It had been another ordinary Friday in the pub when Bob broke the news of his diagnosis. Non-Hodgkin lymphoma – a type of cancer. Even now, more than six years on, Geoffrey could feel the stab of disbelief. It must have shown in his face because Bob patted him on the shoulder and gave him a bit of time on his own. I’ll get us another pint. Geoffrey watched him at the bar, unable to take it in. He looked fit and well, fifty-two years old, his hair not yet grey. Never smoked, never had more than three pints. How could he be ill?
He was ill, though – very ill. That was why Geoffrey bought him out of the factory, so he could spend his final months with his wife and son, doing the things they had always talked about doing, the way you do when you think you have all the time in the world. Are you sure you want to sink your whole trust fund into the factory? Isn’t there something else you would rather do with the money?
His trust fund (courtesy of his maternal grandparents) amounted to twenty thousand pounds – not nearly enough to buy the factory. He knew he’d have to supplement it with bank loans but didn’t need to worry Bob with the details. Geoffrey hadn’t had access to the trust until his thirtieth birthday, three months after Bob had first broken the news. By then he’d had chemotherapy – looked older, thinner, moved more slowly, struggled to manage the stairs. I’m sure.
Geoffrey had done the right thing by Bob but looking at this morning’s letters laid out on the desk, he shook his head in despair. The right thing had somehow become the wrong thing and Geoffrey still didn’t understand quite how that had happened.
He was too dejected to answer his phone when Olivia called. He let it go to voicemail and listened to it later, when he had a drink in his hand. Olivia telling him not to forget about Edward’s rugby match tomorrow. Hardly. The highlight of an otherwise dire week.
*
Geoffrey got to St Bede’s early, relieved to have an afternoon away from the oppressive atmosphere at the Rectory. His mother looked to him for the companionship his father had provided. She expected Geoffrey to sit with her in the kitchen and listen to Radio Four; watch Songs of Praise with her on Sunday evenings; reminisce about people he hardly knew.
There was something profoundly wrong with a grown man living with his mother. With very few exceptions – a temporary arrangement while your expensive house was being renovated, an unexpected time lag between selling one expensive house and buying another, serious illness on either side – nothing screamed ‘loser’ more loudly. Except bankruptcy of course – descent into a growing underclass deemed too feckless to manage their own affairs. If the bank followed through with their threats he would be denied even the most basic bank account, a credit card or a mobile phone contract: all the trappings and necessities of adult life. Stigmatised and punished – treated like a recalcitrant child. He shook his head. It might not happen. He had to believe it might not happen.
Fine drizzle thickened the air. It blurred the familiar outline of the main school building, the central archway with castellated wings on either side; East Wing and West Wing, just like the White House.
Geoffrey had happy memories of St Bede’s: of sport and chapel and horsing around with his friends. He wandered from the car park towards the main building, hoping to bump into Olivia, but bumped into Martin Rutherford instead, moving at a slow jog, a stack of files under one arm. His gait had an air of clumsy campness. The way his legs splayed out slightly from the knee made Geoffrey think of Bambi. And why did he wear such loud socks? Did he imagine he was being cool? Geoffrey hadn’t made up his mind about Martin Rutherford, but Teddy Clarke-Bowen he was not.
After a quick exchange of pleasantries Martin excused himself and rushed off, leaving Geoffrey alone in the quad. He hung around for a few minutes and was about to give up on Olivia and head over to the rugby pitch when she appeared in a doorway and gestured for him to come over. Her waist looked tiny in a belted grey dress, her legs slim and shapely in black tights and ankle boots.
‘Let’s go up to the flat,’ she said, her manner faintly conspiratorial.
‘Is that allowed?’ he said, equally conspiratorial.
‘No,’ she said, and grabbed his hand.
Maybe sneaking into Olivia’s quarters would be the boost Geoffrey needed. Was it too much to hope he could do there what he hadn’t been able to do at the Rectory? Her eagerness boded well. He followed her brisk pace along the central hallway where he used to get told off for running, and up the wide stone staircase that led to the boarders’ quarters. Olivia’s flat was at the far end. The sitting room seemed smaller than when Geoffrey had helped her move in.
