“Aren’t I always?” Finn, who had been foraging in cupboards, piled packets of crisps and Kit-Kats, a bag of tomatoes, some apples, and a large packet of cheese on the worktop. “There. One picnic lunch. I’ll just hard boil a few eggs, and that should do us.”
Alice looked at what amounted to a large proportion of their weekend supplies and bit her tongue. After all, it wasn’t Finn’s fault if he had a feckless father, and a feckless father who was in touch was better than no father at all.
“Do you think Trot would like to come back for supper afterwards?” she asked.
“Really?” Finn beamed. He loved it when the three of them got together, and it rarely happened. “I’ll ask him.”
“It’ll probably have to be something simple as I’ve got this article to finish, but that’s okay, isn’t it?”
“No problem.”
Later on, as she set off for her evening with Mavis and Gabs, Alice wondered whether she and Trot could ever have made a go of their relationship. He was personable, amusing, and intelligent, and she could certainly have done a lot worse. But no, it would never have worked. Quite apart from the fact that he wasn’t her type, Alice knew that Trot would have driven her mad within days. It would have been like having another child.
Besides, there was Jay.
Only the members of the Basic Theology group knew about Jay, and of course Father Cuthbert (who no longer counted), but none of her family and friends knew, not even Finn. Especially not Finn. The affair had been going for nearly four years now, and while Alice accepted that there was no future in it, she couldn’t bring herself to let go. She didn’t so much mind not being married to him or living with him; she could cope with that. What she found difficult was the secrecy.
Before their affair had begun, Alice had had no idea how many pitfalls awaited those engaged in an illicit relationship. A car parked in the wrong place, the risk of bumping into someone they knew, the difficulties involved in arranging any time together — there were times when the problems seemed insurmountable. Weeks would go by when they scarcely saw each other, and had to make do with the odd snatched phone call or brief unsatisfactory meeting. And yet in some ways, it was the risk — the excitement, perhaps — that kept the relationship fresh, for it was hard to grow tired of someone when you hardly ever saw them.
Alice had met Jay on a crowded train. Jammed up against each other (there was standing room only), they had struck up a conversation. The train was slow, and Jay was a good listener — attentive without being intrusive — and by the time Alice reached her destination, she realised that she had spent most of the time talking about herself, and that she knew virtually nothing about her companion.
“Gosh. I’m sorry. I haven’t stopped talking, have I?” she said as the train began to slow down. “What must you think of me?”
“Does it matter what I think of you?” Jay had asked her. His tone was teasing, but his expression was serious.
They had held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Alice blushed and looked away.
“Yes. Yes, it does,” she said, wondering that she should mind so much about the opinion of a stranger.
“That’s good. Because — because I’d like to see you again. That is, if you don’t mind.”
And that was how it had started. Afterwards, Alice often wondered at the coincidence of their meeting. If it hadn’t been one of her London days (her job on a Sunday colour supplement enabled her to do most of her work from home); if she hadn’t missed the earlier train; if she had been able to find a seat… all those ifs. But they had met, and before she left the station that evening, Alice knew that her life was about to change.
Their first meeting took place in a discreet coffee bar halfway between their homes (they lived some distance apart), and there was none of the awkwardness that Alice had feared.
“I’m afraid I did nearly all the talking last time,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”
“What do you want me to say?” Jay had asked.
“Tell me about yourself. After all, you already know quite a lot about me.”
“Well, I live in town, I support Manchester United, I have two black labradors, and I’m allergic to shellfish. Will that do?”
“Hardly. For a start, I want to know what you are, what you do for a living.”
“I’m a medic.”
“That doesn’t tell me much! What kind of medic?”
“Oh, this and that. Nothing particularly interesting.”
“Is that it?”
“Not quite. But I suppose I’ve got out of the habit of talking about it, partly to avoid people asking my advice. If you tell anyone you’re a doctor, you’re considered fair game, even at social gatherings. So I try to avoid it. Sometimes I just tell them I’m an accountant. It seems that no-one’s interested in accountants.”
