My Husband Next Door

by Catherine Alliott

  So this was it, then, I thought, as Sebastian and I stood facing each other in the yard. The end of an eighteen-year-old marriage. It seemed to rocket past like a high-speed train, each carriage blurred but full, breathtaking in its intensity and ferocity, but in its love, too. I felt rocked as I was left there on the station. Faint. I believe I might have physically swayed with emotion as I stood before my tall, inscrutable, hooded-eyed husband, soon to be my ex-husband, with papers to sign, nisi to decree. I wondered if he felt the profundity of the moment, too, as he regarded me with that level stare of his. Something registered, I was sure, behind the eyes, before he brusquely turned away.

  That was some days ago, as I say. Since then, the children and I had cohabited ostensibly as normal, but it had felt strained. Josh hadn’t gone, which had surprised me. After all, I hadn’t quibbled about him defecting. But I didn’t like to mention it. Perhaps he’d decided to see the term out and go after Christmas? Perhaps he didn’t like to leave Tabs alone with the mad woman? I didn’t ask. We became polite with one another, the three of us. A desperate – after you – situation developed if we met each other on the threshold of the only bathroom in the house. Over-bright smiles were exchanged and it occurred to me I’d won something of a Pyrrhic victory. My house was full of the children I’d demanded, but their hearts were elsewhere. Everything I touched turned to loneliness. The more I tried to engage them at the gastronomically laden supper table, the more polite and uncomfortable they became. Their days had been good. Lessons had been OK. Yes, they’d done some sport. Hockey. No, they wouldn’t have another piece of home-made blueberry cheesecake, thank you.

  Historically Josh and I would watch the ten o’clock news together and then Newsnight, debating hotly throughout. (We both regarded the television as a two-way medium.) Josh mocked anything vaguely right wing or establishment, supporting all revolutionaries or minority groups. It forced me into a more reactionary position than was natural – although I noticed I’d got much more conservative as I got older – and although it could get quite heated, it was all fairly tongue-in-cheek and amicable. Those days were gone now, I thought, turning the television off at ten thirty before the local news and climbing the stairs to bed.

  All of which had brought me to the car park at the Bunch of Grapes. No, no qualms at all, I thought, getting out of the car and slamming the door. I crossed the gravel drive briskly, head down, shoulder bag clamped to my side. As I breezed through the oak-beamed reception, bestowing a bright smile on the girl at the desk, I ignored my heart, which was pounding. Through the glazed door I saw Ludo, already in the bar, on a bum warmer by the fire and reading a newspaper. I raised my hand in greeting. I had had qualms, years of them, but any niggling residual ones melted away at the sight of him. Satisfyingly tall and blond – he still had all his hair, thank goodness – with no visible sign of a paunch, he was a good-looking man. It helped that I saw a couple of middle-aged women having lunch in the window turn to look as I approached, pausing in their spritzers, clearly interested to see who he was meeting. He stood up to greet me with a smile, tucking the paper away, and I’d like to think I saw appreciation on his face too, because of course I’d tried. My hair was not tangled and hastily tucked behind my ears as it was in the vegetable patch; it was freshly washed with a few highlights. And despite the feasts I’d been cooking for the children this week, I’d kept away from the calories myself – more through unhappiness than design, it has to be said. I still had a good way to go, but I knew that the black jeans and tunic-style top I’d bought for the occasion were at least not too adhesive.

  We sat and had a drink, and then we took the only available table, which happened to be next to the two women in the window, and ordered lunch. I couldn’t touch it but Ludo ate and it was fine. Really it was fine. I told him about the terrible week I’d had because I couldn’t not. It all came tumbling out. And he was sweet about it. Made me feel better. He frowned over his soup and said he couldn’t imagine what the children were doing suggesting they move out; he was sure they’d regretted it the moment they’d said it. Sebastian, too, must have known it was a bridge too far and that was why they’d stayed. It was an impulsive decision and they’d all had second thoughts. I think we both knew he was lying and that the children had had eons of time to think, and the only reason they were staying was not because they regretted it, but so as not to upset me. But the catch in my voice and the wild look in my eye said: Be my friend, Ludo. And, as ever, he was. I knew that later we might revisit this topic. And he might gently ask me to reconsider. To see the situation through the children’s eyes, and also, even more gently, put his point of view as a father. But for the moment, seeing that I was raw, bright-eyed, gulping down my gin and fiddling with a bracelet which was making the psoriasis I was prone to occasionally flare up on my arm, he was kind. Sympathetic.

