Other People's Husbands

by Judy Astley

  ‘I just like to please the ladies. Gives them something to think about in the lonely night-time hours, if you catch my drift.’ Alan smirked.

  ‘Stop it now! Save it for Pamela!’ Sara laughed. ‘Come on, Marie, let me get Charlie and we’ll go and chat.’

  She lifted the now wide-awake baby from his buggy and picked up his bag of essential supplies. Charlie wriggled in her arms. Slippery things, babies, she thought, remembering Pandora at this stage, intent on hurling herself backwards every time she was picked up.

  ‘Ooh let me carry him, Sara! I don’t get to play with babies very often.’ Marie sighed. ‘I don’t think my boys will ever get round to breeding. They’re too into Wii games and beer. When did playing with toys become something that went on beyond the age of eleven? I certainly wasn’t still asking Santa for dollies and daft games when I was older than that, were you?’

  ‘Definitely not! Maybe it’s a boy thing. Even Conrad plays computer games. He pretends he doesn’t but I’ve caught him loads of times sprawled on the sofa in the studio, switching off just too late to stop me seeing.’ That was what she’d caught him doing the night before, when she’d come home early from not going to the movies with Will. He was down in the studio, escaping, he said, from Cassandra and her friend Miranda, who were having one of those girly intense chats that involve lying on a sofa each and saying, ‘And then, like he says to me . . .’

  Sara handed Charlie over to Marie, who tickled his tummy and made him smile. Marie made everyone smile she had that big-eyed happy kind of face that warmed and encouraged people. No wonder she’d so easily snaffled this Angus person.

  ‘I’ve had more titillating texts from Angus. It’s still all on, though next week now, not this,’ Marie told Sara excitedly as they went up the stairs to the staffroom. ‘He’s getting me so warmed up, I can’t wait! He’s got a friend’s flat in Chelsea that he uses when he’s down from Edinburgh. Better than a hotel, I think. Less, you know, staged. Don’t you think? And no embarrassing interruptions from room service and so on.’

  Sara laughed. ‘Well, I suppose so. It’s not something I’ve thought about. If it was a hotel . . . actually I quite like hotels, but it would have to be one you already knew was good. A room you’d stayed in before and really liked, so you didn’t get any nasty surprises such as a shower that’s a bit manky or ugh chintz! I don’t think I could do anything sexually fun in a room that was all green swagged velvet, ochre walls and floral sofas!’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, the way I feel about Angus right now, I could do it in the back of a Mini. Anywhere just so long as it happens!’

  And what about Mike, Sara wondered, what about that long-devoted, stolid husband of Marie’s who never did anything that wasn’t first of all intended to make her happy? Where did he fit in? He was probably putting up a shelf right now, or replacing the sealant round the bath. Not romantic, but done with love, all the same. None of my business, Sara told herself. And besides, with Marie all wound up like this, so happy and excited, it could be argued that so long as he never found out, he was actually getting the benefit of this hyper-good mood. There would be a lot of men out there, living with women at the same menopausal stage as Marie, who would envy Mike his ever-smiling, cheerful partner. Way better, they’d claim, than living with a hormonal time bomb, a moody viper veering between bouts of depressive sobbing and expensive therapeutic shopping. He was a sweet man, even if his idea of a fun trip out was a visit to B&Q to top up his supply of drill bits.

  The staffroom was, for once, pleasingly underoccupied. Marie carried Charlie to the tattered leather sofa by the window and Sara found his bottle and put it in the microwave.

  It wasn’t quite as true as it had been, what Sara had said about not thinking about sex with someone new. Sleepless the night before, she had found herself drifting into a fantasy about the man she’d had a drink with by the river. How easy it had been, chatting with him for that short time, how very relaxing it was to be with someone whose life history and life burdens she didn’t know about, and who had nothing at all to do with hers. A slightly shocked part of her recognized that he would have been an ideal candidate for that sexual holy grail Erica Jong wrote about many years before: the zipless fuck. Sex without any complications, no obstacles – emotional or otherwise. Except surely there were always complications. Premises, for one. How not spontaneous would booking a hotel room be? It would surely take all the edge off and put all the pressure on. Did the zipless thing ever really work, unless you were her sister Lizzie, whose sexual mores had never left the sixties love-in, or Marie, who, after a silver wedding’s worth of absolute fidelity, astonishingly failed to see a downside to this exhilarating love she’d recently found?

