‘What’s happened?’ asked Ruth, her mind already taking her to far darker places than was probably necessary.
Kirsty answered, ‘Paul Rogers died last night.’
‘Paul Rogers the photographer?’
‘Yes, he was killed in a car crash.’
‘Oh my God, Bev, I’m so sorry.’
Bev didn’t hear and Ruth reckoned she had enough consoling shoulders so she went into Sally’s office. Sally was tapping at her computer. ‘Shit, I just heard about Paul.’
‘I know. Crappy, isn’t it? But to be honest, Bev was the only one who knew him well. If it wasn’t politically incorrect, I’d tell them all to get back to their desks.’
Ruth felt light-headed. ‘Didn’t he have kids?’
‘Yeah, two.’ Sally stopped writing and looked up. ‘Sorry, I know I’m being a hard-nosed bitch, but I can’t stand the way when anyone dies they immediately become a saint. I never saw Paul when he wasn’t off his face. I’m surprised he didn’t drive his car into a tree years ago.’
The ground shifted from beneath Ruth’s feet, as if a black hole had opened up. ‘I better get on,’ she said, making her way to her desk.
Ruth had probably met Paul Rogers twice, maybe three times, but he was often in the offi ce, bounding around, calling everyone ‘love’, a camera round his neck, rolls of film in his hand, T-shirts with stupid slogans on his chest. And yes, he probably was a bit of prick and mostly coked up, but still he had seemed very vital to Ruth. She couldn’t believe that solid presence of a man had simply gone, here one second and not the next. She imagined his body, all white and lifeless, lying on a mortuary table, with everything that made him Paul evaporated. One of her friends had been with her father when he died and she’d told Ruth that it had made her believe in the spirit. It was different from watching someone fall asleep, she had said; he took his last breath and then he reared up, as if something was pulling him forward, before he flopped back down and shrank into himself. There was no mistaking that something had gone, something had left his body.
Death, Ruth realised sitting at her desk, was the great equaliser. No matter how successful or clever or pretty or popular we were, we are all reduced to the same flesh and bones in the end. And when you understood that, then what was the point in trying to do or be anything? It made Ruth feel empty, hollow almost, as if someone was slowly deflating a balloon in her stomach so that all she could taste was stale air. Thoughts danced about her head like children playing a game of hide and seek. Stop, she wanted to shout, slow down so I can catch you and get to the bottom of what you are about.
The only thing you can be sure of in death is the one thing no one is sure of in life. Once you are dead, people realise how much they loved you. Maybe in the moment of death you realise who you love. Ruth began to wonder if she was wasting her time and in that thought she had to hold onto the edge of her desk to stop herself from toppling off her chair. What was happening to her and why did she feel like she was falling?
She tried to get a grip on herself but her age kept floating into her head. In eighteen months she would be forty; she was now closer to fifty than twenty, her life probably nearly half lived, if she was lucky. She might go beyond eighty, but from watching her grandmothers she knew these years would disintegrate into nothing more than constant rounds of frustration and pain and confusion and anger and tiny, meaningless tasks.
There had to be time for everything and everyone in all the long years that most of us lived. And yet, it appeared that there wasn’t. Betty and Hal refused to leave Ruth’s thoughts. She imagined them at home, saw them as clearly as if she was there with them, hearing their chatter, feeling their little hands in hers. She longed for them as desperately as if she hadn’t seen them for a year, a devastating emptiness spreading through her body and a foul taste of nothing refusing to leave the back of her throat.
Kirsty came snivelling back to her desk. ‘I can’t believe that, can you?’
‘I know, it’s horrid.’
‘And his wife’s so nice and his girls are only young.’ She sniffed again, then passed Ruth a wedge of papers. ‘The proof ’s in. Sally wants it signed off by the end of the day.’