  ‘It’ll settle down, you’ll see. And then some sort of compromise could be reached, perhaps. A few days here, a few there? Maybe half the week with each of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I faltered miserably.

  ‘And maybe, if you suggest that, they’ll be generous. You know what it’s like if you drop the reins with children. They generally respond well. Rush to meet you.’

  I nodded into my lap, ashamed. He agreed with Sebastian. He reached under the table and covered my hand in my lap.

  ‘I’m not taking the Fathers for Justice side,’ he said softly. ‘I’m just trying to think of them. As if it were Henrietta and Chloe.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said in a low voice. ‘It was just … such a terrible shock, Ludo.’

  ‘Of course it was. And badly handled by everyone. But then … there’s no easy way to handle these things,’ he said sadly.

  Normally I would have asked him then about his own children. About Eliza. But I realized I was party to something he wasn’t. Something Lottie had told me. And I couldn’t possibly be the one to tell Ludo. It did occur to me, though, that recently, when I asked whether he ever wondered if leading such separate lives could lead to Eliza conducting her own, he hadn’t dismissed it out of hand. Had even grudgingly admitted the possibility; had alluded to her going to London to see some friend more than was strictly necessary. So perhaps he knew, after all.

  One gin and tonic led to another. I managed to share the cheese and biscuits he was having after his steak, but that was it. The women beside us had finished their salad long ago but were lingering, gripped, as Lottie and I would be, too, I thought, in similar circumstances. Ludo occasionally put his hand on my knee and was holding my hand under the table again. I saw the one in the pink cashmere jumper lean forward and whisper something in her friend’s ear. Her friend with the pearls widened her eyes in agreement and nodded. I didn’t care. I knew they knew he wasn’t my husband, but I didn’t care. I’d turned my phone off, too. It would be just like my family to decide that this was the day they did need me. For Josh to ring and ask if I could take his rugby kit in – despite his artistic leanings he was startlingly fast on the wing. Or for Tabs to fall out with her best friend and decide only her mother’s ear would do at lunchtime. Oh, they could all revert to type at the drop of a hat, as could I. Become the dropper of whatever I was doing and picker up of everything else.

  ‘OK?’ asked Ludo, as we drained our drinks.

  I nodded, and in the avid and fairly open stare of the women – one of them was having a hot flush in all the excitement, going the colour of her cashmere – we gathered our belongings and retired. To where? I wondered wildly as we threaded our way through the crowded room. Upstairs already? Had he booked the room for the entire afternoon? The handle of my bag felt sweaty in my hand. What was a dirty weekend? Was it dirty all the time? Or just in patches?

  ‘I thought we’d take a wander down by the river,’ Ludo told me easily, as he held the bar door open for me. He paused at the coat stand in reception to retrieve an attractively battered corduroy jacket. ‘Binfield’s only a ten-minute walk away and there are some lovely book
shops there. We could browse around for a bit. Take in an art gallery or two.’

  ‘Oh – heaven!’ I agreed, relieved.

  ‘And then – and this might not be your cup of tea – but there’s this tiny little picture house at the far end of town. It shows old black-and-white movies. Things like Brief Encounter and From Here to Eternity. I thought we could snooze in front of one of those and then walk back under the stars. I’ve booked a table in the dining room for eight.’

  ‘Oh, Ludo, perfect! Yes, that would be absolutely lovely.’

