The Affair

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘Believe me, you’re doing me a favour. And if you’re staying, you can look after the cat.’

  Connie had not seen any cat, but she smiled and agreed because nothing made sense in her life any more. One moment she’d been looking forward to a cosy family Christmas, checking out recipes for the turkey she and Caitlin would cook together, planning what to buy for her beloved grandson. The next, she was exiled in North London with only Tessa’s cat – whose name, she later discovered, was Monty – for company.

  27

  Tessa had taken the night sleeper for Scotland five days ago. It was nearly two weeks since Connie had arrived at her friend’s house, and the days had passed slowly. Tessa was working on and off, had presents to organize, other friends to catch up with. But they would have supper and a good glass of wine most evenings, talk like only lifelong friends can. Neither had solutions for each other’s current sorrows, but it was comforting for Connie gradually to unwrap the chaos in her brain with someone who would listen, not judge.

  Connie had waved off her friend with trepidation, clutching the house keys, her head spinning with instructions about closing the security grilles on her bedroom window in the half-basement, bin days, what and when to feed Monty, the fact that the gas hob no longer lit automatically, and how to regulate the central heating. Connie had written it all down as soon as she closed the front door, knowing she’d otherwise forget.

  Now, waking to an empty house for yet another long and lonely day, she felt desolate. In the time since she’d left home, the only person she’d properly spoken to, apart from Tessa, was Neil. There had been complete radio silence from the rest of her family. Caitlin had not rung back – even to berate her mother. Connie had left countless messages, first apologetic, then asking to talk, then, when no response was forthcoming, just Love you xxx

  Devan, on the many, many occasions that Connie had called – two or three times daily at first, heart in her mouth – had not picked up, and not returned a single call, although she’d left message after message asking him politely if he would please do so. Unlike with her daughter, she did not apologize to Devan again. She just wanted to talk to him directly, to try to explain. She wanted to apologize to a living person, not a machine.

  ‘He’s probably licking his wounds,’ Neil said, the last time they’d spoken. ‘Give him time, Con.’

  ‘How much time, though?’ she’d cried. ‘I feel every day that goes by, he gets further and further away from me. Suppose he just point-blank refuses to speak to me ever again?’ She stopped to catch her breath, overwhelmed by the thought. ‘Help me out, Neil, please. Tell me what I should do.’ Before he’d had a chance to respond, she rushed on: ‘Have you seen him? How is he? Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?’

  ‘Whoa, Connie, slow down. I haven’t seen him, but Brooks bumped into him in the pub. He was with Bill. Brooks said he seemed perfectly normal, smiling and friendly, as if nothing had happened.’

  Typical Devan, Connie thought, burying it all behind a public face, but her heart constricted at the thought of him pretending so hard. Jill had rung Connie a few times, but she hadn’t taken the calls, just texted back to say she would be in touch, although she’d decided it would be better if she wasn’t. Bill was Devan’s best friend. Jill would only be compromised if she got involved with Connie’s side of the story.

  ‘And Jared?’ she asked, holding her breath in trepidation.

  ‘No sign of him. I’ve done a couple of drive-bys, imagining what I’ll say to the prick if I ever manage to corner him. I’ve even banged on the door, but it seems he’s long gone.’ Neil gave a harsh laugh. ‘He wasn’t going to hang about, though, knowing what’s gone down with you and Devan.’

  ‘You can never tell what Jared’s going to do … But no, I suppose not.’ She wondered where he was now. Would he have somewhere to run to, and if so, where? Maybe to Dinah’s, she thought, and shivered at the proximity.

  ‘Listen, Con,’ Neil was saying, ‘you didn’t murder anyone. You’ve apologized. You made a daft mistake. Devan would be crazy not to come round in the end.’

  ‘I’ve called him a million times and he won’t ring back. He doesn’t even seem to want to get in touch to yell at me. There’s been nothing, not a peep, since the day I left.’

  She heard her friend give a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s barely two weeks. You’ve got to give him time.’

  Connie sighed. The conversation was going in circles. ‘Would you talk to him, Neil? Please. Just sound him out?’