That had been one of the bleakest days in months of bleak days. Watching her unpack the few belongings she had brought from home provoked a sinking sense of failure. He helped her make the bed with their five-hundred thread Egyptian cotton sheets, but everything was too big for the ugly double divan. They had luxuriated in a king-sized four-poster at Manor Farm, and this was what she was reduced to. They stood looking at the fitted sheet that didn’t fit, the duvet cover that drooped to the cheaply carpeted floor, and all he wanted was to take her home.
Olivia had barely uttered a word during the whole depressing process. As she looked around for somewhere to put a framed photograph of the three of them on holiday in Snowdonia, Geoffrey finally caved and felt the sharp sting of tears. Christ, things were bad enough without Olivia seeing him blub like a baby. He had quickly retreated to the bathroom, grabbed a handful of loo roll and rubbed his eyes like they were the enemy. Pull it together. Deep breaths and a splash of cold water on his face restored a semblance of dignity. In the absence of a towel he had pulled more loo paper from the almost empty roll and noticed there was no bath, just a cheap plastic shower stall squeezed into a mildewy corner. Olivia loved a long, lingering soak. She’d light candles, get a glass of wine, put on some Norah Jones. He’d get home from work and like a horny bloodhound, blindly follow the scent. Join me, she’d say, her face glistening with tiny beads of sweat. He’d strip off there and then, throw his clothes across the bidet they never used and lower himself into the sea of bubbles. They’d talk, drink wine, kiss, make love. And now he had to leave her here, all alone in this shitty shabby flat.
‘Something’s happened,’ said Olivia, snapping him back.
‘What?’
‘You’re not going to believe it. I caught Ruth Rutherford and one of the groundsmen in the cricket pavilion.’
She paused for his reaction.
‘Doing what?’
She stood askance, palms open, signifying the answer was surely too obvious to have to spell it out.
‘Having sex,’ she said in a theatrical whisper.
‘Sex?’
‘Shhh, someone might hear you.’
He lowered his voice. ‘They were actually having sex?’
‘He was on the floor, she was on top, skirt up around her waist, boobs in his face.’ Olivia’s expression was one of disgust, as though she had bitten into rotten fruit. ‘Not a pretty sight, I can assure you.’
‘I don’t believe it. Ruth Rutherford?’
‘Ruth Rutherford. I’d gone there with Hugo to talk about setting some holiday work for Edward, and we walked in on them.’
‘Who’s Hugo?’
‘French exchange student. You know – coaches rugby.’
‘I thought Leo Sheridan coached rugby.’
‘He does. Hugo helps out.’
‘Right. Sorry – why did you go to the cricket pavilion?’
‘I told you – to talk about Edward.’
‘But why the cricket pavilion, why not a classroom or the staffroom?’
She huffed, clearly irritated that they were getting off topic. ‘I was trying to get a signal so I could call you and I bumped into him sneaking a cigarette.’ She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is what we saw.’
‘She must have been mortified.’
‘Actually, no. I don’t think she was.’
‘What did she say?’
>
‘Can I help you?’
‘Can I help you?’ Geoffrey laughed, clearly not the reaction Olivia was hoping for.
She shushed him again. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘Well, it sort of is. Plummy Ruth Rutherford. Who would have thought? Must be awkward when you run into her.’
‘That’s just it. Once I’d got over the shock I went up to the house to see her. I told her not to worry – it was none of my business and I wouldn’t breathe a word, and she gave me this strange smile.’
‘Strange how?’
‘I don’t know, like she wasn’t worried, but maybe I should be.’
‘Huh?’
Distant voices got closer; girls talking, laughing. Olivia put her index finger to her lips and stayed very still until the voices faded. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff seemed faintly ridiculous.
‘I don’t understand why you’re the one that should be worried.’
‘Me neither, but then yesterday Peter Havant—’
‘Peter Havant?’
‘Geography. He made a comment about me and the handsome Hugo—’
‘Handsome, eh?’
She ignored that. ‘It was the way he said it, like he was implying there was something going on.’
