by Jayne Buxton
“Sounds good. I’m keeping our bed warm for you.”
Something about the presumption behind the words “our bed” irks me.
“David, for the past two years it’s been my bed. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to call it our bed, just like that.”
“Well, you seemed pretty ready when you were in it with me a few nights ago.”
“That’s different. You know that. That’s me being caught up in the moment forgetting about everything that’s happened. But those things have happened, and I can’t pretend they haven’t.”
“I know they happened, Ally. And I’m sorry. But they are in the past. Out of my system.”
“What about my system?”
“Come on, Al. Don’t go all funny and cold on me. You bring out the best in me. I need you.”
I know something soft and conciliatory is in order, but I can’t summon it up.
“Anyway, we can’t resolve all this on the phone. I have to go to dinner now.”
“Ally, do you still love me or not? Because I got the impression you do.”
“David, I’ll probably always love you. That doesn’t mean it’s easy for me to do this. Or possible for me to do this.”
“If you still love me, that’s all that counts, Ally.”
Lying in the bath with my gin and tonic, I’m agitated when I should be relaxing. Is it all that counts, the fact that I still love David? Surely other things count too. Like the fact that he was once prepared to trade what we had for two years hopping in and out of bed with other women. And the fact that his coming back is not just a matter between him and me, but something that will affect Jack and Millie. We can’t make another mistake. There’s no suck it and see option for us.
And surely, the question of whether or not he still loves me, surely that counts too. And shouldn’t he be hoping I love him too, not assuming my bed is ours again with so little effort on his part. I forgot to ask him about that. So when I’m out of the bath, I pick up the phone again. This time it sounds like I might have actually woken him up.
“Hi. It’s me again. Did I wake you?”
“Just dozing. What’s up?”
“I was just wondering what you meant earlier when you said you needed me?”
He laughs. “You’re a funny one. Why the seriousness all of a sudden?”
“I just want to know, that’s all.”
“I meant just what I said. I don’t think I want that life anymore. I need a different sort of life. I want what we had. I felt like I was coming home when we spent that day together, and I liked it.”
“How do I know you won’t change your mind again?”
“I won’t, Al. You won’t let me. I know I can count on you to protect me from myself.”
He laughs, but I don’t think it’s very funny.
I SIT AT my table for one, sipping riocha and picking at my paella. The dining room is full, but happily no one is paying any attention to me. There is one other person dining alone, a not unhandsome man, probably here on business as well. It amuses me to think that a few weeks ago I’d anticipated seeing someone like him here and using some sort of Marina-recommended prop or trick of body language to try to meet him. Tonight there couldn’t be anything further from my mind. I could have sent Nicki on this trip after all, for all the scouting I’m doing.
I leave half of my paella and decline dessert. (There goes another half-pound.) I’m not calm enough to sit here and relish the atmosphere and the solitude, so decide to go upstairs and try to distract myself with a book. But the book doesn’t work either, so I open up my laptop and log into my PerfectPartnership mailbox. The meters of unanswered e-mails don’t bother me anymore. I know I can just delete the lot in one swoop when I want to. I’m not here to read, but to write.
DEAR M
I FIND MYSELF IN A STATE OF UNREST. NOW GETTING DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO BEING SERIOUSLY INVOLVED WITH TWO MEN. EX AND LOVELY MAN JUST MET. AM TORN: IS IT BEST TO DO RIGHT THING? GIVE BROKEN MARRIAGE ANOTHER CHANCE? GIVE CHILDREN BACK THEIR FATHER— WHICH IS ALSO, BY THE WAY, THE EASIEST THING AND V. TEMPTING? OR SHOULD I TAKE A CHANCE ON NEW THING, WITH ALL ITS POSSIBILITIES?
YOURS
F
I wait for a few minutes then check the in-box to see if he has replied. But there’s nothing. I leave the laptop unattended to get undressed, then check it again. Still nothing. He’s obviously got better things to do late at night than sit and wait for an opportunity to give advice to someone he’s never met. The better things probably have to do with the blossoming love interest he wrote about last time. Good luck to him.
