After a while Nathan saw the point, which I had known he would. ‘Sometimes, Minty,’ he played with my fingers, ‘you can be so sweet. And sometimes…’
‘And sometimes?’
‘Not.’
He wanted to say more, but he would never get it out in a month of Sundays, and there was no point in wasting more time. I placed a finger on his lips. ‘Hush.’
I returned to the guest list and to my private thoughts, which were many and various – not least why it was that in such an apparently godless world, when anything went and everything possible was done, I was the object of such censure.
Later, getting ready for bed, I discovered a yellow Post-it note stuck to the back of my hairbrush. On it, Nathan had written ‘sorry’.
At seven fifteen a.m. on the day of the dinner party, I picked up the phone to Five-star Caterers: ‘Just checking that everything’s OK for this evening.’
A voice reeled off, ‘Ten twice-baked cheese soufflés, chicken with ginger in soy and sherry sauce. Bitter cherries in maraschino served with a frangipane and pâte sable tart.’
I had toyed with having menus printed because I relished the names of the dishes, but Paige had put her foot down. ‘Nope. Not the thing.’
‘Not the thing’ was annoying, but I bit my lip. Paige was a neighbour and also a good friend. She had never met Rose so her relationship with me held the extra sweetness of the untainted. Paige knew what was what, and during her years as an international investment banker, she had been on the receiving end of many dinners like this one. I needed guidance through the pitfalls. Paige provided it. Enough said.
Paige had also given the thumbs-down to sticking taffeta bows on the chair backs, which, I reckoned, would be the finishing touch. ‘Finish the guests off, more like.’ She hooted with amusement. ‘For goodness’ sake, you’re not a brothel.’
Yes. Someone had to tell me what was what. I knew that much.
I’m a fast learner but, as the taffeta-bows incident indicated, there were gaps in what I knew, and what I understood – puzzling, slippery points of taste and appropriateness.
Knives, forks, wine glasses… I checked the place settings on the dining-table, which I had laid at six thirty that morning – i.e., before the twins were up. Only the flowers were missing and I had ordered an exact match of an arrangement I had seen in Vogue. Hovering in the doorway, I gave the mise-en-scène a final sweep, and concluded that there was nothing to embarrass Nathan, and everything to enhance his reputation.
I nipped back to the table and adjusted the angle of a knife.
My watch said 7.20 a.m. Say goodbye to twins, race to hairdresser, then on to work.
Eve – twenty-two, Romanian, not a threat – was bathing the boys when I arrived home at six fifteen.
As I let myself in, the draught made the cat-flap in the back door – long since disused – open and shut with a bang. For the hundredth time, I cursed it.
‘It’s Mum!’ Lucas’s high-pitched voice. I stopped and waited.
Sure enough, Felix echoed, ‘It’s Mum.’ I hadn’t clocked in until I heard the echo, which meant everything was fine.
Upstairs, I snatched up my bath hat and put it on. I hadn’t spent all that money at the hairdresser’s to have the results ruined by steam.
Eve raised a moist face. She was kneeling beside the bath. ‘They have so much energy, Minty.’ Her eyes ranged disapprovingly over the bath hat – which I didn’t mind. As long as Eve did her job, she could think of me as she liked. ‘Lucas fell down this afternoon,’ she said, in her awkward English.
On cue, Lucas shot a grimy knee out of the water for me to inspect. The graze had puckered at the edges, and was pretty businesslike. ‘I was braver than Superman, Mum.’
‘I’m sure you were, Lucas.’
At the plug end, Felix scowled. ‘Lucas cried a lot.’
‘Eve, did you disinfect it?’
The briskness of Eve’s nod made it clear she considered the question redundant. She knew her job. Lucas was always knocking himself about. He hurled himself at life as if its obstacles – stairs, kerbs, walls – were there to be conquered. Felix was different: he watched, waited, then made his move.
The slippery bodies heaved in the scummy water. They chattered away, releasing snippets of their day.
‘You look so funny, Mum.’ Lucas poked Felix’s leg with a foot. ‘Funny, funny.’
‘Out,’ I ordered. ‘Eve’s waiting.’
