She admired the confidence with which Lisa Pearce had declined the invitation to participate. ‘I said I was too busy with actual school work to do favours for the headmaster’s wife.’ Olivia had been slumped on a sagging armchair in the staffroom, Lisa next to her, perched on a matching chair, working her way through a four-finger KitKat. ‘And speaking of favours,’ she broke one of the fingers in half, ‘it was good of your hubbie to step in as handyman the other day.’
Olivia had stopped brooding about being put upon for a minute. ‘Oh?’ she said.
Lisa popped the KitKat finger in her mouth and made an mmm sound. ‘Saturday, after rugby. Found him in the kitchen with Mrs Rutherford, mending a tap, I think. Something like that.’
This information had been disturbing on several levels. First, Geoffrey had no aptitude for any kind of DIY, so the likelihood of him mending a tap was remote. Second, the school had a handyman on call seven days a week for such eventualities. And, third, Olivia had spoken to Ruth in her flat that Saturday evening and she had mentioned nothing. In fact, that was when Geoffrey had called Ruth’s mobile.
It was at times like that Olivia missed Lorna the most. She would have been straight on the phone to her, outlined the facts as she knew them and then worked through every conceivable scenario in great detail before deciding what action, if any, to take. Lisa’s casual revelation had baffled and unnerved her, and there was no one she could talk to.
This was what Olivia was ruminating about as she hurried between the school and the Rutherfords’ house in the rain. That, and the fact that five days had passed since she and Geoffrey had spoken. First she hadn’t taken his calls and now he wasn’t taking hers. Silence fed the distance between them.
The front door was on the latch and Olivia could hear voices inside. She let herself in and found Ruth and Alicia Burton in the kitchen, doing battle with a set of angel wings. The last time Alicia had spoken to Olivia, it was to thank her for having saved Freddie. They hadn’t spoken about the boys’ fight, or about involving the police only to un-involve them after Olivia had met with Alicia’s ex. Olivia had enough on her mind without worrying how she might be received by Alicia Burton but as she hung back, reluctant to interrupt, her heart raced.
‘They’re enormous,’ shrieked Ruth, grappling with the angel wings.
Alicia took them from her and wheezed with laughter. Olivia was tempted to leave before they saw her but felt a tap on her shoulder.
‘Olivia – haven’t seen you for ages.’
Wendy Harding – Finn’s mother. A brief career in the theatre had spawned a bohemian flamboyance: elaborately draped scarves, long floaty skirts, brightly coloured beads.
‘Cavalry’s arrived,’ said Ruth, raising a glass.
Alicia and Wendy air-kissed, each telling the other how wonderful they looked. The kitchen smelled of alcohol, cloves and baking.
‘Mulled wine?’ said Ruth, reaching into a cupboard for more glasses. ‘Mince pies to follow. Alicia’s recipe – liberally laced with Cointreau and brandy.’
‘Sounds yummy,’ piped up Wendy, slipping off her oversized woollen coat to reveal a red dress with a bold, ethnic-style print. A diamanté Christmas tree dangled from each earlobe.
Ruth ladled warm wine from a copper saucepan on the stove, and handed a glass each to Olivia and Wendy. Olivia disliked mulled wine even more than mince pies. What she wanted was a nice cup of tea but that wasn’t on offer.
‘Cheers,’ said Ruth, raising her glass. ‘Merry Christmas.’
Merry indeed. Ruth’s cheeks shone with an uncharacteristic blush and Alicia’s hiccups were a source of great hilarity. Neither woman looked capable of threading a needle. Wendy blew on her wine and asked Alicia how Freddie was doing. An innocent enough question, general in tone – no mention of black eyes or strangulation – but it rippled through the air, disturbing the smooth fit of atoms and molecules. Alicia didn’t look at Olivia when she said he was doing well and thanked her for asking.
The sense of being unpopular was not something Olivia would ever get used to, despite all her years of practice with Rowena. It jarred and diminished her: the outsider, the interloper. Alicia was positively animated when she chatted to Ruth and Wendy, but with Olivia she was cool. If it hadn’t been for the hour spent in her ex-husband’s company, Olivia would have written Alicia off as a self-serving sycophant, but you never knew what people endured in the name of marriage, what injustices were subsumed beneath its solemn vows and promises. Olivia had read an Iris Murdoch novel – dense, brilliant, horribly depressing – that was dissected and discussed over a good deal of wine at Manor Farm. It wasn’t the four hundred pages of literary slog that had captured the imagination of the Compton Cross book group. It was the quote at the beginning: Marriage is a very secret place. Everyone had an opinion on that.
