A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  I pictured Kate, getting ready across the road from me while I bathed Rufus, and Sandra bathed her children, a-flutter with excitement as she put on her make-up, tied a scarf around her neck—the pink one? No, this turquoise one, shows off the blue eyes better—slipped her feet into pretty jewelled mules. Once, I remember, I was at the window as she ran across the road to get a taxi—yes, always a taxi, and yet one didn’t really drink at play rehearsals, did one? Anyway, I’d stuck my head out and called, “Break a leg!” and she’d called back, “I’ll break Ferdinand’s if he still doesn’t know his lines!” I was awestruck by that, now. That took some doing, didn’t it? To lie, so comprehensively. Not just to laugh and look embarrassed. And then, trying to fix me up with Casper, trying to get me laid, in order to have a clear run at Alex. Did he know about that? Yes, of course he did. They’d cooked it up together—“Let’s see if she takes the bait.” The wickedness threatened to overwhelm me as I hunched over the wheel, my head down in my neck, because—yes, my overriding emotion now was fury. I could feel it surging up inside me, oozing over the deep gashes in my heart, flooding me to the core.

  And yet, still I hadn’t thought about Alex. Hadn’t considered his part in this treachery. Well, I’d dismissed him, I realised with a start. Dismissed my husband. What he’d done was so irredeemably dishonest, so disgusting, I’d mentally washed my hands of him. He hadn’t been a teensy bit naughty with Old Lover Eleanor—let’s face it, I’ve bonked her before so perhaps I’ll get it past the wife—no, he’d picked Kate. Taken Kate to bed, caressed Kate’s—no, don’t go there, Imo. I exhaled shakily. There was no decision to be made, no—should I forgive him? Keep the family together? It was a clear, unequivocal no. Our relationship had been hanging by a thread, and now that it had snapped, now that I’d finally plummeted to the dark waters below, the ones I’d dreaded, I was finding them surprisingly buoyant. I wasn’t drowning. My head was above water.

  But my guts wrenched when I thought of Rufus. When I thought of him not having a mummy and a daddy who lived together, of just having me. And Alex—well, when he could fit Rufus in, I supposed. Around all his other commitments. His other children. Oh, he’d be pleased to see him when he was older, I’m sure, when Rufus was tall and good-looking, take him to his club and say, “Have you met my son?” Put an arm round his shoulders as he introduced him, as if he’d played a major part in his moulding, his shaping. I changed lanes to let a Porsche go past. And, after all, he didn’t see much of Lucy and Miranda, did he? That didn’t appear to break his heart. And he and Rufus had never been particularly close…I caught my breath. Not particularly close? A man who wasn’t close to his children? Was this really who I’d married? How could I? Where was my judgement? Why, against all the evidence, had I done it?

  But I knew why. Because, in a secret, shameful corner of my heart, I’d believed it must be her fault. Tilly’s. Believed she’d gone wrong somewhere. Handled it badly. But I’d do it differently. Better. Be a better wife. He loved me differently too. Loved me more. He’d said he did. I filled my lungs shakily. Let it out huskily. Oh, Imogen. The scales were falling from my eyes with such a resounding clatter I was in danger of being deafened as they hit the dashboard. What had I seen in him? This wicked man? No, I struggled with the truth, not a wicked man, a weak man; a man who was easily swayed, who couldn’t help himself, who wafted this way and that, as if blown by the scarves of beautiful women, like the one around Kate’s neck. I realised I hadn’t even formally ended it with him—he hadn’t exactly begged me to stay—that I’d walked out on Kate, not Alex; thrown the ring at her, not him; told her it was over. But there was no need. In my bones I’d known it was over long ago. I’d known his heart didn’t belong to me, that it belonged to someone else. I’d just got the wrong girl. Details.

  When I got back to the cottage I went to the sideboard and swallowed two mouthfuls of whisky straight from the bottle, tipping my head right back. I’d never done that before and I’ve never done it since. As I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, I realised the answer machine was flashing. It was Hannah.

  “I presume you’d like us to keep Rufus for the night. You left in such a rush you didn’t quite clarify that. Anyway, he’s asleep now, and Eddie will take him to school in the morning. Hope the play was fun! Lots of love.”

