A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  And of course, Rufus wasn’t going to question this mercurial good humour. He loved having a daddy who played football, a daddy who took us all to Starbucks on a Saturday morning, but always, I noticed, a daddy who watched his diet. Who, as Rufus and I tucked into hot chocolate and muffins, would sip his black espresso in clothes that a cynic might suggest were slightly too young for him. Never ridiculously so: the leather jacket was brown, not black; the jeans never too low slung or tight, but still…And the hair, always recently washed—possibly blown dry—swept back continually with his hand. Once, when he’d got a spot on his chin, I could see he’d covered it with my concealer. I didn’t mention it.

  But these carefree days wouldn’t last and soon he’d be back to the sad, wistful Alex, gazing over the top of the Sunday Times, snapping at Rufus if he suggested a card game or a bicycle ride, and then there’d be impromptu trips to the garage, and then the overexcited husband, then the late night—and so the cycle of our lives would go on. He was like a junkie who needed a fix, and the fix wasn’t me.

  It is to my eternal shame that I never investigated his mobile or went through his pockets. I’m not proud of that. There were no depths to which I would not sink to protect my family, to remain uninformed, to be innocent of all charges of knowingly living in a faithless marriage. I was ruthless in my denial. But now this. A well-aimed catty remark from a woman who was intent on protecting her own domestic interests, but in a much pluckier way than I was: a combative blonde who fought for her man—“Hands off!” with a flash of her red nails—whilst I shrank from the evidence: condoned it by my silence.

  I took a deep breath, the deepest I’d taken for some time—most of my breathing tending towards the shallow these days—and let it out shakily. Right. This was it, then. A final demarcation line. A line that I’d stumbled upon quite by accident, but a line there was surely no mistaking.

  Driving too fast, but actually quite skilfully, I swung the car left down a narrow lane and drove off towards the next village. After a while, Rufus broke off from playing Scissors Stone Paper in the back with Tanya, and glanced around at the unfamiliar scenery.

  “This isn’t the way home, is it, Mummy?”

  “No, but it’s the way to my home,” remarked Tanya, twisting round in surprise as I bumped down the track towards the trailer park. “Scissors!”

  “Oh, I wasn’t ready!”

  I drove slowly through the grid of caravans and mobile homes, venturing where the local police daren’t, and drew up outside the largest one, surrounded by pansies planted in piles of old tyres. There were net curtains at the windows, and by the open front door, Cindy the Alsatian dozed on a chain. An assortment of old baths, prams and bicycles were piled in a heap round the back, like an avant-garde climbing frame, and three or four children were using it as just that. A couple of old men sat smoking in ancient deck chairs, watching them, as Shelia hung rows and rows of grey school knickers out on a washing line.

  “Shelia?” I called out of the window. “Would you do me a favour?”

  She turned. “Oh, hello, luv.”

  “Would you have Rufus for me for an hour or so? There’s something I need to do.”

  She came towards me, round the side of the trailer, taking pegs out of her mouth and regarding me quizzically. My voice was rather shrill, perhaps.

  “Course, luv.” She bent and peered in at the window. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her brightly as the children clambered out, Rufus making gleefully for the hideously dangerous-looking climbing frame. “I haven’t fed them yet, I’m afraid. We’ve been at the vet’s.”

  “You’re all right. I was just about to feed this lot. They can have fish paste sandwiches with ’em. Sure you’re OK? You look a bit peaky.”

  “Fine.” I plastered on a smile. “Really fine. Thanks, Sheila.”

  She opened her mouth again, but whatever kindly concern she had for me was lost as, with a screech of tyres that had the lad next door polishing his Harley Davidson glancing up admiringly, I was off.