Ruth tried to bring herself back by opening the mockup of the magazine. She flicked desultorily through its manicured pages. Even in black and white you could see how many lies all the photographs told. It depressed her unduly today. It made her wonder if they were peddling pornography. Because what was the point of all these glossy, inflated, unsubstantiated and ultimately false images? Surely they were only there to excite an uncontrollable desire in the reader, to render them helpless, to get them salivating, to look at what they had with loathing, to make them want to go out and possess things beyond their reach. To make them buy the magazine again next month.
A photo of Margo and her children stopped her. They’d been given the title page of the story, called unimaginatively, The Good Life. A sickening strapline ran across their feet, framing the picture: If you’ve ever thought about giving it all up, read this with caution or you could find yourself resigning, putting your house on the market and looking into organic farming. She hated the jaunty tone of every single piece they put into the magazine. There’s enough shit out there, Sally had said to them all in an editorial meeting a few months ago, it is now officially our job to cheer everybody up.
Margo Lansford is a woman with a plan, except it’s not a plan that most of us would ever dare put into action. But Margo’s not like the rest of us. She’s got the courage of her convictions and the willpower to see it through. Ruth wanted to put a red line through the word willpower and replace it with money. Margo was an investment banker earning a six-fi gure salary, with two young children at home, when she and her husband decided to jack it all in for a life of bucolic idealism in rural Essex. Jane, the sub editor, had crossed out bucolic idealism and written blissful soap-making. She’d then written in brackets, ‘Let’s not confuse the readers with too many long words’. Ruth’s red pen twitched in her hands but she didn’t write anything onto the page; she wasn’t sure what the real story was or what words she might use to convey it. ‘We went on holiday to Greece,’ Margo said as she poured more Chamomile tea in her beautifully shabby chic kitchen, ‘and one night I looked at Charlie and said, “What on earth are we doing. We never see the kids, we have a house we’re never in and we have to schedule time for a conversation. Let’s just stop.” And he looked at me and said, “Yes, what a wonderful idea.” We haven’t looked back since.’
Kirsty reappeared. ‘Sorry, I forgot to give you this note. It was handed into reception this morning.’
Ruth took the fragile envelope and saw her name written in a rounded girlish hand. Something caught in her throat and she allowed herself a minute before opening it.
Ruth, we need to talk. None of us can go on like this. I am in the café opposite your offi ce and I’ll wait here all day. Sarah.
The tipping and the flipping gathered pace, a bird fluttered helplessly in her throat, her eyes stung, her palms sweated.
Ruth had never even seen Sarah and something close to excitement accompanied her frenzied race down the stairs. This was it then, this was the moment when she surrendered her life as she knew it and watched someone else take control. Because of course Christian must be seeing her again, maybe he’d never stopped. Whatever it was, she would be unable to forgive him a second time.
Ruth saw the person who could only be Sarah from the door of the café. She was nothing more than Ruth had expected, which depressed her in some unfathomable way. She walked towards her with the advantage of being the one approaching, so she could stand over the girl for a few minutes, which was a small victory but still surely worth something.
When she had found out about the affair the first time, Ruth had fantasised about meeting Sarah. All the things she would tell her about sisterhood and respect and karma and how Sarah’s life was never going to be fulfilling and happy until she stopped taking what
didn’t belong to her. But sitting opposite her now, all those thoughts slunk away like a hissing cat. She was nothing more than a girl, thin and white and dressed in black, no make-up, bags under her eyes, scruffy hair. She didn’t look like a winner, or maybe it was that what she had won had been too hard fought for and Ruth felt an unexpected jab of sympathy for her.
‘I’m glad you came,’ said Sarah. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘I was hardly going to ignore that note, was I?’ Now she was still, Ruth realised her whole body was shaking.
‘I’m sorry it’s had to come to this. I was hoping Christian would have the guts to tell you, but I don’t think he ever will.’
Don’t use his name. Don’t fucking use his name. And in the thought Ruth wondered if she could still not want to lose him. Her speech was slow, she had to dredge for every word. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to fill me in. I don’t know what we’re talking about here.’
