by Susan Lewis
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
She looked at him curiously.
He smiled. “I love you.”
“Oh Nick,” she cried, putting her arms round him. “And I love you. I love you.”
“Come along,” he said, and pulling her inside he closed the door.
THIRTY-THREE
The table was laid, now all that was needed was for the candles to be lit. Linda looked around for the matches, and found them on the sideboard. As she picked them up she stopped a moment, and looked down at the photograph sitting beside them. It was the one that had always been on the window sill in their bedroom. She had moved it this morning, and put it where it was now. Strange, she mused, how a photograph can sit, hardly noticed for so many years, and then suddenly it can come to life again, willing you to relive the memory of the day it has captured. She hoped that Bob would remember too.
She went back to the table, and leaned across to light the candles. Then she turned down the lights. It had been so long since they had used the dining room. So long, since the days when many people had come to stay.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, looked away quickly and went to walk on. Then she changed her mind and turned back to it again. She had had her hair done that day at the hairdresser’s in the village. She studied it critically, then twisted the stray wisps that had fallen from the knot on top of her head and were now curling round her neck. In the warm, rosy hue of the candles her complexion looked good, and she knew, or at least hoped, that she looked younger than her thirty-eight years. She tidied the white collar of her black dress, and rearranged the diamond pin at her throat. It was the one Bob had given her on their wedding anniversary last year.
She turned away from the mirror and tried to stop her mind going back over the years, wondering where she had gone wrong, wondering what she might have done to make things different. She didn’t want to think about that now. She must concentrate now on how she was going to keep him. On what she was going to say when he told her he was leaving. For there was no point in fooling herself any longer, she had sensed, in the last few weeks, that things were coming to a head, and she had known, ever since she had got out of bed this morning, that tonight he would tell her he was leaving her.
She shuddered inwardly, but fought to stay calm. Whatever she did, she must remain calm. In her worst moments she had wondered if she could carry on, but her mother-in-law did everything she could to keep her going. Dear Violet. Dear, dear Violet. She had never broken her confidence and told her son that Linda knew there was someone else. She had agreed to let Linda work it out in her own way, and Linda wondered now, what she would ever have done without Violet to talk to in these last weeks.
But now, tonight, it was up to her. She felt that awful sickening feeling that had kept coming over her all day. It had been so many years since she had felt like that, it was almost like being a teenager again, except now the stakes were so much higher.
“I say,” said Bob, making her jump, “what’s going on here?” He was standing at the door, smiling, and she smiled too.
“Have I forgotten something?” he said, looking at the candlelit table and silver cutlery, only brought out for special occasions.
“No,” she answered, going over to him. “No, I just thought that we could have a nice quiet dinner together. Just the two of us.” She didn’t add that she was afraid it would be the last. She put her arms round his neck, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He returned her embrace, and then held her at arm’s length.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said. He was behaving so naturally, she couldn’t bear to think that it all meant nothing to him. She had no way of knowing that when he looked at her, he felt as though a knife had been thrust into his heart. “If you open some wine,” she said, turning away, “I’ll go and see how things are coming along in the kitchen.”
When she had gone, Bob picked up the bottle of wine from the table and opened it. He filled the two glasses, but only picked up his own. He knew he should take one to her, but he couldn’t.
Why, oh why, tonight of all nights, was she being like this? So warm, so affectionate, and looking lovelier than he had seen her for a long time. How in God’s name was he to tell her?
He sat down and took a sip of his wine. He looked around the room, and thought of how many happy hours they had spent here. Whether together, just the two of them, or with other people around. His eye fell on the photograph she had left on the sideboard, and he looked at it, remembering the day they were married, how happy they had been. Even after being together for so long before the wedding, it had truly been the happiest day of their lives. And there, on that photograph, they looked so much in love.
He looked away. What had happened to them? Why had things come to this? It was all his own doing, but that made it no easier to bear. Why the hell did it have to be like this? Why the hell did he have to hurt anyone? And how could he stand to see her face when he told her?
He picked up a knife, and began playing with it. His nerves were so taut he felt they might snap any minute. And if anyone were to ask him now what he truly wanted, he knew in his heart that he would have to answer that he never wanted to leave her. He never wanted to leave all this. Their home, where they had lived together and shared such happiness together. The stables where she kept her horses, and the freshness of each morning, when they rode together, over their own land, and out into the countryside beyond. He could see her now, with the wind in her hair, laughing and teasing him because he couldn’t keep up. And the nights they sat together, as man and wife do, relaxing and reading, or talking, content in each other’s company. How could he give it all up? But he knew he must. He had promised Ellamarie, and he couldn’t let her down, not now.
He heard Linda’s footsteps outside, and quickly pulled himself together. When she came in he was standing beside the table, holding out a glass to her.
She took it from him. “What shall we drink to?”
“To us of course,” he answered, feeling so wretched, he wanted to die. But he smiled, and held his glass to hers.
