‘It doesn’t just stay good,’ she’d told Anna, ‘it takes work. And compromise.’ She’d thought of the last man, the thrill of it. She likes the rawness of unknowing that fades with familiarity. Less sacrifice than most marriages, she wanted to tell Anna, though she didn’t.
A woman approaches them purposefully and her husband steps forward. He shakes her hand. ‘This is Emily, my wife.’ To Emily, ‘This is Adeline, a consultant on my project. We’ve met before, virtually.’
Emily steps forward and offers her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you, Adeline – congratulations.’ Adeline dips her head and leans forward. She’s ridiculously pretty, with her wide-open eyes and dimples when she smiles.
‘Thanks. I find it all a bit embarrassing, really, the pomp and glory. But you’ve got to show face sometimes,’ she says. Emily warms to her. This evening could be more fun than she’d anticipated.
‘How refreshing, to find someone sincere,’ she whispers to her husband when the consultant has been ushered away for introductions.
‘Yes, she’s an interesting character. Rather unorthodox, but she gets results. You know how I like to be in control, though,’ he says. Emily watches Adeline as she accepts a glass of wine from the waiter. There’s a confident grace to her movements, despite her claims of embarrassment. Her laughter is deep and surprising and several people turn. A man in jeans, a polo neck and suit jacket moves to the front of the room and taps his glass.
‘Max,’ Emily’s husband whispers.
‘The biggest challenge to any architect is to sit the house comfortably in the landscape,’ Max says. ‘What Mr Bradshaw has done here is nothing short of genius. Situated on the outskirts of London, this house needed to integrate its urban setting with the rural countryside it flanks. Not only was access difficult, but privacy was key.’
Beside her he dips his head and whispers, ‘That’s an understatement, it was a bloody nightmare.’ She remembers the day he came home furious at a rejection from the planning office to allow a temporary road surface to be laid. He’d sat and drunk himself into a stupor in his office and after she’d finally persuaded him to go to bed, he’d clung to her, childlike, until he fell asleep.
He reaches for her hand and squeezes it. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks.’ She squeezes his hand in response.
‘Some people say that building a house is the last remaining act of careful making that we in the West still undertake.’ There are small murmurs of agreement around the room, glasses clinking. ‘That is nowhere more apparent than in this house, where style and quality are paired beautifully with authentic rural details, where crystal chandeliers reflect off polycarbonate partitions that slide on agricultural tracks, where water troughs feature as dazzling water displays …’ He waves his hand to the garden.
He leans closer again – ‘Those were hers’ – he gestures to Adeline, who is across the room looking out of a window.
‘I like it,’ Emily says. ‘Introducing affordable innovation …’
‘Spot the writer,’ he says. Emily digs her elbow into his ribs. Released from formalities, the atmosphere lightens and people talk louder. In a corner music is turned on. Ludovico Einaudi fills the room and she recognises the haunting, discordant tones of Nightbook, one of her favourite albums.
‘Did you know that Einaudi’s inspiration was Satie?’ Adeline is beside her now, whispering in her ear.
‘No, I didn’t, but that makes sense, it’s the same minimalist approach.’
‘I love it, it’s so haunting,’ Adeline says.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Emily says. ‘It’s great by the way, all these finishing touches,’ she says, pointing to the ceiling where bare bulbs hang at different heights. ‘Just shows that you don’t have to be extravagant to be stylish.’
‘Yes. There was some resistance at first to some of the ideas.’ Adeline takes two glasses of wine from the waitress and passes one to Emily. ‘Mainly from your husband actually, but he has extravagant taste.’ She winks. Confused, Emily fidgets with her bag. Does she really come across as an extravagance?
‘Oh,’ Adeline laughs, seeing her confusion, ‘not you, though you’re lovely of course …’ She wedges her glass of wine between her chest and her right wrist while tucking her hair behind her ears with her left hand. ‘I’ve seen your house – he showed me, on a call once. He was trying to shape my palette for this project. I think he was a little offended I didn’t take up more of his ideas.’
