‘I didn’t admit to anything but—’
‘Do be quiet, Geoffrey.’
She unzipped his fly and pulled out his dick. Her mouth was on him before he had time to object. Object? Who was he kidding? Half-heartedly he had told himself he wouldn’t do this. Such was his conviction he had bought a packet of condoms and slipped them into his pocket, where they were likely to stay. He hadn’t used a condom in years and was fuzzy about the etiquette: the point at which you interrupted proceedings, tore open the packet (teeth – he remembered he always used his teeth), and rolled the thing on.
In a blur of activity Ruth’s knickers and tights were around her ankles and she was astride him. Oh well, he had probably already caught anything he was going to catch. She moved her hips as though cantering a horse, and out of nowhere, slapped his face.
‘What the fuck?’ said Geoffrey, bringing a hand to his stinging cheek. When she slapped him again, this time on the other cheek, he grabbed her wrist roughly, an action that induced a slow, triumphant smile. Whatever game she was playing, he was unwittingly playing along. In his ear she whispered, ‘Harder, harder,’ before her teeth drew blood from its lobe. He grabbed the other wrist and pinned her arms behind her back, all the time pumping her fast, just like she wanted him to. It was over quickly, the car windows steamed up, that awful Slade Christmas song playing in the background. Not Geoffrey’s finest hour.
As Ruth climbed off him she caught the soft flesh of her inner thigh on his belt buckle.
‘That fucking hurt,’ she said, as though it were his fault.
She flopped back into the passenger seat and examined the angry weal on her milk-white skin.
‘I thought you liked a bit of pain.’
‘Not like that,’ she said, wrestling with her knickers and tights.
Geoffrey zipped his fly, disgusted with how rapidly sexy had become seedy. Ruth swore under her breath as she buttoned her coat and fished around for the ugly hat and mittens. There was no air, only the cloying odour of semen and damp wool.
‘That was the last time,’ he said.
She didn’t even look at him. ‘Of course it was.’
‘I mean it, Ruth. I hated lying to Olivia this afternoon. I can’t do this to her.’
‘You’re not doing anything to her – you’re doing it to me.’
Cliff Richard was on the radio now, crooning about mistletoe and wine.
‘I’m not saying it hasn’t been good, because it has. But when I saw Olivia this afternoon—’
‘Oh dear God, stop going on about your bloody wife. If you don’t want to do this any more, then fine, but please, spare me the whole guilty husband routine. I’m simply not interested.’
Her couldn’t-give-a-fuck attitude made it easier for him to end it. They’d had some fun and now it was over. With Ruth’s track record, he’d probably be replaced by the end of the week anyway.
‘No hard feelings?’ he said.
‘No feelings at all.’
He couldn’t figure out if it was bravado; an act. When she had talked about testing Martin, trying to rouse him into a jealous frenzy, Geoffrey got the impression she needed visceral evidence of his love, that his doting, beseeching manner wasn’t enough for her. And yet he must love her very much because he forgave her every time. The question of why Ruth stayed with him was more puzzling. Given that she was the centre of her own universe, that she unfailingly put herself first – a snippet from daytime television about narcissistic personality disorder flashed into Geoffrey’s head – he assumed she wanted to have her cake and eat it. Adoring husband and children, a home, status and security, and very little asked of her in return. And Geoffrey had bought into the whole selfish charade.
The DJ said the next song was for all you lovers out there. Coldplay’s ‘Christmas Lights’, Johnny’s favourite band – he had all their albums, knew all their songs. The four of them had gone to London for a weekend and seen them in concert at the O2. It had been Lorna’s present for Johnny’s fortieth birthday. When they performed this song, everyone held up their mobiles and swayed from side to side. Geoffrey was too self-conscious at first but then joined in with the rest of them.
Olivia had played it last Christmas morning, Edward complaining it was too soppy and please could she put something else on? She told him Daddy waved his mobile like a candle to this song. Edward had looked at him, appalled. Olivia said he should ask Josh and Lily if he didn’t believe her; that their dad did it too. They played up to Edward’s mock revulsion by slow-dancing and singing along. He mimed his fingers down his throat and said next year he was asking Santa for new parents.
