Requiem

by Clare Francis

  Fine. In fact, it couldn’t be finer. Why should she mind? In the time that Tony had been screwing this woman – at least eight months now – Susan had had plenty of time to get used to the idea. In the beginning she’d ignored it, then, when pretence had become impossible, Susan had entered what might be called her brave and noble phase, and forced herself to face the full facts in all their tacky unpleasantness. But all that had achieved was to make her miserable, tetchy and impossible to live with. Finally she’d learnt the trick: you rose above it. You became the perfect wife. You became sweet, charming and delightful, an absolute cast-iron asset. She had finally worked out that it was not only futile to worry, it was also unnecessary. A sexy number with black knickers and big boobs – or whatever amazing endowments she possessed – was never going to be a serious threat. Not to a marriage that had always muddled along reasonably well, not to a political wife who worked as hard at the job as Susan, not when Tony was on the up and up. It wasn’t as if Tony had shown any outward signs of restlessness or dissatisfaction. On the contrary, he’d been sweet and affectionate, and, strange though it seemed, their relationship had if anything improved.

  Tony’s voice rose slightly, sounding peevish. ‘… But I can’t do any other time. You don’t understand. I’ll be getting a new job later this morning. And then – well, it’ll be hopeless … Angela, please.’

  Despite herself, Susan got a curious satisfaction from hearing Tony grovel. She wasn’t above feeling hurt and vindictive, and there was a part of her that thought: Serves you bloody right for being greedy.

  At the same time his tone worried her. What was the urgency? Why was he sounding so desperate?

  ‘… No, that would be difficult … No, it has to be your place … No … Seven thirty … No later. No … Bye.’

  He had rung off. He was getting to his feet. She could hear the chair scraping across the carpet. Too late to vanish. Forward, then, in her mode of consummate actress. She tapped her nails on the door just as it swung open.

  Tony gave a start, jerked his head up and stared at her in astonishment.

  Susan smiled warmly. ‘Darling, you’re up early. Why didn’t you sleep in for once?’

  ‘Couldn’t.’

  ‘Darling, are you okay? You look dreadful.’

  He gave a great sigh, lifting his shoulders then dropping them in a gesture of hopelessness. He reminded her of a bedraggled storm-tossed bird. The impression was accentuated by his hair, which was uncombed and stood up in feathery spikes around his head. She knew she should feel cross with him, but it was impossible, not when she was so worried.

  ‘What is the matter, darling?’ He wouldn’t tell her, of course, but she had to ask.

  ‘What? Oh, nothing.’ He rubbed a hand mercilessly over his face.

  When he met her eyes again, she gave him a come-off-it look.

  ‘A problem,’ he finally admitted. ‘But nothing I can’t deal with.’ He put on his brave-boy expression, a look that normally worked wonders, as he well knew.

  ‘I can’t do anything then?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He switched to his broad everything’s-hunky-dory politician’s grin.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, remember I’m always here if you need me.’

  The words seemed to touch him. He looked grateful, almost movingly so, though whether it was because of the offer of help, or because she hadn’t pressed him on the nature of the problem, she wasn’t sure.

  It would be easy to demolish him now. He looked about as confident as a five-year-old on his first day at school. Part of her longed to vent her anger and hurt, to tell him how pathetic his behaviour was, to make him see that he was just another plump menopausal male letting lust overrule his judgement; part of her even longed to point out how wonderful all this would look in five-inch headlines in the gutter press. But she held back. He wouldn’t be able to take it. Like most successful men, his ego was paper-thin; he was apt to fall apart in the face of emotional crises.

  But was this a real crisis? And if it was, what the hell was it about? She was burning to ask, yet loath to bring the whole beastly business out into the open.

  She gave him a brief kiss on the cheek and was turning to go upstairs when without warning he caught her shoulder and pulled her back into a powerful hug, squeezing her so hard that her head was forced sideways, almost causing her to wince aloud. The awkward bearish embrace went on for what seemed a long time, and whenever she tried to pull away, he tightened his arms round her.

