Other People's Husbands

by Judy Astley

  ‘What, just you and me? Yes, that would be good. I’m not working today; my only plan is to go out to see a film with Will tonight. Any ideas where to go?’

  Conrad thought for a moment. ‘Let’s go to the London Aquarium,’ he said. ‘We can show him the fish. He’ll like that, all calm and swimmy and wafting weed and so on. It’ll lull him into a nice sleepy mood and then maybe poor Cass will get a good night’s sleep for once. Fancy it?’

  ‘Definitely, as long as I’m back by six so I’ve got time to get ready for seeing Will.’

  ‘Ah – you see, one of your other men. They’re like wasps round jam, with you. Like I said, you’ll be OK after I’ve gone! And that Stuart bloke from the college will keep you in allotment produce and logs for the fire. You’ll always be warm and fed at the very least!’

  Sara laughed. ‘I can’t live entirely off Stuart’s obscene-shaped carrots and I don’t think Will’s going to be in hot pursuit, somehow, unless he’s got a vacancy for a full-time fag hag. Listen, I’ll get Charlie’s kit together. It’ll take a while though. From what I remember, babies don’t travel light.’

  The weekly box of Stuart’s vegetables was in the usual place just outside the front door. Sara, having once tripped over it, now knew always to look when she opened the door on Tuesday mornings. Why Stuart didn’t either give them to her at the college or knock on the door when he brought them, she’d never know. In the coldest months of winter when there wasn’t a lot growing, he would turn up now and again in a truck before daylight on Sunday mornings and quietly, stealthily, top up the log pile by the front wall, stacking them with precise expertise. Conrad teased Sara about her admirer, said she was cruel for taking his offerings and giving him no reward.

  ‘It’s only the surplus crops,’ Sara told him. ‘Sometimes it just adds up to a wormy cabbage and a dozen apples. I think it’s sweet!’

  ‘He lerves you!’ Cassandra and Pandora crowed when the vegetable deliveries had first begun. ‘Mum’s got a pash!’

  ‘You should give him a flash of your knickers,’ Conrad had once suggested. ‘That’ll see him off. He’s a fantasy rather than reality sort, you can always tell.’

  Sara didn’t want to see him off and she knew all about his fantasies. They didn’t involve her knickers – more the fast removal of same so he could wallop her bum with whatever implement of choice he’d dreamed up as suitable for that day. Was this something he couldn’t get at home? Or something he’d got at home so much that his wife had decided enough was enough, she’d be quite glad not to have to take painkillers before she dared to sit down, thank you, and had called a halt. Sara liked Stuart and his slightly pervy devotion. He was several years younger than Conrad, yet shuffled round like somebody seriously ancient. He wore a random job lot of corduroy in all weathers, muddy-coloured and shiny, and he trailed pieces of grubby string from his pocket like an elderly Just William. His hands were ingrained with a mixture of earth from the allotment and car oil from years of endlessly teaching how to change a cylinder-head gasket to women who still believed that Car Maintenance classes were a pretty good bet for meeting a dream man.

  Cass and Pandora called him Scary Stuart and laughed about his attachment to their mother, but how much harm could it do that he liked to supply her with boxes of his allotment-grown vegetables and have her company for a quick drink during the odd lunchtime while he told her about his fantasy plans? He wouldn’t take any payment for his crops, which, she said, was ridiculous, as a similar delivery from any of the many organic companies would have cost a bomb. A year ago, when he’d started this but wouldn’t take any cash, she’d offered him a signed print of Conrad’s. He’d refused and said apologetically, ‘Actually, I’m not much of a picture man,’ which had, Conrad glee-fully decided, been the clincher in working out whether it was Conrad or Sara he was keen on. Perhaps Mrs Scary Stuart gave him a hard time. Maybe she preferred her vegetables pre-scrubbed, pre-packaged and microwave-ready.

  Sara carried the box into the house and had a look through the contents. Purple sprouting broccoli, carrots, early-season potatoes, a bag of rocket, a posy of violets. She quickly arranged the flowers in a small jug and put it on the kitchen worktop. When the glazier had been, and after she got back later that afternoon, she’d put the jug on the ledge where much of the broken glass had landed when she’d thrown the mustard jar. That should keep the glass safe from further damage. After all, it would be deeply dis-respectful and heartless to throw heavy missiles in the direction of an offering from an admirer.

