Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  ‘See you, then. Maybe?’ she ventured again.

  ‘See you . . .’

  He didn’t look at her as she backed away from the table, and then turned to walk towards the door. When she reached the exit, she looked round. He was sitting, staring down at the table with his head in his hands. All around him the other prisoners and their wives chattered and laughed as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  If Charlotte thought she had hit rock bottom before, she was wrong.

  The journey home was terrible. She veered between wild sobbing to teeth-clenching fury. She had to stop twice at a service station to pull herself together, comfort herself with a hot chocolate, splash her tear-stained face with cold water. And all the while she questioned herself. Had she been wrong to be so judgemental? Should she have stood by Ed?

  No one else had ever suggested that she should. It had been a given, that they should separate. But then, she hadn’t talked to that many people about it. Mostly Gussie and her husband, who were staunchly protective of her. She had been too ashamed to bring it out into the open and discuss it with anyone else.

  Maybe what Ed had done had been an aberration. Maybe the stress of the past few years had caused him to make his huge error of judgement. Just because it wasn’t his body going through the treatment didn’t mean he hadn’t suffered the pain and grief as much as she had. Perhaps she should have empathised with him more - put herself in his position, instead of judging him. As an alpha male, he must have felt emasculated, demoralised, powerless to change their situation, and when an opportunity arose - an opportunity he had thought was bullet proof - perhaps it was no wonder he hadn’t been able to resist.

  Was she shallow and disloyal? For a moment, she wondered what would have happened if it had been the other way round, if in a moment of desperation she had embezzled the charity funds. Would Ed have stood by her?

  She looked at herself in the service-station mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin blotchy. She looked terrible. As she met her own gaze, she had her answer.

  Ed would have stood by her till the end.

  She rushed into the loo to be sick again. All she could taste was sour shame. She leaned against the wall of the cubicle. It was too late. The damage had been done. She had felt the hostility rolling off Ed. His dead eyes. His flat voice. There had been no indication that he wanted to make things right. She was no longer the woman he would go to the ends of the earth for. It was over.

  On the way back into Withybrook she stopped at the petrol station outside Comberton to get some milk and bread. Fitch was there, filling up his red Land Rover Defender.

  ‘Hey.’ He gave her a wave. She didn’t feel like talking, but she knew it would be rude not to after he had been so friendly, so she stopped for a second.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Are you OK? You look exhausted.’ He looked at her, concerned.

  ‘I just feel a bit peaky. I think it’s all the paint fumes. I haven’t stopped all week.’

  He pushed the petrol nozzle back into its holder.

  ‘Why don’t you come down to the Trout for a drink later?’

  ‘Oh . . . no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s always a good laugh on a Friday. The shoot’s been out, so it’s stuffed with beaters and gamekeepers filling their boots. They’re quite entertaining.’ He dug in the pocket of his combats for his wallet. ‘I haven’t got the girls till tomorrow. I could do with a night out.’

  He looked at her hopefully.

  Charlotte hesitated. The choice was to sit in all evening crying into her soup and going over and over the horrible events of the day. Or to go out with Fitch and have a few drinks, maybe meet some new people. She wasn’t sure if she felt strong enough for idle chit-chat after what had happened. But he had been so kind before, and he obviously wanted company.

  Fitch shrugged, walking off backwards towards the kiosk to pay.

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘No - wait. I’d love to come. Just give me a couple of hours.’

  She needed to lie down for a while, then have a hot bath. Press a cold flannel to her face to bring down the puffiness. Eat something - apart from the morning’s toast and two hot chocolates nothing had passed her lips all day.

  Fitch smiled, and the warmth of it was reward in itself.

  ‘I’ll bang on your door at nine.’

  The Trout was bursting at the seams. The shoot had been out all day, tugging their forelocks and kowtowing to the bankers and magnates and entrepreneurs who thought they could swoop into Devon for the day in their helicopters and Range Rovers and take ownership. Little did they know that the serfs who looked after them gave not two figs for who or what they were, and put two fingers up as they left, happy that the vast amount of money they had spent during their day’s sport sustained the local economy. If someone was misguided enough to pay thousands of pounds for the privilege of shooting a bird too dumb to get out of the way, they deserved to be ridiculed. It was a contest as to who was more stupid: the shooters or the shot.

  Now, however, after a day’s hard physical exercise and the strain of being pleasant to people with more money than sense, the beaters and the gamekeepers were letting their hair down. Red faces and green clothing were de rigueur; the beer flowed. The gamekeepers’ wives, who prepared the lavish lunch in the shooting lodge and organised the beaters, held court in one corner, now resplendent in cleavage-revealing sparkly tops and jeans. Norman behind the bar took orders for plates of ham, egg and chips to be sent out. Acres and acres of ground had been covered today on foot in the biting November air and appetites were sharp.

