This Affair

by June Gadsby

  I paced the floor, looking at my watch every few seconds and trying to keep down a feeling of rising panic. I could hear Greg’s animated voice and thought that it was the first time since the accident he had shown any sign of being enthusiastic about anything.

  It was April and rather cold for the time of year. And it was raining. When I looked out of the sitting room window, which I did frequently, I could see brightly coloured umbrellas bobbing over the top of the laurel hedge as early morning commuters rushed to work or to do their shopping. The paper boy delivered our usual batch of dailies and I realised I had forgotten to cancel the delivery for the next two weeks. But before I could get to the door he was off again, whistling down the road on his mountain bike, his body sheltering beneath a yellow waterproof two sizes too big for him.

  At last I heard the hiss of tyres as a car stopped outside our gate. There was a sharp pap on the horn. Callum and Hilary had arrived, and Greg was still talking on the phone. I pulled on my coat and raced up the stairs.

  “Greg.” I hissed from the doorway of his office. “Greg, they’re here. Come on, we have to go.”

  He smiled and nodded and waggled his fingers but went on chatting with the person at the other end.

  “Yes…yes, I realise that…yes…a challenge…Oh, yes, I agree… Of course.” Greg covered the mouthpiece and looked at me, his eyes shining. “You go and get into the car. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, Greg. Do hurry.”

  “Stop fussing, Megs. I won’t be long.”

  I went back downstairs and picked up my own holdall. The doorbell jangled at the very moment when I pulled it open and there was Callum huddled on the step under a huge black umbrella.

  “Ah, Megan. Ready?” He looked as awkward as I felt and just a little impatient.

  “I’m afraid Greg’s stuck on the phone,” I apologised. “Look, you’d better step inside for a minute before you drown out there. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  He nodded, folded the umbrella and stepped into the hall. I stood there feeling small and insignificant and embarrassed, not knowing quite what to say.

  “Let’s hope the weather’s better in France.” He gave a small chuckle and glanced up the stairs where Greg’s voice droned on monotonously and I had the sneaking suspicion he was no longer speaking to the same caller but had made yet another call.

  I was about to go up and drag him away by whatever means it took, when he appeared at the top of the stairs. He hesitated when he saw Callum standing there, then descended with nothing less than a bounce in his step.

  “Glad to see you’ve recovered from your broken leg,” Callum remarked.

  Although still limping slightly, Greg was enjoying a new lease of life. He grinned broadly, which took me by surprise. I was more used to him scowling in Callum’s presence.

  “It was bloody murder while it lasted, but it’s fine now,” he said.

  “Right.” Callum looked slightly anxious, I thought. “Shall we go, then?”

  Inside my head I kept repeating to myself the words that constantly echoed: It’s wrong. Pull out while you still have time. But my heart didn’t agree.

  Greg joined us, still not in his jacket. He picked up his travel-bag and put it down on the bottom stair behind him. “You won’t be needing that one,” he said, almost muttering the words.

  Callum and I exchanged curious glances.

  “What are you doing, Greg?” I asked, feeling a certain nagging feeling deep inside me that I didn’t like. “Of course, we’ll need that if you’re coming with us….” My last words tailed off as sudden realisation struck.

  “I’m not coming.”

  “Greg. What on earth…?”

  “I can’t, Meg. That phone call…it was Charles Atkinson, the MP. He could be our next Prime Minister.”

  “What’s that got to do with your not going to France?” I wanted to know. I didn’t like Charles Atkinson, nor did I want him as Prime Minister, but just at that moment, I didn’t care one way or the other. I needed Greg in France with me to keep me from even thinking of straying from the marital straight and narrow.

  “He wants me to write his autobiography…like yesterday!”

  “Oh.”

  “Wouldn’t that be more pertinent if or when he becomes Prime Minister?” Callum wanted to know.

  “No...no, of course not.” Greg was raking his fingers through his hair. “He’s a pretty hot character and people are going to read things about him that might just affect their choice when they vote. You know, persuade them to go over to his side rather than the opposition.”

  Callum frowned, then picked up on something Greg had said that I hadn’t noticed. “Just a minute. You said ‘autobiography’. Isn’t he supposed to write that himself?”

  Greg gave his characteristic lop-sided smile that always meant there was something sly and underhand in the offing. I guessed what it was even before he told us.

  “That’s right. And he’s going to write it…or at least, his name will be on it, but he wants me to ghost write it for him. Neat, eh?”

  “Oh, Greg.”

  “Sorry, Megs, but the opportunity…and the money he’s willing to pay me, is too good to turn down. The trouble is, he wants me to start right away, so I can’t possibly go to France.”

  “In that case, I’ll stay too,” I said, forcing the words out reluctantly, yet knowing that I was at least making a sensible decision.

  “No!”

  It was odd the way both men spoke in one voice. I blinked from one to the other. Greg’s eyes glared at me almost angrily. Callum’s were in shadow, his expression giving nothing away.

