A Surrey State of Affairs

by Ceri Radford

  This changed when Ivan eloped with Sophie. Jeffrey said that when he finally tracked them down to their hotel in Notting Hill Gate, Ivan refused to let Sophie go. Jeffrey suspects this was due more to Ivan’s stubborn pride than to any sort of genuine affection. The situation was mortifying. Jeffrey pleaded with them to part. Sophie threatened to stab herself with her new stiletto heels.

  Jeffrey said that he had no choice but to threaten Ivan with informing the police of his dubious business practices. It had the desired effect. Ivan bundled Sophie, who was bewildered and upset, out of the hotel and into Jeffrey’s car, then sauntered away. Jeffrey is convinced that Ivan, in a staggering display of audacity, turned the tables and went to the police to accuse Jeffrey of exactly the sort of crimes that he himself was implicated in. The police even found incriminating documents in the guest room that belonged to Ivan, but helped to keep Jeffrey in his prison cell until the hyena-eagle persuaded them that the evidence was flawed and insufficient. I could barely believe that we had been so close to disaster.

  Despite the shock, I was relieved that Jeffrey had finally decided to open up. It was the longest conversation we had had since he last attempted to explain the rules of cricket to me. I made another cup of tea and sat back down. Jeffrey looked at me with his bloodshot, baleful eyes. He said that his time in his cell had finally given him time to think, alone, without distraction.

  He said that he had cried over Rupert, because he would never see him marrying a pretty girl in a white dress, because he would never get to watch him hold his grandchild.

  He said that it was all his fault that Sophie had run off with Ivan. He said that he felt that he had failed as a father.

  He said he was tired of his job and disillusioned with the endless quest for wealth, the slow accumulation of more and more things that he didn’t need. He said that when he was a boy he read a book about the first European settlers in Latin America, and that he used to dream of galloping across the pampas with the wind in his hair.

  He said that he thought he would rather be a gaucho than a corporate lawyer.

  He said that he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  He said that that included me.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 14

  Jeffrey and I leave tomorrow at 6:25 A.M. for Buenos Aires. We may be gone for some time. I have signed a hasty agreement with the cleaning agency so that Boris will be paid a small retainer to look after the house. Sophie will just have to grow up and look after herself. If she doesn’t, then the combined forces of Harriet, Edward, and Rupert should get her to Bristol for the start of term.

  I have packed sunblock, insect spray, water-purification tablets, a first aid kit, clean needles, a guide to poisonous snakes, E45 cream, a warm hat, sturdy boots, a travel iron, a book of crosswords, a compass, and Bach Rescue Remedy. Jeffrey has packed a lasso. He has not packed his BlackBerry.

  I have considerable reservations about this journey, but it may well be the only chance we get to save our marriage.

  I do hope they have flush lavatories throughout Argentina.

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17

  We are here. Physically, we are safe. Psychologically, I am not so sure. Jeffrey has bought himself a leather cowboy hat, which he insists on wearing at a silly angle that he considers “rakish.”

  We are, at least, staying in the Hilton, which has a very smart bank of computers in the lobby. Jeffrey wanted to find some “scruffy local place, somewhere with character and geckos on the walls,” but frankly I felt I had indulged his midlife crisis quite enough already by hauling myself abruptly into the southern hemisphere. For once, I stood firm, although I did compromise a little by settling for a standard double and not a deluxe.

  Buenos Aires is sprawling, dirty, chaotic, crowded, and suffused with hotheaded Latin spirit. As we took a stroll in the historical Sal Telmo district yesterday we heard the beating of drums, and before we could duck for cover a colorful, clamorous street parade was upon us. Jeffrey attempted to dance, but his lead-footed shuffling bore little resemblance to the lithe elasticity of the Argentinean girls, who were dressed in shorts as tiny as Sophie’s. I hid in a lace shop. The Latin spirit also shows up in the quick temper of Argentinean waiters. Who would have thought that, after twenty-six years, they would still be so tetchy at a passing mention of the Falklands?

  With all the sights and sounds, bustle and business, of the capital, Jeffrey and I have hardly had time to think, or talk, let alone decide anything about the future of our marriage. This will change. In two days we leave for the sierras, and who knows what.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

  I am alone in Argentina. I am alone. Jeffrey has gone.