So I go to bed without a reply. There’s no reply in the morning either, so I depart for my day’s touring none the wiser. Wearing light trousers and shirt, my new butter-colored loafers and a large wide-brimmed hat, I slip into Señor Rico’s open-topped car feeling ever so slightly Grace Kelly. The hat is, it soon becomes obvious, totally impractical, ideally needing to be held in place by a couple of Hobycat taurpaulins. As there don’t appear to be any of these to hand, I am forced to ditch the hat and retrieve the less glamorous but far easier to contain baseball cap from my bag.
Señor Rico’s packing house deals with over three thousand growers in the region. I can’t think that they are all charming and amiable, but the ones he takes me to meet today certainly are. My favorite is Angelo Recatala, a man with two young daughters who runs a twelve-hectare farm with his two brothers. His farm is amongst the smaller ones we visit, but he is so passionate about it that you can’t fail to be taken in. In halting English that I can just barely understand, he talks me through the pruning in January and February, the careful watching during the summer, and the harvesting in September. I exaggerate my fascination with the new drip irrigation system he has installed so as not to dampen his fervor.
Señor Recatala’s wife announces a lunch of jamón de bellota and parrillada de verduras, which turn out to be a rich, dark ham and grilled vegetables. Plates of other delicacies keep arriving at the table—enormous king prawns in garlic, and fried squid with black and white mayonaise. I gulp it all down eagerly, along with several glasses of homemade wine. It’s the first meal I’ve eaten in its entirety, and with any real enjoyment, in over a week.
We bid farewell to Señor Recatala and drive to another, much larger farm. It’s a new supplier for us, so desperate to please. There is slick machinery everywhere, and the drip irrigation system of which Señor Recatala was so proud has been in place here for years. The complex is heaving with people rushing to and fro. It’s like a sped-up version of the Recatala farm, but not without its charms.
I’m warmed by the beauty of the landscape and the spirit of the people, and worn out by the relentless pace of the day. But David and Tom and my persisting dilemma still punctuate my thoughts. I catch myself looking at people but not really seeing them, or tuning in to conversations half a minute too late. Even during the lively dinner with Señor Rico and his colleagues that follows the farm tours, my mind wanders a little.
When I’m back in my room after dinner, I log on to PerfectPartnership.com to see if M has replied. He has.
DEAR F
IS IT POSSIBLE THAT THE RIGHT THING MIGHT ALSO BE THE NEW THING?
M
I type in my reply.
DEAR M
MEANING?
I’m anticipating having to wait until the morning for M’s reply, so I’m astonished when I come back from brushing my teeth to find he’s already sent it.
DEAR F
MEANING THAT WHAT’S RIGHT HAS TO BE RIGHT FOR YOU. DOES EX WANT TO COME BACK FOR RIGHT REASONS?
FONDLY
M
DEAR M
SAYS HE NEEDS ME. SAYS HE MISSES OUR LIFE TOGETHER. SAYS I’LL PROTECT HIM FROM HIMSELF (HIMSELF BEING THE ONE WITH A FORMER PENCHANT FOR ROMANTIC VARIETY)
DEAR F
DOESN’T SOUND RIGHT TO ME. SOUNDS CONVENIENT.
DEAR M
TOUCHÉ.
BUT QUESTION ABOUT READINESS OF
NEW MAN REMAINS. PERHAPS HE TOO IS UNDER ILLUSION THAT I WILL PROTECT HIM FROM HIMSELF. PERHAPS HE WANTS ME JUST TO FILL HOLE LEFT BY DEATH OF WIFE.
DEAR F
LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT THAT HOLE. THERE’S NO EASY WAY OF FILLING IT. THERE’S NOT EVEN AN ILLUSION ABOUT FILLING IT. NOT WITH CASUAL NONSENSE ANYWAY. THE BEST YOU CAN HOPE FOR FROM YOUR AVERAGE LIGHT LIAISON IS THE PAPERING OVER OF THE HOLE. THE HOLE IS SO BIG THAT ONLY THE REAL THING COULD EVER HOPE TO FILL IT AGAIN. SO YOU MIGHT FIND THAT YOUR NEW MAN’S A VERY GOOD JUDGE OF THE REAL THING, AND THAT THE THING HE FEELS FOR YOU IS IT.
DEAR M
HOW WILL I KNOW FOR SURE?