  “But I can’t possibly go without you…”

  “Look, sweetheart, you need a holiday,” Greg’s voice was soft and persuasive. “And I’m going to be up to my ears in work and you know what I’m like. Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage.”

  “But…”

  “Greg’s right,” Callum said quickly, picking up my bag. “Come on, Megan. We’re already running late. I’d hate to miss that plane.”

  He was already half way down the drive and I was hovering on the doorstep. Greg grabbed me and planted a rough kiss on my cheek, then gave me a little shove.

  “Go on, Megan. See you in a fortnight, eh? Have a good time with the Maestro and his family.”

  There were all sorts of things I felt I should be saying to him. Like I would miss him, would be thinking of him all the time, neither of which were true, though I would certainly entertain worrying thoughts about him in my absence. I wanted to warn him about the dangers of taking up smoking and drinking again, remind him about his strict diet. I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

  It’s wrong. There were the words in my head again, but my heart ignored them.

  “Go on! Don’t keep them waiting.” Greg sounded impatient.

  “All right,” I sighed, running through the rain after Callum, my feet splashing in the puddles. “’Bye, Greg.”

  But he had already shut the door behind me.

  The windows of Callum’s car were steamed up on the inside, despite the air conditioning. He was already behind the wheel with the engine purring into life and the windscreen wipers working fiercely. As I approached, he wound down his window, his face serious.

  “Get in the front, Megan” he instructed, and I went around to the other side and found the door already open.

  I slid inside, thankful to get out of the rain and as I shut the door the car slid forward, quickly gathering speed as we left Greg and the house and the street where I lived behind.

  “Oh, dear.” I exclaimed, wiping the rain from my face with my hankie. “We forgot your umbrella.”

  He had put it down just inside the hall.

  “Never mind.”

  “We could go back…”

  “There isn’t time.”

  He sounded a little curt, so I thought it best not to argue. I twisted around in my seat to say hello to Hilary. That w
as when I realised that Hilary was not in the car. How stupid not to have noticed, I thought.

  “Where’s Hilary?”

  Callum didn’t answer for a while. He concentrated on negotiating his way through the morning traffic that was converging erratically onto the main city road. We joined the fast lane, then hopped dangerously from one lane to the other and finally were forced to stop at a red light.

  “Hilary’s not coming either,” Callum said in a low, gravelly voice.

  “Not coming! But why? She’s not ill, is she?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  I heard Callum sigh deeply. “No, she’s fine.”

  “Then why isn’t she here?”

  The lights changed to amber and we started off with a slight screech of rubber on the wet surface. After a minute or two, Callum found the exit for the airport road and we speeded up it. He was an excellent driver, but I got the impression that his mind was not exactly on what he was doing. He cursed softly as another car blasted him for getting too close.

  “Just like Greg,” he said eventually, “Hilary was coming right up until the last minute, then she seemed to go all to pieces. I’m afraid we had an almighty row in the end, but I couldn’t persuade her to change her mind. She sends her apologies.”

  So that’s why he was all tense and grim faced.

  “Oh, Callum, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me and cancel the whole thing? I would have understood.”

  He glanced across at me then returned his attention to the busy, greasy road and the hypnotic movement of the windscreen wipers working overtime.

  “I thought about it, believe me, but in the end I decided not to. Anyway, the flights were booked and paid for. The hired car is waiting at the other end. The grandchildren will be disappointed, and I wouldn’t be very popular with my step-son and his wife.”

  Then I remembered that Stuart and Pamela and their children were to join us at the house in France a day later because of some problem with Stuart’s job. My stomach turned over and my heart gave a shudder as I realised that this meant I was going to spend some time alone with Callum after all.

  Twenty-four hours, I told myself. Just twenty-four hours, that’s all. Not very long. You can cope with that, surely. I looked at Callum and wondered whether he could cope and decided it was best not to dwell on the subject.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, obviously reading my thoughts, “We have a lady who comes to look after us when we’re over there. Madame Sabatier is an excellent housekeeper and a wonderful cook. She can seem a little frightening until you get to know her, but don’t let it bother you.”

  “She…she stays…I mean…overnight?” I had to ask.

  “She will if I ask her to.”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice to utter another word. We drove in silence then until we reached the airport. In the airport lounge I suffered another bout of panic. What if Madame Sabatier refused Callum’s request to sleep at the house? What if Stuart and Pamela were late joining us? What if…?

  “Damn! The flight’s delayed due to fog.”

  Callum had been checking the flight information board and he re-joined me, stopping on the way to sign an autograph for a woman who recognised him.

  “Does it mean we’ll miss our connection?” I asked.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” he was looking about him in an uncharacteristically nervous fashion. “We have plenty of leeway at the other end. Would you like a drink? A magazine?”

  We went to the restaurant, stopping off to buy a couple of magazines on the way. He ordered two coffees and we sat silently drinking and pretending to read. It was impossible to concentrate on the words that swam before my eyes on the glossy pages. Callum flipped swiftly and noisily through his magazine, then threw it down in exasperation and looked at his watch. Then his long fingers beat a monotonous rhythm on the melamine table top.