Alice laughed. “So you won’t tell me any more? Even if I promise never to ask your advice?”
“I hope you’ll never need it. I’m an oncologist.” Jay smiled at her expression. “Cancer,” he explained. “I work at the District General, and I also look after the local hospice.”
“Isn’t that a bit depressing?”
“People do get better, you know. More so now than ever. And if they don’t, well, at least I can help to make things a bit easier. Make a difference.”
Looking at Jay — at his dark, serious eyes and warm, sympathetic smile — Alice could well imagine that he would make a difference. She had only spent a couple of hours in his company, and he was already making a considerable difference to her.
“You wear a wedding ring,” she said now. “You’re — married?”
“Yes, I’m married.”
“And?”
“And we will talk about it, but not now.”
“Children?”
“No children.”
Alice nodded. A waitress whisked past carrying a tray; two women at a corner table were discussing a party they’d been to. Alice picked up her bag from the floor, and then put it down again. The seconds ticked by.
“I don’t — do this kind of thing,” she said, after a moment.
“Neither do I.” Jay touched her hand. “I’ve never ‘done this kind of thing,’ as you put it, before.”
“Then — why…?”
“I think you know why.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
For the attraction between them was overwhelming; something Alice had rarely felt before and had almost given up hope of finding again. And while she realised, even at that early stage, that the way ahead would almost certainly be both difficult and painful, she felt powerless to stop.
One of Alice’s rules had always been never to date married men, but she had been completely swept away by Jay, and their affair had developed rapidly from there. Because of the distance they had to travel (given Jay’s work, that was probably just as well), meetings between them were infrequent and not easy to arrange, but they saw each other when they could, and phoned often. It wasn’t ideal, but it had to be enough. Alice considered that it was a price worth paying, and so, apparently, did Jay.
Over time, Alice discovered that Jay was something of an expert in his field, but while he did sometimes discuss his work with her, he was dismissive of any accolades.
“It’s just a job,” he would say. “I’m fortunate to be doing something I love.” And he would leave it at that.
“Am I allowed to be proud of you?” she had asked him on one occasion, when he had been invited to open a new wing of the hospice.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I were — related to you, I’d be proud of you. Of what you do. All those people you help; all those families. Are mistresses allowed to be proud?”
Jay had laughed. “You can be proud if you want to be. Of course you can. But I just do my job. As you do yours.”
Alice knew that Jay’s marriage was an unhappy one, but they never discussed it. It was bad enough to betray another woman by sleepi
ng with her husband; to ask questions about her seemed almost worse. Fortunately, Jay seemed to feel the same way, so Angela remained an unknown quantity. All Alice knew was that after many shared years of trying (and failing) to produce children, Jay felt that the least he could do was to stay with his wife. As he said, if he allowed himself to be free, he might be tempted to find someone with whom he could have a family, and that would be unforgivably hurtful. So in that respect, Alice was a reasonable solution. She didn’t want more children even had she been young enough to have them, and she made very few demands.
Of course, one of the hardest things to bear was that she and Jay could never go public as a couple. Alice had to put up with the pitying comments of married — or at least, coupled — friends. One or two even asked her why she had never married, as though her age had put any marriage prospects firmly in the past. Occasionally, friends would probe, suspicious at her continued single state and apparent lack of interest in the opposite sex, and one or two had even hinted that she might be gay. Alice had fended off any questions as politely as she could, but found their intrusiveness puzzling. Why was it apparently perfectly acceptable for people to ask about her sexual proclivities when they would be unlikely to question her politics? On several occasions she had been tempted to confide in a close friend, but she knew only too well that a secret shared is all too often a secret spread, and she couldn’t afford to take that risk. One day, when Finn was older, she would tell him. But not yet. He was too young to understand, and besides, what with exams and spots and the alarming surges of testosterone that went with being fifteen, she felt that he had enough to cope with.
