An Unsuitable Marriage

by Colette Dartford

  How loyal of Martin to defend her. How little she deserved it.

  ‘She really is terribly embarrassed.’

  Ruth, embarrassed? Olivia seriously doubted that.

  ‘Anyway, we’d like you to come to dinner tonight, if it’s not too short notice. You and your husband. Put the whole misunderstanding behind us.’

  Wonderful. Instead of a lively evening with her village friends, she was condemned to another evening of torment with the Rutherfords. Olivia had never hated anyone but what she felt for Ruth came pretty close. How could she sit across the table from her and make polite conversation? An image of her naked breasts kept repeating, rather like a greasy burger. And the look on young Tom’s face made her cringe every time she thought of it, which was alarmingly often. Martin took her hesitation the wrong way.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I assumed your husband knew about our little misunderstanding.’

  Olivia wished he would stop calling it that. The only person who had misunderstood was him. Everyone else – Ruth, Hugo, Tom, Geoffrey – knew exactly what had gone on.

  ‘He does,’ said Olivia. ‘That was the matter we discussed in my quarters.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Well, as I say, best to put it all behind us. So, this evening, around seven?’

  She did her best to smile. ‘Seven.’

  *

  Geoffrey met her in the car park at six forty-five, a bottle of Pinot Noir in one hand, a bunch of garage-bought flowers in the other. Under her coat Olivia wore a black woollen dress and the little ankle boots Geoffrey said made her legs look sexy. Her hair was pulled back into a loose knot and a pair of silver earrings sparkled around her jaw line.

  He had gone a bit overboard in a suit and tie, but it turned out he’d had a creditors’ meeting in Bristol and hadn’t gone home to change. His manner was subdued as he brushed his lips against hers. Olivia asked how it went as they headed along the path to the Rutherfords’ house, but he said he’d rather not talk about it. Typical. He routinely excluded her from anything to do with business or money, adopting either an infuriating ‘I know best’ attitude, or more recently, an ‘it’s my problem, I’ll deal with it’ stance. Yet he failed to grasp the blindingly obvious: they were in this together. Decisions Geoffrey made impacted on them both, as evidenced by the fact he was living at the Rectory and she was living at St Bede’s. She squeezed and relaxed her hands a few times to offset the urge to say this out loud. An evening with Ruth was as much as Olivia could endure without the added friction of falling out with Geoffrey. As if he had been reading her mind, he asked if Martin still had no idea about his wife and the toy boy.

  ‘None whatsoever. I feel sorry for him and the girls. Well, Alice more than Maisie. She got that “rabbit in the headlights” look when I mentioned Harriet would be looking after them tonight.’

  ‘Harriet?’

  ‘Matron.’

  ‘And Alice doesn’t like her?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Alice doesn’t cope well with change. The slightest deviation from her routine throws her completely. You should have seen her when I said I was having dinner at Mummy and Daddy’s house. She pleaded with me to take her too.’

  He responded with ‘Poor kid’, but Olivia could tell he wasn’t interested. She struggled to keep up with his pace. He jogged up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell. What to expect? Would Ruth be drunk, hostile? Was contrite too much to hope for?

  The door swung open and Martin ushered them in out of the cold. He and Geoffrey shook hands and Martin enthused about the wine, even though it was nothing special. He relieved Olivia of the lacklustre mix of carnations, freesia and gypsophila, wrapped in a sheath of cellophane, and put them on the sideboard so he could hang up their coats.

  ‘I’ll take these to Ruth in the kitchen,’ he said, gathering up the wine and flowers. ‘Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the sitting room.’

  Olivia dreaded coming face to face with Ruth. She was about to confide this to Geoffrey when Ruth breezed in, jeans tucked into leather riding boots, blouse snug over her bust, a jaunty silk scarf tied at her throat. Her poker-straight fringe had been cut into a sharp line just above her eyebrows, giving her face a strong, geometric look. Martin followed behind with a bottle of Prosecco – Geoffrey’s least favourite drink.

  ‘Darling,’ said Martin, pouring the Prosecco into flutes. ‘You remember Geoffrey Parry.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, air-kissing him. ‘Lovely to see you again.’