  ‘I bet you have thought about it. You must have. Everyone has.’ Marie looked at Sara sharply, making her blush, as if her mind was being read. ‘I don’t mean I’d recommend a full-scale affair.’ She backtracked. ‘And that’s not what I’m having.’

  ‘Would Mike agree with that statement?’ The microwave pinged and Sara took Charlie’s bottle out, shook it and tested the temperature.

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course he wouldn’t. But it’s not about Mike. This is separate. It’s for me, like going to the spa and having a day of pampering. I love Mike to bits, I can’t imagine ever living with anyone else . . . but . . . this Angus thing just jumped out and bit me when I wasn’t looking. Remember, I told you how we met at the Teach To Write conference, I was there when he did his talk. I watched him . . . he looked at me a lot and after the question session, we just drifted together as if we’d known each other for ever. It was always going to happen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you sleep with him at the time, then?’ Sara asked her, quietly in case the few staff reading newspapers or talking together had bat-like hearing.

  Marie laughed. ‘His wife was there! I don’t think she’d have been very thrilled if we had! As it was she didn’t take to me. Her radar was working overtime. I thought, hey why is she being like this, and tried to be friendly, but when she asked me if I’d got my dress from Primark I just knew she wasn’t ever going to be a sister.’

  ‘And did you get your dress from Primark?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course I did! But that’s not the point, is it? You know the rules – if you think you might like some-one a huge lot and become proper friends with them, you say, “Oh that’s lovely, is it Prada?” And then they do a big shrieky laugh and say, “No actually, it’s Primark!” feel incredibly flattered and you then marvel at their amazing ability to pick out a fabulous bargain.’ Marie bustled about, fetching tea and biscuits for them both, then whispered loudly, ‘Got to go send a quick text, back in a jiff ! Keep my seat, I’ll be out on the stairs trying to concentrate on not sending it to Mike by mistake! God, can you imagine?’

  The staffroom was filling up now. Sara relaxed in the depths of the sagging leather sofa, feeding Charlie his milk while various members of the teaching staff cooed over him. Charlie enjoyed the attention, allowing people to distract him, breaking off to smile at the ones he liked the look of. Stuart came in and hovered by the microwave, glaring across at Sara and the baby as if the child was a love rival.

  ‘Stuart! Thanks for this week’s veg box!’ Sara called across to him. ‘Why don’t you come and meet Charlie?’

  ‘OK, just for a minute. Don’t want to interrupt. Hello Charlie,’ he said, rather grumpily. ‘I suppose if Sara’s got you, she won’t want to come to the pub with me any more.’

  ‘Of course I will, don’t be daft!’ Sara protested. ‘I’m just looking after him for Cassandra while she’s at university. It’s not a full-time thing, this grandmother business, just occasional.’

  Stuart smelled of old cars, motor oil and mustiness, with an underlying hint of shower gel. She wondered if his wife found that mixture a comforting, home-familiar aroma. Possibly she even found it erotic. Or did she hate it and light scented candles or even have those plug-in room fresheners all over their house? Maybe
she didn’t notice. There were a lot of things you didn’t notice about husbands and partners when you loved them and lived with them. It was a bit like overfond owners of cats, who managed to ignore the pungent whiff of unneutered tom. Over the years, friends who’d got drunk enough to be frank had occasionally expressed amazement that she could live so apparently easily with Conrad’s constant travels to paint commissions, which meant he missed birthdays and anniversaries; and there were all those hours he spent in the studio when he’d seemed to lose track of day or night, missing appointments, social events, a couple of dinners at his own house that he simply didn’t turn up to, through all of which Sara stayed calm and happy enough. Other people’s husbands had always seemed a predictable and unappealing lot by comparison. Now she wondered if they might simply be quite restful. She’d be willing to bet they didn’t pounce on you to discuss death while you were cleaning a table, or paddle in public fish tanks.