So she and Jay continued as best they could, snatching the odd meeting, phoning often, and trying to live in the moment. Because that was all they had, wasn’t it? A relationship such as theirs didn’t have a future, or not the kind that could be planned or worked towards. They loved, they laughed, they had rows, and when they could manage it, they had great sex. It had to be enough.
But of course, it wasn’t. Or not always. There were times when Alice ached for Jay’s company, for the feeling of his arms around her, for his smell and the sound of his voice. She longed for the luxury of a night together or simply the exchange of news at the end of a busy day — the ordinary things that so many couples took for granted. Flowers and candlelit meals no doubt had their place — and goodness knows, she’d had few enough of those — but they were fripperies compared with the day-to-day stuff of marriage.
Oddly enough, while she was rarely jealous of Angela, Alice did occasionally envy Jay’s patients. She knew this made no sense, but when she thought of the amount of time he spent with them — talking to them, touching them, looking after them — she couldn’t help experiencing the odd pang. For while Jay did his best to dissemble, she knew how much he cared about them, and she hoped they realised how fortunate they were in having him.
Alice tried not to share these thoughts with Jay. Things were hard enough for him as it was, without her whinging. Besides, their time together was precious, and she didn’t want to squander it on complaints and if-onlys. She had gone into the relationship with her eyes open, she had known the risks and the difficulties, and she had never been one to waste time on regrets.
Did she feel guilty? At the beginning she had certainly felt very guilty, and more than once she had thought of ending the relationship. But as time went on and she became accustomed to the situation, the pangs of guilt became less frequent. Angela had her husband and her home and her career as a solicitor (that much Alice did know), and provided she never found out about the affair, little harm would be done. In a way, they were all three of them victims, and while Alice didn’t try to absolve herself from her own responsibility, it could have been worse. She could have been younger, more demanding, wanting marriage and children. As it was, all she asked for was what she suspected Jay and Angela could no longer give to each other; love, intimacy, and a little happiness. It could even be that her relationship with Jay was helping to keep his marriage together.
Alice was glad that she wasn’t dogged by the Catholic guilt that had beset her fellows in the “theology” group. But then, Alice was not a Catholic. Her attendance had begun purely coincidentally when she had been invited to write a piece on marital infidelity and had been put in touch with Father Cuthbert. Under conditions of strict confidentiality and with the permission of the group members, Alice had been allowed to attend a single meeting, but she had been so taken with the freedom they experienced in being able to discuss their relationships that she had asked — and been permitted — to carry on attending. She suspected that Father Cuthbert saw her as another opportunity for bringing about redemption — and, who knows, even introducing a new convert to the One True Faith — but for Alice, the meetings had been, quite simply, a life-saver. The opportunity to talk about Jay to people who would neither judge nor dissuade her (she didn’t count Father Cuthbert; it was his job to judge and dissuade) was a revelation, as well as an indescribable relief, and she quite quickly realised that she was becoming dependent on the meetings. She would save up little anxieties and other aspects of her relationship with Jay to share with the other members, and she invariably received the understanding and sympathy she longed for.
But now they were on their own, the three of them: Alice, Gabs, and Mavis. Three very disparate women who all shared a very big secret. They had agreed to meet every two months, taking turns to host the meetings, and tonight’s would be their first one.
Alice smiled to herself. Quite apart from the fact that it might provide material for a most entertaining article, she was looking forward to her evening.
Mavis
Mavis Wetherby knew enough about men to know that left to themselves, they were perfectly capable of choosing their own clothes, but give them a wife or girlfriend, and the job was invariably delegated. This particular wife was taking an inordinate amount of time to choose a shirt and tie for a birthday present, and Mavis was anxious to get away on time in order to prepare for her meeting.
