‘I never meet anyone here,’ I complained.
‘Course you do.’ Serena was always bright. Always positive. ‘People are coming and going all day. There’s always someone here. Loads of blokes too.’
‘All married or in the middle of a nasty divorce,’ I said, picturing poor old Teresa standing in the middle of the yard looking so small, so sad, so pathetic, her son trying to look big and brave and in control when really his little boy’s heart was breaking. I put myself right by her side, mentally toasted her in Bailey’s for her transformation.
‘You could go on the Net.’
‘Tried that. Didn’t work any better.’ And I told her a little life story about Scaries I & II.
When she’d stopped laughing, she sobered up. ‘Hmm,’ she said, taking two strands of hair and holding them up to see if they were the same length. Then she brightened. ‘I know what you could go for.’
I waited.
‘A silver surfer.’
I turned around a bit too sharply, nearly got the scissors in my eye. ‘That’s exactly what I fancy, Serena. Someone older. More mature. Someone at least solvent …’ My voice trailed away. But Serena, clever girl, had picked up on my train of thinking.
‘What about,’ she said, ‘the guy in D5. He fits the bill, surely?’
‘Married, I think. He wears a wedding ring.’
‘Is he? I’ve never seen his wife.’
‘Agoraphobic.’ I’d said it without thinking; the fantasy narratives had become so real. ‘That or he’s a Bluebeard.’
‘What the Dickens …?’
‘Not come up in a pub quiz?’ I mocked. ‘Guy who killed his wives.’
‘Oh, surely not.’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘Oh,’ she responded, ‘shame that. He’s so nice and polite. Not like most of the guys round here. Not bad-looking either.’ For her it was a throwaway remark. For me it was a game changer – or do I mean life changer? She buzzed around with the hairdryer which was practically burning my neck.
‘There.’ She finished a minute later and was holding up the mirror for me to study the back of my hair, without realizing just what she’d said.
I admired the neat scissoring while she waited for my comment, the inevitable. ‘Gorgeous. Thanks.’ It has always seemed odd to me that you make these comments about the back of your head. But you can’t not say anything, can you?
‘Oh, well,’ she finished packing her brushes, combs, scissors and hairdryer into a neat black trolley suitcase, ‘hope you find your perfect man.’ She sighed, then said, ‘Back to the drawing board then, Jenny Lind.’
But I had just realized something. I didn’t want to return to the drawing board or the internet. I liked the idea of a silver surfer by my side, keeping me safe. But he hadn’t dropped by for months now. I couldn’t start something with a man who wasn’t even here. Who was probably married.
And then I got my perfect opportunity.
Steven’s account was overdue – by one day. (He’d elected to pay monthly, doing it online by direct transfer month by month rather than set up a standing order which we preferred.) One day late? Not much, but it gave me an excuse to ring him. I still wanted to smooth over any embarrassment I’d caused by my clumsy response to his gift of the dress. I didn’t want him to think badly of me. I dialled the landline, fingers crossed he picked up rather than Margaret, words lined up in my mind. I’d practised what I was going to say.
Hello, Mr Taverner, it’s Jennifer here – from The Green Banana storage facility. (I thought that sounded really posh.) I’m just reminding you that your balance was due yesterday.
I didn’t get to say any of it. His voice kicked in. ‘Hi, you have reached Steven. I can’t take your call at the moment. Leave a message.’
I said my bit.
Should I try his mobile?
No, Jen. I could almost hear Stella’s voice advising me. Leave it alone. Let it drop. Forget him. He’s never been late with his payments before. He’ll cough up. Or else he’ll come and collect his stuff.
But never one to take the safe road or listen to advice, I rang his mobile anyway.
It rang for a few minutes. Then he answered, sounding very confused, obviously not recognizing the number. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ I said jauntily. ‘It’s Jennifer here.’
Silence. As I absorbed the depressing fact that he didn’t have a clue who I was.