  I mounted the stairs, alone in the quiet house. I stopped, halfway up. And he’d never come back here—Alex, I mean. I’d never live in this house, or any other house for that matter, with him, my husband, ever again. Never hear his key in the door, his footsteps in the hallway. I waited for this to devastate me, for my heart to plummet, sobs to rack me. But…it was an oddly liberating feeling. I went on up to the landing. It meant Rufus and I could live where we liked. We could even go back to London if we wanted, although, “No, Mummy, here,” was what I knew Rufus would say firmly. He loved it so, we both did, I thought in surprise. We’d made it our home. So, if not in this cottage, then around here somewhere.

  I undressed and got into bed thinking, now, now I’ll cry. Now it’ll hit me and the tears will fall, soaking my pillow, but I just lay there, listening to the quiet outside, the night owls calling to each other. I hoped they called to each other like that all night, because I certainly wouldn’t sleep. I needed some company on what was bound to be a very dark night of the soul. Morpheus combined with the Scotch, though, had other ideas, and before long I was being easily led down the long dark passages of sleep, to oblivion.

  The next few days passed in something of a blur. I kept waiting to be shattered. I felt as if I were holding my breath, that any minute now I’d drop the scoop of chicken feed, or my paintbrush, and raise shaking hands to the heavens, wail with anguish like Middle Eastern women do, and fall prostrate to the ground. It’s true I didn’t walk so tall; tottered, rather than strode around our smallholding, and it’s true too, that eventually, I did weep. But quietly. Silent tears slipping unexpectedly down my face as I washed up, or read the paper. Nothing violent. Nothing prostrate. I felt the cold a lot too; lit a fire in the evenings and sat by it, staring into it, no television, wrapped in huge cardigans. By day I painted, but my paintings were darker, I noticed, more sombre, less vibrant. But quite good too. Yes, I painted, I looked after my child, I even ate, albeit erratically. The world, I discovered, had an extraordinary habit of turning, irrespective of personal fortunes, and I turned with it.

  A weekend slipped by. On the Monday, Rufus went to school as usual and I went to pick him up as usual, chatting to the mothers at the school gates—no headscarf, although I did keep my sunglasses on. As I drove him home that afternoon, it occurred to me that since he hadn’t mentioned his father, hadn’t asked where he’d been this last weekend, I could just never mention it. Just carry on as usual, and then, one day when he did say, “Where’s Daddy?” I could say, “Daddy? Oh, Daddy. Well, we’ve sort of decided it’s better if he lives in London for a bit. Because of his work. See how it goes.” Yes, I could just let it drift. But that would be cowardly, and actually, there were enough cowards in this family.

  That afternoon, I made him a Nutella sandwich and sat down with him at the kitchen table. I started my preamble with the usual claptrap about not all mummies and daddies being able to get on well for ever because people grew apart and sometimes stopped loving each other and blah blah blah and just as I’d got to the bit about it being better, sometimes, for mummies and daddies to split up, even get a divorce, he said, “Is it because of Kate?”

  The saliva dried in my mouth. “What?”

  “Is that why you’re splitting up, because of Daddy and Kate?”

  I stared. “What do you know about that?”

  “I saw them kissing in Orlando’s back garden.”

  “You did?” I gasped. “When?”

  “At Orlando’s birthday. You know, the one he had in the conservatory with the funny man. Magic Malcolm.”

  I thought back feverishly. Yes, and I’d come ac
ross the road with Alex to help Kate and the nanny deal with twenty overexcited children, pour orange squash, hand out sandwiches. But that hadn’t been Orlando’s last birthday party, because last year he’d gone to the Planetarium. That had been his birthday two years ago.

  “I needed a pee,” Rufus said, “and someone was in the downstairs loo, so I ran outside to the bushes. They were kissing down by the rabbit hutch in the orchard, but they didn’t see me.”

  Whilst Magic Malcolm was entertaining the children. Entertaining me too. I remembered laughing with Sandra at the back of the room, as he pulled hankies from his trouser legs, did his tricks. Meanwhile, Alex and Kate were turning theirs…

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because I thought you’d be upset,” he said simply, brown eyes large.