  ‘Got some new totty joined the class,’ Stuart told her as he perched on the sofa arm, leering a bit. ‘A little blonde-of-a-desperate-age with a perfect derrière.’ He cupped his hands round an imaginary something that Sara guessed to be a size 16. ‘She’s big, round and curvy in exactly the right places. I can’t wait to see her leaning over the Fiesta’s radiator, delving with the dipstick!’

  ‘Stuart! You never give up, do you?’

  ‘Well, you turned me down. A man has to get his fun somewhere. And besides, what else has she come to the class for?’

  ‘Ah, the old theory – women only go to car maintenance in search of a big choice of geeky dates.’

  ‘And what do they get?’ Stuart laughed. ‘Lots of women just the same as them and . . . me! Not all bad news then! Talking of which, must get going. I hope she comes back from the break even later than me, though. I can threaten her with the cane. Talking of which, fancy some nice fat cucumbers later this summer?’

  Sara hesitated, wondering about an answer that would be straightforwardly non-suggestive. Stuart could find a double entendre even in a nursery rhyme.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve got the seeds in and I reckon I’ve over-done it. You can have too many, with cucumbers.’

  ‘OK, thanks. That’d be lovely,’ she told him.

  ‘No worries. I’ll do you some nice long ridgy ones.’ He winked. ‘We can work out terms of payment another time. Gotta go . . . got to show that new woman which way up to hold a spanner.’

  What was keeping Marie, Sara wondered as Charlie was just, after what seemed ages, getting to the last drops in the bottle. Sending a text to her lover was taking a hell of a time. Maybe they were finalizing their tryst details. She shifted Charlie into a more upright position as a male voice in front of her said, ‘Is there room on this sofa for one more? Oh – hey, it’s you! Hello again!’

  Sara looked up, startled. And there he was, the man from the White Swan garden. She could feel her skin warming uncomfortably, and she wondered if he’d bolt if he sensed her night-time thoughts. How was one supposed to keep a dignified demeanour and make polite conversation with someone you’d imagined trailing his fingers over every inch of your skin?

  ‘Oh! Hi! What are you doing here? Have you joined the staff ?’ Her voice sounded normal enough, if a bit shrill. She moved Charlie, who had slumped somewhat, into a more comfortable position, put Marie’s bag on the floor and the man sat beside her. He was wearing ancient jeans with the hems fraying and another linen shirt, dark blue this time, with the sleeves rolled up. No watch, just a small friendship bracelet made from plaited embroidery threads in shades of blue. It crossed her mind (with a surge of dis-appointment) that possibly, as Conrad rather quaintly put it, he travelled on the other bus.

  ‘I’m working!’ he told her, smiling. He did have lovely teeth. She stopped herself from staring at them; it was hardly seemly to gaze like that at a man’s mouth. ‘I’m a journalist. Freelance. I’m writing a piece for the Guardian on the social aspect of Adult Education classes. It’s not about the people who are here for extra academic qualifications that they need for work, but those who rely on it for friendships, networking and so on. I’ve just been checking out Advanced Yoga – there are people in there who must be pushing ninety who can tie themselves in knots. Terrifying!’

  ‘You should come and hang out in my art class,’ Sara laughed. ‘Today it’s eager pensioners giving hell to the naked life model. Not that he minds. It would take more than a lively eighty-year-old to upset Alan.’

  ‘Ah . . . you’re an artist?’ he said. ‘I should have guessed.’ ‘Guessed? How?’

  ‘Just the way you dress. Something about what you wear. You have an original, stylish look. I thought that the other day. I liked your blue skirt – all layers and pointy bits. And . . . aha! Today you’ve got red shoes! Didn’t we decide it was the sign of a madwoman?’

  So he was gay, she thought. He’d noticed her clothes.

  Feeling flattered but slightly uncomfortable at being so observed, Sara looked at today’s dress as if she hadn’t quite noticed it before. It was a shades-of-pink floral 1940s tea dress, a junk-shop discovery she’d had for years, worn with a pale green cashmere cardigan, slightly shrunken. She’d changed the buttons for tiny heart ones in rainbow colours. Her shoes were scarlet strappy wedges, found in a charity shop and probably circa 1973, though with a 1930s look. Underneath was a white antique cotton petticoat, with drawn-thread work and ribbon.