Alicia opened the oven door and checked on the mince pies.
‘I’m doing catering now and you lucky ladies are my focus group.’ Her face and neck suddenly glowed crimson. Sweat gleamed on her forehead and upper lip. She grabbed a Christmas card from Ruth’s display and fanned herself, making small puffing sounds.
‘So,’ she said, once the hot flush had passed, ‘I’ve used three different types of pastry and I need you to tell me which you like best. Shortcrust, puff or filo.’
Celia Scott-Lessing turned up with her mother-in-law who was visiting from Toronto – an elegant silver-haired lady in a brown suede suit and flat, fur-lined boots. She must have been hard of hearing because Celia did the introductions in a slow, loud voice. When it was Olivia’s turn – This is Olivia Parry, she’s a houseparent here at the school, her son Edward is a friend of Ben’s – Mrs Scott-Lessing appraised her as if she were a work of art.
‘You don’t look old enough, dear. Does your husband work at the school too?’
‘He coaches the rugby team,’ said Olivia.
‘Alicia’s son, Freddie, is captain,’ chimed in Ruth.
Did Ruth imagine that the dowager Scott-Lessing was interested in the temporary captaincy of the rugby team? Hardly. That snippet was imparted purely for Olivia’s benefit.
A pinging sound signalled that the mince pies were ready. Alicia produced them from the oven with a flourish and set the baking tray down on the granite worktop. They did smell good: rich and aromatic. Once they had cooled, Alicia arranged them on a plate and offered them round. She reminded everyone to say which type they preferred, but Olivia disliked them all. The intensity of the liqueur overwhelmed the fruit, reminding her of when she had sneaked a sip of dark amber liquid from her grandad’s glass and its sour heat made her choke.
‘Filo,’ announced Wendy, wiping crumbs from the corner of her mouth. ‘With puff a close second.’
A murmur of agreement hummed round the kitchen.
‘I hope your husband appreciates your cooking,’ Mrs Scott-Lessing said to Alicia. ‘It was one of the things I missed most when my husband passed away. Hardly worth going to all that trouble for oneself.’
Celia looked down as if to apologise for not having briefed her mother-in-law on Alicia’s marital status.
‘One of the few things he did appreciate,’ said Alicia wryly.
Ruth patted her arm.
‘Divorce,’ she said, offering Mrs Scott-Lessing another mince pie. ‘He had the temerity to bring his girlfriend to rugby on Saturday.’
‘Which meant I couldn’t go,’ said Alicia, ‘even though Freddie was captain.’
Mrs Scott-Lessing titled her head in sympathy. ‘Men can be so insensitive.’
‘That’s one word for it,’ said Ruth. ‘He and Geoffrey almost came to blows after the match. I had to step in and prise them apart.’
They looked at Olivia, waiting for an explanation she didn’t have – meat to flesh out the bones of the story.
‘Oh, it was nothing,’ she said, checking her watch by way of diversion. ‘Rugby stuff. Actually, I have to be back in an hour.’
Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose
we’d better get on then.’
She breezed out of the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a large cardboard box that brimmed with half-made costumes, more angel wings, gold turbans, white feather halos, a roll of red velvet trim. Olivia needed a few minutes to herself to process what Ruth had said about Geoffrey and Toby Burton, and piece that together with what Lisa had told her earlier about Geoffrey and Ruth and a kitchen tap.
She went upstairs to the bathroom and swilled Listermint around her mouth to get rid of the taste of mulled wine and mince pie. Whatever had happened after Saturday’s match, it was clear Geoffrey didn’t want to share it with her. That in itself was suspect. She put down the toilet seat and sat, legs crossed, trying to decide if (a) Geoffrey had something to hide, or (b) he was still brooding over their argument about Edward.