  Fitch pulled Charlotte through the throngs to the bar. She had managed to revive herself: a half-hour nap, a big bowl of porridge with banana and maple syrup, followed by a wallow in the bath and ten minutes carefully applying her make-up had made her look and feel almost human. She was glad she had just put her jeans back on, as high fashion clearly had no place in the Speckled Trout.

  The sense of camaraderie was overwhelming. It was the perfect environment to wash away the memory of the sterile, hostile prison. And a few drinks would soon fade the image of Ed and his burned-out, menacing demeanour. Fitch bought her a Sloegasm which, he explained, was part of the initiation if she wanted to become a proper regular. She sipped it appreciatively. It went straight to her nerve centre, dulling her anxiety, lifting her mood.

  As the pair of them stood by the bar, she soon found herself noticed, and quickly surrounded by the shooting fraternity, who fired questions at her and bought her drink after drink. Fitch watched on, quietly protective, as two lads in particular seemed to adopt her as their own, showering her with compliments. He couldn’t step in and claim her. For a start, she was a free agent, and besides, it wasn’t the sort of evening where you expected to spend time as a couple and engage in quiet conversation. It was a free-for-all. Anyway, he suspected it would do Charlotte good to fraternise. She’d obviously been stuck in all week working on the house. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep an eye on her.

  He watched as Darren and Bradley closed in on her. The pair of them were nice enough sober, hardworking and honest, but give them a few drinks and they were loose cannons. Fitch kept a wary eye. They both had the gift of the gab, broad-shouldered, bright-eyed country lads.

  ‘Are you with Fitch, then?’ they asked Charlotte.

  ‘Not “with” with. I’m just having a drink with him.’

  The two of them exchanged glances.

  ‘Wouldn’t fancy your chances if his missis finds out.’

  Charlotte bit her lip. ‘I thought they were separated.’

  ‘Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to cross Hayley. She still thinks Fitch belongs to her, even though she’s shagging this other bloke.’

  ‘Right.’

  For a moment, Charlotte felt anxious. She didn’t want to cause trouble or step on anyone’s toes. And she could sense that the news was going to get back to Hayley, one way or another, th
at she had been in here with her husband.

  ‘Where are you from, then?’ Darren demanded.

  ‘London.’

  ‘Posh, then,’ countered Bradley.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You talk posh.’

  ‘I can’t help that.’

  They both affected lugubrious expressions.

  ‘We haven’t got a chance with you.’

  ‘Either of us.’

  ‘You wouldn’t touch muck like us.’

  ‘Not with a barge pole.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘You don’t know, till you try. I might fancy a bit of rough.’

  Oh my God. Had she really said that? Those Sloegasms were even stronger than they looked. She was flirting outrageously. There was no harm in it. The boys were enjoying the banter and so was she. They knew she didn’t mean it. There was no malice in any of these people, and no pretensions. They just wanted her to muck in and have a good time. There was certainly a party atmosphere. An impromptu band were gathering next to the piano, tuning up their guitars.

  ‘Right,’ said Darren. ‘You going to join in the talent contest, London Lady?’

  Charlotte’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Talent contest? I didn’t see any signs.’

  ‘There’s no signs. It’s just what we do on a Friday. Everyone lobs a fiver in the bucket to enter. Winner takes all. Simple.’

  Fitch leaned forward.

  ‘You’ve got to, I’m afraid. You won’t be accepted into the village until you’ve done something.’

  She watched, rapt, as contestant after contestant went up and did their thing, the acts getting more and more shambolic as the alcohol took a grip. There were magicians and Shirley Bassey imitations, juggling, a duet of ‘Islands in the Stream’. Some were surprisingly talented, others dreadful, but whatever the standard it was entertaining and the audience were onside, clapping and cheering regardless.

  Fitch stormed the stage and did a rendition of ‘Mustang Sally’. What he lacked in tunefulness he made up for in enthusiasm, and the crowd roared their enthusiasm, not least Charlotte.

  ‘That was fantastic!’ she told him as he climbed off the stage, his long hair slick with sweat.

  ‘Bit of a cliché.’ He grinned. ‘But it’s the only song I can sing. I do it every time.’

  ‘Come on, London Lady.’ Darren urged her forwards. ‘Show us what you’re made of.’

  Charlotte was determined to do just that. She was no wet blanket, and she loved a challenge. Besides, she had a party piece. She’d performed it many a time among friends. And anyway, all these people were her new friends. She was sure of that.

  Buoyed up by her Sloegasms, she shimmied over to the pianist.

  ‘Do you know “Makin’ Whoopee”?’

  He gave her a thumbs-up and struck up the opening notes. Undaunted, Charlotte scrambled on top of the piano and struck the infamous pose Michelle Pfeiffer took in The Fabulous Baker Boys. She smiled at her audience, and began to sing.