  “Excuse me, Megan,” he said a few minutes later, suddenly getting to his feet. “I’ve just spotted a couple of reporters touting for business. Better not let them get the wrong idea, eh? I’ll meet you at the departure gate.”

  He handed me my boarding pass and wandered casually off, leaving me sitting there with black thoughts of running away and going back home to Greg. I didn’t, of course. I couldn’t.

  The journalists spotted Callum almost immediately and I watched covetously as he went through his celebrity-caught-on-the-run act, smiling genially, answering their questions, posing for a casual photograph. Fellow passengers, alerted by the small, exclusive cabaret, gathered curiously around the group, but I never lost sight of Callum.

  As I watched, Callum took a call on his mobile phone. His back hunched over, and one finger stuck in his free ear to block out the airport noise. Five minutes later our flight was called, and I didn’t get to speak to him until we sat down on the plane in adjoining seats. The empty seat beside us would have been Hilary’s.

  He looked a little stern-faced, his high forehead creased, and he was chewing reflectively on his mouth, obviously preoccupied. I guessed it must be something to do with the phone call he had received.

  “I hope it wasn’t bad news,” I said as the engines of the plane whined and we moved forward down the runway.

  “What?”

  “The phone call.”

  “Oh, that. No. Just Hilary making sure we’d got here safely.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told her about Greg. I thought it was wise.”

  “Yes…yes, of course.”

  “She seemed to think it was for the best.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes…and I must say I have to agree with her. She sends you her love, by the way, and orders you to have a good holiday.”

  I smiled weakly. “Hilary’s such a nice person.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Then we fell silent as the plane took off. Bored with my magazine, I stared at the passing clouds out of the porthole window. Callum read his free in-flight newspaper, concentrating with great intensity. I couldn’t help wondering if he were reading at all and glanced at him out of the corner of my eye from time to time. However, he went on staring at the words in front of him until we landed at Gatwick just in time for our connection.

  The fog was still hovering around in a thin blanket and the air was damp, but there was no delay in our flight to Toulouse. The sun was shining warmly when we arrived at Blagnac airport in France. Compared to the cold spring of England it was more like midsummer.

  “Ah!” Callum breathed in the clean air and smiled. “Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves. Thank God for France.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The hire car that Callum had ordered was waiting for us. It was a large white Peugeot, roomy and comfortable. Unlike the traffic in England, I was amazed to note how quiet the French roads were, once we got clear of the airport. Even on the motorway, driving was easy and free from stress.

  The wide-open spaces, so green with rich red earth, slid past us. Now and then there was a vivid splash of yellow where fields of oil-seed rape were in full flower. Houses full of style and character, so typically French, dotted the hillsides. Gardens were resplendent with wisteria blossom and a wide variety of colourful flowers, most of which I didn’t recognise.

  I had been concentrating on the passing scenery for some time, marvelling on the beauty of it all and trying not to let anything else enter my mind. Suddenly I gave a start as Callum reached over and patted my hand which lay in my lap.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You’re very quiet. I thought maybe the journey was tiring you. We can stop if you like.”

  “No, I’m fine, really…though I wouldn’t say no to a cold drink.”

  No sooner were the words out of my mouth than an auberge appeared and Callum pulled off the road, parking the car beneath some shady mimosa trees. It was a quaint old place with wooden tables and benches outside and rustic fences hung heavily with perfumed wisteria hanging
in bunches of lilac coloured flowers. The interior was very dark and sombre, though the portly man with long black drooping moustache was anything but glum. He welcomed us in rapid French as if we were old friends.

  Callum ordered two panachés, the French equivalent to a shandy and they arrived ice cold and frothing over the tall glasses two minutes later.

  “Welcome to France, Megan,” Callum held up his glass in a toast. “Here’s to a wonderful holiday.”

  I clicked my glass against his and sipped the refreshingly cold and sweet sparkling liquid, then lay back in my seat and took in the surroundings. We were in a luxurious valley with wooded hills and distant, snow-capped mountains.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” I sighed. “How far are we from your house?”

  “Not far now,” Callum told me.

  My stomach churned a little, because I still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that we were alone and would soon be sharing the same roof, virtually alone, for the next few hours at least.

  “I can’t imagine why Hilary doesn’t like France,” I said as we finished our drinks and prepared to leave.

  “Neither can I,” Callum gave me a wry smile, “but then, Hilary can’t understand why I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in the North-East of England.”

  “One man’s meat…” I started to quote the old proverb and he chuckled.

  “Exactly.”

  We arrived at the small, but picturesque village of Labagnac as the church clock was striking seven. The early evening sun, only just beginning to mellow, was bathing the stone buildings and the cobbled streets in a pink-tinged golden glow, although the sky remained a brilliant cobalt blue.

  Callum pulled up in front of the bar-tabac-epicerie. The name ‘Chez Claude’ was painted on a hanging sign in gay, floral letters on a black background.