Laughter floated up from the kitchen, Ruth’s louder than the rest. An uncharacteristic darkness tugged at Olivia, ominously reminiscent of the isolation she had felt after Edward was born. Different cause; same effect. Lorna and her mother had saved her then, but now Olivia was on her own.
She had held steadfast to the belief that although she was living a lesser version of her life, her real life – the one in which Geoffrey owned Downings, Manor Farm was home, Edward was a happy child, Lorna and Johnny were their best friends, and she and Geoffrey slept in the same bed – still existed in a parallel universe, waiting for her return. She didn’t believe that any more.
As she let herself out of the bathroom another wave of laughter smacked her in the face. For all she knew they were laughing at her. She couldn’t go back down there; not yet.
When she noticed a bedroom door ajar, she didn’t see the harm in taking a few moments to regroup. Only when she was inside did she realise it was the master bedroom – Martin and Ruth’s room. She knew she should leave, that there was something voyeuristic about being in the place where a couple were at their most intimate, but she was curious.
Curtains and matching bedding: beige, bland, boring. Cream wallpaper with a darker beige stripe; fitted wardrobes across the entire length of one wall. In the opposite corner was a chair with a white bathrobe thrown over it. Tucked neatly under the window stood one of those faux French dressing tables, the sort with names like ‘Louis’ or ‘Versailles’. On it, nestled between a box of tissues and a bottle of perfume, was a mobile phone. Martin always carried his with him so this one must belong to Ruth. Olivia knew it was wrong, an inexcusable invasion of privacy, but picked it up anyway. No code to crack, just a factory settings screensaver.
There was one message from GP 007. Can’t wait. That was it. Olivia stared, waiting for a logical explanation to reveal itself. No reply, no previous messages. The rest of the conversation must have been deleted. Voicemail was empty too. In Recent Calls, GP 007 was listed five, six, seven times. Olivia let the phone drop back on to the dressing table, an incongruous mix of heaviness and panic spreading outward from her chest.
‘Everything all right?’
She turned round. Wendy Harding stood in the doorway, looking puzzled and a little tipsy. The fringed silk scarf around her neck was twice as long on one side as the other.
‘I can’t hear a phone ring without rushing to answer it,’ said Olivia, forcing a jolly St Bede’s smile. ‘Terrible habit.’
‘All slaves to technology these days,’ said Wendy.
Olivia took this as her cue and exited stage left. ‘Bathroom’s just there,’ she said, pointing along the landing.
Olivia walked downstairs, shaken by the certainty that something significant had happened. She didn’t know the specifics – the how, what or when – but she did know she couldn’t be around Ruth Rutherford right now.
‘Her husband lost his business and their house along with it. That’s why she lives here at the school.’ Ruth’s voice carried into the hall. It took gumption for Olivia to walk into the kitchen, politely but firmly make her excuses, grab her coat and leave.
Twelve
‘We’re going to burn in hell.’
Geoffrey took a long drag on his cigarette and inhaled deeply, impatient for the acrid sharpness to hit the back of his throat. He savoured the light-headed sensation that was his reward for all those years of enforced abstinence. A nicotine virgin reborn. He exhaled small, white puffs of smoke that floated up like Polo Mint clouds. Ruth took the cigarette from between his lips and put it between her own.
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ she said.
Geoffrey stared at her rounded mouth, her parted lips, the cotton-wool billows she so expertly formed. He wanted to fuck her again. The crisp white sheet barely covered her breasts. She handed him the cigarette to finish and sat up, the sheet pooling around her hips. He thought of a school trip to the Tate – not the folly of exposing a group of sniggering, adolescent boys to paintings of naked women – but the voluptuous beauties depicted by Rubens. The swell of Ruth’s belly, the weight of her breasts, held an unexpected and novel appeal. Olivia’s body was tight and toned: all lean, athletic lines. Ruth’s was soft and curvaceous, its flesh warm and yielding.
She reached for the room-service menu. ‘I’m starving,’ she said.
He tried to kiss her nipple but she swatted him away with a playful slap.
‘Food first.’
Odd that her bossiness turned him on. He disliked bossy women as a rule – something Freudian to do with his mother, no doubt – but with Ruth it fuelled a dominatrix fantasy. He pictured her in a black leather corset, high-heeled boots, a riding crop in her hand. She noted the beginnings of his erection with a disapproving look and repeated herself, more sternly this time.
