by Hilary Boyd
‘I’m not trying to be clever. But darling, you can’t have fallen in love and married this man because he was selfless and altruistic.’
‘No. I’ve always known exactly what he’s like. That’s why I keep forgiving him, because I’ve no unrealistic expectations.’
Jeanie thought this sad. Why had she chosen such a man? He was hardly an echo of her father.
Chanty saw Jeanie’s look. ‘That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?’
Jeanie nodded.
‘Alex isn’t second best, Mum. I love him, but I understand him, that’s what I mean. He’s damaged. He had a terrible childhood. His father left when he was four; he never saw him again till he was sixteen, and then only for a cup of coffee in a transport cafe on the A3. His dad had moved to Guernsey and ran a successful taxi business, but he was so scared of his ex-wife he made Alex promise never to mention he’d seen him. Alex said he liked him, he wanted to keep in touch, but his dad never contacted him again and wouldn’t answer Alex’s calls.’ Chanty took a deep breath. ‘His mother was the monster – totally obsessive and controlling. Alex says she monitored his every breath, always touching and stroking him, catering to his every whim. But even as a small child she made him feel responsible for her, so if she was sad or cross it was his fault. He had to help her choose her clothes in the morning, and praise her figure and the way she looked. Creepy. She even pretended he had a heart condition so she could keep him at home all the time and stop him from playing sport or taking part in any physical activity.’
‘That explains a lot. No wonder he’s so wary of me, a mother figure. Why didn’t you tell me? I might have been more sympathetic.’
‘He didn’t tell me either, not till I got him to start therapy as a condition of him coming back after Ellie was born. The sad thing is he didn’t think it was particularly odd till then. I mean, he knew she was clingy and possessive – she loathes me, as you can imagine – but it was his reality. Some of the stories he’s been telling me recently beggar belief.’
For a second, Jeanie wondered if her son-in-law’s confessions did indeed beggar belief, but Chanty, as usual, was one step ahead of her.
‘No, Mum, he hasn’t made it up. I’ve talked to his aunt. She had him to stay when his mother was ill – he was fourteen by then – and realized what was going on. The doctor tested his heart and the fiction was uncovered, but it was too late by then: the damage was done.’
‘He still sees her, though, I remember you going over last Christmas.’
‘That’s it, Mum, that’s the only time he sees her all year: an hour on Christmas Eve. And he goes into a decline for a week before the visit and is horrible to me, really snappish and tense. You know she drinks now, so we go early. She does nothing but lay on the guilt trip, says she was the ‘best mother in the world’ – the whole visit’s a nightmare; she can’t even remember Ellie’s name. I think I told you, last year she revealed that his father was gay.’
Jeanie nodded, laughed. ‘I remember. I suppose you’ll never know if he was or not.’
‘Exactly. Alex didn’t believe her – she’d spent his whole childhood poisoning him against his father.’
‘And the therapy?’
Chanty shook her head. ‘He saw someone for about two sessions, but then refused to go any more. Said his work might suffer.’
‘That old chestnut. Although he may be right. I mean, an artist’s talent is part learned skill, part internal outpourings.’ She patted her daughter’s hand. ‘Why couldn’t you’ve married a brain surgeon, darling?’
‘You reckon they’re sane? Someone whose comfort zone is drilling holes in a person’s skull and fiddling about with the part of the body that makes us tick? Who dares to?’
‘OK, maybe not. What about a landscape gardener, then? Or a carpenter; there’s good evidence they’re reliable.’
The waiter stood smiling patiently with his carbon pad while they tried to control their laughter. Chanty ordered the chicken, Jeanie the salmon and lentils.
‘Seriously . . . you probably need professional help to deal with this.’
‘You mean marriage guidance?’ She shook her head. ‘Not a chance.’
‘No, I mean getting him to go to therapy again. Because you’re right, what he did was very serious, and he did it on a whim. He needs help.’
She saw the tiredness in her daughter’s eyes.