  Cassandra drove more slowly than usual, feeling reluctant to get to the college and possibly find that Paul was leaning on the door of the lecture hall, looking for an instant explanation of what, exactly, she thought she was playing at. In a lay-by, switching her phone on for the first time since leaving the flat the afternoon before, she found – as she’d expected – that her inbox was completely filled with increasingly grumpy messages from Paul. She could track his thought processes through the tone of his words as they gradually changed with his realization that she wasn’t merely out, she had actually gone. She’d done the unthinkable and abandoned him. Girls didn’t do that to Paul Millington. He was one of those prize boys, the ultimate trophy date. When she’d first met him and he’d got her to admit she liked him, he’d joked, ‘And hey, what’s not to like? I’m rich, pretty and the shag from heaven.’ Except, of course, he hadn’t been joking.

  ‘Where u babe – got food’ was the first missed text, timed just after eight the previous night. No prizes for guessing what he’d been doing before that. The only debatable point was which bar he’d been doing it in. Union bar or the Lion? Possibly both – that was the trouble with being a rich student – his drinking wasn’t curtailed by his bank balance. She pictured him post-pub in the flat, doing the one bit of multitasking he was well practised at: unfastening the pizza box (or a greasy, cooling bag from the Chinese takeout) while opening the fridge with his foot in pursuit of a can of Stella, and all the while somehow flipping through the TV channels in search of any kind of sport that involved at least twenty men and a lot of muddy running.

  ‘Cass – fuk goin on?’ was the final message, timed at midnight. She could picture that process easily enough, too. After he’d come in, pleased with himself for bringing home the twenty-first-century equivalent of a felled ox, he’d have given it five minutes then eaten his way through very nearly the lot, leaving a token pancake roll or a third of an American Hot (extra cheese – which she hated). All the packaging would be half falling out of the overflowing rubbish bin. Comfortably full of e-numbers and/or MSG he would have been enjoying having the sofa to himself, with sole custody of the TV, and would not have given Cass and his son any more thought till he fancied going to bed and couldn’t help noticing that the bedroom looked strangely depleted without Cass’s clothes and the baby’s possessions.

  Whether or not he noticed (or minded) about Cass and Charlie’s absence, Paul would have immediately seen that the mobile over the cot had vanished. Intricately painted ponies dangled from coloured ribbons plaited with tiny crystals which caught the light and sent sparkles dancing across the walls. Conrad had made it for Charlie. She’d caught Paul having a good close look for that essential Conrad Blythe-Hamilton signature. It was there and he’d laughingly suggested they should put it on eBay and use the cash to pay the rent for the rest of the year, and possibly the one after that as well. Cass had given him the benefit of a big heap of doubt and asked what kind of father would steal his baby’s toys. So then he’d gone all mock-serious and said, ‘No, sorry, you’re right. Terrible idea. If we keep it till after your old man snuffs it it’ll be worth stacks more!’ She hadn’t been sure if he’d been serious. Maybe, maybe not. More benefit of doubt had been given, though in a very thin, slightly translucent layer this time.

  Miranda was waiting for Cass outside the bus station, her high-spiked pink hair seeing off a challenge from a strong breeze.

  ‘Cass! Thanks for thi
s – I just got here. Feeling a bit fragile today and soo didn’t fancy the trek up the hill!’ Miranda flopped into the Mini, bringing with her a scent of several clashing hair products. She propped her feet up on the dash-board, then slipped off a shoe and picked at shards of blue varnish on a toenail, dropping them on the floor.

  Cass laughed at her. ‘Good thing I’m not one of those freaks with car pride, Randa.’

  ‘Sorry! Now Cass, what’s this about you and Paul?’ Cass fumbled with the gearstick, almost stalling. ‘What? What have you heard?’

  ‘Only what everyone’s heard. That you walked out on him, took Charlie and all your stuff and vanished in the night! What’s the story? He’s been texting everyone, trying to find you!’