Eve sat on the stool with the cork seat and Lucas clambered on to the towel spread in her lap. Felix was instantly riveted by his red plastic boat. He did not look at me. Reluctantly, I reached for a second towel and spread it over my Nicole Farhi trousers. ‘OΚ, Felix.’ A wave of water hit the sides as he ejected himself, bulletlike from bath. ‘Careful.’
He paid no attention and buried his head in my shoulder, nuzzling and whinnying like the ponies he loved to read about. ‘I’ve got Mum.’
Instantly, Lucas abandoned Eve and forced his way on to my lap too. ‘Get off,’ he ordered his brother.
Eve was watching. She liked to ticket and docket my behaviour and imagined I didn’t notice. It gave her material to share with her friends, and she liked it best when I failed to rise to her strict notions of good mothering because then she had plenty to discuss.
What did Eve know?
Nathan and I had created the squirming bodies competing for space on my lap… the skinny limbs, the raucous bellows of laughter or distress, the endless craving for warmth and reassurance. They had been a logical consequence of my longing for that fine, harmonious household.
Yet even Eve could sense that the story required fleshing out. She knew that when I was tired or low I recoiled from the twins’ urgency. I found it impossible to reconcile myself with their kidnapping of time and energy, their need to creep inside my mind. Then I was back in the box from which there was no exit. Then I took refuge in imposing strict routines, making lists, striving for perfection.
In the peace of my own bedroom, I removed the bath hat and inspected my face and hair in the mirror – the daily patrol along the border between, to quote Paige, the wife and mother who was still ‘pretty sexy’ and the woman who ‘looked good for her age’. There was a difference.
I ran a bath. One of my first acts after the twins were born was to insist we built a separate bathroom for Nathan and me, which entailed Nathan sacrificing his wardrobe and knocking a hole in the wall.
Nathan had been appalled. ‘We can’t,’ he said.
‘Why not? Are walls sacred?’ It was five thirty in the morning and the twins hadn’t slept much. ‘We must have somewhere to make ourselves smell nice.’
Nathan sat up in bed with Felix over his shoulder. ‘We always managed before.’
We. I ignored the small word that carried such weight. I leant over and kissed Felix, then Nathan. The gesture pleased him. ‘OΚ,’ he conceded. ‘New bathroom it is.’
If he was truthful, Nathan loved it – the marble, the honey travertine tiles, the glint of mirror and stainless steel, his separate basin. ‘See?’ I teased him.
‘I take pleasure in small things.’ He was smiling.
‘In that case, I’ll give you plenty of small things in which to take pleasure. Carpets, curtains…’
But I had gone too far, too fast, and the smile was quenched. ‘We must be careful, Minty. Things are a bit tight.’
I kissed his mouth lingeringly. A Judas kiss. ‘I promise.’
It had taken me four years, inch by inch, stealthy infiltration by sly addition, to redecorate the house – a bedroom painted in pretty yellow here, a chair recovered there – to achieve the transformation of Nathan and Rose’s house into Nathan and Minty’s house.
In the days when Rose and I had been friends, when she was my boss – editor of the books section of the Weekend Digest - and I was her deputy, she beguiled me with her domestic tales. I can see her now: head bent over a book, or a piece of copy, hugging a mug of coffee to her che
st, dropping those details into an atmosphere that snapped and crackled with other considerations. Parsley caught a mouse. Nathan bought me a white penstemon and I planted it by the lavender. The washing-machine flooded. I pictured the grey scum running over the kitchen floor, the scrabble to mop it up, the penstemons nodding in the breeze. I eavesdropped on the family exchanges, with all their coded allusions and easy shorthand. Poppy’s challenge to her brother: ‘When were you born, then?’ And clever Sam’s riposte: ‘Before you, you dag.’
Rose’s family portrait was chocolate box, framed by comfortable, warm words. Then it had been foreign to me, that pretty picture. I don’t have a family and it doesn’t bother me, I’d told Rose. Nor did I want children. Why hang a millstone round your neck?
Looking back, I should have insisted that she told me what she had left out. But when I asked, Rose laughed, all apology and sweetness. ‘There’s nothing to leave out.’
How would she couch her reply today?