DEAR F
ASK HIM. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO LOSE? WHAT IF HE SAID HE CAN’T GO BACK TO THE WAY HE WAS BEFORE NOW THAT HE’S MET YOU? WHAT IF HE TOLD YOU ALL THE THINGS HE LOVED ABOUT YOU? THEN YOU’D KNOW HE WASN’T LOOKING TO PAPER OVER THAT HOLE, BUT TO FILL IT RIGHT UP.
WOULDN’T THAT BE NICE?
GOODNIGHT
M
I don’t think there’s anything I can say to that, so I log off and get into bed. But even the cool cotton sheets and the smell of jasmine wafting up from the courtyard can’t lull me to sleep. After lying staring at the ceiling for a while, I switch on the light and pick up the phone again.
It’s one in the morning in England but Tom sounds wide-awake. “Ally, are you back?”
“No. I’m still in Spain. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
There are two ways this can go. There will be a silent, awkward rejection of my confession, or a warm embrace of it.
“Tell me about it. I’ve been waiting to hear your voice for two days. I miss you. How crazy is that? I was managing perfectly well without you until two weeks ago, but now I feel like I spend every waking minute waiting to see you.”
“Tom, the night before I left. . . .”
“I know. That was probably too fast, and we should slow down a little.”
“No, it wasn’t too fast for me. But isn’t it too fast for you? Shouldn’t you be testing the waters a little, finding your feet? You know, doing a little casual dating or something.” Please don’t let him say this is his idea of casual dating.
“I’m not the casual dating type. Never have been,” he says. “I really want this.”
What? To protect him from himself or from his past? Or to paper over a hole?
“Why? Why do you want it, Tom?”
“Why? Because now that I’ve let you in I can’t just forget about you, go back to the way I was. It would be like another kind of bereavement. I can’t promise anything, Ally. I can’t promise things will work out. But I can promise that I want them to. Is that good enough?”
“Hmm. It’s not bad as promises go,” I say, chewing my lip.
“You’ve done something to me, Ally. I don’t know, maybe it’s the extraordinary way you have of throwing a rugby ball. Or the way you get all animated when you talk about the great marmalade tradition—and incidentally, I hate the stuff. Or the way you are so gorgeous with your kids. And the way it feels when I kiss you. The whole fucking lot. But especially the last part. Is that good enough to go on?”
Yup.
CHAPTER 40
WELCOME HOME
Halfway through my second morning touring with Señor Rico, he turns to me and asks, “Señora James. You are all right? Something it is not right?”
“Sorry? Oh, no, everything is fine. I’m just a little distracted.”
“You are sure? Because we can perhaps change the itinerary for the last afternoon if you would prefer.”
“No, it’s perfect. Please carry on.”
It’s no wonder I’m distracted, with all the questions that are whirring around in my head. Does David really know what he wants? What did he mean last night? Did I believe Tom when he said he wanted things to work out? Can I trust the leap of my heart when he said it? But most troubling of all: What am I going to do about all this?
But I’ve decided one thing at least. I’ve decided that, strictly speaking, I’m not a wicked two-timing trollop after all. True, I slept with David, then I slept with Tom. But I’m not going to sleep with either of them again until everything has been sorted out. So, strictly speaking, there’s been no overlap.
The day can’t pass quickly enough for me. I suspect that I’m somewhat harsher than I might have been during our late afternoon contract discussions; I’m so intent on making the six o’clock fight to Heathrow that I’m not prepared to allow us to meander through the clauses at a leisurely pace, and I’m even less inclined to give way on one lest it invite dawdling over the rest.
Desperate as I am to get home, I’m loath to leave the sweet, balmy air and the genial company. Two days here has been intensely refreshing, even if I have had to spend much of it cooing over state-of-the-art irrigation systems and chopping facilities. I can’t expect to be greeted by such sumptuous weather in England, and will very likely face a taxi ride home in the rain.
But I’m wrong. England is experiencing one of those tantalizing bursts of summer in early April—a sure sign that we’re in for rain and cold during May. I emerge from the terminal and step into early evening air that has something of the feel of Valencia; only the almond blossom and the lines of olive-skinned drivers slouched against their taxis are missing.
As my taxi pulls up in front of the house I see Mum’s face peeking out through an opening in the shutters. Then before I’ve even paid the driver she is standing beside me while Dad is wrestling my suitcase up the front step. The way Mum fusses over me you’d think I’d been backpacking solo through Nepal for six months rather than being wined and dined in sunny lands just a two-hour flight away.