  Olivia had underestimated how hard being pleasant and smiley would be, now that she knew what a loathsome individual Ruth was. Not a trace of remorse or regret. Quite the opposite – she set about quizzing Geoffrey, her questions polite but probing: Where are you living now? What are your plans? How are you managing on your own?

  When Martin suggested they make their way to the dining table Geoffrey led, even though he’d never been to the house before. ‘Left,’ called Martin when Geoffrey stopped in the hallway. They walked in single file, Olivia warily bringing up the rear.

  The table was set more formally than the last time she had eaten here: starched white tablecloth, place mats depicting hunting scenes, silver cutlery and linen napkins. That had been supper with the children – this, apparently, was a dinner party.

  Olivia’s parents didn’t have dinner parties. If friends came over to eat it was usually a take-away – Chinese, Indian, pizza if Olivia and Sam had their way – or some sort of buffet arrangement with everyone helping themselves. Seating was informal – plates on laps the preferred option. Bottled beer and supermarket wine fuelled lively conversation. If her dad started on about politics her mother would cut him off – that’s enough of that, Dave – and top up everyone’s drink.

  Nothing in Olivia’s simple, no-nonsense background had prepared her for the complex rituals of the formal dinner party: effusive greetings, wine, exaggerated interest in the life and opinions of others, wine, endless discussion of school fees and house prices, wine, thinly veiled competition as to who has had the most exotic holiday, wine, inappropriate comments about a mutual acquaintance, wine, a glimpse of marital discord between at least one couple, wine, indiscriminate flirting, wine, escalation of marital discord, wine, coffee offered and declined, yet more wine, disproportionate gratitude towards the hosts, amid slurred and emotional farewells. Such evenings left Olivia with a hangover and a voyeuristic sense of having seen and heard too much.

  The first course was avocado – smoky, creamy, perfectly ripe – and prawns. Olivia disliked seafood but washed it down with wine. Martin made a fuss of thanking Geoffrey for stepping in as rugby coach, saying how lucky they were to have the makings of an excellent team, not to mention first-rate facilities.

  ‘Those groundsmen do sterling work,’ he said, popping a prawn into his mouth.

  Nobody moved or spoke. Olivia couldn’t look at Geoffrey, his ribald sense of humour a clear and present danger, but nor could she look at Jezebel Ruth, or clueless, cuckolded Martin. She picked up her glass and drained it. Thank God for wine.

  The chicken languished in some sort of curry sauce, served with brown rice and a platter of roasted root vegetables. It was actually rather good but Olivia had no appetite. Watching Ruth play wife, hostess and friend had literally sickened her.

  Geoffrey had no such qualms, it seemed. He tucked into his food with gusto, complimenting Ruth on her culinary skills. She responded with compliments of her own: on his smart suit, his reputation as a sportsman, his man-sized appetite. If she had stuck her tongue down his throat she couldn’t have been more obvious. Was she flirting with Geoffrey because she found him attractive, or was it to annoy Olivia or humiliate Martin? All three, perhaps. Martin chose to ignore it.

  ‘How are the girls?’ he asked Olivia, topping up her glass with a splash more Pinot Noir.

  She anticipated tomorrow’s headache but drank anyway. ‘Maisie’s settled in well. She has friends, gets stuck into things. She seems
happy.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Martin. ‘One always wonders about boarding them so young.’

  Olivia wondered about boarding them at all given that their mother didn’t work and their house was at the end of the driveway. She suspected it had been Ruth’s idea and any objections Martin may have had were swiftly overruled.

  ‘And Alice?’ asked Martin.

  Ruth turned away from Geoffrey and looked directly at Olivia. ‘What about Alice?’ she said, pushing her hair behind her ears.

  Olivia feared she had been unprofessional, that this was a discussion she should have had privately with the Rutherfords. Ruth kept her gaze level, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Alice is more timid than her sister,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Go on,’ said Martin.

  ‘She gets rather homesick, especially at bedtime.’

  Martin looked concerned, parallel creases appearing between his eyebrows. He was about to speak when Ruth jumped in.