‘Oh.’ Emily smiles and relaxes. ‘Well, he does pride himself on his taste, as you know.’ Speaking a little quieter she adds, ‘But it is rather expensive. There’s a tendency to overcompensate for an impoverished youth.’
‘And why not? Come and look at the upstairs – the bedrooms are glorious.’
Emily glances at her husband who is in deep conversation with Max. She puts her untouched glass of wine on a side table and takes the stairs two at a time behind Adeline, who scales them at high speed. Emily can see the muscles in the backs of her legs as she climbs.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Emily is saying as she is rushed through the rooms: hardwood floors furnished with vintage rugs; a free-standing bathtub in the master bedroom.
‘You haven’t seen the crowning glory. Come on.’ Emily follows her up a fairy-tale staircase that floats out from the wall. Two floors below the party continues, glass landings distributing flickering candlelight below. Then they’re at the top, a half floor, really, a solid glass floor below them and a glass ceiling above. Adeline closes a door at the top of the staircase and the sounds from downstairs are muted into a quiet hum.
Emily finds herself pulled onto a sofa. ‘Look.’ Controlled by something invisible, the ceiling opens; the star-stamped sky floods in and the room breathes out. It’s stopped raining. They stare at the silent sky.
‘It’s astonishing,’ Emily says, turning. ‘Was this your idea?’
‘I wanted something special, a surprise,’ Adeline replies. Emily whistles softly.
‘Well, it’s certainly that.’ She turns to Adeline. ‘I’m keen to buy somewhere old, do it up. Not just your standard restoration, but with a twist. Maybe you can advise us. When we’re ready.’
‘Yes, I think we’d work well together.’ Adeline says. She flicks her hair out of her eyes. ‘Plus I think we could win your husband over with some surprising innovations, open his eyes a bit.’
‘I’m sure we could,’ Emily says, and she’s confident they would.
They sit leaning back on the sofa and Emily is aware of their legs touching, skin against skin. She eases away slightly; she wouldn’t want Adeline to think that—
‘You have bare legs, too,’ Adeline says, the palm of her hand cool against Emily’s thigh.
‘Tights make me feel claustrophobic,’ Emily replies, her voice strangled. She swallows.
‘Same here,’ Adeline says, putting her foot on the coffee table in front of them so that her dress slips higher up her thigh. ‘Anyway, these events are always overheated.’ Emily glances at her sideways and stifles a laugh.
‘I couldn’t agree more. Look, I should go back down, my husband …’
‘I am sure he’s surrounded by a sycophantic crowd right now – you know how they are. He’s probably loving it; stay a little longer?’ Adeline mimics a pout and Emily relaxes back into the cushions. ‘So what do you do for a living, Emily?’
‘I lecture in creative writing at UCL.’
‘Impressive.’
‘It pays the bills.’
‘I’m always fascinated by writers, their ability to invent entire worlds.’ Adeline laughs. ‘It’s a skill, right?’
Emily smiles. ‘Or a burden. I’ve spent my whole life wanting to make my money from writing and not succeeding.’
‘Success is relative,’ Adeline squeezes Emily’s knee, ‘and generally determination wins out, in my experience.’ From downstairs the hum becomes louder, a wave of laughter. Adeline rolls her eyes.
‘You’re right
. I hate these things,’ Emily says.
‘So what else, apart from the obvious …’ Adeline grasps Emily’s left hand and twists the wedding ring round. It’s too loose; a miracle it hasn’t fallen off, really. She should have it adjusted.
‘Lecturer, wife, bearer of children,’ Emily says, distracted by Adeline’s fingers against her wrist. She wonders if Adeline can feel her hot pulse beating against her cool fingers.
‘So what sort of thing do you write?’ Adeline asks, tilting her body towards her.
