‘To Join Me,’ he says. There’s a false ring to his tone. The omission of to marriage hangs ominously in the air.
‘To Join Me,’ I say and clink my glass against his. As we down our drinks, I try to relax. I remind myself that his forte is to ignore potential contretemps. I wonder at his shallowness but underneath fear hidden depths. I never delve too deeply but tonight we need to talk.
‘I’ll go and change,’ I say. ‘I was only having a bit of fun.’ Prostitute and wife are an oxymoron; like a dead life or an honest liar. I live the former and he is the latter. I go back upstairs and come down some minutes later wearing twinset and pearls. My newly switched outfit screams sarcasm but it’s meant to reflect the anger and hurt. Jason won’t comment. He’ll avoid rocking the boat.
The bistro in Hampstead is cosy, romantic and dimly lit. A warm smell of garlic and rosemary pervades the room and candles complete the stage set for the night. We came by taxi as I want us both to drink. It’ll loosen our tongues and I’ve planned the conversation.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I begin. Jason is not like other men; he’s not threatened by female conversations and takes them in his stride. He never gets goaded to debate or be divisive. I fool myself into believing that he agrees with everything I say, that we’re kindred spirits, but I know it’s more likely because he doesn’t care too deeply about things other than his own basic needs.
When we started dating, quite some time before we tied the knot, he told me he had no real desire to work. A proper job would bore him to distraction. He likes the finer things in life, he told me; a hedonistic lifestyle. Funding such a lifestyle didn’t seem to be an issue. I didn’t like to ask where the money came from and I didn’t really care. Being with him was enough.
‘All your ladies need to be married,’ I begin. Susan Harper flashes before my eyes. ‘The intention was always to avoid the single ladies.’ He doesn’t know Alexis is newly single but I’ll come to that. ‘Blackmail will only work on the married ones.’ I raise the wine glass to my lips and wait.
‘That’s fine by me. That’s always been the plan, hasn’t it? I’m not sure I’ve had many invites from single ladies anyway.’
‘Jason,’ I say. He flinches at the imperativeness I imbue by announcing his name in isolation and then by hesitating. He senses gravity.
‘I don’t want you to see Alexis 201. She’s separated and thrown her husband out. I know you’ve been communicating with her but there’s no future in it now.’ He won’t know I’ve engaged her to shadow his movements and that she’s a private investigator. Employing her will kill two birds with one stone. She can report back on my errant husband and I can keep an eye on her movements. I’ve indicated to Jason that she can’t be blackmailed and therefore a waste of his time. Is he happy with these arrangements?
‘It might still be worth it especially if their marriage gets patched up.’ It makes marriage sound like a quilt, something easily sewn back together. ‘Perhaps one meeting,’ Jason suggests. He doesn’t like to be railroaded.
‘Also I think it’s time to put the pressure on Susan 789.’
‘How?’
‘She’s not going to hand over any more money for investments. She’s given you plenty already.’ I steady my voice. ‘A final bit of blackmail should finish her off.’ I sound as businesslike as possible, suppressing my inner loathing. I don’t want Jason to feel my jealousy or suspect I’m struggling with her image. He doesn’t know I’ve befriended her but that will be my secret for now.
I then deftly change the subject. I wait until the coffee arrives, small strong espressos which will spike us back to the real world. The candle flickers on the table and our romantic interlude is coming to an end.
‘Also, I meant to tell you that there’s a house I’m going to look at. I think we can afford something bigger. It’s in a little cul-de-sac not far from us and it’s ready to move into. It’s in Riverside Close.’ I don’t tell him the house is located next door to Susan Harper and that a faked interest in its appeal might enable us to extort a last obscene payout from his neurotic mistress. I can imagine her slitting her wrists, taking an overdose of paracetamol washed down with cold Chablis in her perfect marbled kitchen. Perhaps I’ll help her end it all.