I’ll never know. Never again will I hustle her into a coffee shop, or accompany her on the walks she liked so much. Or pick up the phone and demand, ‘What do you think?’ Never again will I observe her huddled over a pile of books, sifting through them with the greed of a child let loose in the pick’n’ mix.
Between us lies the deepest and darkest of silences, sinister in its composition of pain and betrayal. And absolutely appropriate.
2
Dinner was going well. (The timetable was stuck to the fridge: ‘8.15 – guests arrive, 9.00 – serve…’A schedule was crucial to my peace of mind.)
We were ten in all, a number that ensured separate conversations could be conducted and, thus, mask any awkward little silences. The final guest list was mostly Vistemax but, in view of my keep going philosophy, not wasted.
The Hurleys arrived at eleven minutes past eight precisely. When I opened the front door, Martin pushed Paige, nearly seven months pregnant and large, into the hall. ‘Thought you could do with some early back-up,’ he murmured, as Nathan unwrapped Paige from her coat. ‘And Paige wanted to check out what you were wearing.’
I flushed. ‘Will I do?’
Martin studied my green, wraparound dress approvingly. ‘Sure. You look great.’ He touched my arm in a gesture of support and I felt as if I’d been given a million dollars.
But a little later, with the Shakers and Barry and Lucy still to arrive, Paige lumbered over and hissed, ‘The dress is too tight.’
I pushed a plate of miniature blinis and caviar in the direction of her bump. ‘Yours is just as bad. Besides, your husband approves.’
‘My husband wouldn’t recognize taste if it sat in his lap.’ She flicked a glance in his direction, and it was not an affectionate one. ‘Look, you fool, this evening depends on the wives, not the husbands. You’re thinking like a singleton. The wives will have taken stock of that dress. It outlines your nipples and shows you’re wearing stockings.’ She lifted a finger and waggled it at her temple. ‘They’ll be thinking, This woman’s planning to sleep with my husband. In the car on the way home, the assaults will begin. Remember, husbands listen to their wives, even if they hate them.’
‘I wouldn’t touch any of the men with a bargepole.’
‘Try telling the wives that.’
Every so often I glanced at Nathan from my end of the table. These days, candlelight suited him. It lent his eyes a sparkle and disguised his frequent pallor. I liked that. And myself in the candlelight? A woman in a green dress (hastily loosened over the bust), a trifle anxious but concealing it competently. Granted there was a string of fatigue behind my eyes and, every so often, an unseen hand tugged at it. I raised my wine glass and willed Nathan to look at me across the silver and crystal. I wanted him to register pleasure in the scene, and to know that he was pleased with my creation.
Gisela Gard sat on his right. Married to Roger, chairman of Vistemax, her little black dress, Chanel corsage and hefty sprinkling of Grade Ε diamonds advertised his status. Roger was sixty-five to Gisela’s forty-three and gossip reported that his money had lured her into his den. ‘Of course, it was his money,’ Gisela was also reported to have said. ‘What else? But, in return, I look after him beautifully’
Carolyne Shaker on Nathan’s left, married to his colleague Peter. She had chosen a royal blue dress – a mistake however you looked at it – and bright gold earrings, and was listening to Gisela and Nathan. Generally, Carolyne left conversation to others, and wore her silence with an expression that suggested she knew her limitations. Not by so much as a flicker did she suggest she minded that she didn’t shine on these occasions. Carolyne knew where her strengths lay – in the home – and I had learnt from her too: it helps to know thyself.
Nathan said something to Gisela and turned, courteously, to Carolyne, who seemed a bit sleepy. He whispered in her ear, which made her laugh.
On Gisela’s right, Peter Shaker was talking to Barry’s wife, Lucy. When she arrived Lucy, who was in a complicated Boho outfit, had seemed nervous and I’d whisked her over to reliable, kind Carolyne. The latter had obviously done the trick because Lucy was responding animatedly.
‘The cherries are good.’ Beside me, Roger dipped his spoon into the bittersweet juice. ‘I like tough skins.’