“Darling, would you like a cup of tea?” she asks, smiling as she watches Jack and Millie rushing in for a hug.
Mum’s cups of tea are not to be spurned, such is the thought and method that goes into the making of them. Boil fresh water (too little oxygen in the reboiled stuff ); warm pot for one minute; throw in three bags (in my pot at least); wait four and a half minutes; don’t stir! (causes stewing). I never bother making tea for them when they visit because I always get it wrong and I can’t bear to watch their polite but strained expressions as they swallow.
“Please,” I say, then, “How are my two angels? I’ve missed you both.” I have, in a funny way, though it’s fair to say my mind has been on other things. When I’m away from them for more than a day my body experiences a sort of subconscious longing for them. More than two days away and the quiet longing becomes a persistent, irrepressible ache. There’s something so completely unnatural about not being the last one to see them before they go to sleep, not knowing what they’ve had to eat, or what’s made them happy or angry during their day.
Dad has been reading to them in the sitting room, but they want me to finish the story. It’s one of Jack’s favorites, about a small boy who goes on midnight adventures involving tow trucks, midnight turkeys and great vats of treasure. Her usual affable self, Millie listens as if it were The Princess and the Pea. Just as I near the end I’m handed my perfect cup of tea, which I have some trouble sipping with a child tucked under each arm.
Millie says will I tell her about Spain, so I tell her the bits I think she will like. Then Jack rushes off to fetch the atlas so I can show him where, exactly, I’ve been. As we are poring over a two-page spread of southern Spain, Millie makes an announcement.
“Mummy, you got flowers.”
“Flowers? Where?” I want to say “from whom” but the heat rising through my throat won’t allow me to.
“They’re in the kitchen,” says Mum. “They were dropped off this morning while we were on our way to school. We found them on the doorstep.”
“I’ll get them!” shouts Jack, running to the kitchen. He returns with a small basket full of snowdrops and lillies. There’s a blue envelope protruding from one side. Jack takes the card and hands it to me, his eyes wide with expectancy.
“We’ve had a lot of trouble p
reventing certain little people from opening the card,” says Dad. He winks and tips his head toward Jack, but I can tell he’s as keen to know the identity of the sender as Jack is.
There’s no signature, and the inscription is a little mysterious. Missed You xox. But I think I know who they are from.
No one else can read the card, but my cheeks redden and a shy smile creeps onto my face. I feel as though I’ve been caught at something.
“Who is it, Mummy?” asks Millie. Does she hope it’s David? I wonder.
“It’s Grace’s daddy. You remember him? That nice man who played rugby with you, Jack.”
Jack looks puzzled. “Why did he send you flowers?” he asks scornfully.
Mum comes to the rescue. “That, my darlings, is none of our business. Come on, let Mummy go upstairs and get changed, and I’ll take you two to brush your teeth.” And with that she shuffles them off upstairs, leaving Dad to clear his throat awkwardly and bury his head in his paper.
I get up and give him a kiss on the forehead, then say, “I’m going up to change. Back in a minute.” As I’m walking out into the hall he says, without looking up from his paper, “Hope he’s a nice chap, love.”
GOING AWAY ALWAYS means a bedtime routine that takes at least an hour longer than usual when you get back. Three more stories, several extra hugs, dozens of important thoughts that must be expressed. This is true tonight as much as after any other time I’ve been away. It’s funny, but the same isn’t true of the times they leave me to go away with David. It’s only when you make the choice to leave them that you have to pay.
By the time I come back downstairs it’s almost nine and Mum and Dad are watching the news. I sit down on the sofa beside Mum and she says, “I assumed you’d eat on the plane darling, but I’ll make you something if you like.”
“No, no. I’m fine,” I say.
Then we talk about their two days with the children, pausing to watch a particularly amusing news clip of George Bush spluttering his way through a press conference of which he appears to have lost control. Mum tells me how great she thinks Jill is, and wonders at how helpful David seems to have been. All the while I’m wondering whether my shallow breathing and jumping heart are evident to them both. Surely Mum can see the ridiculously fast rise and fall of my chest beneath my shirt.
