frisson of excitement runs through her.
Venice, three glorious days of wandering the alleyways and meandering canals. It would have been better to go for longer, but the boys have revision sessions for exams coming up. Her husband works so hard anyway, wouldn’t be able to take any more time off. It’ll be good for them to have some time alone – she’s missed him these last few weeks, though it’s been worth it. The award he’s nominated for is well deserved, a huge accolade for someone just into their forties. Carrying her bag in one hand, high heels in the other, she pads across the oak floor to the hallway.
Leaning over the glass balustrade she calls down, ‘Coming.’ Down the hallway flanked with framed photographs, she knocks on Sam’s door. ‘We’re off, darling.’ A pause and then a scuffle before he opens the door, hair dishevelled.
‘Have fun, don’t be late,’ he says. He winks and she cuffs him playfully. It happened so quickly, this morphing into a man. His body has filled out, his jaw widened. She notices girls looking at him on the street. He’s striking with his auburn hair and bright blue eyes.
‘Are you studying?’ she asks. He rolls his eyes.
‘It’s the weekend, Mum.’ She doesn’t need to worry anyway: he’s naturally bright and has been eager to learn from the day he started school. Tom, on the other hand …
‘Call me if there are any problems,’ she says, placing a kiss on his cheek. ‘Tom will be back around eleven; we’ll be back by midnight.’
‘I’m not a kid you know, Mum, I’ll be fine.’ Behind him his computer monitor is blinking.
Downstairs the car is waiting, engine humming. She checks the back doors are locked. Closing the blinds on the bifold doors in the kitchen, she notices something on the glass, a dark line, smeared. Following it down she sees the bird, splayed on the ground outside, highlighted by the motion sensor. Another one down. She doesn’t have time to move it. The problem with so much glass is that the house is virtually invisible to the birds. She saw a blue tit mid-flight last week, heading straight towards her at the sink. She’d cried at the inevitability of it; there was nothing she could do but wait for the crack of its beak against the glass.
There’s really no need for window coverings; they’re not overlooked, are entirely isolated from their neighbours and surrounded by trees. Still, the traditionalist in her insisted on having them in the kitchen, at least. She doesn’t like to think that while she’s immersed in chopping an onion, eyes watering, someone could be outside looking in. The car smells of aftershave and a pink cupcake-shaped deodorising air freshener that swings from the rear-view mirror. She leans over and removes it, putting it in the glove box. ‘I hate these things,’ she says. ‘Why would anybody think you’d want to make your car smell like a candyfloss factory?’
He smiles and puts his hand on her leg. ‘No tights in December?’
She pushes his hand away. ‘They always have the temperature turned up at these events. I hope they open some windows this time.’ She looks out of the window at the grey pavements, street lights casting golden patterns on the wet concrete. He laughs and ruffles her hair with his left hand, then drapes his arm across the back of the chair. She’s silent as they wait for the traffic lights to turn green. ‘I’d still like to buy an old building one day, you know, with history.’
‘Some people would kill to have our house,’ he says, braking hard as a woman with a pushchair steps out from the pavement in front of them. ‘Jesus, some people don’t deserve to be parents.’
She sighs.
They pull into the driveway of the house that he’s designed, where the ceremony is being held. Handbrake on, he turns to her.
‘We’re our own living history, isn’t that enough?’
‘You’re enough.’ She reaches over and puts her hand on his cheek to soften the mistruth. She thinks of the last time she saw Leo in the library, their legs touching. She didn’t pull away.
It’s strange going to an awards ceremony in a house. Everything is in its place: sofas in the lounge, beds in the upstairs rooms. As if the owner has popped out for some milk and in their absence the house has been infiltrated by a brigade of architects and project planners standing round drinking wine in their designer kitchen and inspecting the seamless joins between the floating counters, and the way the light falls right through the house to the basement, thanks to the installation of glass landings.
She recognises most of the people here from dinner parties, a pretentious bunch. Her husband was different from the start though, excited about architecture but not pompous.
‘We’re not going to change the world’, he tells her, ‘only little bits of it.’
‘Emily, how lovely to see you.’ Georgia, Phil’s wife, is gliding towards her and Emily forces a smile. They’ve been meeting on dinner-party loops for years now. Emily can’t stand her.
‘Did you hear about poor old Martha? Poor dear, she’s beside herself. I mean, being left for the nanny? What a cliché!’
It was inevitable to anyone who’d spent five minutes in her husband Greg’s company. There’s a feeding frenzy every time a marriage collapses round here. Georgia swans back to Phil, who raises his head and nods at Emily. He’s marginally more tolerable than Georgia and Emily doesn’t know how he can stand being married to her. Enduring her for one evening every couple of months is all Emily can handle.
‘Poor Martha indeed,’ her husband whispers. She hadn’t realised
he was listening. ‘Her husband’s a fool.’ He leans in and speaks into her ear. ‘He’s blown it this time.’
‘You knew and didn’t tell me?’ Emily feigns a hurt expression.
‘Idle gossip is beneath you.’ He kisses her nose.
It’s the third marriage to collapse this year from their group. Emily knows it’s unsympathetic, but she’s tired of all the drama, the late nights providing cups of tea and tissues. ‘You might feel differently if you actually cared about any of these people,’ he said the last time she had clambered into bed at 3 a.m. after setting up the guest room again. It’s true. She feels selfish, but it’s so boring. Anna, her only perpetually single friend (now ex single friend) had accused her of being ‘smug married’. What does that even mean? There’s nothing smug about her marriage. It’s not luck that it is working. She doesn’t take him for granted. They have their fights, like anyone. She knows it’s their arrangement that saves them from the tedium that fells so many of their peers, though she doesn’t say this. Their rules. She could write a book about them. She should write a book about them.
The Codes of Love Page 2