  I headed towards Little Harrington and the Latimers’ with a remarkably clear head, and for once, something approaching steel in my heart. Yes. Yes, I flaming well would. As I swept up the front drive, past the little lodge house—Pat’s house, otherwise known as Crumpet Cottage, I thought grimly—the steel didn’t waver. Nor did it waver as I got out of the car in the vast gravel drive and sprinted across to the looming manor house, nor when I mounted the steps to the heavy front door guarded by a matching pair of stone griffins. Oh yes, the front door was very definitely where I wanted to be right now, not cringing apologetically round the back at the tradesmen’s entrance, not creeping and crawling, and who cared if the dogs barked? I gave the door a mighty rap with its brass knocker, all nerve endings tingling, face set and determined, but no fear. Oh no, no fear, and no second thoughts, either.

  As the huge house resounded to the outraged howls of various Labradors and lurchers, footsteps came across the marble hall; soft but hurrying. Who on earth could it be, banging like that, they seemed to say. The door opened cautiously and Vera peered around, frowning. Her face cleared as she saw me, and she blinked in surprise.

  “Oh. Hello, pet.”

  “Is Eleanor in?” I blurted out, feeling, I realised, as Alex must have felt when he came home late that night in the taxi, brimming over with the need to unburden himself, to spill his load, only my load was all the more heavy for being so overdue.

  “She’s not, I’m afraid, she’s—”

  “In London?” I cut in accusingly, not recognising my harsh tone.

  Vera looked taken aback. “No, not in London, although she has been up there, but no, she got back this afternoon. She’s gone out to see a girlfriend.”

  “Oh.” I was deflated for a moment. Damn.

  “Will she be long? Can I wait?”

  “Well, she’s out for the evening, like, but she’s going to be ever so cross because she’s forgotten her handbag.” She jerked her head across to a quilted Chanel bag, sitting on the hall table. “Must have gone out in a rush with just her car keys, but it’s got her purse an’ that in it, and her door keys, and Piers goes to bed early so I suppose Muggins here will have to wait up to let her in.”

  I looked at the bag on the table. “D’you know who the friend is? Where she lives?”

  “’Aven’t a clue, luv, but she’s renting in the village, I’m told. Not been ’ere long—friend from London, I think. Milly? Mandy? Something like that.”

  “Well, it’s not a big village. She shouldn’t be difficult to find.”

  She snorted derisively. “That’s as maybe, but if you think I’m crawling round looking for her with her ladyship’s handbag, you’ve got another think coming. I don’t know the number or nothing. Any road, I don’t suppose she’ll be that late. I’ll tell her you called, luv.” She went to shut the door.

  “I’ll take it,” I said, not quite jamming my foot in the door, but near as damn it. I reached deftly across to the table and my hand closed on the bag’s chain strap.

  “Oh, well, I don’t know…” she faltered, confused.

  “Honestly, it’s not a problem, Vera,” I said smoothly. “I’m going that way anyway. And I know Eleanor’s car. It’s bound to be parked outside.”

  “Well, I suppose…” she looked anxious. “But I’m not sure I like handing her bag over, just like that.”

  I laughed. “You’re only handing it to me, Vera. And don’t worry, if I don’t find her, I’ll pop it back, OK?” I flashed her a smile.

  “OK,” she said slowly, looking as if she might say more, and was about to, but by then I’d turned my back on her and was halfway down the steps—halfway across the gravel, putting distance between us, already with my seat belt on in the car, glancing back at her, a diminutive figure standing uncertainly in her housecoat on the top step, looking ra
ther temporary, as if she might come down.

  Without giving her a chance to, I sped away in a spray of dust and gravel, hurtling down the front drive, my precious booty beside me.

  Oh, no, Vera, I thought—watching her in my rearview mirror as she shaded her eyes on the steps, watching me go—you shouldn’t be handing over your employer’s precious possessions. That’s a foolish thing to do, very foolish indeed.

  The village, in truth, was not that tiny. It sprawled down back streets and up cul-de-sacs, diving off into strips of new development that seemed to go on for ever, and I knew I hadn’t given myself nearly as simple a task as I’d pretended to Vera. I drove around for a bit without spotting so much as a hint of Eleanor’s dark green Range Rover. Damn. Just when my blood was up, just when I knew I was in the mood to finally confront her, to tell her to take her thieving hands off my husband, to tell her I knew exactly what she’d been doing in London, and with whom, and now she was no flaming where to be found.

