An Unsuitable Marriage

by Colette Dartford

  *

  Hotel Auberge clung to a hillside above the Silverado Trail that ran between Yountville and St Helena. It mimicked the style of a Tuscan villa, with terracotta walls and tall shuttered windows. Duncan pulled up outside and two young men in polo shirts and Bermuda shorts opened the car doors for them.

  Honeysuckle, jasmine and sage: as the bellboy led them through the luxuriant gardens, Lola marvelled at how intense even familiar scents became with the kiss of warm air.

  ‘Here we are.’

  The bellboy stopped outside a whitewashed cabin framed with vivid pink bougainvillea.

  ‘This is a cottage?’ said Lola.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘You have cottages in Britain, right?’

  Lola thought how ‘Britain’ was something only a foreigner would say in that context.

  Inside it was cool and surprisingly spacious. A huge bed stood in the centre of the room, an oak armoire and dressing table to one side, a chaise longue and coffee table to the other.

  ‘The bathroom is through here,’ said the bellboy, opening a door at the far end of the room. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Duncan, pressing a ten-dollar bill into his hand.

  ‘Have a great day.’

  ‘Such an effusive expression,’ said Lola when the bellboy had left.

  ‘It’s their way of being polite.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Welcome to America,’ he said.

  *

  Lola wasn’t sure if it was because she had resolved to try harder, or if it was the intoxicating effect of the wines, but over dinner that evening she relaxed, found herself enjoying Duncan’s company, even flirting a little. She wore a black silk dress and high heels, her hair arranged in an elegant chignon. Duncan kept refilling her glass and when she asked if he was trying to get her drunk, he said absolutely. She wanted to reward him for not giving up on her. The odds were against them – that’s what it warned in one of the bereavement counsellor’s booklets, although not in so many words. The loss of a child, an only child, was more than most couples could bear. But their marriage had survived – if that was what this was. Lola wasn’t sure any more, but she was a little drunk and they hadn’t made love in such a long time. He must have read her mind because he asked for the bill as the waitress cleared their dinner plates.

  They made their way back through the garden, the high-pitched frenzy of a thousand crickets ringing in their ears, and when Duncan opened the door to the cottage and reached for the light switch, Lola put her hand over his.

  ‘Leave it,’ she said softly, removing the clip from her hair.

  In the thin shard of moonlight that sliced through the shutters, he looked so grateful that Lola ached with regret for all the times she had rebuffed him, turned away when he had reached for her in the night. She cupped his face in her hands and tried to banish thoughts of Clarissa. Duncan unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. As she stood there in a puddle of black silk, she struggled to remember what it felt like before they were damaged, and wondered if it would ever feel like that again. She closed her eyes and willed herself back to those hot, passionate nights in far-flung hotels, when she yielded to his fantasies and thrilled him with her own. He moved her hair aside and kissed the soft, warm skin on her neck. Shivers of pleasure radiated from his touch, rousing some sensual memory, long forgotten. She undressed him quickly, fearful the memory would vanish into the darkness, and when he whispered – what’s the hurry? – she didn’t answer. Instead, she lay down on the bed and opened herself to him, knowing that if they lost this too, there might be nothing of their marriage left to save.

  *

  When Lola woke in the unfamiliar room, it took a few moments to remember where she was. Her head hurt and her mouth was parched. She needed water but there was none on the bedside table. Then she remembered: anniversary, wine, sex. She covered her face with her hands. What had seemed so natural last night felt faintly embarrassing now. They had got out of the habit of having sex, of being intimate. Duncan opened his eyes and stretched.

  ‘Do we have any water?’ she asked.

  He got out of bed and fetched a bottle of Pellegrino and two tumblers from the coffee table. It seemed strange watching him walk across the room naked. At home he wore pyjamas in bed and as soon as he got up, he put on a dressing gown and slippers. He filled one of the tumblers and handed it to Lola.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Hung over,’ she said.

  Duncan poured some water for himself and got back into bed. When she had finished drinking he took the tumbler and pulled her into an embrace. His body felt warm and strong – familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. He ran his fingers along the length of her spine, kissing her neck and shoulder. Lola closed her eyes and tried to relax, but the pressure in her head and the sour taste in her mouth were too much.

  ‘I need the bathroom,’ she said, freeing herself from his long limbs. ‘Do we have any aspirin?’

  ‘In my toilet bag.’

  Lola could hear the disappointment in his voice but sex was the last thing she wanted. After five minutes in a hot shower, the pain in her head subsided. Duncan came in as she was drying herself, lifted the toilet seat and peed. She unhooked a robe from the bathroom door and as she was putting it on, he suggested she come back to bed.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said, though she wasn’t at all.

  ‘I’ll order room service,’ he said.

  A romantic breakfast in bed would make it more difficult to fend off his advances.

  ‘Let’s wander over to the restaurant,’ she said.

  He turned to face her.

  ‘Last night was wonderful,’ he said.

  Lola unhooked the other robe and handed it to him. She knew his nakedness shouldn’t bother her, but it implied an intimacy she didn’t feel. He took the robe but didn’t put it on.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked.

