by Hilary Boyd
She also realized, as she slowly began to undress, that she felt bamboozled by her husband. He’s all sunshine and sorry, expecting me to respond as if nothing’s happened. I’m obviously supposed to just roll over, forget. Like painting over a crack in the wall. She knew he didn’t mean it like that. He was just being enthusiastic about finally feeling free from his despair. About loving her. But, Jared notwithstanding, it didn’t seem quite fair to expect too much from her, too soon.
Devan, already in bed, was watching as she self-consciously removed her bra, stepped out of her knickers. Two nights ago … She struggled to put it to the back of her mind as she lifted the duvet and slid in next to her waiting husband.
He was kissing her before she’d had time to catch her breath. His mouth was eager, his hands quickly finding her breasts, as if he were in a tearing hurry.
‘Whoa, wait, wait, Devan.’ She pulled away, staying his hand. ‘Let’s take it slowly, OK?’
His eyes didn’t seem focused as he stared down at her. ‘What’s wrong? What have I done?’
She wanted to close her eyes for fear he would see the scene in the hotel bedroom playing there. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ She kissed him gently. ‘It’s just been a long time, that’s all.’
He tensed and she saw his mouth working. Then he sighed and flopped back on his pillow. ‘I know … and I’m sorry. I’ve just missed you so much, Con. I know I didn’t show it, but seeing you looking so hurt every time I pushed you away these past months tore me up. Only I couldn’t seem to stop. It’s like I was punishing you for how I felt.’ He turned to her. ‘I just want to show you how much I love you, now … for things to go back to how they were before.’
She lay there, wanting to respond as he deserved, but feeling Jared lurking between them. Things would never be the same – it was naïve to think they might be.
‘Come here,’ she heard Devan say, and was painfully aware of the echo of Jared’s words that night in Warsaw. It was all she could do to repress a shiver of arousal. She felt Devan’s arms pulling her against him. It was such a familiar gesture, but she couldn’t relish the closeness, or relax into his embrace as she knew she should, and normally would.
But Devan seemed to understand. He didn’t try anything more, although she could tell he was aroused as he spooned into her back when they turned on their sides. She wished he would move away. His breath on her neck was like the hot wind of shame. What am I going to do? She felt tearful, but dared not give in to tears, with Devan so close. If only he’d said all this before Poland, she thought ruefully. Although, in truth, she doubted it would have made much difference – hard though this was to admit. If Jared comes to my room next week, will I be strong enough to resist? The question kept her awake, despite her utter exhaustion, for most of the long night.
13
Connie was leaving again. Inverness and the Highlands. An easy tour, as long as it didn’t rain the entire time, or the midges pester them to death. Devan had been almost painfully attentive in the days since she’d returned from Poland. Nothing was too much trouble as far as she was concerned. Which Connie appreciated after so long a dearth, but also found oppressive. He was trying so hard. And her heart went out to him in his efforts to show his love for her. But she wished he would just relax, let them settle into a new rhythm, rather than jumping up and down like Tigger, trying to make things instantly perfect. But Devan had never been one for letting the grass grow under his feet – until his retirement, that was – and now he clearly wanted to move on, forget last year ever existed.
Connie did, too, but she knew she couldn’t throw herself wholeheartedly back into her relationship until she had finished with Jared, once and for all. She hoped he would pitch up in Inverness, then she could tell him – although she felt sick at the prospect. She was well aware that ending it wouldn’t erase him from her mind – she wasn’t stupid. Her betrayal would stay with her for ever. But at least she could begin to put their affair behind her, place it in one of the locked rooms Devan had mentioned and throw away the key.
She and Devan had finally made love for almost the first time in two years, although Connie had still found herself hesitating. But the night in question she’d known she had run out of excuses. So she’d drunk too much wine at supper, until her head was spinning, until thinking clearly – or at all – was impossible.
