‘You can’t eat like that for ever,’ she warned him repeatedly. ‘And if you don’t eat fruit and vegetables you’ll get scurvy.’
He argued back that he always put lime in his vodka and tonic.
She said it was all for his own good, but he knew it was for hers. She was worried about her profile. Now she had shot to fame, she was nervous that he would tarnish her image. Success had changed her. She had become uptight, inhibited, wary, manipulative. That wasn’t the Catkin he had bought into. But the more he told her he wanted things to be as they had been, the more insistent she was that they couldn’t stand still. The stakes were too high, she told him. They were public figures and they had to protect themselves.
Did that mean compromising themselves? he argued. Did they have to become something they weren’t?
Sitting in the pub that evening, after their hideous guests had left and Catkin had climbed into the back of the people carrier she’d bought Tommy Yeo, Sebastian decided he was going to stop being ineffectual and compliant. What right did Catkin have to rule their lives?
Outside, the two women huddled together on a picnic bench, shivering in the cold night air. Penny pulled out her illicit cigarette packet and offered one to Charlotte.
‘I shouldn’t really,’ said Charlotte, grabbing one eagerly. ‘I gave up years ago. When . . .’ She trailed off, and a strange look came over her face.
‘When?’ prompted Penny.
Charlotte shrugged.
‘One New Year’s Eve. When I realised it wasn’t really doing me any good. But every now and then I give in. When I’m really drunk. Or stressed.’
‘Are you stressed, then?’ asked Penny lightly.
‘You know. New people. New place. I’m not great on change. Though everyone seems really nice so far.’
‘Oh, yes,’ lied Penny effortlessly. ‘Everyone in Withybrook is lovely.’
Cigarettes extinguished, they went back into the pub, and Charlotte picked up her coat.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got so much to do tomorrow.’
‘Time lasts longer down here,’ Sebastian reassured her. ‘You’ll have everything done by lunchtime.’
Charlotte pulled a little grey wool beanie onto her head. Penny thought sourly that it would make her look like a frumpy middle-aged fell-walker, but Charlotte looked like an adorable pixie.
Charlotte put her arms round Sebastian and hugged him.
‘Thank you for all the drinks.’
He looked at her, suddenly sad she was going. She’d been a breath of fresh air. And there was something intriguing about her. She was soft and marshmallow sweet on the surface. Perfectly edible. Wide eyes, sugar-pink lips and that little mop of cropped curls. But did that softness go right through to the centre? he wondered. It was something that Sebastian had noticed about women. The tougher they seemed, the more vulnerable they were. While the ones that were sweetness and light often had an inner steel.
Impulsively, he decided to ask Charlotte to lunch next Sunday. He knew Catkin would be incandescent, because she planned her guest lists very carefully. But how could you not like Charlotte? She was adorable, and perfectly confident. She would fit in, he felt sure. And surely it was the neighbourly thing to do, if she had just arrived? Most pertinent of all, didn’t Sebastian have the right to ask who he liked to his own house?
Before he could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth.
‘Why don’t you come for lunch on Sunday? Come and meet Catkin. She’ll be glad there’s someone her own age in the village.’
As soon as he said it, he realised his mistake. Penny was looking like a puppy that had been kicked. Fuck, thought Sebastian. He couldn’t not ask her too. Not that he didn’t want her company, but he instinctively knew that for her own good he shouldn’t encourage her. He didn’t mind chatting to her in the pub, but he’d never asked her to Withybrook Hall, sensing that would be a step too far.
‘Why don’t you come too, Pen?’ he asked, trying not to sound lukewarm and praying desperately that the children had some immensely vital extra-curricular activity that couldn’t be missed.
‘I can’t leave Tom and Megan . . .’ she faltered.
‘Why not?’ Sebastian demanded, wondering why he couldn’t just leave it at that. ‘You’re here now, aren’t you? Let them fend for themselves. ’
Penny bit her lip.
‘I would ask them too, but Sunday lunch at our place can get a bit . . . well, I don’t know if it would be suitable.’
Charlotte looked mildly alarmed.
‘Nothing hideous,’ Sebastian assured her. ‘A bit of fruity language and the odd spliff. But not suitable for impressionable teenagers. Anyway, Penny needs to cut the apron strings.’
Why couldn’t he shut up? Anyone would think he wanted her to come.
‘Do you know,’ said Penny, ‘you’re right. I’ll leave them a stew and some jacket potatoes.’
‘Bravo,’ said Sebastian, thinking he really should have kept his trap shut.
‘Well, that would be lovely,’ said Charlotte. ‘Can I bring anything?’
‘God no,’ said Sebastian. ‘Catkin always over-caters.’
‘That would be great. I’ll see you then.’
Penny watched Sebastian watch Charlotte go with a sinking heart. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her face all evening, except to surreptitiously examine her cleavage, which was annoyingly pert and inviting underneath her cream cashmere jumper. Her heart contracted with the pain. It was quite the most hideous feeling, and made her want to scream and cry and stab Charlotte in the ribs with the nearest sharp implement.