‘Jenny from …’ and I trotted out my spiel again. There was another long silence before he said, very politely, ‘I’m sorry about that, Jennifer. I completely forgot the account was due to be paid yesterday. How about …’
I strained to hear what was in the background. Traffic? People talking? But I heard nothing. He picked up the conversation. ‘I’ll drop by tomorrow, Jennifer. Will that be all right?’
‘Yes. Of course. See you tomorrow, Steven.’ Even to my ears it sounded daring.
Another silence then, ‘Yes. Yes. I’ll be over about eleven. OK?’
It was a very precise time. But then he was a very precise man.
EIGHTEEN
I awoke with the delicious feeling that today something momentous would happen, as though my horoscope had predicted a windfall. Ignoring Jodi’s slightly frosty look as I munched my cornflakes, my heart continued to skip around in my chest. The delicious feeling was not going to go away, even though Jodi was getting positively hostile these days – as though I was to blame for her infertility. I couldn’t really understand my optimism; there was no rationale behind it. I didn’t know why I felt pleased at seeing Steven Taverner again but that wasn’t going away.
I felt strangely empowered and decided that I would drop by the estate agent’s in my lunch break and buy a copy of the Sentinel to see if I could find somewhere else to live. Jason had gone all quiet on me while Jodi was like this, frowning whenever my presence registered. Surely now I was earning more money I could afford something a bit better? I’d even got a bit saved. Sod it if they were struggling with the mortgage; it wasn’t my problem. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. And it wasn’t my fault Jodi wasn’t pregnant either. Judging by the sound effects through thin walls in a small house, they’d made up their Christmas row and these days and nights seemed to be at it like a pair of rabbits. Still trying.
Ignoring the dress code of jeans and fleece, I wore my best dress that day. I’d picked it up from the charity shop in the shopping centre by the storage facility. It looked expensive. Felt heavy, always a sign of quality. It was plain grey with a stand-up collar and seriously classy. I wore it with the only pair of leather shoes I possessed (bought in the sales). Black with a T-bar. Very sixties.
I’d washed my hair and brushed it till it shone. All right. I admit it. I wanted to make an impression. I wanted him, wife or not, to at least like me.
Bang on eleven I watched his Focus glide into the yard.
Another of my life’s philosophies is this:
You can judge a man by his driving. There is Reckless one, who take risks, overtakes on blind bends, drives while drunk, fiddles with his mobile phone and very little attention on the wheel, the road or any road-users.
There is Selfish one. Who hogs the road, gaily tootling along without a thought to the people behind him who want to drive faster. This person is not above manoeuvring, deliberately blocking the way forward for anyone who might want to pass him and accelerates when they try. He hogs both lanes on a dual carriageway, swinging from one to the other, and turns right without first checking his mirror then curses when the car behind, driven by Impatient one, who was driving too close anyway, flashes angrily and almost shunts into the back.
Impatient one revs up at traffic lights and belts off at red and amber. He can’t wait for green.
And when Selfish one parks? He slews across two parking places or else in the disabled or mother-and-baby bay, in spite of fulfilling neither criteria. Sod you is his mantra. If he even has one.
Then there’s Dreamer who d
oesn’t realize he’s in charge of half a ton of potentially lethal metal because he’s on some little private trip of his own.
Tyrone was the perfect example of Angry Man. Everyone on the road is his enemy, a journey a battle. He joins the motorway accelerating straight into the fast lane, flashing his lights, beaming out the message, Move over, motherfucker. And if they don’t he erupts into road rage and the lethal dance of who owns which lane.
And then there’s Mr Perfectly Polite who remembers his Highway Code, obeys the speed limit, keeps his distance. Thanks anyone with a wave when they allow him out.
Steven Taverner was Mr Perfectly Polite, and his timekeeping was almost obsessive. Eleven o’clock, he’d said. Dead on.
He parked, as usual, in the centre of the marked bay, climbed out and locked the car, checking the handle to make sure. I watched it all on the monitor, smiling. No boxes or suitcases today. I watched him walk towards the doors. And then he was inside wafting in the scent of a meadow.
I gave him my best smile which he returned – with interest.
‘Hello, Jennifer,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that,’ and with a mischievous smile and catching my eye, he added, ‘I’ve come to pay my dues before you lock me in my store.’