  If only I hadn’t refused to take a tango lesson with him. If only my attempts to sympathize with his midlife crisis—for such it no doubt is—had not been overpowered by an aversion to kicking my heels about like a Latina strumpet.

  As it is, my refusal to accompany him to a Buenos Aires “milonga” proved the final straw. He has left for the estancia without me. He said he needed time alone. He did not say when—or whether—he wanted me to join him. He has taken his cowboy hat.

  So here I am, alone in front of a glowing computer screen in the lobby of the Hilton, marooned on this marble-clad island of civilization amid the great, seething, dusty unknown. When I think of home—my favorite wicker chair in the conservatory, my daily walk past the village pond—my chest tightens. But I cannot face the long flight back alone. I cannot accept that this is the end.

  9 P.M.

  Feeling stronger after a salade Niçoise from room service with half a bottle of Argentinean white from Mendoza. It was surprisingly good. Over dinner, I watched an American program called Frasier on the gigantic flat-screen TV and found myself laughing; then I remembered where I was and why and I cried. The lobby is full of people on their way out for the evening; women in skirts and heels, men in jackets, children being told off for dipping their fingers in the ornamental fountain. There is an elderly couple in front of me now; they could be Argentinean or perhaps Spanish, both immaculately dressed in cream, with creased, nut-brown skin. Her hair is pure white, scooped back in a chignon held with a tortoiseshell clip. He has stopped and leaned his cane against the wall to help her put her cardigan on. I’ve got to go. I think I’m going to cry again.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20

  I’ve not told anyone at home what has happened. How can I, when I’m not even sure myself? Perhaps Jeffrey will call in the next day or so and he’ll be back to his usual jaunty, unruffled self. I jumped in expectation when my phone bleeped this morning, as I was eating breakfast. It was a text message, which read: Hi Mum, hope yr ok and enjoying Argentina. Have a steak for me! Love Rupert.

  Like the rest of the family, he doesn’t know the real reason for this trip.

  I sat there, alone, in front of a little glass bowl of grapefruit compote and a plate of sausages and tomatoes, and I did not know what to reply. In the end I fell back on: Hello Rupert, weather good, food good, take care, love Mum x.

  It wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t really tell the truth either.

  I wonder if I can make it to the Argentinean national museum and back on my own without getting lost or mugged.

  6 P.M.

  I could, and I did. They have some very beautiful artifacts for such a wild country.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21

  Last night I went to the Hilton bar, alone. I realize that in usual circumstances a woman should not drink by herself, but I think the fact that after thirty-three years of marriage my husband has abandoned me in favor of a herd of cattle should be taken as a mitigating factor. The bar in question is very plush, with dark oak fittings, a sweeping view across the city, and no men in baggy T-shirts eating crisps in dark corners. It is certainly a contrast to The Plucked Pheasant.

  I perched myself delicately on a bar stool, opened my copy of Joanna Trollope’s The Spanish Lover, and waited to be served. When she came over, the barmaid took one loo
k at me—my novel, my white blouse which I had pressed with the traveling iron—and gave me a broad, sympathetic smile. She looked about thirty, with pretty features and one tiny streak of gray in her thick black hair. As she poured a gin and tonic she made small talk, and it was so nice to have a fellow human being to chat with—not that this blog isn’t a great relief too, of course, but sometimes one pines for an actual voice—that I could almost overlook her dreadful lisping accent. I expect I will see her again this evening.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22

  1 A.M.

  readers ive learned a word in spanish and that word is cabrón. Adriana the barmaid says that is what heffrey is and she is right. Cabrón cabrón cabrón cabrón!

  3 P.M.

  I am embarrassed to see my earlier outpouring. Please understand that I am in a situation of peculiar stress. Thirty laps in the hotel pool and an iced Perrier have helped to clear my head.

  Still no text message from Jeffrey. No e-mail, nothing. I could have been run over by a mad Latino driver or trampled to death by a samba street parade for all he knows, or cares. Cabrón.