‘Bleak and depressing fiction. It’s therapy for my darkness.’ Emily forces a laugh, her mind racing. She thinks of her husband downstairs, imagines him glancing at his watch and scanning the room for her. There’s nothing in their arrangement that forbids this, but it’s been a long time since …
‘You seem solid,’ Adeline is saying. ‘You and your husband, I mean. He’s clearly besotted.’ Emily thinks of the last time they made love. She wonders if besotted can also be comfortable.
‘We’ve been together a long time,’ she replies. ‘Twenty-two years, in fact.’
‘You don’t look old enough to have been married for that long,’ Adeline says, and Emily is glad that the room is dark, hiding her blushes. For the second time in the conversation Emily thinks of the arrangement that she has made with her husband, and feels an urge to tell this stranger the truth: she wants to let her know that it might be okay to take things further. No, she can’t, it’s one of the rules that their open marriage remains a secret. Adeline is out of bounds anyway, as they both know her. Although how do you define ‘know’? The rules are there for freedom. It’s just … it’s been so long since she met a woman like this, with no façade. Adeline’s hand is back on Emily’s leg, her thumb moving in small circles across the soft inner flesh of her thigh, and something flickers inside Emily. The infinitesimal brush of skin against skin.
‘Emily?’ Adeline’s voice brings her back. ‘Do you …?’
‘Emily?’ Emily jumps at the sound of her husband’s voice through the door and Adeline slips her hand back onto her own leg.
‘Got bored downstairs, did you?’ Adeline calls out, standing and smoothing her dress down.
‘Sorry to interrupt but it’s Nick’s mum on the phone – we need to collect Tom.’ He opens the door. Emily leaps from the sofa.
‘What happened?’
‘He’s drunk. They sneaked in booze, apparently, but I’ll go, you stay.’
‘Of course not, this is your night, I’ll go,’ Emily says.
Adeline leads the way downstairs and Emily follows, willing the colour in her face to fade. Everything is bright and overexposed.
‘Call me,’ Adeline presses a card into Emily’s hand. ‘I’d love to go out.’
Emily smiles. ‘Me too.’
At the door her husband kisses her forehead. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind going?’
‘I’m sure. Get a cab home, okay?’
As she pulls out of the driveway, she sees him close the door. She realises she didn’t ask Adeline anything about herself.
In the car Tom throws up three times. Emily is furious.
‘What were you thinking? You’re only sixteen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ve never been so embarrassed. What must his parents think?’ She’d cringed as Nick’s dad reassured her that it was okay.
‘I said sorry.’ He winds the window down and hangs his head out.
At home, Sam is smug. ‘Oh dear, little brother. Talk about shit hitting the fan.’
‘Sam, that’s unnecessary. I think he’s learned his lesson.’
The tickets to Venice will have to wait until the morning. With the boys in bed, she walks into the garden with a large glass of wine, the air cold against her bare legs. What happened back there? She hasn’t felt that since Charlotte. Her phone beeps and she checks it. I need to see you, I need to know. Leo. She ignores it. She doesn’t know what she’d say anyway. She can’t deny there’s tension between them and she’s unused to exercising restraint. But he’s her student; it’s different. Lying down on one of the sunloungers that no one’s sat on since the summer, she lets her dress ride up her legs. She thinks of Adeline’s thumb circling against her skin, and of Leo. As her fingers bring her what she longs for, she lets them fill her head. She doesn’t notice that it’s 2 a.m. and that her husband is still not home.
Rules of an open marriage #3:
What’s done remains in the past
Emily met Charlotte at university. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about her quiet appearance and frugal use of words. They’d been paired up for an exercise and she emerged to Emily like one of those watercolour pictures for toddlers, the wet paintbrush revealing a rainbow-coloured picture from a blank white page. Once love is there it’s impossible to imagine it absent. Charlotte and she were inseparable for the rest of their degrees. They shared everything: secrets, gossip, details of their lovers. The Charlotte from her classes became an outline. When they graduated they’d planned to move to London together and live out their dreams of becoming writers. The last night of university they’d drunk too much and fallen into Charlotte’s bed laughing about the boyfriend that Emily had just ditched, their giggles ending abruptly as their lips brushed. There was nothing awkward; they discovered each other eagerly and without embarrassment. It was the start of something new.