I held his gaze a fraction longer than was absolutely necessary and he didn’t flinch or look away but returned my gaze steadily.
I was the one who looked away first. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I hate to nag but I do have to keep the books in order.’
‘Sure.’
‘If you think you might be here for a while why don’t you set up a direct debit?’
He frowned. ‘I–I don’t know how long I’ll need your facility,’ he said carefully. ‘It’s hard to say.’
My heart sank. He was planning to leave?
He handed me his debit card. I tapped in our code and the amount and slid the machine back across the counter. He typed in his PIN and passed it back to me. Then his eyes wandered up to the bank of monitors. ‘Is that all you get to watch all day?’ That tentative little smile was back.
‘Pretty much.’ Two huge guys, using a porter’s trolley, were unloading a washing machine from a furniture removal van. Steven Taverner smiled. ‘Not very edifying, is it?’
I laughed out loud and agreed. ‘No.’
His eyes left the two Hercules and turned right back to me. ‘Don’t you get bored?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
He nodded as if he was agreeing. Then, ‘You look smart today.’
I dipped my head.
He put his head on one side. ‘You know, Jennifer, you have the most beautiful smile.’
I was logging them up. Nice hair, a beautiful smile. He’d noticed my effort.
‘Thank you.’
There was an awkward silence between us.
A struggle appeared to be going on in his brain. He was doing that thing again, tilting his head as though listening to or for something. I watched, not quite sure what was going on. It seemed to be a struggle. Good versus bad, Ego versus Id. He didn’t know whether to take this forward or not. I could almost smell indecision. Something like limes mixed with sharp peppermint.
He looked at me, his eyes flickered. He gave an embarrassed smile, turned on his heel and walked out without saying another word. I watched him take long, firm steps, all the way to his car. I watched him hold the key out and press it to unlock the door. I watched him bend to open the door. And then he must have changed his mind. He stood upright and walked straight back. Pushed the doors open and reached the desk in three long strides.
‘Jennifer,’ he said. ‘Will you have dinner with me?’ Then he lost his determination and finished with a weak, ‘Some time? One day? I mean one evening?’
I’d never been asked such a thing in my life. Never. Out for dinner? A drink maybe, a night at the pub to watch the football. But dinner? Seeing myself as a woman who was taken out for dinner, I was flattered.
He was looking at the floor, not at me.
‘Yes,’ I said, tucking all my doubts away, ‘I would. When?’
He looked flustered at that. I’d called his bluff. ‘Tomorrow night?’
‘Fine,’ I said and wondered what story he would spin to Margaret.
‘I’ll pick you up from …’ He waited while I prayed he wasn’t already regretting his invitation.
‘Umm.’ He smiled then but his expression was evasive. ‘I’ll need your address. Where do you live?’
He didn’t need to know that I simply rented a room in a terraced house. I was going to keep some of my secrets. I gave him the address, specifying, ‘Brown Edge.’
‘We can go to The Plough in Endon,’ he said carefully. ‘It’s near.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So – eight o’clock? I’ll book.’
Another phrase I was unfamiliar with. I’ll book. I nodded. He turned to go.
‘Till then?’
‘Yes.’
I watched the doors swing behind him, watched him on the monitor taking silent steps toward his car. This time he climbed in, started the engine and eased the Focus out of the parking space, twisting in his seat to check behind him. I switched to another dumb monitor and watched the car disappear through the gates. And then I stopped to think. What was I playing at? A married man was not on my list of requirements. I recalled the redhead sitting smugly in Philip Simpson’s car and Teresa’s anger and misery. For the first time in my life I disliked myself. Not my parents or my horrible brother. I was worse than all my useless boyfriends rolled into one.
I felt like retreating into myself. I didn’t like who I’d become.