‘Food first,’ she said, handing him the menu.
He glanced over the options and told her he’d have a burger. Ruth picked up the phone, ordered two burgers and a bottle of house red.
‘How long will that be?’ she asked.
Geoffrey slowly peeled the sheet away from her hips, revealing a fine horizontal scar and sparse wisps of the palest hair.
She put down the phone and turned to him. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said, sliding down the bed.
*
The way she ate surprised him, and very slightly disgusted him. Forget table manners. She relished every mouthful: greedily licked the mayonnaise from her fingertips, the salt from her lips. He couldn’t help but compare Ruth’s gluttony with the dainty way Olivia nibbled at her food.
Ruth’s appetites were varied and voracious. Three days ago he’d fucked her at St Bede’s and he had eagerly fucked her every day since. When he wasn’t with her time was a burden to be endured, marked off, minute by empty minute. Cliché or not, he only felt alive when he was with her. There, he’d said it. Not out loud of course – she’d laugh at him, tell him to get a grip. She wanted nothing from him except what he was willing to give. That he was naked in a hotel room, breaking his marriage vows as often as his body’s powers of recovery allowed, suggested he was willing to give a lot.
Around her neck she wore a small gold crucifix. He took it between his thumb and forefinger and examined it closely. No tortured, dying Jesus, just a plain, unadorned cross.
‘Religious symbol or jewellery?’
She poured them both a large glass of wine. ‘Self-flagellation.’
Had her extraordinary powers of sexual perception picked up on the dominatrix thing? ‘I’m up for it if you are.’
She took a long drink and lit another cigarette.‘What?’
OK, maybe he had got that wrong.
She rolled the crucifix between her fingers. ‘A gift.’
‘From Martin?’
Her sardonic snort suggested, no, it wasn’t from Martin. She picked up the phone and ordered another bottle of wine, even though they hadn’t finished the first. A full stomach and post-lunch lethargy meant that sex wouldn’t be on the agenda for a while. Geoffrey settled back against a pile of pillows and passed the time by trying to tease information from Ruth. She was something of an enigma: a well-brought-up, well-e
ducated Christian wife and mother, yet serially unfaithful and with scant regard for social mores. He opened by asking how old she was when she lost her virginity. She gave him a narrow-eyed look that said ‘mind your own business’, and lit a cigarette.
‘OK, I’ll go first. Seventeen, summer holidays, Weston-super-Mare, Susan Richie, back of my father’s Vauxhall Cavalier. I should point out that my father wasn’t in the car at the time.’
Ruth looked mildly amused. Encouraged, Geoffrey said, ‘Your turn.’
She took a drag of her cigarette and released a long slow ribbon of smoke. ‘Nineteen, freshers’ week, Rupert Westingham, my room at Magdalene College.’
‘Nineteen? That’s late. I imagined you’d have got rid as soon as it was legal, if not before.’
The cigarette had almost burnt down to the brown filter. She mashed the butt into the ashtray and drained her glass of wine. ‘Chance would have been a fine thing. Hyper-religious, hyper-vigilant parents. Going up to Cambridge was my first real taste of freedom.’
‘Me too – not the Cambridge thing, obviously, but the hyper-religious thing. My father was a vicar.’
Geoffrey took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. The instant he said it, he regretted mentioning his father. Lying naked in a hotel room with another man’s wife was an atrocious betrayal of the values with which he had been raised. He needed to say something good to offset the sense of being very, very bad.
‘Lovely man, my father.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Ruth. ‘Mine was both distant and controlling. Not easy to pull off but he managed it.’
Room service arriving with the second bottle of wine was a blessed relief. Why the hell were they talking about their fathers? Geoffrey had never been eager to talk about feelings or relationships, and had certainly never intended to do so with Ruth. He perceived her as functioning on a physical level – I’m hungry so I eat, I’m horny so I fuck – rather like he did, and that suited him just fine. Geoffrey signed for the wine, a towel around his waist, and scrambled together some change for a tip. He filled their glasses and got back into bed, hoping for a shift in tempo: less talk, more sex. Ruth had different ideas.
An Unsuitable Marriage Page 18