Geoffrey took a moment to process this. Not that he had ever actually read one, but he imagined this was the stuff of Jilly Cooper novels – bonking and infidelity among the upper-middles.
‘So let me get this straight. You and the French student caught the headmaster’s wife and the groundsman at it in the cricket pavilion and now there are rumours about you and the French student.’
Maybe more D. H Lawrence than Jilly Cooper – definitely shades of Lady Chatterley.
‘Basically, yes.’
‘And you think Ruth Rutherford started those rumours?’
‘I do.’
‘But why would she?’
‘In case I said anything about her and young Tom.’
‘Young Tom?’
‘The groundsman.’ Olivia gave him an exasperated look, as if expecting him to be au fait with the cast of players at St Bede’s.
‘Not sure I follow.’
‘Think about it. If people hear I’m having some sort of relationship with Hugo, then anything I might say about Ruth will look like I’m trying to deflect suspicion away from me and no one will believe a word of it.’
‘So tell her you’re not going to say anything.’
‘I’ve already done that. Weren’t you listening?’
He hated to see her pretty face pinched with worry. When he enveloped her in his arms she resisted, but that just made him hold her harder. She gave in and rested her cheek against his chest.
‘I’m sure it’ll blow over,’ he said, kissing the top of her head.
She pulled away, unconvinced. ‘Remember how this job came up suddenly? I think Ruth Rutherford had something to do with the other houseparent leaving.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Olivia ran her fingers through her hair, the way she did when she was frustrated. ‘Oh, I don’t know, but I can’t lose this job, Geoffrey. We need the money and I can’t live with your mother. I’m sorry, I just can’t.’
She looked like she might cry. Geoffrey put his arms round her again. ‘No, it’s me that should be sorry – sorry you have to put up with this shit. It’s all my fault.’ On this occasion, she didn’t argue. ‘Look, just keep a low profile for a while.’
She pulled away again, smoothed her hair and took a deep breath. A cleansing breath, she called it – something she learned at yoga. Her voice was composed when she said the match was about to start and they should get moving. She opened the door a few inches and peeked along the corridor before she beckoned him to follow.
*
Geoffrey never felt more proud of Edward than when he watched him play rugby: his speed, his courage, the way he motivated his team. Geoffrey had been captain of rugby in his final year too, and remembered his own father on the touchline, cheering him on, his face beaming. Geoffrey didn’t want to taint that memory with the disappointment he brought later. His father had been proud of him. He had.
The match was against Kings Broughton, one of their players almost six feet tall. It often happened at that age: some boys still children, others already in the throes of adolescence, their bodies strong and angular. It made Olivia nervous to watch Edward play against much bigger boys. She covered her eyes when he went in for a tackle, turned away when he crumpled to the ground. On one occasion Geoffrey had to stop her running on to the pitch to make sure Edward wasn’t hurt. Not that Geoffrey liked seeing him take a knock, but it was all part of growing up, toughening up. Olivia could be very overprotective.
The French student seemed to be standing in for Leo, giving the team some last-minute encouragement. He patted Edward on the back and sent the boys on to the pitch.
*
St Bede’s three: Kings Broughton twelve.
You could judge a school by the calibre of its match tea. Even the gloom of a trouncing like the one they’d just had was alleviated by a hearty selection of sandwiches, scones and home-made cakes. Some schools had started doing hot food – pizza and jacket potatoes – but Geoffrey was a traditionalist. St Bede’s was known for putting on an excellent spread.
Olivia had been roped into helping out so had left the match at half-time, which was just as well because the Kings Broughton six-footer had Edward in his sights as the one to bring down. Geoffrey made his way over with the throng of parents commiserating about the score. The consensus was that St Bede’s hadn’t played badly; they had simply been outclassed by a far superior team. Leo Sheridan’s whereabouts remained something of a mystery and the young French guy – Hugo, did Olivia say? – was clearly out of his depth. It was Edward that Geoffrey felt sorry for. Despite Kings Broughton’s nine-point lead, he had battled on to the bitter end. Such a mild-mannered boy by nature but on the pitch he showed gladiatorial spirit: fearless, determined to win. He had scored St Bede’s only try – had a terrific game, considering. Geoffrey wanted to go over and tell him so at the final whistle but the French guy got there first. He watched him put a consoling arm round Edward’s shoulder and wondered what he could say that would make Edward feel better? Nothing, probably. Edward hated losing.