I had no one to confide in. Scarlet and Andrew had gone away on a last-minute jaunt to Spain and were soaking up some sunshine, or so the postcard told me. Jodi would not be in the least bit interested. From being my friend, she had turned into an enemy, someone who resented my very breath sharing her air, almost as though I was stealing it from her even though I was paying for it. So, without mentioning why, that evening I asked her if she’d mind if I hogged the bathroom for twenty minutes the following night. Living in such close quarters with only one bathroom between us meant that things like showers and baths had to be prearranged. I tended to draw the short straw. No hot water, baths before seven a.m. or after ten p.m. There was an outside toilet for absolute emergencies but it was pretty grotty, full of spiders and reached along a muddy, uneven path and only used as a last resort. Jodi didn’t answer straight away but spun out the tension, then looked at me with venom in her eyes as she rapped out the words. ‘What time?’
‘Seven?’
She nodded, her chin dropping on to her chest as though she was depressed. And my resentment turned unexpectedly to pity. ‘Are you OK?’
She nodded again and said ‘Yes,’ though the answer was patently No.
I sighed and left the room to return to my own little domain.
My bedroom is tiny, as you would expect from a Victorian terrace. It is painted Shell Pink, my choice, but Jason had wielded the paintbrush in the early days when they were glad of my money and seemed anxious to make me feel welcome. It contains a three-quarters bed, built-in wardrobe, chair and a chest of drawers on which stands a small TV which can also play DVDs. If I am careful I can actually walk all the way round the bed, which is my usual resting place, half watching the telly but really staring out over the valley, imagining another life, another room, another house. A home. A home like I’d never had, a haven, somewhere peaceful where anger and hatred didn’t bang against every wall. And I felt sad because this little room in Brown Edge had, once, been a haven. Safer than the street. It was so different now from my early days, when Jodi, Jason and I would sit in the lounge/diner, drinking lager and watching the same TV programmes. Not now. Somehow the distance between us had developed and these days had grown so wide it was now impossible to bridge. And I felt sad for that lost nirvana. After my family home had exploded apart, I’d valued those companionable evenings together, that rela
xed way of chilling with people you feel at home with. And now it was lost.
I sat in my room and couldn’t wait for tomorrow. I pushed Margaret to the back of my mind and used the mistress’s mantra. If he doesn’t care about his wife, why should I? She’s his wife. He’s the one who’s cheating. Wherever she was, I promised myself her shadow would not spoil my date for tomorrow. So much for personal lectures.
I remembered the reverence with which he’d unloaded those boxes, the fact that he was storing them, preserving them.
Whatever my resolve that night, my dreams were of her. We were sitting in a country pub, eating, when a shadow fell across the table and a wild woman stood there, her eyes burning with accusation, her finger pointing. She was thin, wearing black, her hair loose, straggly, long and grey, and I felt her hatred as sharp as a knife. I tossed and turned in bed, knowing she would like to kill me. In my dream I tried to stand but her glare pinned me down. I tried to speak but my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. I knew who she reminded me of, Bertha Mason, aka the first Mrs Rochester. Mad and violent. She would kill me if she could. I awoke in a sweat, my forearms crossed over my chest trying to protect my heart. I knew then I would not sleep. This ‘dinner together’ was the beginning of something else. I climbed out of my bed to peer out of the window, hoping to reassure myself that the valley was still green. But it was too dark to see.
In the moonlight I imagined I saw a shadow, dark and fluid as an ink blot, cross the valley, turning green to black as Mr Budge would like to have done with his open-cast mining. I believed it heralded something vengeful and malicious. Margaret would wreak her havoc on me somehow. She would punish me. I would not escape her. I sat, staring out of the window, waiting for dawn, longing for the light. We are more afraid of the unknown than of a visible foe, because our imaginations endow the invisible foe with impossible powers. Margaret was an angry, cheated woman with supernatural powers. She would invade my dreams, have her revenge. My mind turned round and round like the cogs on a clock. I was doing the wrong thing and I would pay for it.
At some point I must have gone back to bed and dropped back to sleep because I awoke again in the early hours still in a cold sweat, terrified of something that had no shape or form. I felt the radiator. It was stone cold. I climbed out of bed to open the window and strained my eyes. But could see nothing. The moon was hidden and now the ground was a uniform black.
The Subsequent Wife Page 11