  When he finally let go and she was able to twist her neck gingerly back into position, she looked sharply up at him in questioning astonishment. But, avoiding her eyes, Tony quickly dropped his head and turned to scrabble for a tissue from the box on the desk. He blew his nose with a loud roar. When he turned back, the brave little smile was in place again, though she noticed the moisture hadn’t quite gone from the corners of his eyes.

  Tony – sorry for himself? Tony – emotional? Never.

  Now she knew it was serious.

  She considered following him, like some private detective in a TV series, but it would really be far too difficult. Quite apart from the fact that she would have to get dressed in a hurry, something she’d never managed even in times of crisis, there would be the difficulty of finding transport. Tony would, presumably, drive himself in the Rover, so that if she tried to follow in the Golf, which was a most distinctive red colour, he would be bound to spot her in his mirror. A taxi would be more practical, but in this neighbourhood finding a taxi on the street was about as likely as getting the newspapers delivered before ten or finding the pavements litter-free. Even if one ordered a taxi on the phone, it was half an hour before the controller could find a cabbie prepared to penetrate the depths of SE5.

  No: there was a better way, and she was rather pleased with herself for thinking of it.

  Hearing Tony’s splashings in the shower – not unlike the sounds of a large animal at a water hole – she slipped into the bedroom to look for the small wad of belongings – wallet, cards and slim diary – that he always kept in his inside jacket pocket. Usually he left them over-night on his chest of drawers, but for some reason they were not there. She spent some time searching the jackets of his suits before deciding that he must have taken them downstairs.

  His briefcase was sitting on the desk in his study. When she tried the clasps they flew open immediately. On top of the thick pile of papers was a black memo book that she had seen many times before, and which she knew he used for his work; but, though she looked carefully in every corner of the case, there was no diary.

  She put the black memo book in the pocket of her dressing gown and, closing the case, went down to the kitchen and placed the memo book casually between a directory and a cookery book, as if it had got scooped up and put there accidentally.

  Knowing Tony would be getting dressed by now, she prepared some breakfast. He’d already announced that he would be in a hurry this morning. He said he was meeting a journalist in Westminster. He was, she noted, an expert liar.

  When he came into the kitchen, it was at the trot. He hung his jacket over the back of a chair, just as she’d hoped he would, and the moment he reached for the orange juice, which she’d carefully placed on the far side of the table, she flipped open his jacket, reached into the inner pocket and, grasping the contents, stuffed them into the pocket of her dressing gown.

  Tony drained the glass and turned to say: ‘I’ll be back to drop the car off at about nine. Could you check with Central Office, to make sure they’ve arranged transport?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He gobbled his toast. ‘Must be off.’ He patted his trouser pockets. She realized with a lurch of disappointment that he would check his jacket the moment he put it on, and would quickly realize that his wallet and everything else were missing. Stupid of her: she hadn’t thought this out properly.

  He was glancing towards his jacket
; he was going to put it on any minute.

  ‘Darling, do have a vitamin,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ He looked at her in surprise.

  ‘A vitamin. You’re very run down, you know. You don’t want to start your new job with flu. There’re some in the cupboard over there.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Well … okay. Where are they?’ He was saying this without enthusiasm, waiting for her to fly past him, find the bottle and shake out a tablet. Tony was used to having things provided for him.

  ‘In the cupboard over there, above the mixer.’

  He gave her a questioning glance that revealed his disappointment at her lack of action, then started reluctantly across the kitchen.

  As he peered into the cupboard, Susan pulled the bundle out of her pocket. Diary? It was in the middle, between the wallet and the credit card folder. She extricated it, fumbled, almost dropped it, and looked up anxiously. Tony, reading the label on a bottle, was turning round.

  With the wallet and credit cards in one hand, and the diary in the other, she moved rapidly behind the chair and dropped both hands behind her back.

  Tony was holding up a bottle.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said.

  ‘One?’

  ‘I should think so. You’ll need to wash it down though.’