I hang my twinset and slacks neatly back in the wardrobe, resting the pearls beside the bed. They’re not the sort of clothes a man rips off. My red chemise clings sadly to my heavy breasts. The television has gone back on. Jason will expect me to join him on the sofa, for a nightcap. We’ll snuggle up together, like a contented husband and wife. He has willingly agreed to everything I suggested. He lets me believe I’m a smooth operator who manipulates our success with skilled acumen.
I think he plans on leaving me.
26
Susan
Perhaps if everything wasn’t carrying on quite so normally, the simple rhythmical pattern of family life ticking along like a steady metronome, I wouldn’t have time to wallow in the invasive lustful thoughts. It’s been six days since Vince and I consummated our passion and until yesterday morning, I’d managed to ignore his persistent attempts at communication. I’ve tried turning my phone off, keeping away from my laptop and have instead concentrated on housework and pounding the treadmill at the gym.
It’s all been a charade. I’m pretending that a one-off sexual encounter can be brushed under the carpet, written off as a careless transgression in an otherwise blemish-free existence. When I read Vince’s text yesterday I realised I’ve been kidding myself.
I’m missing you, badly. Please call or text. I’m waiting. Vince xx
Logic is no longer working. I’m unable to quell the longing. I’ve decided to meet him today, one last time, and tell him the truth. I’ll beg him to be strong for both of us and tell him that me leaving Roger and the children will never be an option. I’ll tell Vince how fond I am of him and how much I’ve enjoyed our dates but it needs to end here.
I tick the tube stops off one at a time. I’m back in the deep underbelly of the earth being propelled along by something that is outside of my control. A young man is staring at me, or perhaps it’s through me. I’m not attractive enough to warrant flirtatious stares today and am more worried that I might look a bit deranged. I certainly feel it. My hair is flying wild, frizzing all around the edges and I notice my reflection bouncing back at me in the glass pane opposite. I don’t recognise myself. I close my eyes, count the stops, and try to calm my breathing.
Self-justification has become an art. Since I first met Vince, I try to explain everything I’m doing with logical reasoning. Roger takes me for granted. I pass the blame his way, tell myself that I’ll go mad if I have to stay at home and clean one more surface. I don’t tell Roger how bored I am but instead play the game of good and dutiful wife. I owe it to him, considering how hard he works. I also realise that carrying on as normal should help divert any untoward suspicions that might arise.
I remind myself that meeting Vince was only meant to be a bit of fun; that’s what Join Me sells: fun outings around London, albeit with strangers. Even Roger wouldn’t begrudge me that. I try to imagine what I’d do if Roger was sleeping with a member of the typing pool, the group of young well-groomed legal secretaries who frequent his offices, but then I know for certain he isn’t. How can I be so sure? I’m sure because Roger is a good man; he’s old-school, the hunter-gatherer type whose main role in life is to look after his family and he adores the kids. I put the unsettling thoughts to the back of my mind and open my eyes as the train pulls into Green Park.
The underground station provides a modicum of respectability. Smartly dressed ladies and gents who were sitting, quietly contained, unfold their legs and stride elegantly to the doors. I follow behind. I’m one of them. That’s how it looks anyway and isn’t that enough? Appearances. I can hold my own in that regard. Roger’s income allows me to clad my body in designer clothes and expensive accessories. I drape my silken pashmina shawl loosely round my shoulders and pull on
my calf-skin gloves. I prepare to join the suave travellers as they battle up towards the ticket gates.
The art gallery is buzzing. It lures me in with its sophisticated frontage. I see Vince straightaway. He stands out from the other attendees in all his perfection and is drinking champagne. I flinch at the expense and grip my bag tighter. Two attractive young women are fawning over him. My insecurities give rise to a rogue thought which makes me wonder why he so quickly excuses himself from their company when he spots me and heads in my direction. I’m not giving him any more money, so I try to push the paranoid thoughts to the back of my mind. I hand my coat to a hovering attendant but keep my gloves on, strangely unwilling to unveil the freckly backs of my hands.
‘It’s so cold,’ I lie.