“To us,” she repeated, and they drank. “Everything’s ready. I’ll bring in the first course.”
She came back carrying two bowls of soup on a tray. She put it down on the table, and placed one of the bowls in front of him.
“Gazpacho,” he said, starting to look up, but he didn’t. It was his favourite, and not for the first time today, he wondered if she knew what was to come.
“I hope you like it,” she said, and wished that they could stop being polite with one another.
Bob almost had to force it down. His appetite had been stolen by guilt and self-hatred.
“Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I do.” He picked his spoon up again. Finally, with a sigh of relief, he pushed the empty bowl away. “More wine?”
“Mm, yes please.”
He refilled the glasses, praying that she wouldn’t notice how his hand shook.
“Are you ready for the next course?”
“Bring it on,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted.
When she brought the poached salmon and put it before him, it was all he could do not to groan. Still, at least it wasn’t Boeuf Wellington, another favourite of his. That he would never be able to manage.
She filled a plate with salad, and handed it to him, then sat down to serve herself. She felt as though she was in the middle of a farce, and that any minute now the audience would applaud and this whole grotesque charade would end. But there was no audience. She looked at his face, and saw the lines around his eyes that had seemed deeper of late, and her heart went out to him in his confusion. It must all be so difficult for him, and he looked so tired, and alone. She wanted to hold him, and tell him that everything would be all right; but maybe she wasn’t the woman he wanted to be held by.
She fought back her tears, and picked up her knife and fork. “Violet r
ang today.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, when you drove into the village.”
“How is she?”
“She’s well. She asked if she could come and stay for a while at the end of the month. She’s got some decorators coming, and doesn’t want to be around when they’re around.”
The end of the month. Dear God, he wouldn’t be here at the end of the month. And in all this he had never thought of his mother. “Well, that’s fine by me. What did you say?”
“I said of course she could. She’s going to drive, she says, so neither of us have to pick her up in London.”
“Drive? All this way?”
“That’s what she says. I tried to persuade her not to, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I’ll speak to her,” he said. “It’s too far for her, at her age. She’s nervous enough on the roads as it is. Maybe I could go and pick her up.” What was he saying? How could he possibly pick her up, he wouldn’t be here?
She looked at him. What was he saying? Did this mean that he wasn’t going to leave? At least, not before the end of the month?
“I think she’d like that, though it’ll still take some persuading, if I know Violet.”
Bob smiled. Of course she knew Violet. Violet was her mother-in-law, and Linda loved her like her own mother. But they could still see one another, when he was gone. He closed his eyes. When he was gone. And the two of them would sit here, in this house that he loved so much, and talk about him, and try to console one another for what he had done to them.
“I think Moonlight’s leg is on the mend. Maybe we could take a ride out in the morning. He could do with the exercise, and I daresay you could too.” Her meagre attempt to inject a little intimacy into their conversation failed, and she looked back at her food. She had hardly touched it, and she noticed that neither had he. “Any news on the Queen of Cornwall?”
“Adrian’s off to New York next week, we’ll know more then.”
“Will you be going with him?”
“Can’t,” he said. “At least, not straightaway. I said I’d speak at the Arts Conference and dinner. Adrian’s a little put out about it, but I can’t let them down. He wants me to fly out and join him after the conference.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t think I have any choice.”
“That sounds as though you don’t want to.”
He shrugged. “I hate all this wheeling and dealing, and begging for money.”
“I thought you liked New York.”
“I do. It’s just that right now I don’t really feel like going.”
She didn’t ask why.
“Anyway,” Bob went on, “Adrian will have Nicholas Gough to hold his hand until I get there.”
“Nicholas Gough? Wasn’t he Sebastian in Twelfth Night?”
Bob nodded. “We’re casting him as Tristram in the Famous Tragedy.”
“Oh.” She took a tiny mouthful of food and pushed it around with her tongue. “Have you found anyone to play the Queen yet?”
She saw the muscles in his face tense and noticed a warm flush creeping around his neck. “Uh, well, we haven’t actually decided yet.” And then she saw the look in his eyes as he turned back to his dinner.
So now she knew who the other woman was. All she needed to find out was her name. But it would make no difference whether she knew or not. In some ways she preferred not to, but something inside pushed her, until finally, despite the other voice that screamed out to her not to ask, she said: “Have you got anyone in mind?”
He put his fork down and picked up his wine. The tremble of his hand was almost indiscernible, but it did not escape her. So she had been right. Whoever the other woman was, she was to play the Queen of Cornwall. And whoever she was, she was going to be a part of his life for quite some time to come. Perhaps, for the rest of his life.
“Did you read about John Hart in the paper today?” she asked, suddenly.
Bob looked at her in surprise, and he knew by the look on her face that she knew.