  She nodded. He put down the robe, opened Lola’s and slid his hands around her waist. She rested her forehead on his shoulder and tried to find the right words. His skin was smooth and smelled of her.

  ‘It was wonderful,’ she said. ‘But be patient with me, give me time.’

  He said nothing at first, just held her. She worried that she’d spoiled things – said too much, or not enough.

  ‘Does this mean I have to get you drunk every time we have sex?’ he asked.

  ‘Not every time,’ she said and he laughed.

  *

  Wine tasting was top of Duncan’s agenda, but Lola couldn’t face alcohol and suggested they go for a walk around town instead, get to know the place a bit. She thought he might be disappointed but he seemed pleased that she was taking the initiative, not just going along with whatever he wanted because she didn’t care one way or another.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, picking up the car keys and handing them to her. ‘Why don’t you drive?’

  Her heart quickened at the thought of it; driving on the right, on unfamiliar roads with unfamiliar rules. They had played out variations of this scenario many times since Clarissa died. Lola wanted to be left alone, surprised that he expected anything of her when simply getting through the day took all her strength. Yet he set her tasks and tests to prove she was fine – they both were fine.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ he said, opening the driver’s door. ‘It’s easy.’

  It would take more effort to protest than to drive a few miles, so even though her head still felt fuzzy, she got in, adjusted the seat and turned on the ignition. And he was right – it was easy.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he said as she negotiated a crossroads and turned onto St Helena’s tree-lined Main Street. ‘I knew you could do it.’

  When she reversed smoothly into a parking space and positioned the convertible in perfect parallel to the kerb, Duncan beamed with satisfaction.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he said and Lola had to look away, rem
embering how he used to say exactly the same thing to Clarissa.

  As they strolled along Main Street, Duncan took her hand. Focus on the positive – that was his philosophy. He would be thinking about the rare closeness of last night’s lovemaking, not her unwillingness to repeat it this morning. He seemed relaxed, almost content. She wondered if he faked it like she did. It was hard to tell with Duncan.

  ‘I’m glad you suggested this,’ he said. ‘It’s a glorious afternoon.’

  ‘Have you noticed how everyone here smiles at you?’ asked Lola.

  ‘Can you imagine in London if everyone you walked past offered a cheery smile? We’d think them insane; hardly dare to make eye contact. I must say, I find it rather odd, all this unfettered friendliness.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the sunshine.’

  ‘Or the wine.’

  Their easy rapport made it seem as though they had stepped back in time, reconnected with an earlier version of themselves. It was Duncan’s idea to stop by the estate agents. In the window were photographs of everything from hundred-acre estates to small wooden houses squeezed onto tiny scraps of land.

  ‘See anything you like?’

  A young, fair-haired man stood behind them – styrofoam cup in one hand, mobile phone in the other. The logo on his T-shirt looked like a fish and his faded jeans had the beginnings of a tear over the knee. His smile revealed dazzlingly white teeth, straight and perfectly spaced. Perhaps it was the artist in Lola, but a face like his, defined by predictably symmetrical features, seemed to lack character. Imperfections and irregularities were what made faces interesting.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said as Duncan spun around. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’ He slipped the phone into his pocket and held out his hand. ‘Cain McCann. I work here.’

  His air of casual confidence, the ease with which he inhabited the world, struck Lola as very American. Duncan wore his confidence on the inside, strong but private. This man’s confidence was of a different vintage and calibre, displayed for all to see. Duncan shook his hand.

  ‘Duncan Drummond. This is my wife, Lola.’

  ‘Great to meet you,’ said McCann. ‘Where are you guys from?’

  ‘England,’ said Duncan. ‘We’re staying at the Auberge.’

  ‘Good choice,’ said McCann. He took a sip from the styrofoam cup. ‘You thinking of investing in some property? A vacation home, maybe?’

  All they had done was look in the window. To Lola he seemed pushy, although Duncan didn’t appear to mind.

  ‘It’s all rather expensive,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said McCann, ‘St Helena is pretty pricey. Still, if you want to come in out of the heat, I’ll see what I can tempt you with.’ He opened the door and waited.

  Lola stayed put, reluctant to be subjected to the inevitable sales pitch, but Duncan gave her one of his encouraging smiles and led the way.

  The air-conditioner hummed while a pair of ceiling fans whirred frenetically. Lola’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the relative lack of brightness. Next to McCann, Duncan looked very formal – his dress code made no concessions to the heat. He wouldn’t dream of wearing a T-shirt anywhere but the gym. Weekends he swapped expensive Savile Row suits for pale corduroy trousers and casual shirts. He didn’t even own a pair of jeans. She knew she was being stuffy, but McCann looked like he was going to a rock concert, not to work.

  ‘Here’s my card,’ he said, handing them one each.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Lola, reading the card. ‘ “Realtor” isn’t a word we use in England.’

  ‘Really?’ said McCann.

  ‘We say “estate agent”. ’

  ‘Thanks for the English lesson,’ he said, treating her to another full-frontal smile. It was impossible not to smile back but just as Lola began to warm to his eager exuberance, he turned away and addressed himself to Duncan.