  He gave a small sigh of impatience as he went in search of a water container, eventually taking an upturned mug from the draining board and filling it from the tap.

  Quickly, she opened the jacket again and slipped the wallet and credit card folder back into the inner pocket. She was aware of a childish excitement: if this hadn’t been so serious, it would have been fun.

  He was coming for the jacket now. He pulled it on, patted the lower pockets, then swung open the lapel. She stared as he checked the inner pocket, but the sight of the wallet seemed to satisfy him, and the next moment he was smoothing down his lapels and, with a quick kiss, was on his way.

  She needed a couple of stiff coffees after that. As soon as the second cup was on the table in front of her, she set to work. She started with the diary. It didn’t cover the previous year, of course, which meant it contained nothing of the Paris-Strasbourg trip, but if he was seeing his piece regularly then there had to be other entries, other trips that would give him away. The diary was pencil-thin, intended simply as an aide mémoire to his office diary, and contained only the most cryptic entries. Most had been made in his secretary’s neat printed script. Appointments, meetings, dentist: there was nothing that didn’t look entirely above board. And the social engagements – dinners, weddings, family gatherings – there was nothing that she couldn’t verify there.

  Perhaps he’d learnt to be secretive and write nothing down. Perhaps he’d guessed Susan might start getting suspicious. But if he was this careful now, perhaps he hadn’t been so careful in the beginning. She wasn’t sure where he kept his old diaries; she might have a look for them later. In the meantime, there was still the black memo book.

  She went through it twice. Another disappointment. Plenty of names and phone numbers, but all government or party people or political journalists. The few female names were either researchers, identified as such in brackets after each name – Tony was meticulous about categorizing people – or well-known MPs or relatives or family. No mysterious initials beginning with A. No initials at all, in fact.

  Damn.

  She went back to the diary. There was one possibility she hadn’t covered; that there was a link between the woman and that grey man Schenker from Morton-Kreiger. He’d been in Paris with Tony, and maybe in Strasbourg too, around the time of Tony’s adulterous stay in the château. She found mention of his name quickly enough, first against a daytime meeting in January, then against a dinner, then on a trip to Covent Garden to which she’d also been invited. She flipped back to the dinner. It had taken place in late January. Apparently the two men had had dinner again in early February. And again two weeks later. And yet again just ten days after that. Rather frequent, these dinner meetings, even allowing for Schenk-er’s smarmy little ways. Before she allowed herself a full measure of excitement, she went through the dates a second time, trying to match them to the occasions when her instincts had told her Tony was lying, but her memory wasn’t good enough to be certain of the precise dates. Slapping the diary down on the table, she strode up to the study and, starting with the top right-hand drawer, went methodically through his desk. It took half an hour to find the old diaries, which were not in the desk at all, but on the topmost bookshelves in box files, sorted by year, along with all his correspondence, notes and political thoughts. Everything, she realized, for the writing of his memoirs, assuming he stayed in politics long enough and reached a high enough post for people to show interest.

  She found the entry for the Strasbourg–Paris trip. There were EEC meetings, a conference. Schenker’s name. Then not much else … Until, a week later – yes. Yes! The initial A. Ha, ha! she thought: Got you. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction before continuing her search.

  In the following weeks and months there were more A’s until, in about October, they stopped abruptly. He must have realized he was taking risks, must have decided to get more careful.

  But nowhere was there a phone number, or a clue to the woman’s name.

  Finding the date for the Strasbourg–Paris trip again, she went backwards through the previous months. In April she found an entry for a water conference in the Midlands, and under it for an evening engagement, Schenker’s name again.

  And in the top margin, a lone phone number. There was no name next to it, and perhaps for that reason she fastened on to it.

  Back in the kitchen she thumbed through the memo-cum-address book, but there was no number resembling the mysterious entry in the diary margin. Looking through the current diary again, she went to the blank end-pages, which Tony had filled with densely packed jottings: notes, memos, names, frequently used phone numbers. And there it was at last: the very same number. And next to it, the name A. Kershaw.

