“It’s going to be such a shock to him,” she said. In the Starbucks round the corner from Jim’s office.
“I feel so bloody awful about it,” said Jim Bowles. On the westbound Circle Line platform at King’s Cross. “Doing this to someone.”
And so, at last, Harriet forced herself to the point. Forced herself to honesty. Forced herself to say to Martin, as they sat at the kitchen table, supper eaten, an evening ahead: “Martin, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
A smile. That slightly odd smile she has seen once before. “I know.”
“No,” she said. “No, you don’t . . .” He thinks I’ll say I want to move house, that I want us to have a holiday, that, no, no . . . that I’m pregnant.
“You’re going,” he said. Not smiling now. Just a level look across the table. Not questioning, either.
She could not speak.
“There’s someone else,” said Martin. “Has been for some time.”
No smile now. And a look she has never seen before. A different Martin.
She sat there. Wincing, cringing. How? But he never . . . Martin doesn’t notice . . . “I didn’t think . . .,” she said. “I had no idea you . . .”
“No. I know you didn’t.” A sort of sigh. And that look—a Martin she has not known who has surfaced and whose eyes meet hers. Eyes in which she sees—oh no, no—sorrow, regret. “Of course I knew. You weren’t the same. You became different.”
He is not accusing. He is not reproachful. He is just stating a fact. He is making a statement about . . . theory of mind.
The Third Wife
They were viewing this house she fancied. He was quite happy with that. She would be paying for it anyway, and if she wanted to upgrade that was fine with him. Molly was his third wife, and had plenty of dosh—inherited from her parents, in her case. The other two had also been well bolstered—he’d always been careful to check that out. Sandra had had a business that was going great guns—designer children’s clothes—and Louise had had a job in the City that paid a wad, annual bonuses and all that.
Molly had already had a look at this house—came back enthusing. It was substantial, Edwardian. Isolated, down its own drive, no near neighbors. Fine—one doesn’t want rampaging children within earshot. Plenty of rooms. Secluded one at the end of a passage which would do nicely for his office.
Not that one was planning to be here for all that long. What Molly didn’t know was that her days were numbered, as his wife. About a couple of months or so, when he’d sorted out some stuff with the bank accounts. Five years, she’d had, and that was just about his limit. Much the same with the others.
How do you dispose of a wife who is now surplus to requirements?
Murder?
Oh, dear me, no. Far too untidy. Far too open to repercussions. Too banal, frankly. Only an idiot would take that risk. No, no.
Divorce?
Divorce is for the unimaginative. Divorce is for self-destructive fools who want to lose half their house and half their income and half their capital and prop up the legal profession. Divorce is for those who haven’t a clue how to look after themselves. Divorce is for nerds.
Oh, no. The simple thing is just to leave. Creativity is what is required.
Molly, calling from some other part of the house. “Here—come and see. The kitchen’s fantastic.”
He had left Sandra on a beach in Australia. Quite literally. A rather remote and deserted beach, frequented only by penguins. She had been interested in these, was dying to see them. They had driven there from the hotel where they were staying on this Antipodean holiday he had proposed as a reward for all her hard work and to celebrate a particularly good year for her business. He had organized it all—the hotel, even this beach some way away and the interesting wildlife (“I say, darling, this is right up your street—we have to go there”). He booked them in under one of his other names; it was sometimes quite a job to keep all his names sorted, and the various bank accounts. So there was Sandra, happily stretched out on a towel, sunbathing (no penguins to be seen, so far), and he got up and said, “I’ve left my book in the car—I’ll just wander back and get it.” She had murmured something, half-asleep, and off he went, taking all his stuff, leaving her the sun cream and her dark glasses and her beach bag—no need to be malevolent. There had been a couple of other cars at the parking site, so somewhere on that beach there were others, and when eventually Sandra realized that she no longer had a husband to hand, someone would take her back to the hotel, where the staff would be confronted by a hysterical woman in a bikini, whose name was not on their screen, claiming that she was staying there.
Molly, outside now. “Oh, you’re going to love this garden.”
Sandra hadn’t known, of course, that he had cleared out much of the business before they left for the holiday. Just a matter of some creative accounting. He had said right at the start, when they were first married, “Look, let me deal with the paperwork for you. I can see to the financial stuff, all that nitty-gritty, and then you can get on with what you do so well. You shouldn’t have to be bothered with the infrastructure.” So the money had gone into a special account, one of his accounts. Except of course that it would only be there until he needed it, by which time he wouldn’t be there either.
Sandra had been his first. He was the marrying sort. He respected marriage; he approved of marriage. If you like a woman, can see yourself set up with her, then it’s the proper thing to do. The decent thing. And there was the question of funding, too, always an issue for him.
The right woman can solve the funding problem. Call it venture capital.
Molly—going upstairs now. “Four bedrooms, Stan. Two en suite.”
Louise he had left in Brent Cross shopping center. In Swarovski, to be precise, where they’d been choosing his Christmas present for her, a rather pretty necklace. She was just checking a call on her mobile, and when she looked up he wasn’t there anymore. He hadn’t yet paid for the necklace.
He had done some interesting things with their joint bank account the day before. Really quite inventive. For a woman who spent her days moving money around the world it was surprising how little attention Louise paid to her own. She had never noticed the steady seepage from the joint account, over time. The seepage was now a hemorrhage, though he had left her enough to get through until the next salary wad from her outfit. Again, no need to be malevolent.
