The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly

by Elizabeth Buchan

  ‘Can’t drink coffee in the evening any more.’ He pushed the tray aside. ‘Come back, Minty.’

  Something of the old, decisive Nathan made me melt, and I knelt beside the bed, and laid my head on his chest. He stroked my hair. In our story, there had been no time or room for gradual wooing. No leisurely drinks or dinners. No trips to the zoo or meanders in the park. I had sent the message ‘I would like you’ Nathan had received it, turned up at my flat and come straight to the point. ‘I want to sleep with you.’ He was trembling, and I was struck by the gap between the man I observed at his work and the manner of this request. It touched me, and filled me with exhilaration.

  Sleeping with Nathan had been the easy part. It was the rest that had been difficult.

  ‘How do we manage to misunderstand each other?’ he asked.

  His fingers moved to my face, stroking my neck and cheek. Between us there was a cessation of darkness and hostility. Instead, there was warmth, communion and peace.

  I willed those precious moments to expand, cradle and buoy us up for the hours, days and years ahead.

  The Nativity play had come and gone, and by the time Christmas arrived, I had overdosed on lists. There was one for presents, another for food and menus, yet another for events.

  Initially, ‘Events’ had read ‘Sam and Jilly to us?’ That had been crossed out and ‘Sunday before Christmas to Sam and Jilly’ substituted. When I had rung Jilly to ask them to come to us on Christmas Day, she said she was frightfully sorry but they had already arranged to be in Bath. When I suggested that we joined them, Jilly had been acutely embarrassed: ‘It’s not that you’re not welcome, Minty – of course you are – but we’re pretty booked up. Poppy and Richard are coming, my parents and… Rose, actually.’

  We agreed that Nathan, the boys and I would drive down to Bath on the Sunday before Christmas and arrange a separate meeting with Poppy and Richard. Into this settled plan, Poppy inserted a spoke: ‘Could you come over to us on the Sunday before Christmas? Otherwise we won’t have a chance to see Dad and the boys because Richard and I are nipping off to Verbier on Boxing Day.’ I explained that we were going to Bath. ‘Oh, well,’ said Poppy, with only faint regret. ‘We’ll pop in to you on Christmas Eve on the way down to Sam’s.’

  We drove to Sam and Jilly’s through lashing rain and arrived on the dot of one o’clock. Jilly greeted us at the front door in a pair of old jeans and a baggy sweater. This put us all on the back foot. Nathan was in his suit and I was in my best green dress and high-heeled boots. Furthermore I had insisted that Nathan stopped at the service station before we left the motorway and the boys were spruce to a fault, with washed faces and brushed hair.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Jilly. ‘Don’t you all look smart!’ She led us into the kitchen where Sam was sitting in muddy gardening clothes with his feet on the table. ‘Here they are,’ she sang, and a look passed between husband and wife: a slight widening of the eyes, which indicated, ‘We’ve been caught out.’

  Lunch had been hamburgers for the children and stew for the adults. ‘I meant,’ Jilly said, as she dished up the latter – with another silent exchange between her and Sam – ‘to cook something special. But getting ready for Christmas takes up so much time. You know how it is?’

  No, I don’t, I wanted to say, outraged by the lack of ceremony. I thought of the goose stuffed with raisins that I would have bought in, the crackers in their box, the silver candles and gauze ribbon that would have adorned my table.

  Nathan reached over and picked up a fork that Frieda had dropped on to the floor. ‘This is lovely,’ he said quietly. ‘No need for a fuss.’

  Jilly sat down and gazed at her stew. ‘The important thing is that we’ve all met.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Sam.

  On the way back in the car, I said to Nathan, ‘They didn’t go to much trouble.’

  Nathan was paying keen attention to his driving. ‘No fatted calf, certainly,’ he said lightly, but his lips tightened.

  On Christmas Eve, Poppy and Richard arrived in a rush, their car stacked with luggage and presents. It was raining hard and Poppy stood in the hallway, shaking her wet hair, and demanded, ‘Where’s the Christmas tree? It’s always in the hall.’ I explained that this year, for a change, it was in the sitting room. ‘Oh, what a pity.’ She flung her coat on a chair and swept past me. ‘Dad? Where are you?’ She hugged Nathan. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. How are you?’ Then she rushed round to kiss Felix. ‘Have you been a good boy? No? I thought not. No pressie for you.’ Felix raised stricken eyes, and Poppy sank to her knees beside him. ‘Darling Felix, don’t look like that. Of course I’ve got you a present. A big one.’

