Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  They had each other. That was all that mattered. They would have each other for the rest of their lives. They could do all those things and go to all those places that their friends with children constantly moaned they couldn’t. Thailand, the Maldives, skiing, New York for the weekend, Florence. And they each had godchildren they could spoil and take for treats - the pantomime, football matches, maybe take them for a weekend’s proper camping in Cornwall to give their parents a break. Being childless didn’t mean their lives were empty and meaningless. Surely the most important thing in life was finding the person you wanted to spend it with? After that, everything was a bonus. Well, she had found Ed, and she wasn’t going to let him go. She tightened her grip around his neck. His lips brushed her collarbone and she shivered. They could go back to love-making without the pressure of baby-making. They could live again. Their lives had been on hold, but now they were free.

  Gradually, the guests departed, most of them notably more dishevelled than when they’d arrived: lipstick had faded, hairdos collapsed, ties were undone, some women carried their shoes. Drunken promises were made to meet again soon; overenthusiastic kisses were bestowed. A flotilla of taxis waited outside the hotel to take the guests home, as few had had the willpower to abstain from drinking.

  The lights in the ballroom came on, illuminating the carnage of a well-spent evening: pools of spilled wine, crumpled napkins, crumbs, upturned chairs, party poppers. Charlotte made her way to the cloakroom to retrieve her coat. She was surprised to see Ed and Melanie in a darkened doorway, locked in an intense debate. Melanie was trying to hammer something home to Ed, who looked unhappy, shaking his head in a manner that Charlotte knew definitely meant no negotiation. What on earth could they be discussing? Should she interrupt? Melanie was glaring up at him, shaking her finger. The top of her head barely reached his chest, but judging by the way he was recoiling she was nevertheless a daunting adversary. Charlotte decided Melanie was taking the title of personal assistant too literally and needed taking down a peg or two.

  Melanie looked up and saw her as she approached. She stepped neatly away from Ed and turned to Charlotte with a luminous smile.

  ‘Charlotte! I was just telling Ed that Mr Thompson has made a donation of ten thousand pounds. Isn’t that fantastic?’

  Ed’s head snapped round and as he saw his wife his scowl disappeared to be replaced by a rather strained smile. Charlotte felt fairly certain they hadn’t been discussing Mr Thompson’s generosity at all, but before she could confront them, Melanie had melted away into the shadows while Ed seamlessly took her coat and held it out for her. As she slid her arms somewhat reluctantly into the sleeves, he pulled her to him, wrapping her into his embrace.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he murmured. ‘Tonight was wonderful. We raised a fortune. I don’t know the exact total yet, but we couldn’t have done it without you. Simon will be thrilled.’

  Charlotte managed a smile in response, still mulling over what she had seen. Ed put his arm round her and steered her out of the hotel to the last waiting taxi.

  ‘By the way, I’m sorry about Melanie,’ he added as they settled into the back seat. ‘I pulled her up for wearing white. She shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. I didn’t want to do it at the beginning of the evening, obviously. But you know what she’s like. She got a bit stroppy.’

  Charlotte let her head fall onto his shoulder. She was unbelievably tired, but she still felt a small wave of relief wash over her. That explained the intensity of their little tête-à-tête. But good for Ed for not being afraid to tear Melanie off a strip. So many men let their PAs take advantage of them, letting them rule rather than run their lives.

  It was nearly three by the time they fell into bed. And even though they were both exhausted, they turned to each other and made love. It was even better than earlier. Charlotte felt a delicious warmth seep through her like spilled treacle.

  ‘It’s going to be OK. I’m going to make it OK,’ whispered Ed, as they lay in each other’s arms drifting off to sleep.

  ‘It already is OK,’ Charlotte whispered back. ‘I’m happy, Ed, truly happy.’

  But he had already fallen asleep. Charlotte lay awake for a few minutes longer, wallowing in the sleepy satisfaction of knowing that the evening had been a success, but also relishing the blissful state of relaxation that only perfect and uncomplicated sex can bring. Then she flung her arm over Ed’s inert form, breathed in the very smell of him, and fell asleep too.

  Three

  In the days following the ball, Ed was unusually tense. He seemed to be keeping a deliberate distance from Charlotte, who was bewildered by his hostility. As soon as he got home from work, he went up to his office, only coming out to pick disinterestedly at his supper before disappearing again. She didn’t interrogate him. She knew he had constant targets to hit, that it was a competitive world and if he didn’t keep one step ahead he could easily be replaced. He was best left to wrestle with his problems alone. He’d plough his way through it eventually, and emerge smiling. He always managed to find a tactic that brought him out on top. He thrived on the pressure, and Charlotte had got used to the highs and lows, the stress that preceded the elation of success. Only this time, the tension seemed to be going on longer than usual.

  By the time the weekend came around he was still on edge, and Charlotte decided he needed a break. He’d been up till three; had finally fallen into bed next to her, and she’d smelled whisky on his breath. He needed to relax and take his mind off whatever was bothering him. She tried to suggest several distractions, but Ed wasn’t interested.