When they reached the bedroom, it had been she who took the initiative, almost rushing him – as previously he had her – in an attempt to prove that she could do this, that things were right between them. Devan was receptive. But the whole thing felt wrong to Connie. Both of them were over-zealous, as if they were showcasing their sexual skills rather than making love, neither fully confident in each other’s bodies after the years of disconnect. As if they were strangers.
Afterwards, they did not speak, there were only brief smiles, no cosy cuddles. They just turned over and went to sleep, Connie using drunkenness as her escape. But it seemed like a necessary hurdle and she was relieved it had been jumped – although the sex itself had left her feeling restless and empty. Left her feeling cruel.
Connie had spent the day ironing and filling her case. It was trickier to decide what to take for UK tours, with scant chance of warmth and sunshine. As with the previous trips that year, she was desperate to get away. But not for the same reasons. Before, she had needed an escape from the tensions of her marriage. Now she felt she needed a break from Devan’s unintentionally guilt-inducing love. His gaze was constantly upon her, willing her to be loving and happy – to share his enthusiasm that they were getting back on track. She felt she was playacting through her every waking hour and it was exhausting. One more day, she kept telling herself, as they ate macaroni cheese in front of the television that night. She refused to think of what lay in store for her in Scotland.
Later, as she came through from the bathroom to the bedroom, Devan, sitting hunched on the bed with his back to her, jumped and quickly clicked off his phone. She wanted to ask whom he was calling, but his body-language seemed so guilty, the words dried in her throat.
‘Hey.’ Devan carefully laid his phone face down on the bedside table and turned as he got up and began to undress. ‘Looking forward to Scotland?’ he said, with forced heartiness, his smile self-conscious as he pulled his T-shirt over his head.
What’s going on? Connie gave him a quizzical smile. ‘Sort of … Will you miss me?’
‘Of course I will,’ he said, not meeting her eye as he climbed into bed. ‘So, tomorrow … I was thinking, instead of cooking on your last night, do you fancy a pub supper? We haven’t been out in ages.’ He was gazing at her oddly now, a small grin playing around his mouth. But she couldn’t work out what it all meant and was too tired to ask.
‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘That would be nice.’
Her husband’s eyes were still fixed on her as he watched her taking off her gold Russian-ring bracelet and laying it beside her glass of water. ‘What?’ she asked, impatient suddenly.
‘Nothing …’
In the morning, after an unsettled night, Connie woke to find Devan’s side of the bed empty. It was just after seven and he usually slept much later. Rolling onto her side, she pulled the duvet around her ears and closed her eyes, not wanting to face the day.
But only a couple of minutes later, the bedroom door banged open and Riley bounced in, followed immediately by Devan, carrying a tray upon which were two croissants, a ramekin of strawberry jam, white paper napkins, white china mugs and a cafetière of coffee. An envelope was propped between the two mugs.
Dragging herself into a sitting position against the wooden headboard, Connie gave a puzzled frown as he set the tray alongside her on the bed.
Standing with arms crossed and a big grin on his face, Devan said, ‘Happy anniversary!’
Oh, shit, Connie thought. She had never, in all the years of their marriage, neglected to mark their anniversary. She tried to bring a smile to her face, when all she felt was dismay. Deva
n’s expression had fallen. He obviously hadn’t even considered she might have forgotten. But that must have been what his strange look had implied, the previous night, when he suggested they go out for supper and she’d responded so casually.
She smiled up at him, contrite. ‘This is gorgeous! Thank you, Devan.’ He perched on the bed as she opened her card. The outside was a bunch of beautifully hand-painted poppies. Inside the message said simply, ‘I love you so much, Connie, xxx’.
She felt tears spring to her eyes and a wash of fatigue at the unstoppable guilt that plagued her. ‘I love you too,’ she said. And this time it was heartfelt.
Devan leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘You forgot, right?’
Connie gave him a sheepish grin. ‘I’m so sorry … I never, ever have before. You should have said something.’