  There was a groan.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to ask. But I genuinely don’t know where to go from here.’ She waited. ‘I’m desperate.’ The word was no more than a whisper, she felt so utterly sapped by the situation. Even when she was talking to Tessa, watching television, trying to sleep, it played on and on around her brain in a persistent loop. Like a child repeating the same question until it is heard.

  The other day, after another message left with no response, she’d almost jumped on a train back to Somerset, thinking if she could just see Devan face to face he would have to talk to her. But she wasn’t sure she could cope with the door being slammed in her face … with another cold rejection.

  ‘OK,’ Neil was saying. ‘But what do you want me to say?’

  Connie had no answer. ‘No, listen, it’s probably a bad idea,’ she said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Forget I asked.’

  He didn’t reply at once. ‘Thing is, we’re off to Costa Rica on Monday. I could try to see him before I go …’

  ‘Honestly, don’t, Neil. Thanks for the offer, but this is my problem, not yours. And, as you say, it’s not likely he’ll be in the mood just yet.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘God, darling. I really feel for you. Are you going to be all right while I’m away? We’re not back till the sixth.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m so sorry you’ve had to listen to me whining on. I hope you both have a brilliant time. People say it’s an amazing place … all that walking above the clouds thing I read about. Love to Brooks.’

  She was hanging on, forcing out her brightest self for just ten seconds longer while they said goodbye. Then she took a juddering breath and burst into tears.

  After lunch, Connie wrapped herself up warmly and took a walk to the high street. It wasn’t that she needed anything in particular: she was heating tinned soup and eating a lot of toast instead of real cooking. She just needed human contact, even if it was only the barista serving her coffee or one of the friendly booksellers in Waterstones. It was raining, but the hill was crowded as usual, a sea of umbrellas jostling for position on the pavement.

  She’d almost stopped looking around for Jared. Almost. That chapter of her life, she kept telling herself, was closed. The fallout was her main concern now. But as she crossed the wide road towards her favourite café, a man walking down the hill towards her – at least a hundred metres away – raised his black umbrella for a split second before turning right into the narrow side-street by the bakery. He was in jeans, muffled to the neck in a heavy parka, hood up, but even that tiny glimpse stopped Connie in her tracks, a cry discharging involuntarily from her throat.

  Him? From the thrashing of her heart she was certain it was. But when she’d taken a few deep breaths, calmed down a little, although still staring fixedly at the entrance to the alley where he’d disappeared, she decided she must have been mistaken. Just my crazy brain playing tricks, she told herself, as she reached the café, with its steamed-up windows, coffee machine churning and cosy, all-pervading smell of damp wool. She found a seat at the back, her hands shaking as she unzipped her coat.

  Over a large latte, she reviewed what she’d seen. The image was still clear in her mind, but it wasn’t a clear image. There was the rain and the dim winter light, the other pedestrians, the umbrella and his hood. But she had seen enough, at least, to precipitate jumpy glances towards the door each time it swung open.

  By the time Connie got home sh
e was a bag of nerves. Every umbrella harboured Jared Temple, every brush against her arm on the crowded pavement was his hand, every shout was her name on his lips. She didn’t feel safe. She went round the house checking all the locks, as if she expected him to have broken in, or maybe walked through walls, to be standing there, anyway, in the middle of Tessa’s sitting room as if he had every right to be there.

  The next day, Connie decided to stay at home. It was mayhem out there, she reasoned, Christmas frenzy building. But that wasn’t why she stayed inside. She didn’t trust herself not to invent a repeat of yesterday. Because, overnight, she’d come to the conclusion that the pressure she was under was making her mind play tricks, see things that didn’t exist.

  Connie, as Tessa had also claimed, wasn’t used to being alone. She wasn’t good at it. Even if she had known someone in London, though – which she didn’t, other than her daughter, who wasn’t an option – she was in no fit state to socialize. It was two weeks until her friend got back, during a time when almost every other person in the country would be indulging in some form of festive celebration with family or friends. All she could think about was her family: Caitlin and Ash and little Bash dressing the tree, Devan arriving, the warmth and laughter, the brightly wrapped presents, the fizz, the turkey they would share. It was sending her round the bend. Aren’t they wondering how I’m coping, all alone here? she wondered plaintively, as she checked her phone yet again to find no messages from any of them. But they would assume Tessa was with her, of course.