Charlotte stumbled slightly over the threshold of Myrtle Cottage. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had so much to drink, but actually it had probably been the right thing to do. With the best part of a bottle of Shiraz inside her, she was anaesthetised and hadn’t given the rat infestation a second thought all evening. Now she was back, she wasn’t going to check the kitchen to make sure there were none there. Instead, she ran up the stairs to her bedroom, shut the door firmly, stuffed a blanket across the gap under the door, and got into bed fully clothed, wrapping the duvet round her.
Despite the wine, sleep evaded her. She must be overtired. Too much had happened today. Added to which, she could see the moon shining in on her through the uncurtained window and couldn’t remember if it was when it was new or full that it could drive you mad. And every time she shut her eyes she imagined the scrat-scratscratching of little claws.
As the cold seeped into her bones, she thought she had never felt so alone. For the first time in weeks, she wondered about Ed, what he was doing, how he was feeling, and if he was as miserable as she was. The last time she had seen him, when they emptied the house, he had lost over a stone and looked terrible, drawn, grey-skinned. He’d wanted to talk, but Gussie’s husband had been firm and steered her away from him. Which to be fair, was what she had asked him to do. But now she wondered if maybe they should have spoken about things—
She mustn’t think about him. That way madness lay. She had long resolved to shut him out of her mind, pretend he had never existed. She pulled the duvet round her, shut her eyes tight and fell into a troubled sleep.
By eleven o’clock that evening, Hayley could no longer keep her eyes open. She decided to go down and make a cup of hot chocolate then go to bed, where she could happily rerun the events of the weekend in her head. From the lounge, she could hear the boom of the television: her mother would be glued to some dreary Sunday-night drama while her father dozed. She didn’t bother offering either of them a drink.
The kitchen was the usual horror story. Under the window sat a massive tank containing a solitary terrapin, which floated eerily about in water green with its own faeces. Copies of Farmers Weekly were piled high, unread but untouchable, next to the ever-increasing mound of farm paperwork. Along one wall were the pet food bowls, filled with varying degrees of drying Pedigree Chum and Miaow Mix: the animals, it seemed, were allowed bran
ded food while the humans were relegated to generic crap that her mother bought in bulk from the cash and carry - giant boxes of breakfast cereal, bottles of red and brown sauce, trays of translucent baby-pink sausages, brick-sized slabs of fatty bacon slices, bags full of broken biscuits. Feeding five hungry blokes was no joke, either physically or financially, and Barbara Poltimore had let the slow food movement pass her by entirely. Browning dishcloths harboured even more germs than the surfaces they occasionally wiped. An enormous, malevolent yellowing cat sat in a greasy armchair, letting out the occasional growl that passed as a purr. Hayley knew better than to try to stroke it. She flicked on the two-bar electric heater, but it was like pissing in the ocean. She could see her breath, and would be able to until April was out.
She hated this room, the room that had been the centre of her life for so many years. She thought longingly of Kirk’s kitchen, with its limestone floors warm with under-floor heating; the double sink with the taps that delivered moussy filtered water; the fridge with the ice-machine and the integral wine cooler stuffed with vintage champagne. She gave a shudder of dissatisfaction. She had to endure nearly a whole week of this dump before she went back up to her haven of luxury. It was penance indeed. The only way to get through the next few days was to sleep, she decided, as she flicked on the kettle that she knew without looking would be filled with limescale.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, she had a sudden burst of maternal responsibility and wondered where the girls’ uniforms had got to. She ran down the corridor to the utility room, expecting to find them hanging over the drying rack or folded neatly into a washing basket. Instead, she found them in a heap by the washing machine, still damp and covered in a fine layer of cat hair. Swearing under her breath, she picked them up to shake them off and hang them over the nearest radiator in the hope that they might be dry by morning. But as she did so she caught a whiff of ammonia; one of the cats had done more than just sleep on them. Now she was going to have to put them back into the washing machine and stay up until they had run through.
She pulled her brothers’ work clothes out of the machine and dumped them on the floor, stuffed the dresses and jumpers in, and realised there was no washing powder left. She threw the box across the room in a rage. What was she supposed to do now? Even she couldn’t send the girls to school stinking of cat pee.
She was going to have to wash them by hand with washing-up liquid. She lugged the pile of clothes into the kitchen and over to the kitchen sink, only to find it brimming over with chipped mugs, some of them full, some of them containing dried tea bags. What the hell was going on? Didn’t anyone clear up after themselves in this house? She cleared everything out of the sink and dumped it on the side, then ran the hot tap. Only it wasn’t hot. It was stone cold. Hayley remembered that she’d run herself a scalding bath not long after the girls had had theirs. She’d obviously drained the tank. It would take hours for it to heat up again.