  ‘Alice needs to toughen up a bit,’ she said, jutting her chin forward in the same way Maisie did when she made a point.

  Olivia lowered her eyes, sad to hear a child’s unhappiness so thoughtlessly dismissed, and by her own mother of all people.

  ‘Desert?’ said Ruth coolly, standing to clear away plates.

  More food Olivia didn’t want. Geoffrey squeezed her knee under the table and threw her one of his ‘chin up’ smiles. She was surprised when Ruth opened another bottle of wine. She was already tipsy – flushed cheeks, heavy eyelids, speech a little less clipped than usual – and Geoffrey had to drive back to Compton Cross. Those narrow country lanes were lethal.

  ‘Cheesecake,’ said Ruth, plonking a serving plate in the centre of the table. The cake was heaped with berries and thin curls of chocolate.

  ‘Wow,’ said Geoffrey. ‘That looks amazing.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ said Ruth. ‘Sadly, I can’t take the credit.’

  She placed a thick slab on a plate and handed it to Geoffrey. Olivia watched his eyes widen in anticipation. The next plate she handed to Olivia.

  ‘Alicia Burton’s work,’ explained Martin. ‘Just a small one for me, darling.’

  Ruth rolled her eyes and cut him a slab. Everyone waited for Ruth to start.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, her mouth full. She wiped some chocolate from the corner of her lips. ‘Alicia was here all afternoon. Just found out that Toby, her ex, is getting married again. Utterly heartbroken.’

  Olivia pictured Toby Burton: dark-haired, stocky, a bit full of himself.

  ‘He keeps her terribly short of money,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Darling,’ said Martin gently. ‘I don’t think we should—’

  Ruth took a slug of wine before she cut him off. ‘So she’s starting up her own little cottage industry, making cakes. We’re her guinea pigs. What do you think?’

  ‘Delicious,’ said Geoffrey, scraping the last bits of berry and chocolate from his plate.

  ‘And as if he hasn’t hurt her enough,’ continued Ruth, ‘Toby has asked Freddie to live with him and his new wife. Can you believe it?’

  Divorce was rotten, doubly so when children were involved. Olivia was no fan of Alicia Burton, but to lose her husband and her son? She couldn’t imagine the pain. ‘Maybe he won’t want to go,’ said Olivia. ‘And even if he does, once the novelty wears off I’m sure he’ll want to come home.’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we,’ said Ruth with a derisory snort, as if Olivia had said the most stupid thing in the world.

  *

  Spits of icy rain accompanied their walk back to the car.

  ‘That was horrible,’ said Olivia, wrapping her scarf around her neck.

  ‘It wasn’t too bad,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Food was first rate.’

  God, he was infuriating, bouncing along on the surface of things, oblivious to the tangled undercurrents that swirled beneath, content to be fed and watered and patted on the back. It took a hefty dose of willpower not to say so, but Olivia didn’t have the energy for an argument until Geoffrey followed up with, ‘Martin’s a bit of an old woman,’ at which point she had to protest.

  ‘Martin isn’t the one shagging a junior – very junior – member of staff. Martin isn’t the one putting his family in jeopardy. Martin isn’t the one using me as a scapegoat. But hey, you’re only my husband – no reason to expect your support.’

  She huffed off down the path, leaving Geoffrey standing there, palms open in a ‘what the hell was that?’ stance. He jogged after her and grabbed her shoulder.

  ‘Olivia?’

  She stopped but wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ he asked.

  Seriously? His feigned innocence was enough to detonate the row that had been brewing all evening. ‘Yes, you’ve done something wrong. You’re the reason I have to live here and not Manor Farm. You’re the reason I have to miss book club again. You’re the reason I have to put up with that vile woman.’

  Geoffrey opened his mouth to say something but Olivia wasn’t finished.

  ‘How can you be so pally with her? She lied to Martin about me to cover up her own sleazy behaviour and instead of apologising, or thanking me for keeping her sordid secret, she acts all imperious and spends the entire evening coming on to you. How do you think that makes me feel?’