  ‘How big?’ Felix was – rightly – suspicious.

  Poppy sketched an air-square. ‘That big.’ Felix was marginally reassured and went off to tell his brother. Poppy got gracefully to her feet. ‘Sweet.’ She turned to Nathan. ‘We can only stay for half an hour. Otherwise we won’t get to Sam’s in time for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Nathan. ‘I thought you’d be with us for a bit.’

  ‘We’d better eat,’ I said.

  In the dining room, I had laid the table with a dazzling white cloth, and set out on it a plate of cucumber sandwiches. (Tip: boil half a cup of water with brown sugar, add cider vinegar and soak the slices of cucumber in it for a couple of hours.) There were also tiny sausages roasted in honey and mustard, slices of pizza for the boys and a Christmas cake (thank you, Selfridges) with a tiny skiing scene on it, including a twinkly ski lift.

  I made to light the candles and Poppy exclaimed, ‘Don’t on our account. We’ll have to go any minute.’ She surveyed the laden table. ‘Goodness, you have gone to a lot of bother.’ Nathan offered her a sandwich. ‘I’m not that hungry, Daddy, and I don’t want to spoil dinner.’

  Richard was kinder, accepted two sandwiches and ate them. Lucas climbed on to a chair and strained for the nearest cracker. Nathan picked him up and settled him on his lap. ‘Hang on, young man. We’ll pull them in a minute.’

  Poppy addressed me in a low voice: ‘Jilly told me how smart you all were when you went down to see them. She was a little worried that you might have been offended because they were so disorganized. I said of course you wouldn’t. You knew perfectly well that she had to concentrate on Christmas Day’ She stopped, eyes on the empty plate in front of her and, as a great concession, said, ‘Maybe I will have one sandwich. Actually, Jilly doesn’t need to worry. Mum will take over cooking the lunch. She does it so brilliantly’

  I sneaked a glance at Nathan. He was still cuddling Lucas, and talking to Richard but I detected a wary, whipped look in his eye. There were not many occasions when I felt protective but Poppy’s words triggered a novel rush of fury. Nathan was hurt, and would continue to be hurt, by these women: his daughter and his daughter-in-law.

  My amended ‘Events’ list read: ‘Christmas at number seven. Turkey, roast potatoes, Christmas pudding for 4.’

  6

  On the way to work, I met Martin Hurley. It was Monday, January, very cold, and I was still recovering from Christmas. Unusually for Martin, he was mooching along, weighed down by his briefcase. We stopped to chat outside Mrs Austen’s front garden where frost smeared the jumble of flowerpots and yoghurt cartons that, typically, lurked on the windowsill. Mrs Austen was a fanatical gardener, but as she lived in the first-floor flat of the multi-occupied house, she had no proper space to indulge her passion. It was lack in a life such as Mrs Austen’s that turned a man or a woman sharp-tongued, nosy and tart as a lemon, and on cue, she appeared at the window.

  ‘Not your usual style, is it?’ I said. I normally saw Martin stepping into a chauffeur-driven car.

  ‘Broken down.’ He made a mischievous face. Actually, I feel as if I’ve been let off school. Big meeting today and I wouldn’t mind escaping. I keep thinking I could go AWOL travelling the District Line.’

  I smiled. We both knew that Martin wouldn’t miss the meeting for
the world. His meetings, as with so many people who worked, ratified his professional existence. ‘I doubt if you’d think Ealing or Hainault a destination resort, and after two seconds on the Tube, you’ll be begging for a fleet of cars. Trust me.’

  ‘I do trust you,’ he said, which was nice, and also unexpected. It would have been wrong to dismiss Martin as a one-dimensional man, focused only on meetings. He was discriminating, and generous with many things. Even money. Also, he was nice about his wife, which not every husband was. From time to time, when Nathan and I were chez Hurley, I caught Martin observing Paige carefully. It was a version of paying attention to the fine detail, which had made him such a success at work.

  Snooping from the window was not yielding enough rewards and Mrs Austen emerged on to the front step to edge closer to this interesting street theatre. I waved at her. ‘Paige OK?’ I asked Martin.