A gust of wind sliced through the car as Ruth opened the door. She turned to Geoffrey and for the briefest moment, he glimpsed something other than carefully crafted nonchalance. The tenderness of her kiss took him by surprise. Usually she was all tongue and teeth, as though eager to devour him. No intimacy or affection, just a quick prelude to the animal pleasures that followed. This kiss was altogether different – soft and lingering. Not a prelude but an ending.
Thirteen
A soft tapping on the door roused Olivia from a fitful sleep, full of unsettling, half-formed dreams. Searching for something lost was a consistent theme. Much of the night she had lain awake trying to decide if there was anything going on between Geoffrey and Ruth Rutherford. She kept replaying her conversation with him in the staffroom, analysing his answers, his explanations, why he couldn’t look at her for more than a second or two before he looked away. And why had that tiny muscle in his jaw twitched and flexed?
She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Six twenty: still dark for at least another hour. Which one of the girls needed her this time? Last week it was Fleur Jameson announcing she had just started her first period and please, miss, what should she do? The week before it was a tearfully homesick Helena Hardy-Leach.
Olivia opened the door to find Martin standing on the other side. It wasn’t only his presence that surprised her; it was his dishevelled appearance. Iron-filings stubble, creased shirt and those brown suede moccasins she thought were slippers. He wasn’t wearing socks or a jacket. His ankles were stick-thin and anaemic. Olivia stared at him open-mouthed, waiting for an explanation as to why he was there, but he just stood shivering in the doorway.
‘Martin? Is everything all right?’
He seemed confused, unsure how to respond. Olivia waited, and after a few moments he cleared his throat.
‘May I?’
She stood aside. ‘Yes, of course, please come in.’
He sat on the sofa and stared straight ahead, still shivering. The heating wasn’t on yet and Olivia didn’t know how to override the timer on the boiler. She slipped into the bedroom and grabbed a throw, but when she came back and tried to hand it to him, he continued to stare straight past her. She draped the throw around his shoulders and filled the kettle. While she waited for it to boil she pulled a chair near to Martin and sat, not sure that he had fully registered her presence. His fixed stare had a disturbing trance-like quality.
‘Martin – what’s wrong? Has something happened?’
He looked at her now, his eyes filled with the worst kind of pain.
‘Ruth’s dead.’
Olivia clamped a hand over her mouth. The whistle from the kettle startled her and she jumped up. Was it possible that she wasn’t quite awake and this was part of a weird dream in which she wanted Ruth dead? That seemed unlikely. If it was a dream she wouldn’t feel the cold and she wouldn’t need to pee. She went to the bathroom before she made Martin a mug of strong tea with three heaped spoons of sugar. He took a sip, a slight tremor in his hand.
‘She lost control of the car. Black ice, the police think. They left a short while ago.’
It was too much to take in. Olivia had spent half the night despising Ruth; imagining her and Geoffrey together, believing it one minute, not believing it the next. And now she was dead.
‘I’m so sorry, Martin. If ther
e’s anything at all I can do –’
‘The girls.’
He swallowed hard. Alice and Maisie were still asleep, their worlds still intact. Yesterday she had helped them make Christmas cards for Mummy and Daddy. Alice drew a picture of the four of them in Santa hats. Maisie’s featured a baubled tree and the kitten she so desperately wanted.
He started to say ‘Would you—’ but his voice faltered. Grief poured out of him in muffled sobs, hands covering his face, his body rigid with the effort of trying to hold the shock and pain inside. Olivia sat in respectful silence and waited for it to pass.
When, at last, Martin shook his head and attempted an apology, Olivia gently touched his arm and said there was nothing to apologise for. She was aware of time slipping towards seven, when she would have to wake the boarders.
‘I’m sorry, Martin, but it’s almost time for the girls to get up. Would you like me to ask Matron to take care of it?’
He nodded.
‘And what about Alice and Maisie?’
At this he breathed deeply through his nose and made a visible effort to gather himself. He stood up and straightened his back.
‘May I use your bathroom?’