  ‘So, if you were thinking of investing in a vacation property, what kind of budget would we be talking about?’

  This was not how Lola wanted to spend her time. She was usually more tolerant but the dull pain of her hangover still lingered and she craved coffee and carbs. It wasn’t as if they had any intention of buying a property – vacation or otherwise. She was about to make light of the idea when Duncan spoke.

  ‘Four hundred thousand,’ he said, casually. ‘Dollars.’

  Lola stared at him, eyebrows raised. What was going on here? Why was Duncan humouring him? If he noticed her consternation, he didn’t let on. Perhaps he was missing work and wanted a distraction. McCann put his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

  ‘I don’t have anything in that price range.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said McCann.

  He sat down at one of the desks and peered at a computer screen.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Only thing is a little fixer-upper at the bottom of Spring Mountain. Been empty for a couple of years. Before that it was rented.’

  ‘How much is it?’ asked Duncan.

  McCann hit the keyboard with a decisive click.

  ‘They’re asking four-fifty but it’s been listed for a while so they’ll probably take an offer.’

  A printer at the far end of the office sprang into life.

  ‘Great location,’ said McCann, picking up the details. ‘Just a mile from town.’

  He handed a set to Duncan and then, as an afterthought, printed another set for Lola. As he leaned over her she noticed a slight bump on the bridge of his nose and the faintest hint of a scar. It blurred the bland perfection of his face.

  ‘It needs remodelling,’ he said, ‘but for that price, you really can’t go wrong.’

  Lola looked at the picture – a square wooden structure on four wooden stilts – and immediately thought of a tree house. She had one as a child – a precarious lopsided thing her father built before he absconded with a woman half his age. When Lola wanted to escape her mother’s lugubrious presence, or the many reminders of her father’s absence, she retreated to the quiet solitude of her tree house.

  ‘It looks interesting,’ she said, studying the picture. ‘Unusual.’

  Now it was Duncan who raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s a beautiful spot,’ said McCann. ‘We could take a drive over there if you want.’

  Despite her pique at having been railroaded into it, Lola was curious to see this odd little house. The setting looked gorgeous, and he did say it was close to town. They could have a quick look around and then find somewhere to eat. At the very least it would give them an interesting topic of conversation over lunch.

  She turned to Duncan. ‘Why not?’

  *

  It was the sweet, comforting smell of warm wood that first struck her. The house, made entirely of timber, stood nestled among a cordon of tall, spindly pines and shorter, thicker firs. There appeared to be just a single room – a fireplace at one end, the shell of a kitchen at the other – with a ceiling that sloped upwards to a height of maybe twenty feet. Fiery June sunshine bombarded the filthy windows, imbuing the air with a soft amber glow. A mesh of silvery cobwebs fanned out from every crevice. Dust sat thick and languid, disturbed only by resident vermin as they scurried about their business.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked Duncan.

  ‘There are two bedrooms at the back,’ said McCann. He pointed to an opening – a doorframe, but no door. ‘And a small bathroom.’

  Lola touched Duncan’s arm, signalling that she wanted to explore. He appeared surprised but followed anyway. McCann said he had to make a phone call, that he’d be right outside if they needed him. Duncan pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a film of sweat from his brow.

  ‘No wonder the particulars only showed a picture of the outside,’ he said, looking around. ‘You don’t get much for your money.’

  Lola peered into the tiny bathroom that led off the tiny bedroom and decided not to venture further.

  ‘How much is it in sterling?’
she asked.

  Duncan thought for a moment.

  ‘Around three hundred thousand,’ he said. ‘Why? You don’t actually like it, do you?’

  It made no sense at all, but she did. Something about the neglected house defied her grief-soaked indifference. It was as though those few momentary flashes of pleasure – the view from the window, the taste of champagne, the magnificent Golden Gate – had gathered momentum and released something inside of her, allowed it to break free.

  She took Duncan’s arm and led him onto the rickety wooden deck. A canopy of leaves offered shade from the sun and a soft breeze carried the scent of cut grass and rosemary. She looked out at the trees and vineyards, birds she’d never seen before, butterflies as big as her hand.

  ‘You seem enthralled,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ she said, ‘but don’t ask me to explain why.’

  How could she explain the ludicrous notion that bringing this house back to life might somehow bring her back to life?

  Acknowledgements

  A novel is primarily the work of the author, but getting it into print requires much help and collaboration. This novel would not have been published if it hadn’t been for the work, support and tenacity of my agent, Robert Kirby. Huge thanks to him, and to Wanda Whiteley, Manuscript Doctor extraordinaire. Thanks also to my editors, Joel Richardson and Claire Johnson-Creek, for their patience, kindness and skill.

  I would like to thank my steadfast friend, Amanda Muir, for the morning hill-walks, the laughter and occasional tears. What’s said on our walks stays on our walks.

  Love and gratitude go to my wonderful children, Charlotte, Matthew and Nicholas. I hope I make them as proud as they make me. And finally, love and gratitude also in abundance to my handsome husband (he told me to say that). Thirty-six years and counting.