Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  Unexplained infertility. What a cruel diagnosis. It provided no comfort whatsoever. Because it didn’t actually give you a cut-off point, a reason to give up. It didn’t let you draw a line, so it was entirely up to you to take a deep breath and say ‘enough’ when you couldn’t take it any more: the relentless cycle of hope, expectation and disappointment.

  No wonder that among it all, Charlotte Briggs had got lost. The sweet-faced sparkly eyed girl who found it easy to make friends, and keep them, had slipped away quietly somewhere. Oh, she’d been able to pretend. Charlotte could chat incessantly when called upon, she could get any party started, she made strangers feel at ease, but her heart wasn’t in it. It was a carefully calculated cover-up designed to deflect suspicion. She didn’t want questions or pity, so she’d kept the mask in place. Underneath, she’d been desperate and distraught, engulfed by a terrible sense of claustrophobia as each month slipped by and she realised that her dream was never going to come true.

  She had thrown herself into her work, to give her life momentum and meaning. The consultant had told her to ease up, even take some time off, but the prospect of doing nothing had appalled her. How was sitting staring at the walls supposed to help? Instead, she had doubled her workload, thereby minimising the amount of time free to spend bemoaning her lot. She fell into bed each night exhausted, and slept too deeply to dream of tiny fingers and the sweet, shallow breath of the infant she was yet to conceive. Weekends were spent socialising, preparing for and recovering from cocktail parties, brunches, nights at the opera, days at the races. Corporate freebies, which both she and Ed enjoyed as part of their work, he as a consultant in the incomprehensible but profitable world of spread-betting, she as an interior designer to the filthy rich. Not the merely wealthy footballers and pop-stars and supermodels who peppered the pages of the tabloids, but the silently, stealthily super-rich who had been quietly invading London courtesy of the tax breaks and wanted no publicity, just total discretion.

  Now it was June, six months after they’d decided to stop the IVF, and it must have taken all that time for the hormones and drugs finally to leave her body, for tonight, as she stood in front of the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her true self again. There was a gleam in her eye and a radiance to her skin. Her hair was glossy. She felt . . .

  Happy?

  Perhaps that was too strong a description. But somehow, in the past few weeks, she had moved on. She had come to terms with the fact that she and Ed would probably be childless. She wasn’t ready to consider other options yet. The prospect of adoption brought with it a whole new set of dilemmas and ordeals. If she needed anything it was a break, a chance to enjoy herself again. And that’s what she was going to do. She was tired of putting everything on hold, tired of her mood being dictated by circumstances beyond her control. She was going to grab her life back with both hands.

  In that one moment, she felt as if she could cope again.

  She and Ed met six years previously. One of the senior partners in the firm he worked for was moving his wife and family from New York to London, and wanted the Chelsea town-house they had bought decorated from top to bottom. Ed had been charged with overseeing the project, rather inexplicably as he was the first to admit he didn’t have a clue about ‘housey stuff’ - as long as he had a comfy sofa to stretch out on and a big telly to watch the rugby and reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, he was happy. But for some reason the partner seemed to trust his judgement, and so Ed had dutifully gone to Breathtaking Designs, the company Charlotte worked for, to see if they could help. Charlotte’s boss, a garrulous Dubliner called Connor, had assigned the project to her.

  She went to Ed’s office in the City to give him their pitch. As soon as she saw him, she knew it was going to be an uphill struggle to win him over. In his blue and white striped shirt and gold cufflinks, jumpy with endless cups of Americano, he was offhand and fidgety, his eyes constantly flicking over to his computer. He could not be less interested in what she had to say. He only had eyes for the figures on the screen as he assessed, presumably, his profit and loss. Charlotte didn’t have a clue about spread-betting, but it clearly engrossed Ed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, in as firm a voice as she could manage, ‘if I’m wasting your time, perhaps I could leave the designs here for you to look at when you’re under less pressure?’

  He looked at her, startled, obviously not realising how rude he had been.

  ‘Shit, I’m terribly sorry. This isn’t my field, that’s all. And we’ve got deals going down all over the shop. Please - accept my apologies.’ He put a freckled hand over his silver mouse, clicked, then gave her a disarming smile. ‘The computer’s off. I’m all yours. Really.’

  She took a deep breath and started again. This time, he really did seem to be paying attention. Soon, she had scattered his desk with a bewildering array of swatches and paint charts. He listened, fascinated, as she described the thinking behind what she called the storyboard. He scarcely understood a word she said, yet he was completely captivated by her passion as she spoke of fabrics - georgette and moiré and chenille - that he had never encountered, in colours that seemed to come out of a fairy story. All the time her fingers were fluttering over the samples she had brought, stroking the material, urging him to feel them so he could appreciate their softness, their weight, their luxurious finish. He obeyed, just to please her, but he took in none of the detail.

