A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “You’re an obsessive,” Alex would say, nonjudgementally. “You’re either obsessed with your painting, or your child, but the two are mutually exclusive.”

  “Is that wrong?” I’d asked anxiously.

  “Of course it’s not wrong, it’s you.”

  And actually, Mum was such a breath of fresh air, I thought as I went slowly back upstairs. She gave Rufus his head, let him have a bit of slack, just as she had done with Hannah and me. When we were young, she was forever saying things like, “Don’t go to school today, darlings. Let’s go round London on the top of a double-decker,” or, “Fancy motoring to Haydock to catch the one thirty?” Yes, it was lovely for him to have such a free-spirited granny, and lovely for me too to have her help. How very spoiling, for example, to be able to lock myself away in my studio all day while she revamped my garden. What a treat!

  Of course, I should have known better. After all, I’ve known her thirty-four years.

  Later that day, as we stood together on a windy school playing field amongst other shivering parents, waiting for Rufus and his team to materialise and for Alex to appear from work, we exchanged furious whispers. At least, mine were furious.

  “I’m not being a bore,” I hissed, “I’m not even an avid horticulturist, I just think it defeats the object of a garden!”

  “Nonsense, darling, it’s terribly low maintenance. Frightfully economical too.”

  “Yes, but it’s not real!”

  “But you wouldn’t have known that, would you? When you came out, you thought it was marvellous.”

  I gazed at her helplessly, her grey eyes wide under her dashing suede hat. It was true, I’d emerged from my studio at midday feeling woozy and sated—my usual euphoric state after four blissful hours at the canvas—secure in the knowledge that I’d slapped some good paint today and knocked a recalcitrant seascape into shape, to find my mother outside, surrounded by empty carrier bags, seemingly planting the last of her goodies, and had fairly marvelled at the sight that met my eyes. Gone was the tired strip of pale brown lawn surrounded by depressing darker brown beds, and instead, a gloriously tasteful green and white garden frothed around a patch of soft emerald lawn. Well, I say soft. It was only when I bent to stroke my new grass and fondle the nodding ferns in my border that it hit me: it was all fake. I was standing in a silk and plastic paradise, the whole thing a fabulous fabrication, with not one petal, leaf, or blade of grass real at all.

  “You never have to water it or prune it, and it never wilts or dies—what more could you ask for? It works beautifully in my little roof terrace at Wilton Crescent.”

  “But you can’t even smell it!”

  My mother’s eyes widened as she puffed away on her Gauloise in the wind. “Oh, you can, darling, you can get scented sprays. Just blast it on first thing in the morning. I’ve got lavender and fresh pine.”

  “What, like a frigging lavatory?”

  “No, I bought them in Harrods; they’re the real thing. I’ll get you one if you like. Honestly, you are ungrateful, Imogen, after all my hard work. Ooh, look, here they come. Come on, Rufus!”

  She clapped her gloved hands together excitedly as sure enough, twenty-two little boys came running on to the pitch in white shorts and red or blue rugger shirts, looking fit to burst with pride. My heart nearly burst too when I saw Rufus, beaming widely, chest out, little legs pumping. I waved madly, and forgot for one moment my mother’s breathtaking presumption to take it upon herself to replace my garden, sad though it was, with a bogus reproduction, a seasonal nightmare complete with white roses and snowdrops all blooming at the same time, for heaven’s sake. Alex would freak!

  Where was Alex, incidentally? He was cutting it very fine. I looked around anxiously, but saw only Mr. O’Callaghan running on to the pitch. A palpable frisson rippled around the assembled mothers. Mr. O’Callaghan was tall, blond and rugged, but just a little too white-eyelashed for my tastes: what Mum would call a near miss. He jogged about the pitch importantly and shouted instructions, wearing very short white shorts.

  Kate came up behind me wrapped in scarves. She found my ear. “I think Mr. O’Callaghan’s shorts could go up an inch, don’t you?”

  I giggled. “Got to take your thrills where you can.”

  “Absolutely, why d’you think we’ve all come to watch? Look at Ursula Moncrief, her tongue’s practically on the floor.”

  “She’s always sucking up to him,” I muttered as we watched her trot on to the pitch in stupid high heels to ask him something.

  “Oh, Mr. O’Callaghan,” mimicked Kate, “shall I keep score?”

  “Oh, Mr. O’Callaghan, shall I hold your balls?”

  We cackled like two frustrated housewives.

  “It’s those great big rosy thighs of his,” muttered Kate as we watched him bounce around. “That’s what does it.”

  “Well, I wish he’d stop flashing them and get this show on the road. My hands are frozen.”

  “Mine too. Shall we rub them on Mr. O’Callaghan’s thighs at half-time?”

  “He’d probably love that; not sure about Orlando, though. You know my mum, don’t you?”

  She did, and they kissed and exclaimed delightedly, and before long were admiring each other’s cashmere, recommending expensive restaurants to each other and comparing the efficacy of their cleaners. I had absolutely nothing to contribute to this conversation so I kept my eyes firmly on the game.