Molly, down again, her footsteps now somewhere at the back of the house. “Would you believe it, there’s a walk-in safe! Come and see!”
There was still a bit of work to be done on the accounts, where Molly was concerned. She was no slouch, Molly—tended to be rather tiresomely attentive from time to time, wanting to take a look at the bank statements: “You’re so sweet to say you’ll see to all that but you mustn’t feel I’m leaving it to you entirely. Money’s so boring.”
No, it isn’t. Money is the one thing that is not boring. It is entrancing, invigorating. Motivating.
Molly was quite smart, really, though she had never had a job. Not a proper job. Well, she didn’t need to, cushioned by that comfortable income from the parents who had died a while ago. She did various voluntary things now, and had a network of friends, was much on the phone. Even more so than usual, lately—he kept coming into a room where she was chatting away to someone, giggling from time to time, and would hang up as soon as he was there.
“Who was that, darling?”
“Just a girlfriend.”
Susie, or Janice, or someone. He couldn’t keep track of her friends. They had stolid, tedious husbands who worked in local government and suchlike, middle-management figures who said breezily: “And what’s your line, Stan?” His reply was always the same: something vague about financial consultant. He had never been precise with his wives, either. They knew that he needed his home office, and had to spend a lot of tim
e at the computer, and occasionally go away for a day or two.
“Stan, do come and see this safe.”
He was Stan now, and had been since he married Molly. Before that, he had been Peter, and Mark. You did get a bit confused occasionally. And the bank accounts of course had many names; they were legion, impersonal.
“Coming,” he said. “Coming.”
He wasn’t a big spender. Of course not. The point of money was accumulation, not disposition. The piling up of figures, that lovely intangible hoard. His wives did the spending, and that was fine because it meant you lived very well, and it was their money anyway, not that you wanted them to be getting rid of too much of it because there was a sense also in which it was yours, or would be in due course. No, you didn’t spend the money, you tended it, shifted it, made it grow. Every day he was at the computer for hours; each wife had known not to disturb him. They tiptoed around his vaguely defined occupation. Financial analyst, they said to friends. It’s something like that. He’s terribly clever with money.
Too right, darling.
Molly was the only one who spent time on a computer herself. The other two never did. Louise said she had enough of it at the office. Molly would be checking out clothes and stuff, no doubt, consumer research. She was quite dressy, was Molly, and always looked good. She was fun, too. But he was getting itchy feet; it was time to move on. There was a woman he’d come across at an event in London, a presentation by some fund people, sounded as though she had a nice portfolio. He needed to get to know her better; Brian, he was, to her.
“Coming, coming. Where are you?”
He made his way to the rear of the house—warren of little rooms, back here. And there was Molly, in the passage, beside a hefty-looking steel door. She seemed to be on a high today, had done herself up in a red outfit he’d never seen before, and was waiting for him there—small, sparky, really pretty, that cap of dark hair, great legs. He’d miss her, no question, but there you go.
“Look,” she said, heaving open the door.
A small room, windowless, with shelves.
“What on earth’s it for?”
“It’s a strong room,” she said. “Sort of walk-in safe. For silver, probably. What fun! You can keep your gold ingots in here.” Laughing.
“You know perfectly well I haven’t got any gold ingots.” He put his arm round her—quick hug. “So are we buying this place?”
“Shall we? What do you think?” She peered forward into the room, switched on a light. “What’s that on the shelf at the back?”
He stepped down into the room, reached forward, and saw in his hand an envelope with his name on it, at the same moment as the steel door clanged behind him, and he heard the click of a lock.
Laughter again, barely audible. And he knew, began to know. Remembered that she’d been keen to drive, had the car keys: “I know how to find it. I told the agent there was no need for him to come with us.”
He stood there for a moment. He opened the letter.
This is for Sandra, and for Louise, and for me. I can’t tell you how long it’s taken to find a house with a strong room. They’ve been champing at the bit, Sandra and Louise, phoning and phoning. Incidentally, we’re such good friends. I have that to thank you for—two really lovely friendships.
Elegant, isn’t it? Like your own departures. That’s the idea. Took us a while to come up with it. I wonder what you had in mind for me?
Don’t worry—you’re not there forever. Depends when the estate agent turns up with another viewer. I did make a point of asking. This evening, I think he said. Or was it tomorrow? And you’ve maybe already found there’s no mobile signal. I checked that out last week, when I had a first look. Bit of a worry, that had been.
I wonder what you’ll say? Not—my wife slammed the door and did a runner. Oh, no. They might start asking questions, and you’ll have thought of that. No, you’ll bluff it out and be charming—that blasted door shut itself and apparently locked too, thank God you’ve come, if only my wife hadn’t had to cry off because she had a dental crisis, and needed the car, and of course my minicab driver just dropped me off—I’d said don’t wait I’ll probably walk back to the bus stop when I’m through . . . You’ll be out. In a while. You won’t come home, of course.
Go wherever you like. They’ll find you, sooner or later.
The police.
Penelope Lively is an award-winning novelist and author of children’s literature. She received the Booker Prize for her novel Moon Tiger and wide acclaim for The Photograph and How It All Began. Lively is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and a member of PEN and the Society of Authors. In recognition of her contributions to British literature, she has been appointed Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire. She lives in London.
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The Purple Swamp Hen and Other Stories Page 18