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said at last. ‘If you really are coming to see my class I possibly should be able to introduce you to the others. I’m Sara.’ She hesitated about adding her surname – here at the college she used her maiden name. Admitting to being a Blythe-Hamilton tended to invite the question: ‘Are you any relation to Conrad?’ She wanted to keep Conrad out of this, what-ever ‘this’ was, so – ‘Sara McKinley,’ she said.

  ‘Ben Stretton,’ he said, taking her hand with pretend solemnity. ‘And I’m delighted to meet you.’

  Sara laughed, feeling slightly light-headed. Charlie pointed across the room and bounced excitedly on her lap as he spotted Marie returning. Sara caught Marie’s eye and saw a whole lot of questioning going on behind her gaze. ‘She thinks we’re up to no good,’ Ben whispered as Marie came towards them.

  ‘Marie thinks everyone’s up to no good!’ Sara told him. ‘Sadly, she’s nearly always disappointed.’

  ‘Only nearly always? Well then, there’s hope,’ he said. Men, Sara thought. So confusing.

  He leaned towards her and murmured very quietly, ‘And you know what they say about red shoes, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ she said, inhaling a heady mix of laundry scents and some kind of sharp, delicious citrus. ‘That old saying: red shoes, no knickers.’

  She would leave him to guess whether it applied to her.

  Life is a lot like jazz – it’s best when you improvise.

  (George Gershwin)

  Sara looked back at the house from the pathway through to the river. It was a strange building, all slabs of dark glass and long, weathered cedar struts. They’d only managed to get planning permission for it because it was sufficiently hidden among trees and behind high fencing not to flaunt its shocking modernity among the tasteful, discreet Georgian/Edwardian mix of the rest of the area. Someone had once commented that it looked like a low-profile outpost of MI5. Another had sniffily decreed that it resembled an airport terminal. When she and Conrad had had it built the architect had been thrilled that at last he had clients who didn’t want to temper his wildest design, didn’t start off by saying, ‘Yes, as ultra-flamboyant as you like,’ but then keep coming back and sneakily lopping off the madder bits, deciding that really what they wanted was something that looked more like a house than a piece of jagged, glassy sculpture. He still claimed it among the proudest achievements in his portfolio, and occasionally students of architecture would get in touch and nervously, apologetically, ask if they could come and have a look. Conrad didn’t mind – his opinion was that with architec
ture, wherever a building worthy of a second glance was situated, then that was the gallery. You shouldn’t expect to hide away art.

  Halfway down the sloping garden and up in an elderly oak was a tree house in a similar overall shape as the house that the architect had had built for Cassandra and Pandora. The weather had taken its toll and pieces fell off now and then in storms, but one day, Sara thought, perhaps it could be repaired for Charlie to play in. The girls had already been a bit old for it by the time they moved to this house, but it had proved useful as a place for them to go to sulk after family rows, to kiss their first boyfriends in and to climb into to cry in peace when teenage life went as wrong as it inevitably did.

  By contrast, Conrad’s studio, close to the boundary wall, was less contemporary and had a pitched roof, with an inset north-facing window, and was modelled on nineteenth-century artists’ studios that pitched up in various hidden corners of West London. Conrad had always wanted one and took as his model those that were hidden away beside Chelsea football stadium, bent on having something as similar as possible in spite of it being so unmatched to the rest of the property. His studio was big enough to include a spiral staircase leading to a platform sleeping area above a shower room and small kitchen.

  Sara wondered, these days, how he could bear to sleep in there so frequently. It had an overall grubbiness to it: it was strictly off limits to Xavier, the sweet young half-French cleaner. Conrad said he didn’t want things moved about. Meticulous Xavier, who tutted about the merest fleck of thread as he hoovered, and told Sara off for the way she loaded glasses into her own dishwasher, would have paled and fainted at the ephemeral clutter; the smell of turps was completely overwhelming, ingrained into the walls and floors. Sara liked the smell, but was sleeping with it any good for Conrad’s lungs? Maybe over the many working years he’d become immune to it, or even needed it, like a smoker being oblivious to the reek of stale fumes on clothes and hair.