  ‘Didn’t do the obvious though, didn’t call my folks, did he? Where else would I go? He’s just being a drama queen, probably hoping some girl will come to the flat and comfort him. I bet there were offers, starting with that skinny minger who hangs out with the skateboarders.’

  Cass slammed the brakes on sharply, almost driving into the back of a Range Rover at traffic lights she hadn’t even noticed. The Range Rover had a Baby on Board triangle in the rear window and she could see the backs of some small heads, probably on their way to school. Would that be her one day, all settled and comfortable with nothing more to worry about than whether Charlie should take up ballet or judo or join Beavers, or whatever it was small boys did these days? She hadn’t been a joiner herself, but she’d loved ballet and enjoyed having a flexible, rhythmic body. If Charlie took it up, would he be the only boy in the class? Possibly, but she didn’t want him to have gender issues about what kids could do. Paul would want him to do sport, play rugby like he did, but the thought of Charlie’s velvety little head being thumped by muscle-bound thugs was too terrible to contemplate.

  ‘So will you get back together? I mean, it’s not, like, it’s not just you two any more, is it?’ Miranda was looking at Cass nervously, as if, Cass thought, being a mother made her something to be treated warily. She was probably right. She felt she was a fearsome, bubbling mix of hormones and protective savagery.

  ‘Dunno. Only if a lot changes.’ Cass shrugged. The Range Rover moved off slowly and she followed, cursing school-run traffic at the same time as realizing that in a few increasingly short years she might be part of it. How grown-up that would be. How alien. ‘If we don’t, though, we’ll have to stay friendly because of Charlie. I don’t want to spend his childhood apologizing for my choice when it came to his parentage.’

  Miranda put her shoe back on and started biting hungrily at the varnish on her thumb.

  ‘Randa, did you have breakfast?’

  ‘What? Like more than some coffee? How would there be time? Does anyone?’

  ‘Yes! Otherwise you’ll end up fat. Your body will think you’re starving it and learn to cling to every last calorie. And you’re, like, eating your own skin?’

  ‘You know what, Cass?’ Miranda laughed. ‘You sound like my mum! You’ve turned into Every-Mother! Oh God, I’m sorry!’ She looked stricken suddenly. ‘I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t mean you sound old or anything!’

  ‘I feel old, sometimes. Or maybe it’s tired. I’ve turned into that warning about contraception that all careless girls need, haven’t I? The one who looks haggard and knackered and has baby sick over all her clothes. Who’d want to be that girl? I should go into sink schools and give a lecture. “Look at me, everyone. Do you want to end up like this?” ‘

  ‘Oh Cass, you look great, no worries, truly. And you know, Paul really does love you. He’s just a bit . . . you know, like boy stuff. They take a while to adapt. He’ll be OK. And he adores Charlie. He never didn’t want this baby. Everyone knew that.’

  They were nearing the college now. Cass slowed the car so much that the gears complained. She was tempted to stop before she got to the gates and collect her thoughts a bit.

  ‘I know, you’re completely right.’ She sighed, thinking about how she’d loved the way Paul had lain across her on the bed with his ear against her stretched skin, feeling the baby kick against him, playing gentle songs from his iPod and talking about how he’d take him (or her) to the park and to watch Chelsea’s home games.

  ‘When I was pregnant he used to talk about how he’d teach him (or her) to swim and to ski and to skateboard. Thinking about it now, I don’t remember any of these plans being about how we’d all do these things together as a family. Family is a bit of a grown-up word for what we are. I don’t remember Paul once saying that I’d be there in all this sporty future, playing cricket on a beach or hanging out down the park. It was like he was already planning a life for Charlie as a maintenance child and organizing activities for his access times.’

  ‘Oh come on, Cass; you’re just saying that because you need something to pin on him. He hasn’t actually done anything bad, has he? He’s mystified! He’s just a lad being a lad!’

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ Cass replied gloomily. If Miranda was hoping to cheer her up, she’d dismally failed with that last statement. Cass had got a lad. He was six months old. She didn’t want to have to deal with the delayed maturation of another one. Paul was a couple of years older than her – why did the growing-up process take so long for males? Definitely she didn’t want another infant to take care of. Her mum had spent years pandering to the flaky uselessness of Conrad, who had got away with domestic hopelessness by being so bloody successful, work-wise. He was like some kind of rock star – overindulged and never quite growing up. It worked OK for her mum, who’d made all the serious decisions and had all the home power by default, but Cass didn’t want that for her own life. Who the hell, in their right mind, would? She wanted someone who’d come across with more supportive input. Paul might be a trust-fund spoilt boy, but that didn’t mean he could pay his way out of sharing the Charlie care.