  All he knew was that his senses had suddenly been hijacked by this creature in the pea-green corduroy jacket with the diamanté swan brooch on the lapel, and the almost-but-not-quite transparent chiffon skirt, and the lilac suede ballet shoes. It was her he wanted to touch, so he could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, hold her close and breathe in deeply whatever it was she smelled of. Violets, he thought; something sweet and flowery and old-fashioned but unbelievably haunting. He tried to hold the scent in his head, so he could recall it later. Her voice washed over him: slightly breathless and slightly clipped, it was from another age. Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children. No one spoke like that any more, surely?

  He was spellbound. He was used to women in immaculately cut suits and sheer tights and court shoes who never showed a chink of femininity, let alone vulnerability - tough ball-breaking risk-takers whom he admittedly admired, but who considered sex a competitive sport and who never showed a softer side. He’d slept with his fair share, but had never taken a relationship to the next level. He couldn’t imagine being married to any of those women. Why would you marry one of them? Not for their home-making skills, or their maternal instincts, certainly. Not that he was sexist, but what would be the point?

  This girl was different. He could imagine waking up next to her and wanting to explore everything life had to offer.

  She was outlining the designs for the master en-suite when he found he could bear it no longer. She was holding up a glass tile she had described as absinthe, but which he would have called green. Tendrils of blonde hair had escaped from her plait. All he could think about was undoing the whole thing, running his fingers through her hair, pulling that heart-shaped face to him and tasting those lips - he imagined they’d taste like the sugar mouse he’d had in his stocking when he was small . . .

  ‘. . . Here, we’ve created a sexy and stimulating environment with dual functions. There are facilities for two people to get ready at speed in the morning, then relax and enjoy some spa-style leisure time together in the evening. The double shower introduces the twin elements of convenience and decadence—’

  Ed put a large hand over the CAD drawing on the desk in front of them and looked into her eyes.

  ‘Stop.’

  She frowned at him anxiously. ‘You don’t like it? We can go for something more traditional. A roll-top—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a fucking bathroom. You’ve got the job, OK? Let’s go out for lunch.’

  For a second, Charlotte was tempted to take umbrage. No one had eve
r interrupted a pitch before. She stared at Ed. He was ignorant. Impatient. And rude, she decided. But there was something else about him. Something . . . quixotic? Impulsive, at the very least. And Charlotte loved people who acted on impulse. Not for her the careful, measured, cautious type. She was intrigued. He was looking at her, his eyes bright and urgent with challenge. He made her feel, in that moment, as if the end of the world was nigh and this was their last chance of happiness.

  Thus she had found herself following him to a table for two in Quaglino’s, where he had ordered a bottle of Billecart-Salmon and a plateau de fruits de mer. He barely spoke during the meal, just gazed at her as she devoured her way salaciously through the lobster and langoustines, aware that she was re-enacting every literary and filmic cliché as she licked the juices from her fingers. She was behaving both in and out of character - it was in Charlotte’s make-up to enjoy herself, but she never usually let the barriers down while she was working. Within half an hour, and definitely once the champagne had kicked in, she felt as if she had stepped over a line with Ed. She felt as if she could be herself. As if, in fact, they had been together for ever.

  The seafood devoured, they shared a chocolate fondue. He fed her strawberries and kiwi and bananas and marshmallows dipped in Valrhona chocolate. When she could eat no more, she sat back, glazed and sated and smiling.

  ‘It’s wonderful to sit with a girl who enjoys her food,’ he noted.

  ‘It’s one of life’s pleasures,’ replied Charlotte, wiping the last trace of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. Ed gazed at her, thinking of another of life’s pleasures. She crumpled her napkin and smiled at him sweetly. She had a strong suspicion what was coming next. There was no denying the current between them.

  To her astonishment, he didn’t hit on her, but found her a taxi and put her inside, waving his arm in farewell as it drove away from the kerb, then turning on his heel and walking away in the other direction. She craned her neck to watch him disappear out of sight. Her tummy felt funny, probably not surprising after seafood and champagne and melted chocolate. She felt rather deflated, then wondered if, when, he would phone. She dived in her bag and checked that her mobile was on, that there was a signal. She’d never done that before. She sat back in her seat, her mind whirring. No one had ever had this effect on her. For two pins she would have asked the taxi driver to turn round and find him, but her instincts told her to play it cool. He would be in touch. And anyway, she had the perfect excuse to call him, to follow up on her pitch. At which point she realised she had left her portfolio in his office - all the sketches, the samples and the costings. She chewed on her thumbnail and wondered whether to go back and fetch it in person, then decided she would send a bike. He’d probably just been bored, and had decided that going out for lunch was more interesting than listening to her twittering on about recessed lighting. Any illusions she had had about mutual attraction must have been courtesy of the champagne. By the time she got back to her office, she felt filled with gloom, telling Connor that the pitch had gone as well as could be expected then hiding herself away for the rest of the day.

  Weeks later, Ed admitted to her that he had been terrified, at a loss for the first time in his life as to how to deal with a woman, petrified that by moving in too quickly he would lose her. He had waited three agonising days before caving in and sending her a hand-tied bunch of peonies, sweet peas and freesias. She was charmed. She would have had him down as a fifty red roses merchant - extravagant but tasteless.