  And then I saw it. Turning down a lane I’d originally dismissed as being so unmade up it was surely just a farm track, I saw there was a row of cottages at the end, and outside one of them, Eleanor’s four-wheel drive.

  Which cottage was it outside, though, I thought wildly as I rattled down the track and parked at the end of a line of cars? I got out. This one—I ran lightly across to the most obvious cottage, number nine—or the one next door? Or was she, in fact, installed at one much further along, but had had to park on the end, like me, because there wasn’t a space? There were quite a few houses here; was I going to knock on every single door, like Wee Willie Winkie, until I found her? And if I did find her, was I going to drag her out by the hair and confront her on the doorstep, in front of lots of prying eyes? My courage momentarily deserted me, then—yes, I decided. I would. I’d come this far, I was damn well going to see it through.

  Blood storming through my veins, I marched up to number nine and leaned on the bell. A huge, barrel-chested man in a skimpy white T-shirt, his arms covered in faded army tattoos, swung back the door in irritation. He loomed over me as a football match blared from the television behind him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, er, I’m sorry. I’m looking for a friend of mine, Eleanor Latimer. She’s visiting someone who lives in one of these cottages, but she clearly isn’t—”

  “Never ’eard of her,” he growled, slamming the door in my face and going back to his game.

  The lady at number ten was slightly more helpful. She listened, plump arms tightly folded in her yellow dressing gown, occasionally scratching a heavily veined leg. Then she rubbed her cheek thoughtfully.

  “Well now, that could be number twelve, two doors away,” she said at length. “It certainly wouldn’t be number eleven ’cos old Mrs. Greenway lives there, but…yeah, try number twelve.”

  I thanked her profusely and hurried away.

  Number twelve, in fact, looked far more promising. It was a sweet, whitewashed number with roses round the door and pots on the step: something of a feminine effort had been made. I rang the bell but there was no answer. I rang again—still no response. And yet…I stood on tiptoes and peered through the small pane of glass in the front door. If I wasn’t very much mistaken, that was Eleanor’s Puffa jacket thrown casually on that chair. I recognised the distinctive tartan lining. She wasn’t coming to the door, though, was she? And neither was her friend. I rang again. No, because presumably, I thought with a jolt, they’d already spotted me from the front-room window: spotted me ringing all the bells in the street, and maybe Eleanor had seen my determined stance, recognised the cut of my jib, as it were, and said nervously, “Don’t answer it, Milly. I have a feeling I know what this is about.” And then they’d both slipped down the hallway into the kitchen, taking their bottle of Sancerre with them, where they were hiding even now, fighting their giggles, spluttering into their hands. Oh, were they, I thought, incensed. I squatted down and pushed open the letter box. James Blunt drifted through from the hi-fi.

  “Eleanor!” I screamed. “Eleanor Latimer, I know you’re in there! Open the door this instant!”

  I put my ear to the letter box. Heard voices. Muffled voices, and then a giggle. My eyes bulged. My blood boiled. I put my mouth to the vent again.

  “ELEANOR LATIMER! COME OUT, YOU TWO-TIMING HUSBAND-SNATCHING HUSSY! YOU SLACK-MORALLED JEZEBEL, YOU—oh!”

  I shrieked as the door flew open. Shot forwards on to my knees. To save myself from sprawling flat on the doormat, I threw out both hands—and clutched at a pair of feet. Large, bare, hairy feet, which I gripped hard. As flesh met flesh I screamed again and let go. As I rocked back on my haunches, a dark green dressing gown flapped in my face. My eyes travelled up it…and I found myself looking into the unmistakable features of—Daniel Hunter, Rufus’s headmaster.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Oh—Omigod!”

  “Mrs. Cameron!” He stared down at me on his doormat, astonished.

  “Imogen,” I mumbled stupidly, through force of habit, blushing madly and pulling myself up hand over hand by the doorframe. Behind him I saw Eleanor, at the top of the stairs, glance over the banisters, also in a dressing gown.