But one week before the lease on their flat started, Charlotte had sent a letter.
Emily, you will think me callous and I do not expect you to forgive me, but I will not be moving in with you. I met someone. We have a future, unlike you and I. I will forever remember the times we have shared, but this was a transitory stage from which I am emerging. I fear that you may be trapped in this phase for some time, bouncing from one drama to the next. We are better off apart, now that our lives are starting properly, and I wish you all the very best with your future. Emily lost £500 on the deposit and was not invited to the wedding, which was held shortly after, when Charlotte fell pregnant.
Emily drowned her sorrows and made herself available to every man who made advances, of which there were many. Charlotte was a glitch and to be forgotten, for everyone knew that such experiences were as common and as formative as the exploration of oneself. She felt foolish for having attributed it greater value than it deserved. She tucked the experience away in her discarded memories and willed herself to forget.
That, as Emily remembers it, was the start of a grown-up life. Gaining paid employment as a writer proved difficult: hundreds of copywriting jobs applied for led to nothing; competitions she entered her fiction into were black holes. Emily joined the civil service; at least it paid her. She held people at a distance and when she met her husband, who was everything she was not – focused and ambitious and in control, she’d signed up gladly for the life that he promised. She loved him more than she expected to, which was not at all.
Two years ago she got a call from Charlotte’s mother. It came from nowhere and knocked her sideways. Charlotte was ill and dying. She’d asked that Emily go and visit her in the hospice. Would you do it, please? her mother asked. For Charlotte? No, Emily would not.
Rules of an open marriage #4:
No financial agreements must be entered into with anyone else
Wales, May 2016
Ryan picks up the black ballpoint pen and twists it in his hands. He and Ada are here with their solicitors and it feels very real.
Is it really only five months since the awards ceremony? Every detail of the evening is etched in his memory. Beginnings always are. Emily had been in a foul mood. In the car she’d torn the air freshener into pieces, then she’d complained about the heat. At the ceremony she’d brightened up when she met Ada and he’d felt bad that Ada’s time was monopolised. He was relieved when Nick’s mum called to tell them about Tom, and glad that Emily insisted on going to collect him. After Emily left, Ada persuaded him upstairs to admire their handiwork. Ada was barefoot and everything
was fluid, loosened by champagne.
‘I like your wife,’ she’d said, politely.
‘As do I,’ he replied.
‘I like you more, though,’ she’d whispered, lacing her little finger through his. He’d hesitated.
‘This isn’t what I do,’ he’d told her.
She’d smiled and said, ‘You’re sweet.’ Ten minutes later he was fucking her in the en-suite bathroom up against the wall, her bare feet wrapped around his hips.
He’d gone home afterwards to Emily and slipped between the covers. Ada had kept ringing him, but he managed to avoid contact until he stumbled across her in the guest room of his house after her night out with Emily in Dulwich. He’d been up all night holding back Emily’s hair while she threw up, but when Ada asked him for a lift home he couldn’t say no. It would have seemed rude, and sitting beside her in the car he was unable to resist her. He was a cliché of middle age, but he slept with her again, and then again. He stopped trying to resist her and gave in. He was hooked.
The purchase of the cottage is unforgivable. Bricks and stones lend the affair substance. He thinks of their wedding vows. A one-night stand is acceptable, but an ongoing affair quite another.
Until Ada he’d only been with one woman other than Emily, and even that was just to spite her after she stayed out with another man all night. He’d gone to the seediest hotel he could find and drunk shot after shot, and when the woman on the stool next to him came on to him he’d felt triumphant. He’d told Emily as soon as he was home, hoping that she’d realise at last how it felt to actually be on the receiving end of the arrangement that she’d insisted on, but she’d merely asked him if he’d used a condom and whether he felt better for having done it, to which he’d replied ‘yes’, although it was a lie.
The Codes of Love Page 3
