I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  Sometimes, in my head, I actually pretended that I was Jane. I’d already consciously adopted some of her gestures and habits, speaking with more rounded vowels and holding my cutlery in the right way when I was at their place. I used the word ‘loo’ instead of ‘toilet’, like my friend did. I’d even started to dye my hair blonde like hers with some cheap stuff from Woolworths. (Ironically, Jock approved, saying it ‘suited’ me.’) I continued to imagine that Gary was my own husband. I pictured him kissing me on the cheek. We would eat dinner next to each other, holding hands and then …

  That’s where I stopped. This was a dream I couldn’t have. It was wrong. But I couldn’t help myself.

  Then one evening when he came back from work, Gary shut the door behind him and actually gave me a gentle kiss on the side of my face, just like in my daydreams! It was so unexpected that you could have blown me over.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as if horrified at himself. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’ He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘To be honest, it was automatic. It’s what I always did to Jane.’

  I was so shocked – and excited – that I couldn’t say anything.

  His eyes were red with grief and exhaustion and shame. ‘This can’t go on for ever, Betty. What are we going to do?’

  Hadn’t I been asking myself that question over and over again? ‘We just have to carry on as normal. Pretend we’re not feeling this way,’ I said in a small voice.

  He stopped and stared at me. ‘I meant what are we going to do – Jane and me and the children?’

  Instantly I realized my error. ‘Sorry,’ I said, blushing furiously. ‘Yes, that’s what I meant too.’

  He had the strangest expression on his face. As if we were understanding something for the first time. ‘I didn’t dare imagine you had feelings for me too,’ he whispered.

  ‘Too?’ I whispered back, hardly daring to believe it.

  He nodded. ‘I know it’s wrong but …’

  Alice was watching television before tea, giggling at a cartoon. It was so nice to see her happy. Both Stuart and Violet were having a nap in their pushchairs, breathing steadily. Jane, as usual, was in the conservatory, glued to one of her soap operas. I knew I should not be doing this. Yet every bone in my body was on fire.

  Gary led me to the bedroom. Their bedroom. ‘Quickly,’ he whispered. I scarcely remember undressing. All I knew was that now he was lying on top of me. His hands were caressing me more tenderly than Jock’s had ever done. His kisses were making my mouth melt. ‘You smell so good,’ he murmured. Then something made me look up.

  Jane was standing in the doorway, watching us. Her face was completely expressionless.

  ‘No!’ I gasped, pushing Gary away from me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he groaned. Then he saw my face and looked up too.

  ‘Jane,’ he breathed. ‘Shit. I’m sorry. I can explain … wait.’

  But silently, she turned on her heel like a pale ghost. For a minute, Gary and I were both frozen with horror. Then we heard the front door slam.

  19

  Poppy

  It’s Christmas Day. Even Melissa is out of bed when it’s not quite light, feverishly ripping open her presents under the tree with her sister. It’s yet another reminder that the girls might be teenagers but they are still children at heart. Still in need of both parents. Then again, does that ever change? Even at my age, I would give anything to have my mother to confide in. Not the mother who left, but the one I’d trusted in. Just like my children trust me.

  My husband’s words during our late-night shopping trip keep coming back along with my reply.

  ‘He’s called Matthew Gordon,’ he’d said. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No,’ I’d replied, with a false brightness that came all too readily with the lie. ‘I don’t think so. Is he an extra?’

  ‘No, but he said he was thinking about opening an agency specializing in extras, like you. Apparently, he used to be a lead actor in a drama in the nineties. I don’t remember it myself.’

  Then again, my husband isn’t a great one for television. If he’s home in the evenings, he’ll have his nose buried in dental papers instead.

  ‘Did you tell him my maiden name?’ I asked, trying to sound calm. Before I’d married Stuart, I’d been plain Poppy Smith.

  ‘No. I didn’t think it was right to give personal details without checking with you first. It was only a brief conversation, anyway.’