  It really would, I thought, and I should do things like this more often, I determined as we went through reception. Except of course, obviously I should be doing it with Lottie, like the two women in the bar. Having a trip away from their husbands and children, no doubt. But my trip only varied in one tiny respect, I thought, slightly drunkenly, as we made a detour to deliver my bag from the car to the double bedroom upstairs. I gazed at the floral counterpane on the pretty four-poster. Only one respect. Other than that, I thought, going a bit boss-eyed as I sailed downstairs full of gin and bravado – I caught my heel in the rail of the stair carpet on the way down and had to steady myself on the banister – it was really exactly the same. Exactly the same.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The river walk was lovely. The little town of Binfield was lovely too, delightful at any time of year, but particularly this one. The mellow, treacle-coloured Warwickshire houses seemed to lend themselves to the bosky mists and secrecy of autumn with their dark, hooded windows and cheerful lamplight within. It was like stepping into a Dickens novel, I decided, as we gazed through mullioned windows at pricey antiques, mingling with other tourists. We went in and enquired about the pretty Georgian card table in the window, for all the world like a proper couple, and then giggled as we left, on being told it was £5,000.

  ‘We’ll take two, shall we?’ murmured Ludo as we shut the door behind us, little bell tinkling.

  ‘Crazy not to.’

  On the pavement outside was a clutch of upmarket garden statues, amongst them an extraordinary pair of stone warthogs, at least six feet tall, destined, presumably, for a castle.

  ‘Are you all right for these?’ Ludo asked me casually, pausing to pick up the price tag.

  ‘Well, you can never have too many, can you?’ I replied breezily as I read it: £8,000. ‘Especially when they’re such a snip. Either side of the drawbridge, d’you think?’

  ‘Oh, no, darling. I think we want them in the minstrel’s gallery, where everyone can see them.’

  We laughed and sailed on down the high street, arm in arm. Yes, arm in arm. Quite brazen, really, but then Binfield was a good couple of hours away from home and I didn’t know anyone smart enough to live here. Except … Shit. Wasn’t that one of Tabitha’s teachers? It wasn’t, of course, but I dropped Ludo’s arm hurriedly, nonetheless.

  In the little bookshop we browsed happily and separately for a good ten minutes. It appeared to be empty, no staff even: a trusting community, clearly. I managed to read at least the first chapter of the new Jilly Cooper whilst Ludo got stuck into some serious horticulture in the gardening section in the adjoining room. From my vantage point round the corner I was also sneaking the odd surreptitious glance over the pages of my book at him, enjoying the fact he was unaware. Impossibly boyish, he was leaning aesthetically on the bookshelves as he read, one long, lean leg slightly cocked as he paused occasionally to rake a hand through his hair when it flopped into his eyes. Yum.

  ‘Can I help you?’ An attractive, middle-aged woman, who’d appeared, presumably from a back room or the loo, obviously thought he was good news too. Having not seen us come in together, she was advancing flirtatiously, giving Ludo a full-on, pussy-cat smile. ‘Oh, that’s frightfully good. It’s his new one. But then I find Alan Titchmarsh is always terribly reliable, isn’t he?’ She licked lipstick from her teeth and batted her eyelids wantonly. ‘A very reassuring man to have at one’s bedside.’

  ‘I believe he is.’ Ludo smiled. I saw her bask in his twinkly glow. She straightened her tight sweater over her ample bosom.

  ‘But if you want something a little more cerebral, which I’m sure you do –’ flutter flutter – ‘might I suggest Rosemary Verey? She used to live around here, you know. Had a fabulous garden at Bibery.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did know. I did some work in her garden once.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ She settled in, fascinated, leaning against the bookshelves beside him, folding her arms so her bust went up a bit. I saw her tuck her tummy in, too. ‘You’re a garden designer?’

  ‘Well, I’m a gardener.’ Ludo caught my eye over her head.

  ‘I keep meaning to go. I’ve seen loads of pictures, of course, and one does just salivate. All those lilies and azaleas and the colour schemes. Is it divine?’

  ‘It is,’ he said, amused. ‘Darling, are you nearly ready?’

  ‘Just coming,’ I said lightly. I snapped Jilly shut with a grin. ‘I might get this, though.’

  I took the book to the counter and, as I did, our assistant hastened behind it, flustered now. Blushing, she got very busy with the debit-card machine, giving it her undivided attention, plainly deeply embarrassed. She popped my book in a bag as quickly as she could and gave me back my card without meeting my eye.

  ‘She salivates,’ I told Ludo when we were safely out of the shop, ‘not at Mrs Verey’s garden, but at something else.’