  For one more day she sat on the olive-green sofa, wrapped in the mohair throw, drinking tea and eating toast, Monty snuggled into her side. She ploughed through tiresome books about acting and economics – Tessa didn’t seem to do light reading – or watched endless daytime television. She now knew all about the pitfalls of buying a property at auction, how to make perfect gluten-free mince pies, a certain sportswoman’s mental-health issues, and how to tell a real Ming pot from a fake.

  Enough, she told herself firmly, late in the morning two days before Christmas. Stop being feeble. Take a walk, go to the cinema, buy some food that isn’t bread. Get a grip.

  It helped that the rain had stopped, delivering a glitteringly bright winter’s day. She couldn’t help yearning for home as she wove through the shoppers on the hill, deafened by the noise of the traffic and a brass band bashing out Christmas favourites. Right now it would be heaven to be tramping in the frosty sunshine with Riley. Up through the woods they’d go, bursting out of the trees at the top to enjoy the stunning view across the Levels to the distant Mendips. She loved that view. Devan knew that when she died he was to scatter her ashes at exactly that spot so her spirit could enjoy it for ever. She pushed away the thought that he might not give a toss where her remains were scattered any more.

  Thinking about home got her as far as the bookshop. She would browse for a while, find a nice fat detective novel with which to distract herself. Maybe buy a good bottle of wine, find a tasty dish she could stick in the oven from the ruinously expensive deli Tessa loved, and some mince pies to get into the festive spirit.

  The bookshop was crowded and hot. Connie pulled off her gloves and woolly hat and opened the neck of her coat. She began to pick up books at random, taking her time and enjoying the hubbub, the company, the piped carols that filled the air.

  She’d been there a while when she was aware of the opening bars of ‘Away In A Manger’. Her eyes filled with tears. Bash’s face swam in front of her: his nursery had sung it at their Nativity last year and all she could see were his dark eyes gazing dreamily from beneath the cotton-wool sheep’s ears Caitlin had made. She found herself pushing past the other shoppers, almost running from the store.

  Once on the pavement, she stopped and drew a shaky breath. The cold hit her and she realized she didn’t have her hat or gloves. Cursing under her breath, she turned and went back inside. Where did I leave them? She revisited the various tables over which she’d lingered. But they were nowhere to be seen. In the end she found a girl with a bookshop badge and asked for her help.

  ‘Come with me. We’ll check if someone’s handed them in,’ the girl said, leading Connie through a door saying Staff Only to a large see-through plastic container sitting in the corridor. Unclipping the lid, she asked, ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘A green wool hat and brown leather gloves,’ Connie told her. ‘But I’ve only just left the shop. I’m not sure anyone would have had time to hand them in.’

  The girl rummaged about, nonetheless, pulling out various hats – none of them green. She looked at Connie. ‘Maybe come back tomorrow. We close at four.’

  Outside once more, Connie found she was unreasonably upset by the loss of her hat and gloves. Devan had given her the hat for Christmas two years ago, when things between them were still good and a rift in her marriage was not even a speck on the horizon. She remembered trying it on and Devan taking a photo on his phone, them both laughing and agreeing it suited her perfectly, her husband teasing her that she looked like a mischievous leprechaun, such as his Irish grandmother had warned him about. Losing the hat felt like the last straw.

  She stood still for a while, being knocked and bumped by the Christmas crowds, then began to plod slowly down the hill, head bowed, without any of her intended purchases. Once she turned the corner into Tessa’s road, leaving the roar of the high street behind her, she was aware of her phone ringing. Fumbling as she tried to extricate it from her coat pocket – where it was tangled in a tissue and the house keys – she pressed the green button frantically over and over. But the caller had clicked off. Caty. Tears of frustration clouding her vision, Connie immediately returned the call, but her daughter didn’t answer and it went eventually to voicemail. Noo, she wailed silently, staring at the screen in disbelief. She didn’t walk on immediately, as if the very fact of her stillness would enable Caitlin to get through. She tried the number a couple more times, but with the same depressing result. It was like being starving hungry, a delicious bite of something dangled before her, then snatched away before she could taste it.