  Brief? That was something, at least. For a moment there, I’d had a ghastly vision of the two of them nattering away about me.

  ‘How is your painkiller research going?’ I continued, in a feverish attempt to divert him.

  My husband had taken another sip of hot chocolate, almost as if he was giving himself time to reply. ‘Could be quite interesting,’ he said. ‘In fact, we’ve decided to write our own paper on it.’

  ‘We?’ I questioned, even though I knew perfectly well who he meant.

  ‘Janine,’ he said, in a casual way.

  I was beginning to really dislike that name now. It made me think of a woman smelling of French flowery scent who flirts with other people’s husbands. Of course, that’s ridiculous. Names have nothing to do with behaviour. Do they? And if they did, what did ‘Poppy’ say about me? A tribute to someone who has fallen, perhaps? Or a drug to which someone might become addicted …

  ‘So you’ll be spending more time with each other, then?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Probably.’

  Then he’d changed the subject to Melissa’s university applications. She’d already been offered a place to read English at Durham, which ‘she would be crazy to turn down’, according to Stuart. But Melissa herself was still holding out for drama school. ‘If she’s determined to be an actress,’ I argued, ‘she might be better off there.’

  It seemed we couldn’t agree on anything. ‘Don’t shout,’ said Stuart at one point, looking around the coffee shop in embarrassment.

  Was I shouting?

  As soon as we got home that night, I’d taken my mobile into the bathroom with me and fired off an angry text to Matthew.

  How dare you go to see my husband like that?

  His reply had come back instantly.

  I’ll go to whichever dentist I want, Pops. It’s a free country.

  Come on!

  I’d texted back,

  You only did it to tell him you were an actor. You knew he might then tell you I was an actress too. The whole thing was just to try to wind me up.

  I told you, Pops. I’m not letting you go. You know you want me as much as I want you.

  Not any more.

  No, Matthew, I don’t. You’ve got to stop this now. Please.

  There was no reply.

  And now, here we are, playing happy families on Christmas Day as if I haven’t slept with another man at all and as if my husband’s relationship with this Janine is perfectly above board. What have we done to our children? Supposing they find out about my night in the Worthing hotel? Teenagers are so judgemental. They might not want to live with me any more. They will choose their father and Betty. I’ve had these fears before but they are getting louder and louder in my head.

  Fear and apprehension make me keep my mobile with me all day long, even when I am bringing the turkey out of the Aga along with the nut roast (Betty hasn’t eaten meat for years although she does have fish). I constantly glance at it to see if Matthew has rung. But he hasn’t. Of course not. He’ll be busy looking after Sandra.

  As the day goes on, I stop checking the phone so often and begin to relax. I ring Dad, who sounds decidedly chipper for a change. ‘I’m having a great time,’ he says. ‘Reg’s wife brought over a whopping great plate of duck with all the trimmings. Now I’m tucking into a box of Quality Street in front of a good film. Why don’t they have more of those purple ones? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Is Reg’s wife aware, I wonder, that I’ve asked Dad time and time again to spend Christ
mas with us? I hope so. Otherwise it looks as though I’m a neglectful daughter. Fleetingly, I wonder what my mother is doing right now. After I’d ignored her earlier letters to me at drama school, there’d been a long gap. Mobile phones were expensive then and I couldn’t afford one. So Mum was unable to reach me that way. Then, when I set up the agency, she’d started to send Christmas and birthday cards to me at our business PO box number. Perhaps she’d tracked me down online. (The details were, after all on our website.) But I always put the envelopes with the Australian stamps straight in the bin.

  Too little, too late, I told myself. Besides, if I did open them, all the old hurt would come back and I wasn’t sure I could cope with that. I might discover that she had children by the man she’d run off with. Maybe grandchildren. Doesn’t she ever stop to think that she might have some over here too? The pain should have got less over the years, but it’s become worse as Daisy and Melissa have grown older.