‘You’re right,’ Chanty sighed. ‘I keep hoping I can make him better, that if I love him enough he’ll be OK.’ She looked at her mother for confirmation.
‘Loving him is fine, but it won’t change him, Chanty, it never does. He has to do that himself.’
‘Do you think he can?’
Jeanie shrugged. ‘He’s got a lot to lose if he doesn’t.’
It wasn’t till the mint tea was on the table that Chanty put her hands flat on the white linen cloth in a gesture, so like her father, that instantly implied gravity. Both of them were a little drunk by now, and Jeanie felt a devil-may-care insouciance for what her daughter was about to say.
‘This has been great, Mum. Thanks so much for listening to me bang on . . . There’s just one more thing.’
Jeanie held her daughter’s gaze. ‘Yes?’
‘Tell me you’re not having an affair with Ray.’
Jeanie knew in retrospect that she could have lied to Chanty. After all, what constituted an affair? She hadn’t slept with Ray. Her daughter was so preoccupied with her own life that she didn’t really want to hear the answer to her almost throwaway question. She was hardly listening when she posed it. Yet Jeanie couldn’t stop herself from blushing. The awareness of her feelings for Ray was so strong, so near the surface, that it was almost as if he were standing beside her. For a fatal moment she hesitated, and as she did so she watched Chanty’s face turn from distracted to shocked. And she knew it was too late to lie.
‘Mum?’ The word was like a pistol shot.
Jeanie genuinely didn’t know how to answer.
‘My God, you are! You’re having an affair.’
‘I’m not having an affair,’ she eventually managed, but she knew it was unconvincing.
‘I don’t believe you.’ Her daughter’s face seemed fixed in that first moment of shock.
‘I . . . won’t say I don’t have feelings for him . . .’ How difficult this was, despite having run through the scenario a million times.
‘Mum . . . it’s very simple. Are you having a sexual relationship with Ray?’ She was bent forward across the table now, her blue eyes wide and penetrating.
‘I haven’t had sex with him, if that’s what you mean.’
This seemed to take the wind out of Chanty’s sails for a moment.
‘Well . . . thank God for that.’ Then she thought about it. ‘That’s not what I asked.’
Jeanie knew that, but she wasn’t prepared, even in the cause of honesty, to detail the precious intimacy that had evolved between her and Ray.
‘No, well . . . it’s not just about sex . . . I can’t explain, but it’s not.’ She had never imagined this would be so difficult. How could she explain that her pleasure in Ray’s company, the laughter they shared, was as significant as his kisses?
‘You’re not going to leave Dad? Mum, you can’t.’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she said, which was the truth.
Chanty just stared at her, and Jeanie thought what a beautiful woman she was, with her high cheekbones and fine eyes caught in the candlelight. So strong, so honest, but surrounded by the most dismal, dissembling crew. Even Honest George seemed to be hiding something nasty in the woodshed.
Her daughter shook her head in despair. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘Exactly that. Chanty, it’s difficult. I have a very powerful connection with Ray. We . . .’
‘Mum, stop right there, I don’t want to hear any more. You must end it right now.’ She waited for her mother to agree, and when Jeanie didn’t, she ploughed on desperately,
‘Mum . . . listen to me. Dad doesn’t deserve this. He’s been the best husband anyone could ever have. You love each other, I know you do. Think about it. You don’t even know this man.’
‘I do know him.’
‘How can you? What’s it been, a couple of months at most? And you say you haven’t even had sex? How important can it be? You’ve been married to Dad for a lifetime.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘What is the point, then? God, I can’t believe this. You’re sixty, Mum, not sixteen. You can’t seriously be thinking of leaving a brilliant marriage for – what? A bit of . . . call it what you will . . . but it must be sex.’ She spat the last word out as if it had been stuck in her throat. ‘It’s disgusting.’
Jeanie could see her shaking with indignation. The garden had emptied out; there was only one table left, on the far side – four men in their fifties, probably Italian, red faces glowing in the candlelight, their raucous laughter hiding the heated exchange from their own table.