Olivia pointed to the bedroom door. When Martin returned a few minutes later he looked tidier, more composed. He wasn’t only a bereaved husband; he was father to two bereaved children.
‘If you could bear it, I’d like you there when I break the news to the girls.’
‘Of course.’
‘Perhaps you could brief Matron and bring Alice and Maisie to the house. Ruth’s parents are on their way. My mother isn’t well enough to deal with this. Alzheimer’s. She’s in a nursing home near Bath. I’m not sure she would understand.’ He shook his head. ‘It would be too distressing.’
Olivia said she was sorry, that she didn’t realise. She thought of her own parents having the adventure of a lifetime on the other side of the world; how lucky they were. How lucky she was. Martin made no mention of his father so she assumed he had passed away. And now he had lost his wife too.
He stopped at the door and turned towards Olivia. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
She offered a sympathetic smile and steeled herself for what lay ahead.
*
Alice and Maisie skipped along the driveway ahead of Olivia, overjoyed at the unexpected treat of going home instead of to class.
‘Will Mummy and Daddy be there?’ asked Alice excitedly.
Olivia pretended she hadn’t heard.
When she had woken them and said they didn’t need to wear school uniform today, they had been thrown into a frenzy of indecision. Maisie had tried on a knitted skirt and jumper, then a red dress, quickly discarded in favour of pink cords and matching cardigan before going back to the original skirt and jumper. Alice had worn jeans and her favourite Sleeping Beauty sweatshirt, but when Maisie said it was stupid, she’d replaced it with a blouse patterned with small pink bows.
The other boarders hadn’t helped: complaints about why they had to wear uniform, why they couldn’t have a day off, that it wasn’t fair, just because their dad was the headmaster. No, it certainly wasn’t fair. Harriet stepped in and took control. Olivia confided that there had been an accident and Martin wanted the girls at home. When she asked for details Olivia shook her head. I can’t say any more right now. I’m sorry.
Ice lay thick and treacherous, impervious to the pallid December sun. Olivia told Alice and Maisie to stick to the gravel path and be careful not to slip. She had never seen them hold hands before. It made her both happy and sad. She was torn between hurrying them along and wanting them to enjoy every single second before their world was blown apart.
They neared the house where a car Olivia didn’t recognise – an old-fashioned but meticulously maintained blue Jaguar – was parked in the driveway.
‘Grandma and Grandpa are here,’ shouted Maisie, running ahead and dragging Alice with her.
They were ecstatic at the prospect of a day with their family, Olivia complicit in the deceit. She felt she should have prepared them in some way, but how? It was too late anyway. They were on tiptoes, ringing the doorbell. Olivia reached them just as Martin answered. He looked more like himself: clean-shaven, tidy, fresh shirt. His socks were a sober dark blue. The girls jumped on the spot with anticipation. Is Mummy here? Where’s Grandma? I want to tell her about my kitten. Olivia’s expression said ‘sorry’. Martin took each child by the hand and led them into the house. Olivia helped with their coats and scarves and then took off her own. On the row of hooks behind the door hung a jacket of Ruth’s and her Cambridge University sweatshirt.
Olivia followed Martin into the sitting room where Ruth’s parents were waiting: elderly, well-dressed, stricken. The physical similarities between Ruth’s father and Martin were striking. He could have been Martin’s own father. There were other similarities too: both of them reserved, formal, reticent. Had Ruth fallen for the cliché of marrying a man who reminded her of her father? Olivia didn’t know enough about psychology to ponder what that meant, but it was irrelevant now anyway.
Martin made the introductions without ceremony and gestured to Olivia to sit. A tray of tea and biscuits was laid out on the low table in front of the sofa, two cups already poured. Martin pointed to the tray but Olivia shook her head. In the corner was a Christmas tree, its lights not switched on, and to one side, a Nativity scene complete with angels, wise men, and baby Jesus in a manger. Alice went over to the tree but Martin asked her to come and sit next to him on the sofa.