  It set off at a breakneck pace and I held my breath, waiting excitedly for Rufus to get the ball, to race heroically down the pitch and score a try whilst the Chariots of Fire soundtrack played in my head. It didn’t take long to realise that wasn’t going to happen. The pack raged up and down the field with lots of red-faced little boys scrabbling and shoving for the ball, but Rufus seemed to regard it as more of a spectator sport. If the action came down his end he danced around the scrum excitedly, offering shrill advice, but dodged the ball neatly if it came his way. If the action was up the other end, he stood pensively, staring into space with his hands behind his back like Prince Charles, only occasionally seeming to remember where he was and jump about a bit.

  “He’s skipping,” Mum muttered to me.

  “I know,” I groaned, watching as he skipped happily after the pack when it came towards him. “Rufus, run!” I hollered.

  He smiled, waved at me, and skipped even faster.

  I pulled my hat down over my eyes. “I can’t watch.”

  “You don’t have to,” Mum informed me. “He’s off the pitch now.”

  “What!” I squeaked indignantly, pushing my hat up. Fully expecting to see Mr. O’Callaghan sending him off and bringing on a reserve, which I’d naturally object to in the strongest possible terms, I glanced around wildly. “Where?”

  “Over there. Stroking a dog.”

  Sure enough Rufus had taken time out to crouch down amongst some bemused parents on the touchline and stroke a spaniel. I daren’t yell at him for fear of alerting Mr. O’Callaghan, but as I watched, wide-eyed, I saw him move on from the spaniel to chat to a woman with a baby. He really was the Prince of Wales now, on a royal walkabout, chatting to the crowds.

  The match finally ended at 22–14 to us, no thanks at all to my son, who didn’t touch the ball once.

  As the boys shouted their three cheers for each side and we all clapped like mad, I decided perhaps it was just as well Alex hadn’t made it. He’d have been mortified. Inwardly, though, I was fuming. Where the hell was he? I’d tried his mobile all through the game and it had been switched off. Perhaps I’d try the office again. I finally managed to get through to Judith, his secretary, who said in a rather strained voice that she thought he’d gone home. Someone had rung, she said, and he’d taken the call and gone.

  “Gone home? What, not to the school?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He was supposed
to meet us here.”

  “Oh.”

  “So—hang on, Judith, who called?”

  “I’m not sure, because it went straight through to his private line.”

  “Yes, but I’m the only one who rings through on that line, aren’t I?”

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  She sounded uncomfortable. Suddenly I went cold. My heart stopped, and then it began to pound on again. I switched off my phone and turned to Mum, who was showing Kate some earrings she’d bought in Venice.

  “They’re glass, you see, not stones at all. Terribly clever.”

  “Mum, Rufus has to have a shower and then a quick match tea. Could you possibly wait for him and bring him back?”

  “Yes of course. Why, darling, where are you going?”

  “I just want to go and find Alex.”

  Mum looked surprised at being charged with so important a duty and I could sense Kate’s eyes on me too, but in a moment I’d gone. I tucked my chin in against the wind and walked quickly across the playing fields, found my car in the car park, and seconds later was reversing out of the playground far too fast. I raced down the backstreets of Putney, clipping wing mirrors with a passing taxi and haring round bends. As I turned the corner into our road, my eyes scanned the line of parked cars. I couldn’t see it; couldn’t see the horribly familiar dark green Land Cruiser, so I told myself I was being stupid. I parked and walked quickly up my path, forcing myself not to run, but my heart was racing as I got my key out of my bag.

  As I let myself in the house, I saw the coat immediately. It was thrown casually over the back of the sofa: dark blue velvet with snappy brass buttons, and a handbag and some keys were on the hall table. From the kitchen I could hear voices, laughter. As I went through the sitting room to the kitchen, willing myself to be calm, I saw them through the French windows in the garden together. They each had a glass of champagne in hand, and Alex was throwing back his head and laughing at something she’d said. He turned as he saw me approach and I saw the light in his eyes.

  “Oh, hello, darling, look who’s here. Isn’t it marvellous? It’s Eleanor!”

  Chapter Four

  When I first met Alex he was married to Tilly. The fact that the marriage came unstuck, though, was nothing to do with me. It was 1995, and I’d just returned from Florence where I’d spent a happy year as a post-graduate studying portraiture and sculpture under Signor Ranaldez at the Conte San Trada Academy. I was going out with a sweet Italian boy called Paolo, a fellow art student, and now I was back in London conducting a rather complicated long-distance relationship with him. We wrote and telephoned constantly, and the idea was that I’d go back and see him in the summer and he’d come to England in the autumn. Life, in the main then, was rosy. Money, however, was tight, and in order to pay my rent in Clapham where I shared a house with three fellow painters, I took a job as a secretary in the city. Just for a few months, I reasoned, then I’d have enough to rent a studio and set myself up properly as an artist. The offices I’d resigned myself to working in short term were in Ludgate Circus, and Alex Cameron was my boss.

  From day one, when he swept down the corridor, coat flying, pushing his blond hair out of his blue eyes and calling, “Morning, Maria!” as he passed my desk, I had a feeling my plans were scuppered. He stopped, just a few paces away, swung round, and did a double take.

  “You’re not Maria.”