  Put it out of your head, I tell myself. She isn’t worth it. Concentrate on the now, such as why Matthew hasn’t rung or texted. Is he playing a game with me? Or has he accepted that I don’t want any more to do with him? I cross my fingers. Please let that be the case.

  Boxing Day passes with a good family walk in the park. ‘Isn’t this nice?’ says Betty, as Coco runs ahead. Yes. It is. Stuart has actually taken my hand, just as he had done during Christmas shopping. Would he really be doing this if he was having an affair? Or could it be guilt?

  Still nothing from Matthew.

  It’s the same during the rest of the week. Everything is quiet. The emails drop off. The world has – as it always seems to do at this time of year – gone to ground. Stuart, Daisy, Betty and I watch a feel-good DVD on New Year’s Eve after I’ve taken Melissa to a party. (Another parent is going to bring her back.) I begin to breathe normally again.

  Then on 2 January, my mobile rings. My chest pounds for a second until I see it’s not Matthew. It’s Sally. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ she says. Sally is unflappable. It’s one of the reasons I took her on. But right now there’s an edge to her voice. ‘I’ve just had a legal letter. Doris is suing us for damages owing to lost work resulting from your negligence.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been worried something like this might happen,’ she says tightly.

  So have I, ever since discovering – and confessing to Sally on the train home from Worthing – that my house insurance only covered me for ‘clerical working’ and not for visiting clients. But because Doris hadn’t been in touch, and because so much else had been going on in my life, I’d pushed it to the back of my mind.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d sent Doris flowers after the accident.’

  I gulp. I’d forgotten about that. ‘It was before I knew she’d gone to A&E. They were really for her birthday.’

  Sally’s voice is tight. ‘She’s using that card you sent with the flowers as ‘evidence of our guilt’. Apparently the message read: ‘Happy birthday! Hope your shoulder feels all right now.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I didn’t mean it was our fault.’

  ‘I know. But our lawyers think she might have a case.’

  I go cold. ‘And we’re not insured.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There’s a distinct note of criticism in Sally’s voice, which I’ve never heard before. My organized assistant wouldn’t have made a mistake like this.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I gulp. ‘I’ve had a lot of personal stuff going on. I know it’s no excuse.’

  There’s a heavy silence.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ she says at last.

  So have I.

  20

  Betty

  They found Jane’s body the next morning, floating in the park pond, near where we used to meet. She must have taken her pills with her because the empty bottle was found on a bench nearby.

  I might not have actually had sex with her husband, but I had killed my friend as surely as if I had put a knife into her.

  I didn’t know what to do during the days after Jane’s death. When I plucked up the courage to ring and offer help, Gary sounded like he was in a daze. ‘Jane’s parents are here,’ he said quietly, as if worried he was being overheard. ‘We’ve had the autopsy. The verdict was suicide by drowning and overdose due to imbalanced mind.’

  I sensed the meaning behind his voice. So no one was blaming us, then. But they should.

  ‘The funeral is next Wednesday,’ he added.

  I couldn’t not go, even though I felt like a murderer attending her victim’s burial. To my surprise, Jock came with me, although I didn’t want him to. ‘I must pay my respects too,’ he said. ‘We went to dinner at their place. People might think ill of me if I don’t. I’ve asked your mother to have Stuart.’

  We stood at the back. I felt as though I was going to be sick any minute and had to hold a tissue over my mouth. My body wouldn’t stop shaking, as if I was a puppet with some invisible force yanking my strings up and down. I kept my head down. But every now and then I took quick looks up, expecting someone to turn on me, to point a finger in my direction and scream ‘It was her. She did it.’

  During the service, Jock unexpectedly reached for my hand. I was too numb to take mine away. I watched Alice weeping while Violet wriggled in her father’s arms, knowing I had deprived those poor little girls of their mother.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said one of her neighbours as we left the church. ‘You were really good to those kids, coming in every day like that.’