  ‘So-so. Pregnancy is an exclusive business. Unlike conception.’

  Are you looking forward to number three?’

  Martin didn’t reply immediately, and when he did he sounded a little troubled. ‘It’s very crowded – life, I mean.’

  That worried me a little. ‘Too cryptic for this time of the morning, Martin.’

  ‘I feel cryptic, Minty. Never mind. Now for the meeting.’ He dropped a kiss on my cheek. ‘See you.’ He raised his briefcase in salute to the watchful Mrs Austen, and we went our separate ways.

  Sandwiched between bodies on a packed train, I began to wonder in earnest about Paige and Martin. ‘I’m practically the only mother in the world prepared to put her children first,’ Paige had maintained, and she wasn’t entirely joking. ‘It’s lonely. If we go on like this, there’ll be no population in the West. Look at Italy. Look at Germany. Child-free countries.’ Paige’s zeal was both heartbreaking and infuriating: a missionary among the heathens. Yet there was something reassuring about her straightforward outlook, which did not involve any of the ifs and buts that draw the sting of rules and regulations.

  Barry sauntered into my office, but his greeting was sharp. ‘What kept you?’

  I cursed inwardly and flushed: I was twenty minutes late. ‘Sorry, Barry. The Tube.’

  He glanced at his Rolex. ‘You can make it up later.’

  He threw himself into a chair. ‘I’ve got a tricky day. We need the green light for the Aids film, so say your prayers.’ He was dressed in a dark Armani suit and red tie, which meant Big Meeting and probably explained the sharpness. He smelt of aftershave, and a hint of claret from the night before.

  Again he checked his watch. ‘Five minutes before the off, and I’m going to waste them with you.’

  What’s up with Gabrielle? hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I resisted. On closer inspection, Barry’s collar points were not quite adjusted. Then I understand that he did not, at this moment, require the diversion of a superb body and a sexy giggle. What Barry needed was an adult, sensible, grounding conversation before he went into a Big Meeting. As we talked, I was unsure whether to cry because I no longer occupied the pretty-and-diverting category, or laugh because I had been elevated to ‘serious’.

  Barry departed, and I was left to beat the working day into shape. I went through my in-tray and sorted it into ‘urgent’ and ‘pending’. Rose had taught me the tricks and procedures of an office, and the lessons remained with me. Funny, that: she had handed me professionalism and her husband on a plate. I wrote a report, made phone calls. I read scripts until my eyes blurred.

  Eventually I pulled the file marked ‘Middle Age’ towards me. I had been avoiding it. Definitely. I opened my notebook and wrote: (1) What is the story? (2) Why are we proposing it? (3) Who will make it? (4) Likely costs?

  What was there to say? Wasn’t middle age a furtive, secretive stage? When I’d bought my first bra, there was no one I didn’t buttonhole with the news. Ask the spirit of my dead, unsympathetic mother. But I’d rather die than reveal the existence of a varicose vein in my leg. (Thank you, twins.) I had no desire to discuss my body’s slippage. The first blows of age. It was akin to tourists tramping round a ruin. And which of us would volunteer to examine the mistakes, guilt, regret or banalities of working, nurturing and fretting? Who wished to acknowledge the loneliness of growing older?

  ‘When middle age creeps up on a woman, she discovers that younger women are just as much wolves as men,’ a newspaper pundit stated in one of the cuttings that Deb had handed over. On that point, I conceded, I was the expert.

  I remembered playing the wolf…

  Nathan had tracked me down in Bonne Tartine. He must have followed me from the Vistemax offices. He slid into the opposite seat, then nodded at my coffee and the plate on which sat a tiny, untouched croissant. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself, his expression absurdly young and his hair ruffled. ‘Is that just there for temptation?’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I watched and waited.’

  I swallowed the uneven lump of excitement and apprehension: now that I had got to this point, questions needed to be asked. ‘What about Rose?’

  Carefully, Nathan cut the croissant into pieces. ‘Rose is busy with her own life.’ He paused. ‘All things considered, I don’t think she’d mind. I’ve never been her first concern…’ He leant forward and began to feed me the croissant. Its sweet, crumbling texture dissolved in my mouth, and I thought, Rose must be mad or stupid to be so blind.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ asked the forty-two-year-old Rose, after I had taken Nathan. ‘We were friends.’