  The house was gloomy, silent, and she felt something go inside her: she had completely run out of steam. Struggling out of her coat, she lit the gas fire with a wobbly hand. Grabbing the throw, she flung herself down on the sofa and curled up into a ball, the cat in the crook of her knees, her head on a gold satin cushion, slippery and cold beneath her cheek. She was beyond tears as she lay listening to Monty’s soft snores, the hiss of the gas-fire, the tick of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Cars braked for the sleeping policeman in the road outside the house, then accelerated away; footsteps tapped along the pavement, sometimes accompanied by snatches of chatter; the mohair from the throw tickled her nose. But inside her there was only numb silence.

  Lulled by the warmth from the fire and the cat’s comforting proximity, Connie dozed. When she woke the clock said it was just past five. She rolled onto her back, dislodging Monty, who scrabbled and jumped heavily over her legs onto the floor. I ought to feed him, she thought, reluctantly dragging herself upright, still groggy from the daytime nap.

  Turning on the kitchen light, she washed Monty’s bowl and took a new pouch from the row of cat food Tessa had left beside the kettle, Monty purring and threading himself in and out of her legs in anticipation. As she was lifting a fork from the drawer, her mobile blared. Since the earlier missed call, she had ramped up the ring to the loudest possible, dreading another disappointment.

  She dropped the pouch and the fork, racing to pick up the phone pulsating on the coffee table. Caty, she thought.

  ‘Ash?’ She was taken aback. He seldom called and she instantly worried it boded no good.

  ‘Hi, Connie.’ Her son-in-law sounded cautious, but friendly. ‘How are you?’

  She gave a sad laugh. ‘Been better, I suppose.’

  ‘God, I’m so sorry about all this.’

  ‘It’s me who’s the sorry one, Ash.’

  ‘Listen, I k
now Caty tried you earlier …’ He fell silent. ‘I’m sure she’ll try again later, it’s just with Devan here …’ He stopped. ‘But she’s worrying about you. And missing you, as we all are.’

  Tears misted her eyes. ‘I miss you all too. Terribly.’

  ‘It’s been pretty hectic –’

  ‘How is Devan?’ she interrupted, although she didn’t really want to hear Ash’s answer.

  ‘Umm, not great, if I’m honest. He doesn’t mention you much, just rants on about Jared. And his back’s bad again.’

  Connie winced. There was a direct correlation between Devan’s back pain and his emotional state, his previous bout disappearing, like snow in summer, as soon as his mood improved. Now she could imagine her husband’s dark-blue eyes, bruised and flashing with hurt. She let out an involuntary sigh. ‘I can’t tell you how much this call means to me, Ash,’ she said. ‘I’m truly sorry for everything … not least ruining your Christmas.’ She wanted to hug him for being so kind, knowing what he must be dealing with at home. She wondered if Caitlin had asked him to call, or whether he’d done it off his own bat.

  ‘No worries. You know I’m not a fan of the festive season.’ He chuckled. ‘We’re off up to Manchester on the twenty-seventh, where Ma will no doubt feed me till I burst. Roll on January.’

  Don’t go, she thought, as she sensed Ash winding up the call. She wanted to ask about Bash, to hear about this year’s Nativity and what he was getting for Christmas. But before she had a chance, Ash was speaking again, this time sounding furtive, in a hurry to be off the phone. ‘Listen, let’s arrange something as soon as we get back. Have you over … Bye, Connie, lots of love.’

  28

  Ash’s call was a fillip for Connie. Her mood instantly improved. She knew nothing had really changed, but at least the agonizing wall of silence had been breached. It was a ray of hope. She knew she could manage her despair if there was the prospect of seeing her daughter and grandson – dear Ash – in the new year, even if Caitlin was still angry with her. About her future with Devan she dared not think. That was much, much more complicated.