“I think the blue shirt and the striped tie…?” the woman said, but without conviction. “On the other hand, stripes look so like school ties, don’t they? Perhaps spots would be better.”
“Or this nice paisley?” Mavis held up another tie. “This one’s very popular, and it’s pure silk.
“It doesn’t quite match the shirt.”
“Perhaps a different shirt, then? It’s easier to find a shirt than a tie, I always think.”
“Maybe you’re right. I suppose I could always get him socks, but they’re so boring, aren’t they? Everyone gives him socks.” The woman laughed. “And then one sock always gets lost in the wash.”
Mavis had often heard about the missing sock phenomenon, but never having lived with a man and rarely wearing socks herself, she had not come across it.
“Hankies, perhaps? We have some lovely Irish linen hankies, gift-boxed.”
“He uses Kleenex.”
“A cashmere scarf, then? You can’t go wrong with cashmere.” She fetched one from a drawer and laid it out on the counter. “Pure cashmere, and a lovely gift.”
“Cashmere always bobbles, I find.”
“Our cashmere never bobbles.” Mavis bridled. “If it does, you can bring it back for a full refund.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
“Perhaps you’d like to think about it?”
“His birthday’s tomorrow. I’ve left it rather late.” The woman looked wildly round the shop, as though seeking inspiration. “Do you have any Swiss Army knives? He’s always wanted one of those.”
“No, I’m afraid we don’t.” If Mavis had been married to a man who had always wanted a Swiss Army knife and if she’d cared for him at all, she would certainly have made sure that he had one by now.
“Oh — I’ll have the scarf, then,” said her customer with the reckless air of someone who was about to bungee jump off a cliff.
“Any particular colour?”
>
There followed a further fifteen minutes of discussion, in which everything from the husband’s eye colour and personal preference to the wife’s own taste were taken into consideration, and she finally left the shop with a neat parcel containing a cashmere scarf in a rather insipid shade of green.
On her way home, Mavis reflected upon this conversation and the many similar conversations she had had over the years and wondered, not for the first time, how it was that she had got herself into this particular job. She had had a good secretarial training in the past and had started her working life as a PA, holding several responsible — not to say interesting — posts, and she was not unintelligent. But following an unpleasant incident of what would now be called sexual harassment, she had fallen into this job almost by chance. It had come at just the right time, the pay was reasonable (her secretarial skills were taken into consideration and even, on occasion, used), and for the first time in a while, she felt appreciated.
Ten years on, she was stuck with the job, and knew that at her age, she was unlikely to get another. Besides, she had since taken responsibility for her elderly mother, and Mr. Strong (such an inappropriate name for such a dapper little man) was a reasonable if rather fussy employer. A further advantage was that she lived only ten minutes’ walk away, so she could always pop home if her mother had one of her little crises. The job was, above all, convenient.
In a funny way, she’d come to believe in the shop and what it stood for. Gentlemen’s outfitters were a dying breed, and she shared some of Mr. Strong’s pride in keeping this one going. It wasn’t so much the gentlemen or even the clothes; it was more the idea of the survival of a small business under the threat of mass-market competition, of not allowing the old traditions of personal service and individual attention to be sacrificed on the twin altars of progress and profit. She liked the old-fashioned handwritten till receipts and the brown paper parcels in which the goods were despatched, and so, it seemed, did the customers, for enough of them continued to patronise the shop to justify its continued existence. The whole experience reminded her of a bygone age of courtesy and decorum, which was, for the most part, long gone, and although she wasn’t quite old enough to remember a time when this kind of service was the norm, she still felt a sense of nostalgia. She experienced similar feelings when she heard the voice of Vera Lynn or the speeches of Winston Churchill, or the Pathé News giving bulletins of the war effort in its clipped, oh-so-British accent. Nostalgia for a Britain long gone, a Britain that was unlikely ever to return.
Women Behaving Badly_An uplifting, feel-good holiday read Page 2