  Yes, we had been friends. Sweet, sweet friends…

  ‘You look stuck in.’ Deb sashayed into my office. ‘Anything I should know about?’ Uninvited, she perched on the edge of my desk, and I suppressed the desire to push her off.

  ‘OK.’ I sat back. ‘Do women feel middle age more acutely than men?’

  ‘God, I don’t know’ Deb gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘Isn’t it all over for the middle-aged, whichever sex?’ Her eyes drifted past me towards Reception in case anyone useful was waiting.

  ‘I think my husband feels it.’

  Deb transferred her attention back to me. ‘Barry says you’re a second wife. Is he a lot older? Is he nice?’

  ‘He’s very nice,’ I said flatly. ‘That’s why I married him.’

  ‘How much older?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  The corners of Deb’s mouth went down, registering distaste. ‘How… very brave,’ she said, after a few awkward seconds. Then she said. ‘I wish…’

  ‘You wish?’ She might have been wishing for a new body or a new life. Or maybe she was just wishing she could fall in love, in which case I might warn her off it. Apart from anything else, love is ageing. You fetch up with twins, varicose veins and being hated by a clan.

  ‘Did I tell you I’m going mad in my flat? It’s above a curry restaurant and it reeks – I reek – of curry. The landlord won’t do anything about the ventilation and is threatening to put up the rent.’ She spread her hands. ‘I long to live in a clean white palace high above the trees. I long to be different. But at the moment the future doesn’t look bright.’ She paused. ‘Did you know that Barry’s taking on another producer?… You didn’t? He’s brilliant apparently’

  Annoyance with Barry clocked in. No doubt he’d had his reasons for not mentioning it when I talked to him earlier, which showed that one should never forget the boss always has a hidden agenda. I closed my notebook with a snap. Perhaps things were not going to work out with Paradox. I experienced mild regret at the thought, but there were other production companies and I would allow Nathan an I-told-you-so conversation.

  Deb stood up and stretched. The junction between her cargos and T-shirt revealed gooseflesh. I nearly said, I so nearly said, ‘ You’ll catch cold if you’re not careful.’

  I returned home in good time to take over from Eve, who was going out. ‘Thanks, Minty.’ A rare, pale smile stretched her lips. ‘This is big night.’

  Best not
to ask. From the window of the boys’ bedroom, I watched her clatter down the street in a cheap pair of high heels. She looked released, happy, her hair loosened from its customary prison wardress’s clamp, and I reminded myself I must never forget that Eve was entitled to an off-duty life.

  ‘You are a busy mummy.’ Lucas’s fair hair, which was beginning to darken, was tumbled and mussed, and he was the image of his father.

  The Thomas the Tank Engine clock clicked on the chest-of-drawers. Two pairs of socks, two T-shirts and two pairs of underpants dripped off a chair that was stencilled with dragons. Under their duvets, I could see that the boys had a long way to grow before they reached the end of the bed. It would take years and years, in fact.

  ‘Never too busy for you two.’ I tried to remember which bed I had sat on the previous evening and chose the opposite. Felix smiled shyly, his gaze flicking to a point above the bed where he had stuck a drawing on the wall. I was about to expostulate, Felix, the wallpaper, when it dawned on me that Felix’s drawing was of a large cat with black and white stripes. Underneath it he had written ‘My Lost Cat’ in blue crayon.

  When they were asleep – Felix curled up on his right side, Lucas spreadeagled over the bed – I turned on the nightlight and left them to dream.

  Then I found myself slipping upstairs to the spare room where the white roses in the painting appeared to leap out of their dark background. I searched through Nathan’s shirts for his notebook.

  On 21 January, three days ago, he had written, ‘Is it better not to care?’ and yesterday, ‘I feel that I don’t really exist. I look in the mirror and I am not sure who I am looking at.’

  I closed the notebook, and only then saw the yellow Post-it note stuck to the front. ‘Private,’ it said, in Nathan’s handwriting.

  That made me smile. If the notebook was private, why did he not hide it more securely? Answer: he wished me to read it. It was a challenge and I took it up. I went downstairs, found a pen and wrote underneath: ‘Talk to me, Nathan?’