  ‘Just leave me alone, will you? I don’t want to go to the fucking cinema, or out for lunch. I just want some peace and quiet.’

  Charlotte’s lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. Ed had never made her cry before. Of course, she had shed tears in front of him, but not because of an argument. She couldn’t understand what was making him so vicious, but something told her not to probe. She’d got the message. He wanted to be on his own.

  ‘OK. I’m going to go . . .’ She didn’t have a clue where. She shrugged. ‘Shopping,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘Good.’ He fixed her with a belligerent glare. He didn’t seem to care that she was upset.

  Charlotte drove off, her hands shaking and her stomach churning. She had no intention of going shopping; she just drove blindly through the streets. Eventually she found a parking space by the Thames and got out to walk along the riverbank. The sun was shining brightly on the water; there were people out walking their dogs, kids rollerblading, couples strolling arm in arm. It was one of those days when London was at its best; everyone seemed to be in a good mood and not in a tearing hurry. She should be here with Ed, tucked under his arm, the two of them making plans, on their way to a lovely lunch somewhere. But he had made it quite clear he didn’t want to come out with her. Or indeed be with her at all.

  She didn’t have a clue what was the matter with him. She knew his work was difficult, but he usually thrived on it - he loved the uncertainty, the risks, the peaks and troughs. Something was getting to him; something serious, she could feel it in her gut. Just when she thought she’d turned the corner, just when she’d got it together and worked out how she was going to get through the rest of her life, Ed had changed beyond recognition.

  Perhaps it was simply the anticlimax after the ball? It had been a huge undertaking, and it could have been a total failure instead of a resounding success - they had cleared their target of over a hundred thousand pounds. It had taken up such a lot of their time and mental energy over the past few months that maybe now, in the vacuum, Ed was dwelling on their own predicament. Perhaps he hadn’t come to terms with it like she had?

  Or perhaps . . . oh God. Her hand flew to her mouth as she choked back a gasp of dismay. Perhaps he had decided that he didn’t want to be with her any more? That if she couldn’t bear him any children, then he wanted the chance to try with someone else? Perhaps he even had someo
ne in mind? And how could she deny him that chance? She couldn’t sentence him to a life without kids. Charlotte stopped in her tracks on the riverbank, looking across the water, her eyes blinking at the harsh reflection of the sun. She had been so wrapped up in herself, so smug and self-congratulatory, that she hadn’t thought about where Ed was. It was his future as much as hers. Just because she felt resigned to her fate didn’t necessarily mean he was happy with his.

  And thinking back on it, if she was honest, it was always Ed who had put the pressure on to have one more try. She knew he was desperate. She’d watched him with the children of their friends, whenever they’d gone round for a barbecue or Sunday lunch. He threw himself into their little worlds, making paper aeroplanes and rabbits out of handkerchiefs, while Charlotte had deliberately held back. Not because she didn’t want close contact with children, but because she didn’t want whoever it was out there that decided these things to think she was too desperate. And there was an element of self-preservation in it too. Downy heads and pudgy knees and starfish hands were a one-way ticket to the ultimate heartbreak. But Ed had never been ashamed to admit that he was as broody as hell. He embraced other people’s kids in the optimistic assumption that he would one day have his own.

  But Charlotte couldn’t provide him with hope any more. She knew she had reached the end of the line. That she was resigned to childlessness. That she couldn’t bear to try one more time, because that meant there would probably be another, and another. It was up to her to say stop. And if Ed didn’t want to stop . . .

  Charlotte sat down on a bench, her heart so heavy she could barely stand. She would have to drive home and tell him that if he wanted his freedom, then she wasn’t going to stand in his way and that he could go with her blessing. All she would ask is that they share one last holiday together: a fortnight in some tropical paradise where they could bask in the sun and swim in the sea and sleep naked, entwined under an Egyptian cotton sheet, so she could take away one pure memory of him. Then she would go without protest.

  Her heart was hammering as she drove up to the house. There was a police car parked in her usual space, and she tutted: on a Saturday afternoon it was a nightmare getting a place. She could be driving round for hours. She hit lucky in the next road, grabbed her handbag and got out of the car. She had to do this straight away, without thinking about it.

  She was about to put her key into the lock when the door opened. She stepped back in alarm when she looked up into the grim gaze of a policeman.

  ‘Mrs Briggs?’

  Her first thought was that Ed had done something terrible. Surely he wouldn’t be the type to kill himself? Yet he had dark moments, especially when he’d been drinking - she remembered now the smell of whisky when he came to bed, and the empty bottle in the recycling bin as she left the house. Where was he? Panicking, she went to rush in.

  ‘Ed . . . ?’

  The policeman put out a hand to stop her.

  ‘Mrs Briggs - I’m afraid your husband’s under arrest.’

  Twenty minutes later, Charlotte sat bolt upright on the sofa, her hands pressed in between her clenched knees, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip to stop her from crying.