There was nothing for it. She’d have to go home. She stuffed the clothes into a black bin liner and went out to her car. Throwing the bag onto the back seat, she started the engine and drove out of the drive as if the hounds of hell were after her. Half a minute later she pulled up outside her marital home, opened the front door and crept in. The house was silent. Fitch must be in bed. She made her way into the kitchen, where the washing machine was thankfully empty. Not only that, but there was a plentiful supply of Ariel and a big bottle of sweet-smelling Lenor. She filled the machine, put it on quick wash, then went to the fridge to see what she could find to eat.
She was just sitting down with a bowl of fresh pineapple and cream when she heard footsteps behind her.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ It was Fitch, with a face like thunder.
‘My bloody mother forgot to wash the uniforms. And there was no washing powder, and no hot water.’
‘So you thought you could just march in here and use mine, without even bothering to ask?’
Hayley put down her spoon carefully. She didn’t want an argument, not at this time of night. But guilt, as ever, made her defensive.
‘Yours?’ she asked lightly. ‘I distinctly remember choosing this with you in Comet.’
‘The day you walked out of here is the day you gave up any right—’
‘Stop right there.’ Hayley put up her hand. ‘I think you’ll find I’m entitled to half. If not more. And presumably you want the girls to have clean clothes for the morning?’
‘You should have left their uniforms with me. I’d have done them.’
‘Well, aren’t you a saint and a martyr?’
Fitch looked at her, puzzled.
‘Why do you have to be such a bitch, Hayley? I go out of my way to be as reasonable as I can—’
‘And then you shove it down my throat. Make me feel as guilty as you can.’
Fitch didn’t reply. He knew very well he wasn’t going to win any arguments, because Hayley wasn’t capable of seeing anyone else’s point of view. It was late, he was tired, and he didn’t want to sit here while they slung insults at each other.
‘Go home,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ll bring their clothes up first thing.’
He put his hands on her shoulders to guide her out of the kitchen towards the front door. But she burst into noisy tears.
‘Nobody understands,’ she sobbed. ‘Nobody understands how hard it is for me. No one does anything to help. I’m bloody exhausted and I don’t need this at the end of the day.’
She began to sob even harder.
‘Hayley, calm down.’
‘It’s not fair. Why do I have to be punished all the time? I’m trying to do my best . . .’
Fitch sighed inwardly. He knew the procedure. He was going to have to cajole and console Hayley for the next half-hour, to stop her going off into the stratosphere. This hysteria was her default mechanism when she knew she was behaving badly. She started blaming everyone else around her, when it was quite clear she was in the wrong. It was exhausting. But if he didn’t calm her, there was no knowing what she might do or say.
‘Come on. Come and sit down. Come and have a drink.’
He led her through into the living room and sat her down on the sofa, then went to pour her a glass of port. He’d hoped for an early night. Fat chance.
Hayley sat with her legs curled up underneath her, surveying her husband through her still-damp lashes. There had been a time when Fitch had represented the escape she needed. When she had thought he was glamorous and exciting. But now she had tasted real glamour and excitement, he seemed dull by comparison.
She had loved this house once as well. It was stripped back, minimal, but somehow snug. The end wall was exposed brick, the ceiling was beamed, and the rest of the room was fresh pristine white plaster. There was a wood-burner, and beside it a pile of sweet-smelling logs. The wooden floorboards gleamed golden with beeswax. Hand-built shelves groaned with books and CDs. On the walls were black-framed photographs Fitch had taken of the girls. A driftwood coffee table held a funky lamp that changed colour. There were two long, low sofas that were so comfortable you never wanted to leave them, strewn with striped cushions. Two old wooden apple crates held the girls’ movie collection.
For a moment she wondered why she had left. Then she remembered how claustrophobic she had come to feel, how the house’s womb-like cosiness had seemed to reproach her for her lack of maternal feeling. There was absolutely no questioning Fitch’s masculinity, but he was a better mother to the girls than she had ever been. He was the one who nursed them when they were ill, oversaw their homework projects, took them shopping for new clothes, took them to the riding stables for lessons. And Hayley was left feeling insufficient, freakish. There was something missing in her, she was sure of it. All she felt was a slight sense of panic when the girls needed her. She almost recoiled when they reached out for her. Almost, but not quite. She usually managed an awkward embrace, but it made her feel uncomfortable. She envied Fitch his natural warmth,
the way he scooped the two of them up and obviously took such pleasure in their physical presence.
What was wrong with her? It wasn’t that she was frigid. She loved the feeling of a man’s body, his arms around her, his hands on her. That was when she was at her happiest, when she was being consumed. But the demands these two creatures made on her was terrifying, when she didn’t even feel she knew them. She understood how to please a man only too well. She did it instinctively. But children? She didn’t have a clue.
Fitch brought her over a glass of port, and she sipped it, then leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She was so tired. She could just doze off here, in front of the fire. Back at the farm, she’d be freezing, forced to wear three layers of clothing and bed-socks.
‘Hayley.’ His voice sounded serious. ‘I think it’s time we made things official, don’t you?’
Marriage and Other Games Page 13