  I did, however, receive the following:

  yo mo, hope ur havin a wicked time in argentina. has dad fallen off his horse yet?!! lol

  do u have a spare credit card? wanna buy darcy more nutz :)

  luv soph xx

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23

  This morning, with the help of Adriana the barmaid’s map, I made it to the national art gallery and back. On the way, I stopped off to buy Rupert a leather belt and Sophie a purse. Jeffrey would no doubt have tried haggling, but I was happy to accept that such an activity is inimical to an Englishwoman’s soul and hand over five dollars apiece.

  4 P.M.

  Is this it? Is this what it feels like when a marriage is over? Empty, anonymous, dislocated, dizzy, alone? I’m eating well, I’m sleeping well. Every night when I go to bed, I read my book propped up on four plump white pillows and luxuriate in the space.

  Is this it?

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24

  Two e-mails arrived today. The first read:

  Connie,

  Sorry to scarper, old bird. Feel much better up here in the fresh air. Getting a grip on things—including a polo mallet! Think I’m a natural. Next time I try, the horse will be moving!! We’ll talk soon, I promise. Just need to clear the head.

  Hope the Hilton’s okay. The credit card’s in your handbag if you need anything.

  Love,

  Jeffrey

  I did not feel that it merited a reply.

  The second read:

  Dear Constance,

  You are gone, and I don’t know why. Rumor has it that you’re in Colombia. Perhaps you always wanted to go there, and Jeffrey has taken you off on a spontaneous, romantic holiday. But I worry this is not the case. I can’t help but think that Tuscany would be more to your tastes. Constance, if you don’t want to be there, if you have traipsed after that man for no good reason and are regretting it, if you want someone to come and see you and bring you home, just say the word and I will book my flight. (I am presuming Jeffrey did not get his shotgun through security.)

  Love,

  Gerald

  I didn’t reply to that one either.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

  Today is my thirty-fourth wedding anniversary, and the fourth anniversary that Jeffrey has apparently forgotten. My bags are packed. I am not going home. I am not going to find Jeffrey.

  I am going “traveling.”

  Over the course of several evenings, Adriana, who is a native of Patagonia, the mountainous territory in the south, has described the rugged splendor of her country. Her voice is mellow and hypnotic, once you get used to the lisp. After a while I could almost smell the cold, clean wind blowing off the glaciers. I felt a strange yearning. I wanted to go. Why should Jeffrey be the only one to disappear when he feels like it? Why should I languish here, breaking the paper hygienic seal on my own lavatory day after day?

  Because, I know you are thinking, I am not the sort of person to indulge in flights of fancy. Because my feet are firmly on the ground, encased in L. K. Bennett court shoes. Because, to be frank, strange places, strange people, and strange food scare me. And yet Adriana swept all these worries and more away with the quiet determination of a glacier displacing moraine. She wrote down some essential phrases in Spanish, including “No, thank you,” “Yes, please,” “Leave me alone, you son of a she-dog,” and “One steak, medium-well.” I felt light-headed, and free.

  I am taking a taxi to Buenos Aires airport, followed by a short flight to El Calafate. Once there, I have the address written down of a hotel that Adriana assures me is modern, comfortable, and an excellent base for booking a trip to the glaciers.

  Jeffrey tried to call me earlier, and I pressed the BUSY button.

  Hasta luego, amigos.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

  I’ve made it to Hotel Sierra Nevada in El Calafate, and it certainly is not the Hilton. The carpet is threadbare, my room is small, and the walls are flimsy. There is a conspicuous lack of fluffy white pillows. But it will do.

  I shudder to think of the cost, but I called Harriet from my room to check that she had gotten Sophie to Bristol without mishap. Apparently, Sophie had cried when Harriet refused to let her put Fergie in Edward’s Land Rover along with a case of 1998 champagne, but then perked up again when the student union reps greeted her at the halls of residence with a welcome pack containing paracetamol, Red Bull, and a tub of pasta sauce. How different it was in my day, when the best you could hope for was a library card.