  I gulped. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I would.”

  “And then I thought, maybe it was nothing. But I kept seeing little things after that. The way they looked at each other, and the way Daddy kept his hand on Kate’s waist when he kissed her hello.”

  I stood up quickly. My son had known. My nine-year-old son. Seven, at the time.

  “And you didn’t say anything to Daddy?”

  He frowned. “Like what?”

  Yes, like what? Watch out or I’m telling Mummy? But he’d been cool towards him, towards his father, hadn’t he? I’d seen it. Alex, I was sure, had noticed it, and at the time, I’d been cross with Rufus. “Daddy would so love you to enjoy rugby, to watch it with him on the telly.” A shrug. “So? I just don’t.” “Daddy’s coming to see your nativity play!” “He doesn’t have to, I’m only a shepherd.”

  And I’d been upset for Alex. But all the time, my poor boy had been suffering, and I hadn’t known. I bent to hug him. He didn’t burst into tears, but he did lay his head on my shoulder.

  “I’m glad you know,” he said, in a small voice into my neck. “That was the worst bit. You not knowing. You thinking he loved us.”

  I drew back. Held his shoulders. “He does love you, Rufus. This has nothing whatever to do with you. It’s me he stopped loving.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  My heart began to beat fast. And not for Alex’s sake, for Rufus’s. I had to mend bridges here, had to let Rufus know he still had a father. I kept hold of his shoulders, looked into his eyes.

  “Rufus, Daddy loves you very much. It’s me he’s leaving, not you.”

  He picked up a stick he’d been whittling for a while and his Nutella sandwich, slipped off his chair, and made to go outside. He turned at the door and gave me a wise look.

  “Actually, Mum, I prefer to think we’re leaving him.”

  And then he headed out for the barn.

  ***

  The following afternoon, when Rufus was at school, I went to see Piers and Eleanor. I badly wanted to stay in the cottage, as I knew Rufus did, but they needed to know the score. After all, it was Alex who was their friend, Alex who’d been invited to live on their estate. I was also aware that the rent was due soon and since I didn’t have a bean and had spent all the painting money settling my debts, I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to pay it. Would Alex carry on forking out even though he wasn’t living here? Unlikely, I thought uneasily as I rang the bell. If I’d had a cap, I’d have put it in my hand.

  Eleanor wasn’t there, and Vera took me through to see Piers in his study. Now I really did feel like a forelock-tugging tenant, I thought, as I went in and saw him sitting at his desk in his tweed jacket, half-moon glasses perched on his nose. He did stand up, though, and give me a kiss, before waving me into a chair on the other side of his leather-topped desk. I outlined the situation in the baldest terms and asked if it would be possible for Rufus and me to continue living in the cottage.

  Piers took his glasses off. He pushed his chair back, got up from his desk and turned to look out of the long Georgian window behind him. His hands were in his pockets, his profile to me. He looked tired. Old, even.

  “You and Alex are going to separate?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s leaving you?”

  I smiled. “That…hasn’t been discussed yet, believe it or not.”

  It hadn’t. I’d just left, that night at Kate’s, and thus far, I’d had no contact with him. He hadn’t rung me, written to me, attempted to discuss Rufus with me. Did it surprise me? No. Not really. I think he was waiting for me to make the first move.

  “But as far as I’m concerned he’s never coming back. I’ll change the locks if I have to.”

  Yes. Yes, I would. And even if Kate stayed with Sebastian, I still wouldn’t want him. I found this thought remarkably cheering. Perhaps Rufus was right, perhaps I was leaving him, after all.

  “And I know you and Eleanor are very fond of him,” I rushed on, “and that it was he you invited to live here at a peppercorn rent, so I just want you to know—well, you need to know—that the situation’s changed.”

  He nodded. “But then I’m sure you’ll know that my situation has changed too.”

  I took a deep breath. “Ah. I’d wondered.”

  “Eleanor’s gone. She went last Friday. She’s living with Daniel Hunter.” A muscle went in his face, betraying him.