He poured some coffee into one of the mugs, handed it to her. ‘Don’t apologize. With the way things have been …’
‘That’s for you,’ Devan said, pointing at a square package lying on the counter, when Connie arrived in the kitchen. It had been a lovely breakfast, both of them propped up in bed, sipping coffee and strewing croissant flakes over the sheets, laughing about it. She’d had the first moment of peace since that night in Lake Como and Jared’s kiss.
Connie raised her eyebrows. ‘A present as well?’
He shook his head as he washed out the coffee grains from the cafetière. ‘Not from me, I’m afraid.’
She picked it up. It was light. Pulling open the cardboard box, she was confronted with bubble wrap, which finally revealed a small snow-globe. Peering at it, she recognized the Royal Palace and the Sigismund Column in Warsaw.
Connie’s heart missed a beat. Please, no, she thought, trying not to run from the kitchen, the globe singeing the skin of her palm.
‘What did you get?’ Devan was at her shoulder, peering at Jared’s gift.
Silently she showed him because she couldn’t speak. If it wouldn’t make her appear completely mad, she would have hurled it straight into the bin. Instead she watched her husband tip the globe upside down and then the right way up, gazing at the gently falling snow.
‘Dear Audrey,’ Connie said. ‘One of my passengers. Her grandson is obsessed with them so she buys one wherever she goes. I told her about Bash and she said I should start a collection for him too.’ She didn’t look at her husband as she lied with unnerving assurance. ‘How kind. She must have got the shop to send it.’ The shop outside which Jared had been sitting, Polish newspaper in hand, the sun burnishing his hair gold.
‘Good idea,’ Devan said, handing the globe back to her. ‘Give him a sense of the outside world. Although he’s a bit young to appreciate that yet.’
Connie stuffed the globe back into the bubble wrap, then the box. She didn’t want to see it ever again. Neither did she have any intention of giving it to her grandson, this emblem of her infidelity. The thought made her shudder.
‘We can surprise him with it, next time we go up,’ Devan, back at the sink, was saying.
That night, Connie took a long time getting ready. She wanted to look good for Devan, but her efforts felt hollow, a sham. Like disguising a second-hand gift in pretty paper and a bow. When she finally entered the sitting room, where her husband was sitting, smart in a pressed white shirt and navy chinos, she felt ragged with fatigue.
‘You look lovely,’ Devan said, smiling at her. Putting his phone away, he sprang up from the sofa and came towards her, pulling her into his arms and looking down at her, his gaze tender. ‘I’m a lucky man,’ he said, kissing her firmly on the lips.
I’m not at all lovely, she wanted to shout. She hugged him fiercely, pressing away her deception. It seemed oddly difficult, getting used to this new, romantically charged incarnation of her husband. But she told herself it would get easier. She had, after all, loved Devan for a lifetime.
It was a soft July evening, the sun low on the horizon, partially covered with light cloud. She shivered, although it wasn’t cold, as they walked the short distance to the pub. Devan had his hand clamped securely round hers as they drew level with the Skittle House. But he pulled her past the door.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
He grinned at her but said nothing.
‘Devan!’ She snatched away her hand and stopped on the corner, turning to face him, arms defiantly crossed.
‘Play along, Connie,’ he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and encouraging her gently across the road.
She reluctantly allowed him to guide her, realizing there was only one place they could be going to: the Kitsons’. She’d been hoping for a quick steak and a glass of red at the pub – Stacy’s wife, Nicole, did a mean sirloin and chips – and an early night so she could close her eyes and stop having to hide her real feelings from Devan. As her husband opened the latch on the low gate to their friends’ front garden, Connie sucked in a breath and steeled herself.
Bill greeted Connie with open arms, his broad, affable features already tinged pink, his breath redolent of whisky. She saw him wink conspiratorially at Devan as he ushered them into the kitchen.
A rose-draped banner had been strung across the row of copper pans on the far wall: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY CONNIE AND DEVAN, it said, the pink balloons tied to one end bumping each other gently in the breeze from the open French windows.