  “No, I’m Imogen Townshend. I’m a temp.”

  “Of course you are!” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “It’s all coming back to me. And actually, you’re nothing like Maria. You’re not…” he made a bump over his stomach with his hand, “you know.”

  “Pregnant?”

  “That’s it.”

  I grinned. “Hope not.”

  He laughed. “Yes, that would get tongues wagging, wouldn’t it? If all my secretaries got pregnant one after another. I’d have to claim there was something in the water. Coffee-making skills in order?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good, because I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes and I could badly do with something strong and black before I face the Powers That Be in the boardroom.”

  And off he went. And likewise, off I scurried like a good little corporate secretary, thinking how I’d much rather be wielding a paintbrush than a percolator, but that actually, if I was going to be skivvying for someone, he might as well be as decorative as this.

  He got more decorative. Two months passed and Maria had her baby and then decided she couldn’t possibly leave it with the nanny in Sevenoaks and could someone please stay on a bit longer, like for ever, and look after Alex and her spider plants? I promised to water them and stay for as long as it took Alex to find a permanent secretary. And so the interviewing process began. Alex would chat to the prospective secretaries first, then hand them over to me, the idea being that I’d explain the job in a little more detail. One particularly foxy blonde came out of his office with her eyes shining.

  “He’s heaven,” she breathed as I showed her where the photocopier was. “Surprised you get any work done at all!”

  I showed her to the lift.

  “I thought she was fine,” remarked Alex later, as he signed some letters I’d put in front of him.

  I smiled thinly. “Lazy.”

  He looked up surprised. “Oh? How can you tell?”

  “Trust me, it’s the eyes.”

  It was the same with the next one. “Too timid.” And the next one. “Too tall.”

  “Too tall?” Alex said, startled.

  “She couldn’t get her legs under the desk; she was like a giraffe. You don’t want to have to buy her a new desk, do you?”

  “Er, no. No, I suppose not.”

  The next one was too simpering, the next too tidy, and it was at that point, when I was running out of insults, that I realised I was in trouble. I had to make a decision. I couldn’t possibly stay on as a temporary secretary for ever. I had to become a permanent one. I rang the agency to cancel the flow of interviewees and broke the news to Alex. He was delighted.

  My friends back in Clapham, however, threw up their hands in horror. When would I paint? Draw? What about my art? My mother was aghast—a secretary, after all that studying, with all that talent! My father, not a man to get involved, even put in his two pennyworth—“You’re barking mad, girl!”—but by now I was beyond reason. I’d already written a long letter to Paolo explaining that I wouldn’t be coming out in the summer due to family commitments, but a week later, I wrote another one, telling him I’d met someone else. I didn’t mention that the man in question had no idea, that my feelings were unrequited, and that he was in fact married. Neither did I mention that I satisfied myself with admiring him from afar and salivating through a glass door with “A. Cameron” written on it. Details.

  And anyway, it wasn’t always from afar. Occasionally our fingers would touch as I handed him a file, and sometimes, sometimes he’d stand over me as I typed, then lean across and point at my screen, inadvertently brushing my shoulder. Occasionally, too, when we were in the lift together, he’d put his hand solicitously on my back to guide me out first, as I’m sure he’d done with Maria, but I bet she didn’t gasp and stumble back against the buttons, sending the lift plummeting to the basement. Once, we actually got stuck in the lift together. We weren’t alone—there were a couple of other people making polite chitchat until Bill the janitor released us—but I was the only one to emerge short of breath, clutching the furniture. Yes, I was in love. Painfully and properly, and it was the first time it had ever happened. I couldn’t keep it a secret either. I had terrible mentionitis, and hardly a day went by when his name wasn’t dropped—“Alex said this,” or “Alex thinks that.” My family were on to it like vultures, and, after a hasty pow-wow, my sister, Hannah, was sent up from the country as emissary to make me see reason. She took me out to lunch and
then insisted on coming back and meeting Alex. Happily, he was in a meeting, but I showed her his office instead.

  “This is his desk,” I said reverentially, tenderly squaring up some papers on it. “And this is his lamp. It’s an Anglepoise.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” she snapped impatiently. “Why are you stroking it?”

  “I’m not.” I snatched my hand away.

  “I bet you stroke that too,” she jeered, jerking her head at his coat hanging on the back of the door.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I spluttered. I didn’t tell her I was beyond that. I was sniffing it.

  “A banker!” My mother hooted when I went out to see her in France; she laughed throatily as she stood at the stove making a bouillabaisse, spilling ash in it then stirring it in, pretending it was pepper. “You’ll be telling me he’s got a Porsche next.”

  He had, but I couldn’t tell her that. My family were arty, bohemian—Hannah was a potter, my father an actor—bankers and their Porsches were anathema to them. They’d expected me to rock up with a floppy-haired poet one day, someone with a healthy disdain for materialism, a garret in Islington and a cat called Ibsen, not a thrusting young executive who lived in Chelsea and got his thrills from playing the money markets. And the worst of it was, I knew it was hopeless. He was married to Tilly—a gorgeous, languid ex-model of a creature—had two young daughters, and lived happily with his perfect family in a dear little house in Flood Street.