Ruth noticed that Sarah was clutching the table so hard her knuckles were white. ‘I’m not prepared to go on waiting any longer. I told him that, I even said I was going to tell you, but it’s made no difference.’
‘Yes, but tell me what? Are you having an affair again? Christ, did it ever stop?’
‘Yes, it stopped. When he wouldn’t leave you because you were about to have your son, it stopped. I went to Australia and had a pretty shit time and then I came back to England and I applied for a job at Christian’s work – by coincidence, I didn’t know he worked there – and we met again and, well . . . ’
There were so many questions Ruth wanted to ask they had jumbled her brain so she could barely remember her own name. ‘When was this?’
‘A couple of months ago.’
‘And you’ve been seeing each other since then?’
Sarah nodded. ‘I’m sorry, I really am.’
Ruth was vaguely aware that Sarah was playing a game and she felt like a mother, like the person she was, not prepared to put up with the shit. ‘No, don’t apologise to me. I think I might hit you if you do that. I just need the facts then I’ll move out the way and let you and Christian get on with it.’
What was she, twenty-three or -four? What did he see in her? The whole thing was preposterous. Betty and Hal were right there as Ruth tried to imagine the effects of her new life.
‘What exactly has he promised you, Sarah?’
‘He wants to leave but he feels like he can’t. He says he loves the kids and he still loves you, but not in that way. He’s told me you always row and you don’t have sex.’
‘We had sex at the weekend.’ Even as she said the words Ruth knew you should never have conversations like this. ‘In fact, we have sex all the time. But then, you can’t ever trust a liar, can you, Sarah?’
The girl looked down and Ruth realised she was trying to be graceful and demure. ‘I don’t care what you say. You’re bound to want to fight for him.’
Ruth laughed. ‘Are you joking? You honestly think I’d want anything to do with him after this? You’re welcome to him.’
Sarah smiled, like a child, like Betty would if you told her she could have two ice creams in a row. ‘Am I?’ Her voice was chirpy. ‘Are you sure? You won’t stand in our way?’
Ruth was never going to let Betty meet this monstrosity of womanhood. She felt that she had to say something; a desire to protect Christian washed through her. ‘We’re not talking about a dress, you know, we are talking about a person.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Sarah leant forward, Ruth wondered if she was going to take her hand. ‘It’s just that I’ve waited so long to hear those words, I can’t believe it’s happening. I can’t believe it’s been this easy and you’ve been so reasonable and I could have done this all along and everything would have been sorted and we could try again.’
‘Try again?’
‘For a baby. You know we lost the last one.’
Bile and sickness flushed through Ruth’s guts. ‘Oh my God, are you serious?’
‘Of course.’ Sarah’s hands were now folded protectively across her tummy.
‘Are you pregnant?’
‘Not yet, but I’m hoping it’ll happen soon.’
It was as if someone had told her she was living with a murderer. Her husband was going to discard one family and start another just like that. Like he’d painted a room the wrong colour and thought, Fuck it, I’ll buy another pot of paint and spend another day painting it. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, standing up.
Sarah looked up at her, all doe-eyed again. It seemed far-fetched to think that look had entranced her husband. ‘I’m sorry I had to do this, Ruth, but you know Christian, he’s just so useless.’
And that was too much. Ruth leant over the table so that Sarah winced. ‘Actually, I do not know Christian. Which is quite scary because I’ve lived with him for the past ten years and I’ve only just discovered that I have no idea who he is. And I cannot imagine why you or anyone else would want to be with someone as totally vile as he is. And as for being reasonable, you can tell Christian I intend to make his life a fucking misery.’
Ruth left. The day was much, much too bright and too many people were ambling along as though they had nothing particular to do and it was going to be another of those enjoyable days which you roll through so they become nothing more than a fuzzy impression of what your life is like, rather than a proper memory. Ruth felt insulted as well as sure that she was going to faint and she didn’t want to do it in public. She hailed a taxi and gave her home address. On the journey she had the presence of mind to ring the offi ce and say she had been suddenly struck down by a terrible headache. The woman who made the call was quite impressive, a calm ordered voice which so belied the crashing ocean in her mind.