  My chest tightened as I watched Jock’s expression darken. ‘Is that reet?’ he said in a menacing voice that made me shiver inside.

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman who sometimes used to nod at me over the fence. ‘We all used to say that Gary was very lucky to have a friend like you.’

  She said the name ‘Gary’ with a meaningful emphasis. Not ‘Gary and Jane’. Just ‘Gary’.

  My husband dragged me down the church path and out into the street, towards our flat. ‘How long has this been going on for?’

  ‘It’s not what it sounds like,’ I said, crossing my fingers at the lie. ‘I just used to go in and help Jane out.’

  ‘But I told you not to see her again.’

  ‘She was my friend! I had to help her.’

  ‘Had to get in there with that namby-pamby husband, more like.’

  I had a flash of anger. ‘He’s more of a man than you are. He loved his wife and he made me feel needed.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did. Good in bed, was he?’

  Another woman might have denied it; pointed out instead that my ‘needed’ remark referred to simply being there rather than infidelity. But the grief and guilt of Jane’s death was all too much. We were at our door now. I went inside and flung myself on the sofa, weeping. ‘It was only the once,’ I sobbed. ‘Neither of us meant it to happen. But Jane saw and … and she went out … and that’s when she must have done it.’

  Jock looked at me as though I was a piece of scum. ‘You actually slept with him?’ he asked slowly, repeating each word heavily.

  My body literally juddered with fear. Deny everything, I told myself. But it was too late. Besides, I was tired of lying.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I whispered. ‘We were just having a cuddle. We didn’t … you know.’

  ‘How bloody dare you!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I wept. ‘I know it was wrong. Forgive me.’

  He advanced towards me, his hands held out. For a minute, I thought he was going to strangle me. Instead, he seized the collar of my blouse.

  ‘You are never,’ he said slowly, ‘to tell anyone about this, ever. Do you hear me? I’m not going to look like a fool in the eyes of everyone else.’

  ‘Please, Jock, don’t,’ I begged. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  His eyes bulged with rage but, to my relief, he let go. Then he threw me on the sofa and walked out. Only then did I try to analyse what he’d said. Jock was only worried about what others might say
. He didn’t seem to care that I’d been unfaithful to him, partly because I was starved of love and kindness at home.

  Later, after I’d picked up Stuart from Mum, I was on tenterhooks, wondering how he’d be when he came home. If he came home. I put our little boy to bed early. I made cottage pie for dinner, feeling queasy as I spooned the mashed potato on top, forking it into a criss-cross pattern. Then I sat, biting my nails, with one eye on the clock, and waited for the key to turn in the lock. It was gone 11 p.m. when Jock staggered in, clearly blind drunk.

  ‘Your dinner’s in the oven,’ I said. ‘It’s still warm.’

  He strode towards me. ‘Don’t hit me,’ I begged, even though he’d never done so before.

  ‘Hit you?’ he repeated, his breath stinking of beer. ‘I’m not that daft. People would see the bruises.’

  Then he tore at my dress, which I’d only made the other week, ripping the seams and yanking it off me. ‘Please don’t,’ I whimpered.

  ‘I’ll do what I bloody like,’ he growled. ‘You’re mine. No one else’s. And don’t you ever forget it.’

  Then he took me in such a rough, unkind way that it was more like making hate than love. There was nothing else but to grin and bear it. But afterwards, I lay awake all night, silently weeping.

  I couldn’t go on like this. I really couldn’t. Yet in those days, Poppy, a woman was far more reliant on a man for money. How would Stuart and I survive? If it wasn’t for my son, life would have had no meaning at all. But even with him, I felt so empty without Gary.

  Then, shortly after the funeral, he came round. I was both shocked and – I have to admit this – glad to see his dear face again. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ I said, pulling him in through the door before one of the neighbours saw him.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘I feel so guilty about Jane …’