  “Shit!” She shot back into the shadows as our eyes met, and in that instant, as I looked back at Daniel Hunter’s face, I understood everything. My mouth fell open.

  “Good grief…you mean…?”

  My eyes flitted up again as Eleanor reappeared on the landing. She’d whipped the dressing gown off and was pulling on some jeans, simultaneously tugging a jumper over her head.

  “Wait there!” she ordered fiercely.

  “Er, yes. You’d better come in.” Daniel scratched his head sheepishly and stood back to let me pass.

  “Oh—no, no!” I shook my head wildly, the palms of my hands up. “I—I’m terribly sorry, I’ve made a mistake. I didn’t realise…” I backed away rapidly, hands outstretched. “You—you carry on as you were. I mean—as it were…”

  “Imogen, wait!” Eleanor came hurtling down the stairs as I backed frantically down the path, horribly aware that quite a few neighbours had not only come to their windows, but were now in their front gardens, ostensibly watering bedding plants—Yellow Dressing Gown—or putting notes out for the milkman—Tattooed Man—but actually watching wide-eyed, and waiting on tenterhooks for the “two-timing husband-stealing hussy, the slack-moralled Jezebel” to appear.

  Eleanor didn’t disappoint them.

  “Don’t go,” Daniel implored her, reaching out to catch her arm as she made to dash past him down the path. As he held on to her sleeve and swung her round to face him, I saw the naked entreaty in his eyes. So did Yellow Dressing Gown. She dropped her plastic watering can. Tattooed Man’s fag was hanging from his lower lip. As street theatre went, it had a lot going for it.

  “I’ll be back,” Eleanor promised in a low voice, and I saw the tenderness in her eyes as she removed his hand from her arm. “But I need to explain, Daniel. I need to talk to Imogen. I must!”

  “You don’t need to explain!” I squeaked, embarrassed beyond belief now, squirming for England, crouching low as I backed through the gate, but also—also stupendously joyous. Not my husband. Not Alex. Daniel Hunter—oh, deep deep joy. “Honestly, it couldn’t matter less!”

  “It does, because listen,” Eleanor hastened after me. “He was married, you’re quite right, but it was all over years ago and he’s divorced—or practically divorced—I promise!” Her hazel eyes pleaded with me as she took my arm and hustled me towards the cars. “Come on, we’ll go for a drink. I’ll explain.”

  “Oh!” I stopped in my tracks. “You mean—what I yelled through the letterbox!” God, I must have sounded like a marriage watchdog unit, checking up on all adulterers: Come out, you filthy philanderers, we know you’re in there! All I needed was a foghorn. “Oh, no, I don’t mind if he’s married, couldn’t give a mon
key’s, just so long as he’s not married to me!”

  “What?” She gaped, and now it was her turn to stop still in the street. I was aware of Yellow Dressing Gown and Tattooed Man walking hypnotically to their front gates to listen, keen not to miss a word, all inhibitions gone now. I hurried to my car, flinging the passenger door open for her as I ran round.

  “Come on, we’ll take mine. No, I’m just so happy it’s not my husband, not Alex!”

  I couldn’t stop the joyous smile that was spreading over my face as I flopped into the driving seat and turned the ignition. Oh, thank you, God. Thank you! I shut my eyes tight and clenched my fists. Yes!

  “You mean…” she got in slowly beside me, “you thought me and Alex…?”

  “Yes, and now you’re not, and—oh, Eleanor, for heaven’s sake, go back and have a lovely time! I’m really sorry I’ve spoiled your evening, please go back and—and do whatever you were going to do—bonk for Britain, cover yourselves in golden syrup, lick it all off, hang sticky and naked from the chandeliers—have one on me!”

  “Me and Alex!” she gasped, hanging on to the upholstery as we shot off down the road, away from the delighted eyes of the neighbours, who were still, no doubt, digesting the golden syrup scenario.

  “Yes, but you and Daniel Hunter—oh, Eleanor, that’s so different. Honestly, I couldn’t give two hoots, and I feel dreadful about dragging you away!”

  “And I feel dreadful about Piers,” she said firmly. “And obviously I need to explain.”