‘Hi, gorgeous.’ He smiles and instantly I know why I’m here. Perhaps snatched moments in time are all there is. My stomach lurches and in this one instant, my resolve and good intentions melt away. Sexual longing takes hold. The girls are pretending to look at the paintings, bizarre coloured shapes with ill-defined outlines. The girls are giggling behind their hands, sly unbelieving smirks painted across their perfect faces. Vince hands me a glass of bubbly and leads me to a small display of portraits on a lower level.
‘Gregor Mantova is the artist,’ Vince tells me as he puts his hand gently across my lower back to propel me along the wall. I’m not interested in the paintings and can’t take anything in. I start to believe that the recent addition of fine art to his Join Me profile might have been genuine as he shares previously undisclosed cultural enthusiasms.
‘He’s from Croatia, from a peasant family. One of fifteen children. Imagine,’ Vince continues, proud to display knowledge outside of the bedroom. I think I’m being unfair. I’m judging the book by its cover again. I don’t like him having extraneous interests although it should make me feel safer. Instead I start to feel smaller, inferior, as he continues his monologue about the history of the Mantova family.
I tell myself that I have Tilly and Noah; they are my family and my biggest achievement. However, I’m unable to care. We mingle with the suited gents and glamorous ladies and watch the gallery owner proudly attach round red sold stickers next to the blobs of colour. There are certainly harder ways to earn money, and as I look at Vince, I realise he might have found an easier way to line his pockets.
I start to perspire, overcome all of a sudden by paranoia that he might be using me. Perhaps his investment schemes are a ruse. Perhaps he sees me as a job. But I’m not sure and does it matter? I can always ask him later. For now, all I know is that I’m on a train with faulty brakes, hurtling into the abyss.
‘Shall we go?’ He smiles, his winning smile. It’s warm and familiar. Why shouldn’t it be? But the thought of Jekyll and Hyde crosses my mind. I think he always knew I’d meet him again and he’s assuming nothing has changed since we last met. He knows I can’t resist his charms.
‘Yes, let’s.’ I nod, eager for the inevitable.
The hotel is a couple of streets away and we stroll silently along, our fingers entwined. He kisses me every few yards, pulling me in towards him, as if to reassure me of his feelings. My body is shaking as he leads me blindly once more into his lair.
The passion is all over so quickly again. The climax has teased me with its coming for days and the aftermath of the desperate deed is staring us once again in the face. Vince is relaxed though. He makes tea, boiling water in the tiny kettle, and offers me shortbread.
‘I love hotel rooms, don’t you?’ he says flippantly. I realise that I’ve most likely footed the bill. I decline the shortbread. ‘Shall we have a shower together?’ He tries to reawaken my enthusiasm by maintaining the shared intimacy.
‘No thanks. I’ll pass.’ Tears stream involuntarily down my cheeks, large wet silent rivulets. My mascara is running. I don’t need to look in the mirror. I want this ghastly moment to stay in my memory; the disgust, the loneliness, the fear. I’m like a heroin addict who has paid for their fixes. In the aftermath of anti-climax, the reality hits home again but this time everything seems worse than before.
‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I sob. I wait for him to throw me a crumb but he stays silent. ‘I thought I could.’ It suddenly hits me. Sex, no strings attached, isn’t possible. Not with this guy anyway. I start to panic. I need to get out of here and not look back. There can’t be a next stage; this has to be the end of the road. We’re trapped in our own personal cul-de-sac.
‘Why? We both need each other.’ It feels like a lie. Why does he need me? I cling to the faint hope that it’s not about the money. Roger wanted me after all and still does. It’s not a total impossibility. Vince comes and takes my hands. He tries to push me back onto the silken sheets. They have an expensive sheen.
‘No. I’m going. The children will be home soon; and my husband.’ There I’ve said it. I’m married but Vince knew anyway. He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have children, I’m sure. He’s too caring and thoughtful to be playing around if he had children dependent on him. I’m almost certain but don’t voice my summations. I don’t need to know. It won’t help.
Vince turns and walks over towards the window as I put my clothes back on and something about his measured stance alerts me that he’s going to say something, something of import. Perhaps he’s going to open up. I wait for him to speak, not sure what to expect.