  Ed had taken the ball money. He had taken all the profits raised from the tickets, the raffle, the auction, and the donations and bought a tranche of shares on a tip-off from a friend in the City. A small but dynamic software firm was about to be taken over by a larger company. It was a given that the shares would quadruple overnight. Obviously Ed’s plan had been to sell the shares on straight away, put the money back into the ball account ready to be handed over ceremoniously to the hospice, and keep the substantial difference.

  But by a million to one chance, the deal hadn’t come off. The dynamic managing director, the brains and therefore the intrinsic value of the company, had died in a helicopter crash on the way to signing the buy-out. Without him the company was worthless. The buy-out was pointless; the share prices crashed to zero. The money was wiped out. Ed was left with nothing.

  Or rather, the charity was left with nothing.

  It hadn’t taken long for his misdemeanour to be detected. He had forged the signature on the cheque in the hopes that the money would be back in the account before the other committee members noticed it was missing. But of course they were all clamouring to organise the presentation to the hospice, all relishing the prospect of a ceremony and a photo-shoot. Ed had had little choice but to put his hands up and turn himself in. It was either that or flee the country. No wonder he had been tense all week. He must have been waiting for the hammer to fall from the minute he had heard about the helicopter crash. And praying for some miracle. Praying that the original deal would be salvaged, though God knows how. And now, the police were preparing to take Ed down to the station for further questioning. They’d wondered at first if Charlotte was involved, but he’d made it clear she had nothing to do with it.

  He’d gone to fetch his jacket. He came back into the room looking dreadful, his skin pale, blue rings under his eyes.

  Charlotte looked at him, bewildered.

  ‘Why, Ed . . . ?’

  ‘I did it for us,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘I thought . . . if we could get out of London, get a house in the country, take the pressure off . . . I thought if you could stop work, then maybe . . . We didn’t have time to wait for me to be able to afford it. I was trying to speed things up.’

  Charlotte felt a surge of fury.

  ‘Is that was it was about?’ she demanded. ‘The bloody baby thing? You took that risk, took someone else’s money, just for another shot at it?’

  ‘I wanted things to be different! I thought maybe it was London stopping you . . . us . . .’

  ‘But I told you I couldn’t go through it again!’

  Ed looked distraught. ‘I can’t take no for an answer, Charlotte. I love you. I want us to have children. More than anything.’

  Charlotte felt tears spring into her eyes - tears of frustration that Ed couldn’t seem to grasp the simple truth.

  ‘You’re insane! I don’t know how you could have thought it would work, even for a moment.’

  ‘I spoke to the consultant. He suggested a change of scene, a change of lifestyle.’

  ‘He was clutching at straws, Ed. Just like you. And now where has it got us?’

  She stood up, trembling. She thought she was going to be sick. She felt cold and clammy and nauseous. ‘Well, thank God I didn’t have your children.’

  It was the harshest thing she could think of to say.

  Ed recoiled as if he had been slapped. The policeman stepped forward.

  ‘Mr Briggs? If you’re ready to come to the station now?’

  Charlotte sank back down onto the sofa as Ed was escorted from the room. She couldn’t look at him. She pressed her face into her palms, shutting out the world. Moments later the room was still, empty, and she felt very small inside it. There was nothing to do but wait.

  When Ed came back later that night, Charlotte was scrunched up in a ball on the bed, shivering like a kitten that had been left out in a thunderstorm. She had been beside herself all afternoon, but she hadn’t been able to think of a single soul she could call on for sympathy or advice. How on earth could she admit to any of her friends and family what Ed had done - though they would find out soon enough? So she had wandered the house in turmoil, her emotions veering from rage to despair to total bewilderment. She’d necked down half a bottle of red wine, in the hope that it might calm her down, but it only made her feel worse and made her already throbbing head pound. In the end, she threw herself on the bed and sobbed herself to sleep.

  Ed stood awkwardly in the doorway.

  ‘They’ve let me out on bail. But I’ve been charged with obtaining money by deception. God knows when the trial will be.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  She sat up suddenly.

  ‘Why didn’t you just take out a loan? Or extend the mortgage
?’ she demanded. ‘Surely it would have been better to risk our own money? Better than stealing somebody else’s, at any rate.’

  Ed darted a nervous look at her. Charlotte swallowed.

  ‘Ed . . . ?’

  ‘I did. As well. I needed another fifty grand to make it worthwhile.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’d have walked away with half a million . . .’

  ‘You extended our mortgage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I have signed the paperwork?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I’d remember borrowing that kind of money . . .’ She trailed off, remembering Ed coming in with some forms from the building society one Sunday morning when she was still sleeping off last night’s party. He’d said something about moving mortgages because they’d come to the end of their tie-in period. Something about getting a better deal. Of course she’d signed it. He dealt with all that sort of thing. And of course she hadn’t looked at the small print. She wouldn’t have suspected her own husband of trying to pull a fast one.