‘Does Dad know?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And that’s OK, is it?’
‘No, of course it’s not OK.’ She was tired, and felt herself sinking into a strange apathy. It wasn’t fair to expect Chanty to understand or accept her position. And she wasn’t going to betray George further, in the cause of mitigation, by telling her daughter the truth.
‘Mum . . .’ Chanty was taking a different tack, and Jeanie could almost see the effort it took to replace anger with reason. ‘I’m not being funny, but you are old. You look great, of course, but the fact is that you’re vulnerable at your age. This man is only after one thing. If you go that route and give up Dad and your marriage, where will you be in two years’ time? Dumped, old and alone. It’s horrible.’
‘Horrible indeed.’ She felt like pointing out that if Ray were merely after a bonk there were hundreds, probably thousands, of women half her age he could choose from.
‘Don’t be facetious, Mum.’
Jeanie took the rebuke seriously, ‘Sorry, darling. I’m sorry for upsetting you, I really am. Believe me, I hate it. But I never meant for this to happen.’
Chanty’s snort was cynical.
‘I know, the whole thing’s a cliché, I really am sorry you had to find out.’
‘Sorry I had to find out, but not sorry it’s happened?’
‘Yes,’ she answered firmly.
‘Yes? Mum! How can you be so callous? This isn’t like you. You’ve always been honest, so full of integrity. You know how much I admire you, but . . .’ She drew a long, sad breath. ‘Do you have any idea what this’ll do to Dad? No wonder you didn’t want to move to the country.’
‘This has nothing to do with the move. Dad had already decided.’
When Jeanie fell silent, her daughter began again. ‘You have to end this now, Mum. You do know that, don’t you? End it now and Dad never has to know. I won’t tell a living soul, not even Alex . . . especially not Alex.’
Her daughter’s tone seemed to imply she was offering her a get-out-of-jail-free card.
‘I can’t,’ she said simply.
Chanty turned away, her jaw clenched tight. Her anger was understandable; she and her father were so close, and Jeanie knew that if the shoe were on the other foot and it was George being unfaithful, Chanty would treat him with the same anger and disgust. ‘So what are you going to do?’
Jeanie hung her head, feeling like a recalcitrant school-girl.
‘Chanty, I’ve said. I don’t know. Of course I know what I ought to do, but it’s not that simple.’
‘It’s perfectly simple. Let me spell it out, Mum. You dump Ray and go to the country with Dad. End of.’ She angrily gathered her bag up from the floor, signalling the end of their discussion. ‘And what’s more, if I find out you haven’t, I’ll tell Dad myself. However much it’ll hurt him, I can’t stand by and watch you deceive him. How would I face him, knowing the truth?’
Jeanie knew she meant it, and she understood where Chanty was coming from. Most children would do anything in their power to keep their parents together, but in Chanty’s case she knew it wasn’t purely for selfish reasons, to maintain the status quo. She was convinced her mother was being taken for a ride.
‘I’ll tell him,’ Jeanie stated quietly, and immediately saw the concern in her daughter’s eyes.
‘You don’t need to tell Dad if you’re going to finish it, Mum. Once and for all. Never see that man or talk to him again. If you do that, then it’d be cruel and pointless to tell him.’ Chanty stared hard at her mother, waiting for the assurance that Jeanie couldn’t give her. How could she look her daughter in the eye and say she would never speak to Ray again?
‘Don’t bully me, darling. It doesn’t help.’
And her daughter had to be satisfied with that.
16
Jeanie sat on a bench in the centre of Pond Square, only a hundred yards from her own front door. The square was quiet and dark; it was half past midnight, the restaurants that edged the square on one side all closed or closing, bin bags on the pavement, menu boards taken inside. Couples making their way home talked in low voices; a man on a mobile paced back and forth by the bus stop on the corner with the main road, clearly having a difference of opinion with the person on the other end. It was chilly now, but the thunder had held off. Jeanie’s heart seemed to have grown to twice its normal size in her chest, pounding like a tomtom as she tried to catch her breath.