  He threw back his head and laughed, but he didn’t deny it, and the exchange, I felt, had been interesting. It wasn’t just me, then. Who found him so attractive. I mean, obviously I already knew that. Ginnie had told me often about how her friends employed him not only for his green fingers but for the colour he brought to their back gardens as he leaned languidly on his hoe, tousled hair ruffling in the breeze, smiling amongst the hollyhocks as his employer approached with a cup of tea, lipstick freshly applied. But I’d never actually seen him in action. Not that he’d been in any sort of action just then; he’d simply been on the receiving end of a charm offensive. But he couldn’t be immune to it, surely? Or perhaps he was? Perhaps, if one was devastatingly good-looking, one naturally assumed the whole world trooped up the garden path smiling and bearing home-made chocolate brownies. Doors opened, everyone was pleasant, that was the way the world turned. I relaxed my facial muscles, trying not to frown. Straightened my shoulders and pulled in my own tummy as we walked down the street.

  ‘Penny for them?’ he asked, smiling.

  I shook my head, lifting the corners of my mouth. ‘I was only thinking, I’ve just bought a book which I have every reason to believe will already be on Tabitha’s bookshelf!’

  He stopped. ‘Take it back?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said gaily, striding on. ‘I can always give it to Ginnie for Christmas.’

  Back at the hotel we sipped tea in the cosy bar, and since the whole place was full of squashy sofas and roaring fires, I slipped off my shoes and curled up. After the bookshop we’d had a relaxing couple of hours in the old cinema – or picture house as it liked to call itself – on the edge of town. There we’d watched the sweetly pretty Celia Johnson have a heart-wrenching time of it with suave, debonair Trevor Howard. But it hadn’t perhaps been the ideal film for us – because, of course, once they’d hopped on and off dozens of trains and exchanged feverish stares over endless cups of tea in the steamy railway café, sweetly pretty Celia goes back to her rather dull but innocent husband who utters something knowing like: ‘You’ve been away a long time, darling. But I’m glad you’re back.’ Then the credits rolled. So, no, not ideal. We’d emerged pensive. Thinking about Doing The Right Thing. Duty first. Making a decent fist of it, as they did in the fifties. But then, I reasoned, as we walked quietly back to the hotel, my husband was neither dull nor innocent. He was tempestuous and unpredictable and he’d had an affair, for heaven’s sake. With the saucy Isobel. And what’s more, he was divorcing me. What would Celia think about that? Might she not be frogmarch
ing Trevor out of the steamy café and down the road to the nearest B&B? Tossing her prim little hat into a suburban front garden as she went, mentally shimmying out of her girdle and telling Trevor, in clipped little staccato sentences, exactly what she planned to do with him when she got him inside? Of course she would.

  As we sipped our Earl Grey in the bar, dusk settled without. The night crept up to the windows, shrouding from view the trees opposite, dulling the silver shimmer of the river in the distance. It occurred to me that what I really wanted to do was have a little lie-down, possibly take an aspirin, and then have a bath before getting dressed for the evening. But that was quite tricky, wasn’t it? How could I take a bath with Ludo around? But then, it shouldn’t be tricky. Because later on we’d be … you know. But that would all be so much easier after a romantic dinner à deux and lashings of wine. Swilling with tea and with a slight hangover from the lunchtime gins was no good at all. Happily Ludo seemed alive to everything.

  ‘Right,’ he said, glancing at his watch and folding in half the Telegraph he’d been reading. He tucked it away and got to his feet. ‘This is where I love you and leave you, I’m afraid.’

  I looked up, astonished.

  ‘Didn’t I say? I’ve got a prospective client round the corner. She wants me to talk through the drawings I’ve done for a knot garden with her husband when he gets home from work. Which will be,’ he shot up his sleeve to reveal his watch, ‘about now. I won’t be gone long, my love, but it’ll give you a chance to have a leisurely soak. Maybe even forty winks?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, relieved. And, actually, it did ring a big bell. ‘Do you know, I think you did say, but so much has been going on … Oh, well, that’s great.’ It was. I gave a ravishing smile, forgetting about the headache. ‘I’ll see you later, then. Whereabouts are they?’