Agatha hated days on her own. Really hated. She became too aware of herself and the fact that she was capable of anything, that she was not necessarily in control of her actions. Her head felt bigger or maybe just fuller when she was alone. Like someone had emptied a pint of water into it, shifting her off balance and blurring her senses. She would watch herself doing something and feel disconnected to the experience. As she buttered her toast she realised that it was entirely possible for her to use the innocent-looking knife to cut deeply into her wrists, letting the blood spill onto the clean kitchen floor.
Agatha had often wondered how hard it would be to pierce human flesh. When the children fell over their skin seemed to peel away so easily, exposing their inner selves so red and raw. But Agatha knew enough about the human body to know that these wounds were mostly superficial, that to really get into the body you had to get through seven more layers of skin and then you’d only reach muscle and fat which in turn could be hiding a bone before you came into contact with any of the life-giving vital organs.
Harry had been fat; Agatha reckoned that even a very sharp knife would have taken a lot of cutting. He would have screamed out in pain. The children screamed out in pain when they just grazed their knees and Agatha had noticed how this letting of tears seemed to somehow take away the pain, like it released something inside them. The Victorians had believed in making you bleed to take away illness. Harry had never used a knife on her, although his weapon of choice had often felt sharp. He had made her bleed many times but he had never made her cry. At the time it had felt like one important victory she had won against him, but now standing in the Donaldsons’ kitchen with the blunt kitchen knife clasped so tightly, she wasn’t sure if it had been.
Christian called Sarah on his way to work on Monday morning. He told himself that he needed to speak to her again to find out more about the abortion, but he doubted this was true. He had thought a lot about the abortion, but he couldn’t comprehend what it had been like for her. He felt sorry for her and saddened by a loss which wasn’t his to feel, but it wasn’t any of this that made him pick up the phone. It wasn’t the awful visit to the farm or the madness of Ruth’s over-reaction on the way home. They’d even had sex that night which had been loving and giving and made him feel warm towards her for the whole of Sunday. It wasn’t really anything.
Sarah sounded too knowing when she answered the phone, like he was predictable and it had only been a matter of time before he rang. But he’d gone too far now and he felt he didn’t have any other choice than to get on with whatever it was he was doing. Which was what exactly? After the phone call, as Christian reached his gleaming offi ce and said his easy hellos, he wondered what he was after. He didn’t want another affair, really he didn’t. But somehow he wasn’t prepared to let Sarah go yet either.
He turned on his computer and the screensaver of his wife and kids popped up as it always did. His own face was reflected over theirs asking too many questions. In trying not to become some sad married man had he simply become some sad shitty married man? He couldn’t put his finger on what it was that was missing or even what would make it better. He had tried drinking too much or having the odd line of coke, but the kids made hangovers pretty much impossible. He had tried fucking a young woman but the pain he’d caused Ruth had been too hard to bear. He supposed that he could still buy a motorbike and kill himself going too fast down a motor-way, but that seemed pretty pointless.
Christian had nothing but contempt for people who talked about giving it all up and moving to Cornwall to open a café. Their visit to the farm on Saturday had only confirmed his suspicions about these types of people and yet it had also left a nasty taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t want to be Charlie, so seething in his own anger that Christian wouldn’t be surprised to one day read in the paper that he’d killed his whole family. But still he remembered exactly what the man had said and the sentiment chimed uncomfortably close to what he thought himself.
‘They’re never happy, women,’ Charlie had said as they’d sat in the barn, taking turns to swig from one of his many hidden whisky bottles, both sucking on fags.
‘When Margo flipped out, I tried to see the bright side. I told myself that it was pretty pointless going into work every day when we didn’t need the money, leaving the kids with all these ghastly girls who hardly spoke English, and I thought, Yeah, why not? Let’s give it a go. But then we get down here and within bloody seconds Margo’s all like, So what shall we do now? She was pregnant again then, by the way, and the house was a tip so we were supervising builders and dealing with planning and everything, but still she was like, What next? And I thought, What next? What bloody next is that we might relax and live a bit. I said to her, For God’s sake, we’ve both made enough money, you’re going to inherit a fortune, why don’t we kick back for a bit and see what happens? But she couldn’t. Oh no. What would everyone think? she actually said that. What, I said, all those fucking tossers who boast about their cars and Spanish villas who we’ve left behind in London? Who cares what they fucking think? And she was all outraged. I hadn’t realised, but she liked those people, she still wanted them to be our friends. So she set up the stupid soap business that costs us more to run than we make, but still inane magazines like your wife’s come and interview her about it and take photos of her with all four kids and everyone’s, like, God she’s so amazing, look at her perfect life. It makes me fucking sick. Doesn’t anyone tell it like it is any more?’
Sarah told it like it was this time. They met in a café which overlooked the big lake in Hyde Park and she had tiny red spots high up on her cheeks. ‘I am not going to be fucked around by you again, Christian,’ she said as she played with her cappuccino.
‘No, you’ve got it wrong . . . ’ he started.
‘Got it wrong how?’ He noticed that her eyes flicked with anger in the same way Ruth’s did and he was floored again by the sensation that nothing was ever going to be different and he was never going to escape himself. ‘Got it wrong that you want an easy affair?’