They filed into the library where match tea had been laid out on a series of trestle tables draped with white cotton tablecloths bearing the school’s coat of arms and motto: Laudare, Benedicere, Praedicare – Praise, Bless, Preach. Behind one of the tables stood Ruth Rutherford and Olivia, busily dispensing hot drinks. Geoffrey thought humour might diffuse any tension between the two and asked Olivia for a pint of his usual. She responded with a weak smile and a cup of tea.
‘Nice to see you, Geoffrey,’ said Ruth. ‘Good game?’
He expected her to be embarrassed. She must have known Olivia would have confided in him, that he would be exempt from her oath of silence. No sign of it, though.
‘Disappointing score. Edward played well.’
‘Not that you’re biased,’ she said, flicking her hair off her face.
He saw her in a completely different light now. Hard to imagine her bare-breasted, slumming it with the lower orders. Young lad as well, Olivia had said. Geoffrey sneaked a furtive glance at her breasts as he sipped his tea. Impressive.
He considered her passable in the looks department – not too fat, not too thin, not too tall, not too short. Her hair, skin and eyes were pale, affording her a lissom, slightly ethereal air. She had the sort of mouth that looked better when solemn. Her top lip vanished to a thin line when she smiled. What distinguished her was her poise. She exuded the innate confidence of a woman who knew that she was, in some indefinable yet utterly irrefutable way, better than her peers. The rules that governed their mundane lives did not apply to her. If she wanted to get drunk, she would get drunk. If she wanted to fuck the groundsman, she would fuck the groundsman. And woe betide anyone who dared to suggest otherw
ise.
*
It had become his night-time ritual – sneaking into the study half an hour after his mother went to bed; long enough to be sure she had fallen asleep and wouldn’t bother him. He didn’t know why, but Geoffrey assumed old people went to bed early. Not his mother. She was a blur of activity in the evenings: wrote letters, baked bread, cleared out cupboards. Perhaps keeping busy was her way of dealing with bereavement.
Geoffrey watched the clock, impatient to have some quality time with his laptop. He would have preferred to indulge his guilty secret in the privacy of his bedroom but couldn’t get any Wi-Fi on that side of the house. And anyway, he hadn’t managed a single orgasm in that bedroom. It was as if it was cursed.
Cybersex seemed a reasonable solution to the problem of the cursed bedroom and absent wife. There were two sites he favoured. The girls were pretty and natural, a selection of blondes, brunettes and redheads. He liked the way they looked coyly at the camera, the way they undressed slowly, shyly. Since that first time, when he’d sneaked out of bed leaving Olivia sleeping soundly, he had ended every day with a visit to those websites. He missed his wife, his home, the life he had before it all went to shit. He wasn’t hurting anyone. It wasn’t infidelity if there was no third party. At least that was what he told himself when his conscience reared its sanctimonious head.
His mother found him in the snug watching a BBC drama about a murderer on the run.
‘I’m going up then,’ she said.
Ten thirty on the dot.
‘I won’t be far behind,’ said Geoffrey.
Fifteen tedious minutes later, after a wholly predictable ending – the murderer didn’t do it after all but managed to track down the man who did – Geoffrey went to the kitchen for a glass of water and was suddenly plunged into darkness. It took a few seconds to feel his way along the wall to the light switch but no matter how many times he flicked it, the light wouldn’t come on. His mother called from upstairs.
‘Don’t worry,’ he called back. ‘I’m going to check the fuses.’
Using the light from his iPhone he found the fuse box – tucked unhelpfully in the darkest recess of the understairs cupboard – and saw that none of the fuses had tripped. It could be a power cut, or more likely the decades-old wiring. He made his way upstairs and checked on his mother.
An Unsuitable Marriage Page 7