  Two days later he called and asked her on a picnic. Again, she was enchanted when he turned up with a proper basket filled with things he had assembled himself. She would have expected him to cart along a showy Fortnum’s hamper, but he had brought a French stick, some rough terrine, a punnet of ripe nectarines and a bag of sugary doughnuts. They went to Hampton Court, where they had wandered through the maze for nearly an hour, talking and laughing, then shared their meal on the lawn. Yet again she was filled with chagrin when he drove her back into town and dropped her at the most convenient tube station: he had a long-standing work engagement that evening. She spent the night tossing and turning, wondering why she was falling for what she and her friends had always called a ‘wanker banker’. Ed was definitely ruthless and hard-edged, and thrived in the high-risk business he worked in. Yet there was another side to him. He seemed awkward and unsure at times, which surprised her. She sensed he was usually of the ‘wham bam thank you ma’am’ school of seduction. But he seemed to be holding back, treating her like the most precious bone china - with care, courtesy and awe. She had no idea that it had been all he could do not to kiss the doughnut sugar off her lips as she lay on the picnic rug.

  He continued to be a perfect gentleman, merely bestowing a solicitous kiss on each cheek as he yet again put her into a taxi after each date, and she sensed he was going against type. She wished he wouldn’t.

  In the end, Charlotte couldn’t bear it any longer, sliding her arms round his neck as yet another cab door opened.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she whispered in his ear, nearly swooning at the scent of Amalfi Fig that engulfed her. ‘Come home with me.’

  She had practically dragged him inside the cab. Happy that he wasn’t forcing her into doing something she didn’t want to do, he had followed. On the back seat, she had unleashed her passion, devouring him with as much pleasure as she had devoured every meal they had shared so far. He felt giddy with the intensity of it all and, he realised as they pulled up outside her mansion block, they had still only kissed.

  Half an hour later, as they lay naked on the floor of her living room gazing at each other in wonder, he asked her to marry him and she said yes. The triumph in his eyes and his jubilant grin made her realise that the chivalry had been an act. A trap that she had fallen into head first. But by then she didn’t care. She was passionately in love.

  When they declared their engagement to the world at large, Charlotte found herself warned off Ed in no uncertain terms by everyone who knew him. He was, in no particular order, a womaniser, a drinker - though not a drunk - a spendthrift with no inhibitions who enjoyed fast cars and faster women. His work was high-octane, anti-social, performance-related, relentless. No one with any sense saw Ed as husband material. But Charlotte somehow tamed him, without emasculating him. Seemingly overnight he had come to heel, become a one-woman man. He still lived life at a million miles an hour, because in the industry he worked in you had to be one step ahead and take risks, and he was constantly pushing the boundaries in the hopes of achieving success. But that he worshipped her was clear to anyone who met them. He was devoted, solicitous and only had eyes for Charlotte. His friends were delighted, for their wives and girlfriends had always been wary of Ed, convinced that he was a bad influence, even though Ed never made anyone do anything they didn’t want to. If people followed in his footsteps, it was because he made it look like fun, not because he had talked them into it. Now, however, with Charlotte by his side, he was considered safe.

  He wasn’t conventionally good-looking, with his strawberry-blonde crop and the broad, broken nose courtesy of a rugby injury, but he had a presence. His skin was freckled, but tanned underneath to a light gold as he frequently took off on foreign jaunts at the drop of a hat. He was tall, six foot three, and would have been lanky if it wasn’t for his dedication to the cross-trainer and dumb-bells. His resulting six-pack and biceps made him one of those lucky men who look even more masculine in a floral shirt. Charlotte loved the feel of his iron-hard muscles through Liberty lawn. The dichotomy made her shiver.

  They had the definitive London wedding. Charlotte’s parents were divorced; Ed’s father was dead, so they felt as if it was theirs to arrange. They had it just as they wanted: a small civil ceremony then everyone they knew for a slap-up feast at Quaglino’s in memory of their first meal together. They sold each of their flats and bought a sweet three-bedroom terraced house in Parsons Green, which Charlotte slowly and thoughtfully transformed from a Sl
oaney chintz nightmare to a light, airy, but most of all comfortable home. Ed was slightly alarmed that everything was white, from the high-gloss kitchen to the modular sofa in the living room, but it seemed to stay clean by some miracle. Moreover, everything worked and everything had its place: she got a carpenter to build in shoe-racks and bookcases and window seats with storage underneath wherever there was an awkward space. It was slick without being showy. Soft-close drawers in the kitchen, power showers that practically concussed you, the softest carpet with under-floor heating that was incredibly cosy in winter, doors that folded right back to reveal the tiny garden in the summer - she had thought of every eventuality, exploited the house’s strong points and turned its weaknesses into strengths. A poky space in the attic was transformed into a mini gym with a rowing machine. And to stop it looking too sterile there were intermittent splashes of intense colour - a lime-green Murano vase, blood-red lacquered bowls, crazy cushions embroidered with sequinned bulldogs and crowns and Union Jacks.