  Geoffrey looked genuinely surprised by her tirade. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, gripping her shoulders. ‘I thought you wanted to build bridges, smooth things over. You were worried about losing your job and then I got a job of sorts, and I just thought –’

  Did every argument have to be like this? Olivia launching into justifiably hurt mode – why don’t you ever defend me? – Geoffrey acting all hard done by and turning it round on her.

  She dislodged his hands with a quick flick of her shoulders and strutted off down the path, but her resolve weakened to nothing. Perhaps he thought befriending Ruth was the best way to support her. When he caught up she allowed him to fold her into a bear hug, her cheek resting against his chest. She remembered the first time she saw his chest, his Herculean body, naked and eager to devour her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Tough couple of weeks.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

  The spell of discontent had been broken. Geoffrey kissed her, his mouth warm and winey. Spits of rain became sheets of rain. They pulled apart and hurried towards the car.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’ she asked.

  All manner of anxieties churned inside her – the Mercedes spinning into a ditch, Geoffrey bleeding to death from a head wound. She never used to think like that – a side effect of losing control over so much of her life.

  ‘Are you offering a bed for the night?’ he said, his tone faux seductive.

  He kissed her again – not a goodnight kiss but a passionate ‘I want you now’ kiss. His hand found its way inside her coat and kneaded her bottom. Her own hand, he pressed against his erection. It had been so long since she’d had him inside of her and she wanted him badly, but not here, not like this.

  ‘Get in the car,’ he said.

  She looked around.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ he said, his hand now cupping her breast. ‘Come on, it’ll be good.’

  She was tempted, she really was, but the whole evening had made her feel tainted by association. And there was something desperate about Geoffrey’s overture, as if he needed to put right all the recent failures of their shrivelled sex life.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She waited for him to say something but he let go of her and took a step back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, wondering if maybe she should have put her own reticence aside and done it for him.

  He shook his head, as if it was nothing. ‘Better make a move then,’ he said, turning his back on her and opening the car door.

  She stood in the slanting rain and watched him drive away. Loneliness swelled inside her, dense, heavy and cold.
r />   Eight

  Well, that was a bucket of iced water in the face. Ruth coming on to him all night had made him horny as hell, and it wasn’t as if he and Olivia couldn’t have done with a bit of spur-of-the-moment sex. Anything to put some heat back into their relationship. Would it have killed her to have a quickie in the car? The way Ruth had revved him up, it would have been very quick indeed.

  He overshot his turning and realised how fast he was driving. If he wasn’t actually over the limit, he must have been close. Every time he had taken a drink of wine, Ruth had topped up his glass. Her own too. Having her flirt with him right in front of Olivia and Martin thrilled Geoffrey more than he could have imagined. It smacked of exhibitionism, only fully clothed. Ruth had shown no trace of embarrassment – not about flirting, not about the whole lurid groundsman thing. On the contrary. She breezed around, shoulders back, chin up. If anything, she seemed proud of herself.

  It was the first time Geoffrey had come face to face with Ruth since he had begun fantasising about her. He didn’t much care for her haircut – too severe – but there was something strict about it that aroused him. She wasn’t pretty in the conventional sense. Sparse eyebrows that faded into her skin tone. A strong, patrician nose was her best feature. Her mouth was something of a disappointment. A voluptuous pout would have made all the difference, but Ruth’s lips had little flesh or shape – no more than a straight pink slash. Her smile revealed smallish teeth and a tad too much gum. And maybe it was the blunt bobbed hair, but her jaw seemed wide and angular, almost masculine. Individually, none of her features stood out as attractive, but the combined effect was very attractive indeed. It defied explanation, but there it was. The eye of the beholder, perhaps? Maybe confidence was what made her sexy, and she had that in spades.

  Her breasts strained against the sheer fabric of her blouse. A D-cup he’d guess, with dark, cigar-stub nipples. Her stomach looked reasonably flat considering she’d had two children. Jeans allowed a good view of her bottom. Not as pert as Olivia’s but nicely rounded. The odd thing was, Ruth wasn’t his type: older than him, more promiscuous than him, cleverer than him. None of these things appealed, yet she appealed.