  She smiled to herself. This detective work was a piece of cake.

  The phone book came up trumps, too. There was an A. Kershaw at the same number. The address was a flat in Wandsworth.

  Yet, having got this far, Susan couldn’t resist the final confirmation. It was getting on for nine: even allowing for Tony having arrived late and overstayed his allotted visiting time, he must have left the woman’s place by now.

  Before Susan had time for second thoughts or serious nerves, she picked up the phone and dialled the number.

  It answered quickly, as if snatched up from its cradle. A sulky female voice. ‘Hullo?’

  Susan realized she hadn’t rehearsed this at all. ‘Angela?’

  ‘Yes?’ The voice sounded grumpy, as if she hadn’t had enough sleep.

  ‘This is Naomi. How are you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Naomi Attwood.’

  ‘There’s been some mistake …’ She was sounding irritated.

  ‘Oh? Isn’t that Angela Kershaw?’

  ‘Yes it is. But I don’t know any Naomi. You must have the wrong number.’

  ‘Oh dear. I thought … Aren’t you Angela Kershaw from Tunbridge Wells?’

  ‘No, I am most definitely not. Listen, you have the wrong number!’

  Susan thought: Bad-tempered, too. ‘Oh, sorry. I looked you up in the book. I thought …’

  But there was a click then the buzz of an empty line.

  Susan put down the phone, glowing with self-congratulation. In her heyday as a model she’d posed for Bailey, Parks, O’Neill – all the best – she’d even done bit-parts in a couple of commercials, but until now she’d never quite appreciated the extent of her talent to impersonate.

  She saw the time. Hastily she phoned Central Office to confirm Tony’s car, and, breaking the habits of a lifetime, managed to shower, throw on some makeup and get dressed in twenty minutes flat, so that she was standing at the door to welcome Tony when h
e finally returned at nine twenty, delayed, he said, by heavy traffic. He looked preoccupied and grim. Two minutes later she was back at the door, the diary and memo book in hand, ready to pass them to him as he flew out of the house again. At the sight of them he looked startled, patted his pockets, and frowned at her.

  ‘You left them by the phone,’ she said.

  ‘Good God. Thanks.’ He peered into the street to make sure the official car was there, kissed her briefly, started down the steps and turned back. ‘I’ll call you the moment I get some news.’ He grinned suddenly, a pathetic almost apologetic smile. ‘Don’t get too excited.’

  ‘Ha! No less than the cabinet!’

  He managed a laugh, but she could see that he was deep in some torturous gloom. ‘Oh, and Susan – the car. I couldn’t find a space for it. Would you?’

  He indicated the Rover, which was parked on a yellow line.

  ‘Of course.’

  She waved him goodbye. The perfect wife.

  Drab utilitarian stuff. Hillyard wrinkled his nose slightly at the Chairman Mao shirt and Castro fatigues, though that didn’t prevent him from flicking diligently through the remainder of the hangers. There was only one frock that could be described as stylish, and that was a drapy floral number which would look rather fetching in a country garden, taking tea under an apple tree.

  Replacing the dress, he went quickly through the chest of drawers. Cheap Marks and Spencer underwear. Nothing remotely lacy or silly. Except for one nightdress, a present from a rich boyfriend perhaps, although it was hard to imagine Miss Field having friends who even began to verge on the stylish. He ran his fingers over the fabric. Silk: wonderful next to the skin.

  There was a clutter of papers by the bed. Kneeling, he went through them methodically, but there was nothing to catch his attention, just periodicals and reports.

  He glanced along the shelf of tapes above the tape player. She’d tidied them, he noticed, even rearranged them since his last visit. Put the classics at the far end and the pop music, which accounted for most of the collection, at the near end. While the case-history tapes, the ones he had come to look at, had disappeared. He exhaled crossly and it wasn’t until he turned to look around the rest of the room that he spotted the stack of tapes on the desk under the window, perched on a pile of papers. He could almost hear Beryl’s gravelly voice saying: Who’s a lucky boy, then?