‘I met your husband on Tuesday.’ Vince carries on looking out through the glass, his voice an ominous monotone. It doesn’t sound like him. ‘In a small wine bar in Lincoln’s Inn. He was with a pretty little thing; his secretary, I think.’
The tiny window overlooks a small park and I can see past Vince’s body at the neatly manicured gardens down below. He is fully dressed again, armoured in his designer gear, his hair teased to perfection. I can’t take in what he’s saying. Why was he meeting Roger? Everything’s shrouded in fog. How did Vince know I had a husband and where he works?
‘Sorry?’ I ask. ‘What do you mean?’ I’m finding it hard to get words out and I can’t think straight. He turns back from his vantage point and smiles at me. Although he’s smiling with his usual charm offensive, there’s a hint of threat in his manner.
‘It was all a bit of a coincidence,’ he carries on while simultaneously ruffling his hair in the bedside mirror with his fingers.
I don’t want to hear. I suddenly think I’m going to be sick. I don’t speak but instead lurch towards the bathroom and lock the door. I retch into the toilet bowl. I slump on the cold floor and lean my head against the lid.
‘Are you okay, Susan?’ Vince sounds concerned. He tries the handle but I don’t answer. I need time to think and to get out of here, back to my children and husband. I throw water on my face, scrubbing the make-up from my cheeks and soaping the black mascara smudges away from under my eyes.
After what seems like an eternity, I come out.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. I move to unlock the bedroom door. Vince must have pulled the chain across when we came in but I don’t remember. Although he’s done it before, I’m not sure whether he was locking us in or intruders out. I can hear him behind me, teasing with plausible explanations.
‘I didn’t say anything. I promise. I was interested to meet him, see what he’s like. Aren’t I allowed to be jealous?’ He advances slowly towards me and I fear I’m going to throw up again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I finally manage to wrench the door open. I don’t look back, scared of what I might see. Jealousy, lies, desperation or scorn all seem likely. I need to escape before my whole world crumples to the ground. I career headlong over the empty carpeted landing and on down the stairs into the foyer.
As I exit the hotel, I manage to breathe again, expelling the trapped air from my constricted lungs. I push my way through the heaving throngs back towards the train station and let myself be swallowed up by the seething masses.
27
Caroline
It’s strange that Riverside Close seem
s to be at the centre of events unravelling around our lives. That is, my life and Jason’s life. It’s a strange artificial little enclave. There never seems to be anyone about and the emptiness of traffic and people gives it the feel of a ghost town. A constant buzz of traffic can be heard in the distance but life seems a long way off.
Everything has been cleared out. All the furniture, fixtures and fittings have been removed and a weird echoing presence follows our footsteps from room to room.
‘The potential is unquestionable,’ the estate agent begins, referring to his clipboard for dimensions. ‘You could knock down this wall.’ He points, indicating where a stud wall has artificially cut off the kitchen from an L-shaped dining area. Mr Herriott is a slimeball, greased black hair slickly smoothed down against his scalp and his lips are non-existent. There is a slit somewhere near his chin which displays artificially large capped teeth. His smile is robotic, fixed and insincere. Shiny black shoes with sharply pointed toecaps, click click click across the bare floorboards.
‘The patio is divine,’ he gushes, throwing open the sliding doors to reveal a marbled landscaped area showcased by an impressive water feature. A large wet concrete ball has water cascading over its surface which I imagine might be tantalising in the heat but at this particular moment makes me freeze as cold air assaults my senses. I wonder if the feature continually streams water, winter and summer, or if Mr Herriott switched it on for effect before my arrival, as if it might clinch the sale.
I’d parked my car a couple of streets away and walked the few hundred yards to the close. I’ve not yet decided at what point to confront my new best friend, Susan from next door, that I’m considering buying the adjoining property. Perhaps I’ll pop in after the viewing. Jason has no idea that I’m here but then he doesn’t need to know.
4 Riverside Close Page 13