Neil and Brooks, their faces expectant along with Jill’s, were standing in a group, champagne flutes in hand. They all raised their glasses and called, ‘Congratulations!’ Connie, so engulfed in her inner confusion, felt almost assaulted by the attention – although it was obviously so well meant. She sensed herself being reeled in from a long way off, like a trout on a hook, and with the same sense of helplessness. Smile, she whispered silently, for God’s sake, smile.
Jill and Bill had gone to a lot of trouble: rosé champagne in copious quantities and a supper of marinated leg of lamb, melting pommes dauphinoise and buttered green beans was laid out in the back garden, pale pink roses in little glass vases glowing in the candlelight on the wooden table.
Connie was touched and, at any other time, would have been delighted. But tonight it felt like pressure … to be happy, to be thrilled that everything was all right with the world now that her troubled husband had seen the light. Her friends obviously were thrilled.
Halfway through the meal she got up, ostensibly to go to the loo. She didn’t need to, just wanted a moment to herself. As she reached the hall, she felt a hand on her arm. Turning, she saw Neil’s worried face.
‘What’s wrong, darling? You look like someone who’s pretending to be Connie.’
She swallowed hard. ‘Is it that obvious?’
Neil stroked her arm. ‘No, you’ve been putting on a good show. But I know something’s up. You’ve definitely been avoiding me recently.’
She sighed, biting her lip to stop herself crying. ‘I’ve been away a lot.’
Neil put his head on one side, waiting.
She couldn’t tell him about Jared. Not when she was about to end it. ‘It’s Devan stuff,’ she muttered. ‘Listen, I need to pee,’ she added, opening the door to the cloakroom. Neil frowned, but she knew he wasn’t going to push her. Not here, anyway.
‘Coffee at Angie’s soonest,’ he said.
‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ she replied, as she shut the door.
The meal was over. A ripe, runny Époisses with charcoal crackers had followed the lamb, then strawberries and cream. Connie had tried to eat normally, but her stomach churned at the garlicky potatoes, the rich, herby meat, the pungent cheese. She’d noticed Neil watching closely in the candlelight as she pushed food around her plate, but there was nothing she could do about it, except smile and smile. Luckily, she didn’t have to say much, just let the others carry the evening with their usual amusing banter. By anybody’s standards, it was a lively, luxurious, loving party and Connie wished she could fully appreciate it.
They walked home, Devan once more
clutching her hand, his tipsy laughter loud in the silent village street as he recounted his secret phone calls with Jill about the surprise dinner, and how Connie had nearly rumbled him the night before. But she wasn’t really listening. She knew he would want to make love to her when they got home – it was their anniversary, after all. And she wanted to show him how much she loved him. He’d gone to a lot of trouble arranging the evening – driving Jill nuts, apparently, in his need for perfection. It had to be actual champagne – no Prosecco this time – and the very best salt-marsh lamb, cheese at the perfect ripeness, the most succulent strawberries sourced from a local organic farm. He’d insisted on paying for everything, too, although Bill had begged to contribute. She had been very moved by his determination to please her.
The evening was a salutary reminder. It told her, loud and clear, that her marriage was her priority, not negotiable. She would definitely not be seeing Jared in Inverness. Or anywhere else, ever again. What she had with Devan – warts and everything else included – was way too precious to compromise.
14
It rained. The sober grey stone of Inverness, the cloud-darkened water of the Ness flowing past their spa hotel, and the fact that she had left her favourite Ilse Jacobsen raincoat on the sleeper, was not improving Connie’s mood. She had not wanted to go away at all this time, even though she still felt a constant nerviness around Devan as they both continued to try to make everything seem like it was before. But mostly she dreaded the almost certain knowledge that she would see Jared. Not giving in when he was standing right in front of her – when she could see the desire in his eyes and know that her own mirrored his – seemed beyond the bounds of possibility, the bounds of her so far shabby willpower.