‘It’s me,’ she whispered into her phone.
‘Where are you?’
‘In Pond Square, on a bench.’
‘Come down.’
‘I can’t. Ray . . . I’ve just had supper with Chanty. She knows. She’s threatened to tell George if I don’t break it off with you and never speak to you again.’
She heard the soft intake of breath.
‘OK . . . so what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t have much choice. I’m going to tell him. It has to come from me.’
‘Tell him what, Jeanie?’
‘Tell him I’ve fallen in love with you.’ She no longer cared about labels, no longer cared whether her feelings were reciprocated or how Ray would react; nothing seemed to matter in that moment but telling the truth, letting Ray know the truth, her truth, whatever the outcome. And telling it was like a cleansing breath. Her heart began to slow as she waited for him to speak.
‘Jeanie . . . are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Falling in love with you? No, probably not, but it’s what’s happened.’ She heard the reckless note in her laughter.
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Ray chuckled. ‘I mean telling your husband.’
She wanted him to comment on her words. Telling him had quickly become not enough.
‘What choice do I have?’ she asked.
‘Would Chanty really do that?’
‘Oh yes, you don’t know my daughter. She’s pathologically honest.’
‘How do you think he’ll take it?’
‘Not well . . . obviously.’
Despite her bravado with Chanty, she couldn’t actually imagine telling George.
‘Think this through, Jeanie. What do you want the result to be?’
She brought herself back from thoughts of her husband. ‘The result?’
‘Yes, what do you see happening afterwards? You have to think of that.’
There was no ‘afterwards’.
‘I’m sure you could persuade your daughter not to tell.’
‘And then what?’
There was a sigh on the other end of the line.
‘I can’t tell you what to do, Jeanie.’
‘I wish someone could.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ she heard him murmur, ‘I’m in love with you too.’
‘Can you open your mouth a little wider?’
Jeanie stretched her jaw and felt a pain run up the side of her face.
‘That’s as wide as it’ll go,’ she said as dist
inctly as she could with a cotton wad wedged inside her cheek and her jaw stretched to its limit. She smelt the familiar whiff of local.
‘A little sting now, hold still,’ she heard the dentist mutter before driving the needle into the back of her mouth. It hurt, but she didn’t care. It was twelve hours since Ray had said he was in love with her, and the dentist could have pulled out every tooth in her head, including her implant, and she would barely have whimpered.
She hadn’t told George. She was savouring Ray’s words, holding them close, separate for the time being from the furore they would create when made public. She had given herself today.
‘Bite down . . . OK . . . and again.’ The dentist chomped his own teeth in example. ‘How does that feel?’
‘Fine. I can’t feel a thing.’
The dentist’s look was patient.
‘But when you bite, it doesn’t feel high over that tooth? Have another go.’
Jeanie bit down.
‘It’s fine.’
‘Be careful not to drink anything hot for the next couple of hours. . . in case you burn yourself,’ he added when he saw Jeanie’s baffled stare.
She made her way from the dentist’s surgery to her shop. Jola greeted her with sympathy. ‘I have teeth done in Poland. Is very much pain. I be OK if you want go home.’
Home was the last place she wanted to be. George would be in his room, fiddling with his clocks, still innocent of the Scud aimed directly at his heart. Every time she saw him now, every time he smiled at her or called her ‘old girl’, her own heart would contract with shame.
‘It’s OK. It was only a filling,’ Jeanie assured her, patting her finger gingerly over her cheek to see if there was any improvement in the numbness.
‘That man come in, he ask for you.’
‘What man?’
‘He come in before with little boy, beautiful boy. You not here.’
‘Dylan . . .’ Jeanie said absently.
‘I say you back soon, but he not wait. He say to ring him.’
‘I can’t speak properly.’
‘Come anyway,’ Ray said.