How do you tell young children their mother has died? Martin wrapped it in religious metaphor, talk of Mummy sleeping in heaven, being cared for by beautiful angels, how she was watching over them from above. First came stunned silence, then Maisie told Martin it was naughty to tell lies. Alice ran all over the house, calling for Ruth. Olivia offered to go to her but Martin shook his head. They waited for her to come back, each futile plea for Mummy a sharp stab to the heart. When she did come back, her tear-stained face had a look of terror.
‘I can’t find her.’ Her voice was small and thin. ‘I can’t find Mummy.’
Ruth’s mother pulled a hanky from her sleeve, removed her spectacles and dabbed at her eyes. Alice curled up next to Martin, her thumb in her mouth. They all sat mute as the truth of it burrowed inside them.
The silence was too much for Maisie. She jumped up, went over to the Nativity scene and kicked it hard, sending the plaster figures flying in all directions. An angel landed at Martin’s feet. Maisie ran up and stamped on it, again and again and again, until Martin gathered her in his arms and held her while she yelled.
Despite Martin having asked her to come, Olivia felt she had no place there. The stoic grandparents, the brave father, the angry little girl and her stunned sister, all united in disbelief that a life so crucial to their own could be snatched away without warning. Ruth’s life – a woman Olivia neither liked nor respected.
At last Maisie quietened down. Her rigid little body went limp and collapsed on to Martin’s lap. She breathed in big, shuddery gulps.
‘There, there.’ That was all he said. He repeated it like a mantra.
Olivia felt she was intruding on their grief. She picked up the tray and said she would make some fresh tea. Martin got up and held the door for her.
‘Would you mind if I called Geoffrey?’ she asked in a respectful whisper. ‘I left my mobile at school.’
‘No, please. Use the phone in the bedroom – second on the right.’
Olivia put the tray in the kitchen, rinsed the cups and then went upstairs. She paused outside the door to Martin and Ruth’s room, ashamed to think she had been in there without their permission. This time the bed was unmade, the curtains closed. The organic scent of sleep and skin lingered in the air. Olivia picked up the receiver and dialled Geoffrey’s mobile. Two rings and he answered.
‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’
She froze.
<
br /> ‘Ruth?’ he said.
So he had Ruth’s home number programmed into his phone. Olivia wasn’t sure of the significance of that revelation but she was sure it was significant. She hung up. For a moment she stood motionless, looking at the phone as if it might explain itself, but then flinched when it suddenly rang again. Slowly she lifted the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Ruth? Why did you call and then put the phone down?’
‘It’s Olivia.’
Silence. She counted to three. ‘Geoffrey?’
‘What are you doing at Ruth and Martin’s place?’
‘There’s been an accident. Ruth’s dead.’
She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. She heard a sharp intake of breath.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Her car skidded out of control. That’s as much as I know. Martin wanted me here when he broke the news to the girls. Her parents are here too.’
This time she counted to five. ‘Geoffrey?’
‘Sorry. It’s hard to take in.’
Olivia was tempted to examine and obsess: did she detect guilt in his voice, was he more or less upset than expected, were his silences a symptom of shock or a sign he didn’t want to incriminate himself? She shook those thoughts from her head. Downstairs was a family in mourning. They should be her priority right now, irrespective of her low opinion of Ruth.
‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk later.’
*
The day had a surreal quality to it. Tea was made and drunk, food offered and declined. Absent was the sort of small talk that reassured everyone of the ordinariness of life. Time dragged.
Ruth’s father was due in hospital the next day for a minor procedure and Martin wouldn’t hear of him cancelling. They left in the early afternoon, Ruth’s mother quietly tearful, her father straight-backed and solemn. Olivia suggested the girls go play in their bedroom for a while and they skipped upstairs, perhaps forgetting for a moment why they were so privileged on a school day.
Martin asked Olivia to join him in the sitting room. There was much he had to attend to and would be grateful if she could take responsibility for the girls. The nature of Ruth’s death meant a post-mortem would have to be carried out, then there would be a funeral to arrange, people to notify. Staff and pupils should be told as soon as possible. Leo Sheridan had called a special assembly for later that afternoon. Olivia reassured Martin he could rely on her to help in any way possible.
An Unsuitable Marriage Page 20