  “I’m sorry, Piers.”

  He didn’t reply for a while. Stayed staring out of the window at his rose garden, working his mouth a bit, jutting his chin for composure. Then: “I always knew she would, actually,” he said in a low voice. “Knew in my heart I wouldn’t keep her.”

  I blanched with recognition. “That’s…rather how I felt about Alex. But never really admitted it.”

  “No, you don’t. You can’t believe your luck when you marry someone like that. Or when someone like that marries you. Just thank your lucky stars and hope it will continue. Hope it’s for ever. But Eleanor was always discontented with me.”

  “Was she? Why?” I knew I was being disingenuous, but it would be rude not to.

  He turned from the window to face me. Smiled sadly. “I’m a dull chap, Imogen. Set in my ways, wedded to this house.”

  “Yes, but Eleanor loved this house, didn’t she?” I said, confining myself to the latter part of his remark.

  “She did. Too much, initially. And my bank balance. But that’s never enough, is it? As my mother always says, if you marry money, you pay for it. She should know too. But luckily for her, my father died relatively young.”

  Right. Which was clearly a good thing. Blimey. The family skeletons were clattering out of the closet now, weren’t they?

  “People think it’s an asset, a house like this, lord of the manor and all that, but it’s a bit of a poisoned chalice, actually,” he said ruefully. “Women don’t see me at all, just the trimmings.”

  “Rather like Alex,” I said suddenly.

  He frowned. “How d’you mean?”

  “He’s almost too handsome for his own good. Women fall for it too easily. But actually, there’s not much substance to back it up. I don’t mean like you,” I said quickly. I didn’t. I was warming to Piers. He didn’t seem quite so arrogant and aloof today.

  “I’ve always been rather scared of you, Imogen.”

  “Me?” I yelped.

  “Yes. You and Alex were such a glamorous London couple, and you’re so clever and talented. I thought you looked down on us rough country folk.”

  “But I thought you looked down on me for being common!”

  “Common?”

  “Well, you know, my family and everything.” I blushed.

  “Oh, I think they’re great fun. Your father’s a hoot and your mother’s frightfully amusing. My father was a turkey farmer, you know. A self-made man.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Blimey, that closet door just wouldn’t stay shut, would it? “I thought he was Sir Somebody-something?”

  “He was. G
ot knighted for services to food and industry. Started the trend for reconstituted poultry. Probably get his head chopped off now—Turkey Twizzlers, and all that.”

  “Right.” I looked at him with new eyes. So, all this, via trade, and in only two generations. Three, counting his children. His children. I almost daren’t ask.

  “Are the children…? I mean, is Eleanor…?”

  “They’re staying here,” he said, meeting my eye. “Eleanor agreed to that. Obviously she’ll have them in the holidays, but she and the teacher man are moving to Shropshire. He’s got a job up there, you know.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “And the children don’t want to go. Can’t say I blame them. We gave them the choice, you see. All frightfully civilised.”

  “And they chose you.”

  “Yes.” He blinked, surprised. “They chose me. Well,” he countered, “they chose their home.”

  “Yes, but with you in it. That’s quite a vote of confidence, Piers. Even Theo?”

  “Even Theo.”

  I breathed in sharply. Heavens. Quite something when an eleven-year-old chooses to live without his mother. So she’d gone without any of them. She’d said she didn’t want to lose them, but she had. I wondered how that had felt. It didn’t bear thinking about. And yet, still she’d gone. I wondered if the children had been told about the baby. Wondered if Piers knew.

  “I knew she was pregnant long before she told me,” he said quietly, reading my face. “You don’t live with someone for fifteen years and have four children and not know things like that. Not notice she’s gone off coffee and eased off the wine and that her periods have stopped—what does she take me for?”

  “And yet you never said anything?”

  “No, I never said anything.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled. “Because I had a vain, foolish hope that it might be mine. I am married to her, after all,” he reminded me, sadly.

  “Yes, of course.”

  We looked at one another, and it seemed to me we’d learned more about each other in the last five minutes than we had in all the years we’d known each other. And I liked what I saw.