  Another bride, another June

  Another sunny honeymoon

  Another season, another reason

  For makin’ whoopee

  The onlookers whooped and hollered, delighted by the turn of events. Undaunted, Charlotte slithered and writhed on top of the piano, her bum in the air, her face in a sultry pout, crooning the words:He’s washing dishes and baby clothes

  He’s so ambitious, he even sews

  But don’t forget, folks, that’s what you get, folks

  For makin’ whoopee

  Across the room, Fitch looked concerned and put his pint glass down on the bar. Charlotte dropped her voice down for the final stanza.

  You better keep her

  I think it’s cheaper

  Than makin’ whoopee

  There was uproar. Fitch shut his eyes. He knew what was coming next. He’d seen the film often enough. But Charlotte didn’t have the benefit of several days’ rehearsal with a choreographer, or a kind cameraman or editor. Instead of the graceful slither off the piano, she perched on the edge, looked down, swayed from side to side and fell through the air.

  In two bounds, Fitch was at her side and caught her in his arms to a round of rapturous applause. Charlotte smiled drunkenly up at him.

  ‘Shit,’ she slurred.

  The rest of the pub cheered as Fitch carried her effortlessly across the room and out of the door. The freezing night air hit her lungs and she gasped as if she’d had a bucket of cold water thrown over her. She went to struggle out of his grasp.

  ‘Put me down.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I want to stay. I’m having fun!’

  ‘You have no idea what those blokes are capable of.’

  She would be mincemeat in her condition. He knew Darren and his cohorts only too well. When they’d had a skinful they could talk anyone into anything, and Fitch didn’t want to see Charlotte toyed with.

  He strode purposefully up the high street and there was nothing she could do. She tried wriggling but he held her tight, like a naughty toddler, until he reached the front door of Myrtle Cottage and put her down. She slumped against the door jamb.

  ‘Key?’ he asked her hopefully.

  She started helplessly patting at her pockets, but as soon as she moved away from the support of the wall it was obvious she couldn’t stand up. Fitch grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and fished about until he found the keys. As he unlocked the door, Charlotte fell over the threshold.

  ‘I think,’ she slurred, ‘I might have had a bit too much to drink.’

  And she passed out.

  When she woke the next morning she sat up gingerly. She didn’t know which was worse, the hideous thumping pain in her head or the memory of what she had done the night before. A little bit of her hoped it wasn’t true, that she had just dreamed it, but no - she felt fairly sure that she had done her best Michelle Pfeiffer impersonation in front of the whole village. What on earth had got into her? The few other times she had done it had been in front of friends, not three sheets to the wind, and she had been on a decent-sized grand piano, not an upright. God, they must be splitting their sides in Withybrook this morning. Her cheeks burned with the humiliation. She would have to face them, in the street, the post office - not in the pub, she was never going in the pub again. She was never going to drink again—

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Jesus!’

  A deep voice made her jump out of her skin. She looked round, and realised that Fitch was sleeping in the armchair at the foot of her bed with his coat pulled over him.

  ‘Fitch?’

  He stretched and yawned.

  ‘Good. You’re alive.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she groaned. ‘Just about. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought I’d better stay here. Make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit. I managed to stay awake till about four, but I must have fallen asleep.’

  He fixed her with a look that was half amused, half reproachful. ‘How many Sloegasms?’

  ‘People kept handing them to me.’

  He shook his head in fond exasperation.

  ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘Darren texted me. You won, hands down. Sixty quid.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘It was unanimous.’

  Charlotte slumped back on her pillows, not knowing what to think. ‘Oh my God,’ she groaned. ‘My head.’

  He got up and pulled on his coat.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You get up, get yourself ready. You’re coming with me.’

  ‘No way!’ she protested. ‘I’m staying right here. I’m going to sleep it off.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said firmly, pulling back her bed covers. ‘The best cure for a hangover is fresh air and exercise. If you stay in bed you’ll still feel rough at lunchtime. If you come with me you’ll be miraculously cured. Trust me.’

  He looked down at her, grinning.

  ‘You’ve got twenty minutes. I’ll meet you out
side my house. Bring your coat.’

  Charlotte whimpered and pleaded, but Fitch was having none of it. She stumbled blindly into the bathroom to do her teeth, vainly trying to recollect the night before. She couldn’t remember coming home, or getting into bed. Thank goodness she had woken up fully clothed. Not that Fitch would have tried anything on, she was sure, but the thought of him trying to undress her inert drunken body was beyond the pale.

  Twenty minutes later she obediently turned up outside his house, to find him already waiting in his Defender. She could see two figures in the back seat, and Dido bobbing up and down in the boot, excited.