On the other side of me, Barry nodded. He had been pleased, as I had calculated, to dine with a man as powerful as Roger, and Barry’s pleasure took the form of agreeing with everything Roger said. A dedicated foodie (‘Yοu should hear the fuss if I don’t buy Hunza dried apricots for his cereal,’ Gisela had told me), Roger had kept up the food bulletins throughout the meal. Did I know that the best cherries came from a valley in Burgundy? Or, now that they were eating more meat, the Japanese were growing taller? So practised was his conversation that it could almost have been dubbed automatic, but Roger was too clever to let that happen. His party trick was to gaze directly at whomever he was speaking to, and the listener enjoyed the illusion that they were the only person in the world. The magic was working beautifully until he let fall, ‘I remember the best salmon was at Zeffano’s. It was when Nathan was still married to Rose…’
There followed a tiny pause. My smile did not waver. ‘Yes, Roger?’
Barry’s radar locked on to the tell-tale flicker of tension. ‘And?’ he encouraged Roger.
‘It was years ago, but I remember that salmon so well.’ Roger steered past the minefield. ‘Nathan was less enthusiastic… but we won him round.’
Reminded of my place, my pleasure in the evening was now spiked with resentment. Rose sat at the end of the polished, laden table, not I. Rose had chosen the flower centrepiece from Vogue and brought these people together. Rose’s ability to soothe, her love and concern, were what the majority of the guests at my table remembered.
In such a situation, it’s no use looking hopeless or weighed down by the burden of being wife number two. The best thing, I find, is to trade on through, thus emphasize how sensible and mature everyone involved is being. I maintained my shiny smile. ‘Isn’t it wonderful how Rose’s career as a travel writer has taken off?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Roger. ‘I saw a very good article she’d written on China – in the Financial Times, I think it was.’
Barry was amused. I could sense him piecing together a history – first wife, a minx, old dogs, new tricks, etc., etc. – and making such a thorough job of it that there was a good chance he would think it correct. He muttered, ‘You’re Nathan’s second wife?’
‘Yes, aren’t I lucky? Not the first, but definitely the last.’ The words tripped off my tongue and I made sure I included Barry in my next remark to Roger: ‘Nathan and I must visit the cherry valley. I’ll make him take me.’
Roger tapped a cigarette packet. ‘Is it permitted?’ He exhaled a plume of smoke. ‘You must be the only person in the world who can make Nathan do anything. We have to work hard to convince him sometimes to come on board. It’s one of his strengths.’
Suddenly, shockingly, I scented danger. ‘Vi
stemax have had an exceptional year,’ I explained to Barry. ‘They’ve wiped the floor with the opposition.’ I pushed an ashtray in Roger’s direction. ‘You must be so pleased. Nathan is.’
Before Roger could respond, we were interrupted by a cry from the doorway. It was Lucas, in his teddy-bear pyjamas, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘I can’t sleep.’
The red mark on his cheek suggested otherwise. Nathan turned round. ‘Lukey!’ He smiled and Lucas tumbled towards him, arms outstretched. Nathan pushed back his chair, scooped him up and settled him on his lap. ‘What are you doing up, you naughty boy?’
‘Naughty boy,’ Lucas agreed, and settled himself against his father’s shoulder for the duration. He reckoned he was in with a chance and, judging by the way Nathan was holding him, he was right.
The clatter of forks and spoons acted as a counterpoint to Lucas’s high voice and Nathan’s deep one. This had not been included on the timetable stuck to the fridge. My gaze slid to Roger, who was observing the tender little scene with an expression that did not necessarily bode well for Nathan. This is the way the wind blows, he was thinking. This is why a man loses his sharpness, his edge.
Gisela touched the red patch on Lucas’s cheek. Wide awake, eh?’
Lucas grinned at her, and I rose to my feet. ‘Come on, Lucas.’
But Lucas had no intention of budging. I bent down and scooped him up. ‘No bed, no bed,’ he wailed.
I whispered in his ear and Lucas screeched, ‘Mummy, don’t smack me.’
‘Minty!’ Nathan threw down his napkin, shot to his feet and wrested Lucas away. ‘I’ll deal.’
He and Lucas vanished upstairs, and we heard Lucas’s chuckle. My cheeks flamed, and Roger and I exchanged a long, measured look. ‘Nathan’s quite a hands-on father,’ he commented.
‘Oh, not really,’ I said. ‘An on-and-off sort of father, depending on how available he is.’ I switched subjects. ‘Are you planning more changes this year? A new launch?’
The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly Page 2