  Harriet asked me if Jeffrey and I were enjoying ourselves on our little jaunt, with a sarcastic edge to her voice. I said that we were, very much, thank you, then eased the telephone cable out of the socket while exclaiming loudly about the dreadful foreign phone networks. After that I went to the tourist information office, just a few minutes from my hotel, and booked a trip to the Perito Moreno Glacier for tomorrow. I will be picked up by minibus at eight, then driven up to the mountains and given crampons and a training session before a five-hour trek across the ice. It will make quite a difference from my usual stroll to the village to buy the newspaper. My only regret is that I left my thermal underwear at home.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 27

  I am alive. I have walked on a glacier, and survived. It was “awesome,” in the parlance of the American youths who also took part in the expedition.

  Black rocks reared up into the sky; the cold air scoured my lungs. The ice—twisted and ancient, veined with bitter blue—reminded me of Jeffrey’s heart. I trampled on it.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

  I was woken up early this morning by a phone call from Rupert. It was strange to hear his voice, tinny and distant, as I lay in my narrow little bed with the swirly pink and purple polyester cover, looking out the window at gray peaks and gathering storm clouds.

  “Dad called. He’s worried about you. How come you aren’t with him? What’s going on?”

  I told him he should ask his father that.

  “I did! You know what he’s like. He said he was learning polo and he thought you were holed up in the Hilton. But when I called the hotel they said you left two days ago. I’ve been so worried!”

  I told him that I was in Patagonia and rather enjoying myself.

  “Patagonia?! What about Dad? What’s going on? What are you going to do?”

  “Penguins,” I said, my eye drifting over to the cover of the guidebook by the side of my bed, which I’d picked up from the airport. “I think I’ll go and see the penguins.”

  Then I told him to take care, and pressed the little red button to cut him off.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30

  Readers, I have traveled by bus! Bus! I, who had always agreed with Margaret Thatcher’s view that you were one of life’s failures if you set foot in one of them after the age of twenty-five. It seems that you can’t get anywhere without them here, and that Lady Thatcher’s opinions
are not generally held in high esteem. Fortunately, a friendly French girl at the Sierra Nevada explained how the system worked, and even helped me to buy a ticket. The journey wasn’t nearly as ghastly as I had imagined. I booked the most expensive seat, which reclined to almost business-class flatness and came equipped with a cushion, a curtain, and a box of biscuits. If it wasn’t for the woman next to me snoring, I would have been quite comfortable. Who would have thought that the Argentineans would succeed where National Express (so I am led to believe by occasional sightings on the M25) has failed?

  And so here I am, in a snug hotel in Rawson, with the tang of the Atlantic reaching through to the rather threadbare lobby every time the door opens to let in another group of young men from New Zealand wearing superfluous woolen hats.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 1

  Today I saw penguins, real penguins, honking and waddling in a seething mass of black and white as the wind buffeted the smell of seaweed across the beach. It was like I had walked right through the television screen and into a nature documentary—I almost expected to see David Attenborough hunkering down to explain the feeding patterns of these wonderful creatures, and Jeffrey sitting on a rock scowling at the remote control. The penguins themselves, with their neat little monochrome costumes, clumsy movements, and jovial expressions, reminded me a little of Reginald. The thought made me homesick for a moment, but then I distracted myself by asking a courteous fellow tourist from South Korea to take a photo of me with the camera I’d bought especially for the trip. On the credit card, of course.

  When I got back to the hotel, I sent Sophie a text message to ask how it was going at Bristol. She replied, several hours later, with one word: wikid.

  Then I texted Boris to check that the house was okay, and he replied immediately: All in order, boss.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 2

  Have spent the day walking on the beach and reflecting. Argentina is not entirely what I had expected. In fact, I’m not sure what I did expect, in the sudden whirl of booking our tickets and packing our bags, but I believe it featured dirt, cacti, shacks, and a dearth of civilized things such as breakfast cereal. Instead, I find that even relatively small towns like Rawson have skyscrapers, office workers in suits and ties, neat pavements, cash machines, supermarkets, and pharmacies that glow green and white in the evening. Of course, this pattern is not uniform, and some of the things I had vaguely imagined do indeed crop up. I snagged two cardigans on flowering cacti in the botanical gardens of Buenos Aires. On the bus over here, as soon as we pulled out of the center of El Calafate you could see the buildings deteriorate into ramshackle tower blocks with patchy lighting and groups of boys playing football in dirt clearings.