She hadn’t let herself cry in the taxi so by the time she was putting her key into her front door her eyes were aching with the effort of holding back the tears. Betty would still be at school and she hoped Hal wouldn’t see her. There was laughter coming from the kitchen but the door was nearly closed, so Ruth couldn’t see what was going on. She contemplated going straight upstairs but knew that was too weird so instead she called out to Aggie. The laughing stopped instantly.
Aggie’s red face appeared round the door. ‘Ruth, are you okay?’
‘No. I’ve got a monstrous headache. I just wanted to let you know that I’m at home, but I’m going to bed. Would you mind not telling Betty I’m here and not letting Hal up? Sorry, but I’ve got to sleep.’
‘Of course, that’s fine. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, no.’ Ruth had her hand on the banisters, she was maybe only a few words away from her bed. ‘I’ve got stuff upstairs. I need to sleep. Oh, and if Christian calls, tell him I can’t talk, I’m asleep.’
‘Okay, well, shout if you want anything.’ And then she pulled her head back behind the door and Ruth wondered why she hadn’t properly come out or why Hal hadn’t tried to see her.
Ruth’s bedroom looked different already and not only because it was so neat and clean when she’d left it such a pit that morning; she was used to that. Aggie had asked Ruth a few weeks before if it would be all right if she made their bed and cleaned their room. Why would I mind? Ruth had asked, but also why would you want to do it? Aggie had laughed, I hate walking through the house and knowing there’s a mess anywhere, she’d said. I know it’s odd, but I’ve always been the same, I used to tidy up after my mum when I was little. So now Ruth lived in almost hotel cleanliness and perfection, which was of course wonderful, yet at the same time somehow . . . what was the word, strange, disconcerting, wrong? It made her feel beholden to Aggie, made her feel that the girl knew too much about her, that she’d got too far in.
She dropped her bag where she stood and kicked off her shoes, allowing herself to fall onto her bed. She wept with an abandon that would have put Betty to shame. I just need to get this out, she thought to herself, and then I can think about all of this properly. Except the tears didn’t stop and the self-
indulgence felt right this time. Every thought was a new and painful experience which pushed salty water out of her surely by now swollen tear ducts. She felt miserable that Christian could have thought so little of her that he could allow this to happen again, that he didn’t even feel the need to tell her of his plans. She hated the thought that her children were going to grow up only seeing their father every other weekend, that they would have to watch him living with brothers and sisters to whom they felt disconnected, that they would always feel second best and that this would in some way influence their future relationships. She didn’t want to share them out like a box of chocolates at Christmas and birthdays and in the summer holidays. She never wanted to hear them tell her about the food Sarah cooked or what colour their bedrooms were in her husband and his new wife’s home. She mourned the loss of love in her life. She couldn’t face the thought of pulling herself together and re-packaging herself on a dating website and then all the plucking and waxing and low lighting that it would take to get her naked in front of anyone ever again. Or getting to know another man’s body so that it felt warm and comfortable. She didn’t want to know about someone else’s past, she didn’t want to meet any more parents or sets of friends, listen to more moans about jobs that weren’t perfect.
Her phone rang from her bag and she raced for it. Christian’s name flashed on the screen and she itched to answer, but she wasn’t ready yet. If she spoke to him now she would want to hurl abuse when she needed to get a handle on why he had done this. She would probably only have the right to speak to him like he was her husband a few more times and she needed to find out as much as possible in those conversations. She did not want to be left with those nagging, gnawing questions which would eat away at her, giving her an ulcer or something more serious. Because, once he had left, that would be it, they would have to resort to clipped pleasantries as he stood in the hall waiting for the kids to be ready. She would watch his body through his clothes, knowing how it felt, yet with no right to remember any more. She dialled the number for his message.
Everything and Nothing Page 13