He put his glass down. “No,” he said wearily, shaking his head. He wondered how long this pretence could go on. And for God’s sake, why did his plate never seem to get any emptier? “No,” he repeated. “What did it say?”
“It seems that he’s been rather a naughty boy. Something to do with the accounts at his firm, but there were no details.”
“I didn’t know John had hit upon hard times,” said Bob.
“Neither did I. Still, we don’t know if it’s true yet.”
“Perhaps I should give him a call. After all, he’s done enough favours for me in the past. Maybe I could help him out.”
“That would be nice,” said Linda. “I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I tried to ring Janice, his wife, today, but there was no reply. I should think the scandal will hit her very hard. You know what a stickler she is for doing things right. And now to have her entire life spread across the pages of some rag, it must be awful for her.”
“Yes,” he said, “it must.” And he looked at her and wondered how she would cope when her whole life was spread across the pages of some rag, which, there was no doubt, it would be. And that was another thing he had never really considered. That he and Ellamarie would hit the headlines he had never doubted, but he had never considered Linda, what it might do to her. Being pestered every day by lurking reporters, having photographers springing out of the bushes every time she took a ride. Her life would be plagued by a bunch of unscrupulous hacks.
Jesus Christ! It was no good. Everything they said had double meanings. They had known one another too long to go on pretending like this.
He pushed his plate away. “I can’t eat any more.”
“Me neither,” she said, and put her knife and fork down.
“I think we should talk, Linda. Can we go and sit down?”
The panic rushed at her with such force that she couldn’t speak. He was going to tell her now. He was going to say that he didn’t love her any more, and that he was going to leave her. She must stop him from speaking. She must speak first.
She followed him into the sitting room, and went to sit in the big armchair beside the fire. He was sitting in the other chair, looking into the flames. She topped up his glass from the bottle she had brought with her, and then leaned back in the chair.
“Bob . . .”
“Linda . . .”
They had spoken at the same time.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No,” she said.
He knew she was looking at him but he couldn’t meet her eyes. “Linda, there’s something I have to tell you. This won’t be easy, but I have to say it.”
“No, don’t,” she whispered, “please don’t say it. Not yet. I don’t think I can take it.”
He shook his head sadly, and watched her as she twisted the strands of loose hair around her fingers.
“Can I say something first?” she said.
He nodded.
She gulped at her wine, and he heard her swallow. Again her fingers were tugging at the loose hair, as she fought to keep control. “I know what you’re going to say, Bob. I’ve known for some time. I don’t want you to think I blame you. As a matter of fact, I don’t blame you at all. I could have tried harder. I know that now, but you always know those things when it’s too late. But I want you to know that I still love you, and that if ever you change your mind, I will be here. And I will wait for you, Bob. I will pray each night that you will come back to me. But seeing the pain you’re in, seeing your eyes each time you look at me, and knowing that you’re seeing her, feeling your hands, whenever you touch me, and knowing that you are thinking of her, well, I know that it can’t go on any longer. I know that I have lost you, and that it’s not me that you love any more. I wish to God that I could turn back the clock, but it’s too late now. And I wanted to make you happy, believe me, I so wanted to make you happy. But in the end I failed. And I don’t blame you. I will never blame you. I only hop
e that she can make you happy, my darling.”
Bob pressed his fingers to his eyes, and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” He reached out for her hand and looked into her face. “I don’t want you to think that I wasn’t happy, because I was. I don’t want to leave you, believe me, I don’t want to leave you. But I have to. Please don’t ask me to explain, but I have to go. And I still love you. That’s what hurts more than anything, I still love you. And to know that you still love me, despite everything I have done, well, I . . . God, if you only knew how much I shall miss you. But it doesn’t help to say it, does it?”
She shook her head, and looked up to the ceiling. He heard her sob, but he couldn’t look at her.
“Do you love her?”
“I won’t lie to you,” he said, “not any more . . .”
“No, don’t say it. I don’t think I could stand it.”
“No.”
For a long time they said nothing. She wanted to ask him when he would go, but she couldn’t. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, but the words just wouldn’t come. Any minute now he would get up from the chair, and he would never sit there again. For a long time to come, she would look at that chair, and think of him, and torture herself with what he might be doing now. Every Friday she would listen for his key in the door. And every time she left the house, she would come back praying that when she turned the corner, his car would be waiting outside. And at night she would think of them together, and wonder if he laughed at all, or if he thought of her at all.
Finally he took a deep breath, and she looked over at him. He looked so tired, and so unhappy, but she could offer him no comfort. He shook his head. “If only you knew. If only you knew how different all this might have been. If only you hadn’t come to the theatre the night you did.”
“So many if onlys.”
“Yes, so many. And now it’s too late.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she put her hands to her face to stem the flow of tears. “I know I shouldn’t do this to you, Bob, I know it won’t change anything, and you won’t stop loving her. But, please, say that you will never regret the night I came to the theatre. Please.”