‘I don’t want another affair.’ Which was true, but about as far as he could get.
‘Oh, so you’re going to leave Ruth and the kids and set up home with me then?’
‘Is that what you want?’ Christian felt as though he had lost his footings and that the lake had somehow flooded the café. He hadn’t meant to say any of this, but he hadn’t bargained on anyone else being in control.
‘My God, are you serious? I’ve spent the past three years trying to get you out of my head and then I walk into that stupid interview and I see you sitting there and I realised that not one fucking thing I’d done had worked.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He tried to take her hand, but she wouldn’t let him. ‘I’m so sorry about the abortion. I can’t believe I let any of that happen last time.’ Did he only want absolution? He couldn’t be that much of a shit. Surely he wasn’t putting this girl through all of this only to make her say it was okay, he wasn’t that bad?
‘Have you got me here to apologise? Is that it?’ she asked, as if he had spoken out loud.
‘I don’t know why I’ve got you here. I don’t know why I’m here.’
Sarah sat back in her chair. ‘You’re here because you’ve got a shit marriage but you haven’t got the balls to leave.’
‘No. Please, don’t bring Ruth into this.’
Sarah snorted. ‘It’s a bit late to start defending your wife, don’t you think?’
‘Honestly, Sarah, don’t. Ruth has nothing to do with this.’ He was angry but he didn’t get up and walk away.
Sarah stood up for him. ‘Tell you what, Christian, you figure out what you want from me and then let me know, okay?’ She turned and left without looking round and he didn’t call her back. He sat at the round white table and let his eyes stare out over the lake. The surface was so calm it was as if someone had covered it with a giant roll of clingfilm. Boats waited and ducks swam. He breathed deeply and realised how good
it felt to be alone.
Hal’s birthday was next Saturday, which was only six days away and really only five, because you couldn’t count on doing anything useful on the day itself. And still Ruth hadn’t given Agatha a definite guest list. She was starting to find Ruth pathetic, even a bit disgusting. The children had returned from their day out in a state. Betty was soaked in wee and Hal was starving; Agatha had worried he might be sick from all the bottles he’d been given.
‘I forgot to take a change of clothes,’ Ruth had said as she carried Betty in, crying and cold. ‘Could you run her a bath, please?’
Hal was in his father’s arms and they were laughing together at something, but Agatha could tell he needed a Marmite sandwich. ‘Shall I put both of them in?’ she asked as gaily as she could manage.
‘No, don’t worry,’ said Christian. ‘Hal and I are going to have a game of Thomas. I’ll bath him in a bit.’
Agatha’s arms pricked. She couldn’t be sure that Hal wouldn’t ask for food and then all her waiting would be discovered and it would be taken the wrong way, or maybe the right way, and she’d be asked to leave. ‘But it’s school tomorrow. Don’t you think . . . ?’
Christian looked at her in a way that told her the discussion was over. ‘Hal doesn’t go to school, Aggie. I think he’s got time for a game with his dad, don’t you?’
And so that was that; Agatha had to give Betty a bath and wait another whole hour before she got Hal on his own and could give him some food. Christian and Ruth had jumped at her offer to read him a bedtime story, shutting the door as they left the room, their voices already rising through the floorboards. Hal lay against her, munching on his sandwich as she read to him, stroking his hair. She wondered how she ever could have doubted the trustworthiness of this wonderful little boy. He would never give her away or betray her and that knowledge was like a warm blanket over her cold mind.
Events were moving too fast now and she couldn’t go on feeding Hal in secret, away even from Betty, who would be bound to tell her mother. Something drastic was going to have to change, but Agatha felt like it was too much to accomplish before the party. They had to get through that day and then she could make a few decisions.
The next day she rang Ruth at work, something she almost never did, and asked outright how many people were coming. Ruth sounded like she’d forgotten about the party, but then she said, ‘Sorry, Aggie, I know I haven’t been on top of this. I promise I’ll make some calls today and let you know this evening.’
Sally was leaning over Ruth’s desk when she took the call from Aggie. ‘All okay?’
Ruth shook herself. ‘Yes, fine. That was Aggie being super-efficient again, asking me for a final head count for Hal’s party on Saturday.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course it is.’
Sally sat down in the chair next to Ruth. ‘Except . . . ?’
‘I don’t know. I’m probably inventing problems because I can’t bear that she’s so much better at it than me, but, well, do you think someone can be too perfect?’
‘Like how?’
‘Like there are no cracks in her at all. She never lets anything slip, everything’s always done perfectly. Every base covered. It’s like she’s a . . . I don’t know, robot or something.’
Sally let the copy drop onto the desk and Ruth remembered that Sally was also her friend. ‘But do you think she’s good with the kids?’
‘Yes, but that’s part of it. She’s almost too good. The other day when we were going out I literally had to pull Hal off her. He wanted to stay with her more than he wanted to come with me.’
‘It’s hard for me to say,’ said Sally. ‘Not having my own kids, it sounds like an ideal situation. But I can see it must be hard.’ She looked down and pretended to pick a thread off her skirt. ‘Ruth, are you sure you’re talking about Aggie?’