  She turned the car off the main road and drove in through the college gates, thankful that she’d hung on to the parking permit she’d been allowed when she was so very pregnant yet determinedly dragging her aching, exhausted body to lectures and to the library. And there was Paul, looking at his phone while leaning on the wall outside the sports hall across from the arts block. He hadn’t seen her yet – he was texting someone. A girl? Probably. She slid the Mini into a parking spot behind a red Golf and waited for a moment, hoping he wouldn’t look up, so that she could sneak into the building and avoid him. He’d have to be faced sometime, just not yet.

  Down in the studio at the far end of the garden, Conrad collected his wallet, a jacket and keys. He looked at the huge blank new canvas that had been waiting for him for the past week. There wouldn’t be any problem deciding what or who to paint if he chose. The list of ego-crazed celebrities who had fought to commission him in his peak years might have diminished a fair bit, but there was always someone out there who would pay well over the odds to hang themselves in their shiny new gilt-trimmed mansion. They weren’t the ones who excited him, though. Back when he’d painted Keith Richards (surprisingly non-fidgety) or Laurence Olivier (forever changing the pose) or Veroushka (fell asleep a lot), he was taking on those who delighted him in their own field. Now what was left? Russian football managers. Young hedge-fund kids who couldn’t tell a Picasso from a potato.

  Conrad slid the canvas back on its runners into its slot at the back of the studio wall. The decision he’d made by the riverside still stood. He didn’t intend to paint again. Ever.

  He gently nudged the dog off the sagging old leather chair to take her up to the house. When he was younger and living alone, he’d always assumed he could live quite happily for all his life in this kind of space. It had everything he’d wanted – somewhere to sleep, to work and to relax, all in one stunningly light, airy studio. But then that was before he’d met Sara. He looked up at the big sloping skylight and watched a distant, high plane trailing a slim line of vapour across the blue sky. There were very extreme emotional aspects to travel, he thought. A plane w
as full of people either with those they most loved or very much without them – leaving them behind. It was a wonder they didn’t explode – all that anguish involved. All the times he’d travelled across the globe to undertake commissions, he’d been one of those who was missing someone. Few things were ever lonelier than clocking up the miles between himself and Sara. He’d found being more than a few hours without talking to her so difficult. He’d had to phone her at every possible opportunity, just to make sure she was still there, just to make sure the luck of her being his hadn’t run out. How was this eternity thing going to work, without her? A tricky one, that; after-life was only comfortable if you believed in an unimaginable dark nothing-void. Whatever it was, he didn’t intend to find out today. There were fish to look at.

  The greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.

  (Walter Bagehot)

  ‘You know, Conrad, you’re only claiming Charlie liked the train because he’s a boy. I hope you don’t have an inner sexist that’s going to come out now there’s a family male child!’ Sara was laughing as they walked along the Embankment towards the London Eye. It felt so good to be out. Charlie was wide awake; unlike most babies, travel didn’t appear to make him sleepy. He seemed already to be thrilled by the stimulation of new sights.

  ‘No, I could tell, he definitely loved it! And of course I’m not being biased – so don’t think I can’t tell that’s what you’re angling to accuse me of. His mum loved trains too, I remember,’ Conrad insisted. ‘When he saw that one pulling out from the platform just now as we walked past, I swear he got all jittery and excited.’

  ‘Funny to think of Cassandra in terms of “mum”, isn’t it? Surely it’s only about twenty minutes since she was this age herself,’ Sara said. ‘And I don’t feel remotely ready to be called Granny. I’m so glad we all decided that Charlie will just call us by our names. Though I suppose . . .’ She stopped. She’d been about to say that it was all right for Conrad, he was well advanced into an age when ‘Grandad’ was very normal as something to be called. People sometimes did it already, albeit in the context of being rude rather than in the fond-family sense.