‘What do you mean?’ Ruth could taste chalk.
‘I mean, are you maybe talking about how it makes you feel? You’ve got a great nanny by the sounds of it, and I can see how that might not be as fantastic as it sounds. Maybe you feel a bit redundant at home.’
Ruth was worried she might cry. ‘That’s just how I feel. But Christian thinks I’m being stupid and I probably am. It’s like I’m so selfish I want the nanny to be a bit crap so I can feel better about it. That’s mad, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. It’s like when I go away on holiday I never want you to do too good a job running Viva. I’d say it was pretty natural.’
Everything felt disjointed to Ruth, as though reality existed apart from her and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. ‘You’re right, it is about me, not Aggie. She’s amazing really. She’s got Betty sleeping and it’s like a miracle. But I don’t have time for anything any more. God knows what’s going to happen to Christian and me. We never speak and if we do it’s just organising shit. There doesn’t seem enough room for everything inside me.’
Sally put her hand on top of Ruth’s. ‘Do you need some time off ?’
‘No. Do you want me to take time off ?’ Her voice sounded panicked.
‘No, I want you to be happy. You’re a good friend, Ruth, and you seem a bit lost.’
‘I’m fine. I mean, I’ll be fine, I’m just being stupid.’ Ruth wasn’t sure why she was clinging so desperately to her job, but the idea of losing it was terrifying. Surely it would be too much of an erosion of herself to discard what had been her public face for so long. I’m a journalist, she would say to people she met. Yes, I work on Viva, I’m the deputy editor, and instantly she was more interesting. It was all wrong, but Ruth didn’t feel strong enough to put it right.
Sally stood up. ‘Okay, but the offer’s there. And if not, hey, it’ll make a great feature.’
After Sally was back in her office Ruth dialled Christian’s number and he answered immediately. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Sitting in a café in Hyde Park.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘I had a meeting and I walked back through the park and it looked lovely. It’s really quiet here, Ruth, I could sit here for hours.’
They sat in silence for a while as Ruth tried to make out what he meant, but she couldn’t place him just sitting, it seemed too still.
‘Are you okay?’ she tried this time.
‘Yeah, fine. You?’
‘Not really.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I don’t know. Sort of everything and nothing. You know.’
‘Can’t say I do. You’ll have to be a bit clearer, Ruth.’
‘Do you think Aggie’s okay?’
‘Yes, I think she’s great and the kids love her.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Ruth, it’s not about you or me. If we’re going to do this it’s better they have a nanny they love.’
Tears, snot and sadness mingled in her throat. ‘I know, I know, it’s just . . . I don’t know. Have we made the right decision?’
Christian sighed and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer or maybe get angry, but he was calm when he spoke. ‘I don’t know, Ruth, I really don’t know.’ And it was only after they’d said goodbye that Ruth realised he hadn’t even asked her what decision she was talking about.
What is the point at which you realise a marriage has broken? Now that Betty slept better and Ruth was less tired, thoughts other than plain survival were beginning to re-emerge inside her. Ruth often thought of weddings as tying an intricate series of knots around a couple, like one of the cat’s cradles she used to make at school. At first you are comfortable in the binds, but as time drags on and you both put on a bit of weight they start to chafe. And then someone wants to go in a different direction and they become not just uncomfortable but irritating. Except of course no one can find the scissors and so you both hack away on your side, unpicking, getting tangled up and maybe one day finally releasing yourself. Then as you reach the moment of release you are consumed by panic, wonder
ing how you’re going to stand up without all those ties, and so you wrap a few thin threads back around your body in a desperate attempt to keep upright. If Ruth imagined her and Christian in this web she saw very clearly that they only had one real knot left amidst all the broken string and shredded wool. The kids in the centre and a mess all around.
Ruth still hadn’t called anyone about the party when it came time to leave so she took the bus and squeezed her personal business into travelling time. She hated thinking she was becoming the sort of person who had a use for every second. Most people were on answerphone, which was always the best result when you made a call, but a couple of her friends picked up. As she spoke to these women who once had been an intricate part of her existence, she imagined what they were doing. She heard them running up streets to child minders or talking over shouting children and frying suppers. Ruth saw them as they stood in their days, she even saw their beginnings and ends, saw them pulling themselves from sleep in the morning, collapsing back into bed at night. They were all the same, she wasn’t alone. Legions of people existed as she did, which meant maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong; a thought almost as sweet as sherbet popping on her tongue. Good friendships made you realise that you weren’t going mad. They were like a massive vitamin injection straight into your arm, re-invigorating you and giving you the energy to keep going for another couple of months. She mustn’t let it slide like this again. Christian was right, she should get out more and stop saying she was so tired. One night out with her friends would probably be the equivalent of six months’ worth of therapy. The answers seemed momentarily simple; she needed to look around a bit more, to get back to herself, to remember what made her happy.
‘I’ve got a list, finally,’ said Ruth as she walked through the door. Betty ran at her, nearly knocking her over.
‘Let Mummy take off her coat,’ said Aggie. Hal was sitting on her lap and they were watching In the Night Garden.
Everything and Nothing Page 11
