The Delusionist

by Rachel Mathias

  My phone beeped. The WhatsApp / Snapchat group was wondering what I was doing in a field two miles from the house. I reassured them that all was good, as good as it gets. I told Harry and he said he was just glad that my friends knew I was safe.

  I swapped glasses with him when he had finished his. I sank back into my haystack and soaked up the last rays of this sunshine that had arrived especially for us. We took a selfie on my phone just before the battery died. I didn’t tell him it had died though. Something must have been wrong even then.

  We wandered back, hand in hand, as the sun sank lower in the sky, and watched it set from a bench in the garden with another bottle of wine. We kissed. He smelt right, and I let him share my four-poster, as if that was ever in doubt. I wanted him near me, his weight on top of me, his limbs intertwined with mine. Away from the judging eyes of friends, the needs of my family and the responsibilities of work, I was free to be myself.

  “Have you fallen for me yet babe?”

  I snuggled into his warmth as he wrapped his arms tightly around me. There is a huge release of tension when you bury your face in that place where chest meets shoulder. It must be the pheromones or something that are at their optimum level just there. I drank in his scent, felt his heart beating against mine. I didn’t have to say anything in reply.

  “It’s okay, I know,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  Sand nest

  Harry was an early riser, and I mean early. I was woken by tea in bed at six, followed by morning cuddles I hadn’t had in many months. I could have stayed there all day, but check-out time was ten o’clock and we had decided on a day at the beach. We packed our bags and he carried them downstairs, checking under the bed and in the drawers, the sort of thing that parents do for children but nobody does for parents. He found and cooked bacon and eggs that we ate at the table in the garden. Tabitha turned up to begin the clear-up, and he charmed her with his smile and easy chat, asking if by any chance she had any weeks over the rest of the summer. She did. A week in August was still free, and was available at a discount rate if we could take it then and there.

  “I’ll book it for you baby, for your birthday present,” said Harry when she was out of the room.

  “You can’t do that. It’s too expensive.”

  “It’s not that much. A couple of grand.”

  “Really? You don’t think a couple of grand is much? ”

  “You could come here with the kids, even Adam, have some time all together. I could come at the end of the week, and we could have our time.” Our time. It was planned. It was definite. He wasn’t running away.

  When my father left my mother for another woman she was fifty years old. He had been her only partner for thirty years, and had chosen to wait until my brother and I were on the point of leaving home, which only intensified her pain. She was destroyed, bereft, set adrift on uncharted waters and unable to do more than keep herself alive. My brother went travelling, which probably saved him, while I took over from him, ferrying her to and from hospital, for electric shock therapy, and for emergency treatment every time she took an overdose. On the surface, I was playing the role of therapist and carer, but inside I was drawing my own subconscious conclusions from everything that was going on around me.

  "Men have power over women. A woman, however intelligent and educated, is nothing without a man and will be destroyed if he leaves. He will leave for someone younger and more beautiful. I have been abandoned by him too because I am of no more use to him. Perhaps I am of no more use to the world."

  As the years went by, I chose partners whose departure wouldn’t matter, boyfriends I didn’t love, men I felt superior to, who could walk away and leave no scars on me. It was just a sticking plaster over a wound. From time to time the plaster fell off, and I found another one. My married life was a fluffy bunny dream. I chose the perfect partner, the perfect father for my children, who would never leave, never change. I was a princess, and princesses didn’t get divorced. Adam was the superplaster. His existence told me that things could be different.

  The failure of my marriage is like a page ripped out of me, forcing me to confront the demons that had taken up residence in my head and my heart. Adam didn’t abandon me in the traditional way. He showed me there were other options available when it came to splitting up. 50 ways to leave your lover… At the risk of sounding fatalistic again, my divorce was meant to be. I had lessons to learn about other types of pain.

  Harry might have understood my fear of loss. Or he might have read a book by Russell Brand on pulling women, or he might just be the same as me, because he was my match, my mind-reader, my soul brother. Later that day as we lay in the dunes at Studland Bay, he asked me how I saw the future. I talked about my career, my home, my kids, but he didn’t mean that peripheral stuff. He sat up and leaned over me on one elbow.

  “What about us babe? Where do you see us?”

  I felt too awkward to give a straight answer. To paint a picture of wedded bliss would be tempting fate, and I wasn’t ready to make any declarations of intent. I didn’t believe he was thinking like this. Men didn’t. And I was the last person to inspire commitment in a man. I was in my mid-forties, not skinny or beautiful, not Cassandra the model sipping coffee in bed. He could have anyone he wanted. It couldn’t be real that he wanted to be with me long-term. It couldn’t be, but I wanted it to be. I pulled him towards me and kissed him.

  “We’ll see.”

  We lay in each others’ arms in a kind of sand nest, playing songs on our phones, soaking up the heat, hiding from the wind, then when we started to feel burnt, got up and wandered along the beach and paddled in the freezing sea. He went deeper, up to his knees, splashing water on his arms and neck.

  “It’s for my psoriasis. The salt is good for it.” The lesions on his calves looked painful, made him vulnerable, made me want to look after him.

  “Do you have medication for it?”

  “I have to inject once a month. It’s worse now, because I missed a day. It’s not normally this bad.”

  I had been oblivious to his skin condition, just as I was to his protruding stomach, his teeth damaged by the microphone in his motorcycle helmet smashing into them when he was hit by a drunk driver. When someone comes along who wants you, it’s easy to overlook everything else. Like Sally said, I was covering up failure, slapping new wallpaper straight on top of old, forcing my unremarkable life into a Cinderella story.

  We talked about the accident. He showed me a photo of the bike he had on order to replace the one that was a write-off. The Kawasaki he had bought a few days ago was to tide him over until the new shiny Ducati arrived. Excess wealth is the enemy of patience, and Harry could afford not to delay his gratification, but I was surprised he wanted to get back on the road so soon after the accident.

  “I’m a petrol head baby. Bikes and cars. Love them. Love the speed.”

  I know as much about cars and bikes as I do about quantum physics. The names Mercedes and Ducati rang bells with me, as did Rolex and Ray Ban, but none of it did anything more than skim over the surface. I was never interested in a glitzy life. Just someone to be with me as an equal, intellectually, financially, emotionally.

  Then he said that his phone had been buzzing constantly in his pocket and excused himself, saying he should check his messages. His house was on the rental market and he was anxious to find out whether the day’s viewings had yielded any good news. I went into the café to get us some drinks. On my return, he was grinning all over his face. He kissed me on the lips.

  “Two offers!”

  “On your house?”

  “Yes. Two families both want it.”

  “So – you’re going to a bidding war? Who’s the agent?”

  He hesitated for a second, as if distrusting my motives for asking, or maybe trying to remember their name. “Grants. They think they can get four and a half grand.”

  “A month? For a four bed house?”

  He frowned at me sl
ightly, as if I’d let him down. “It’s in a great location, near the schools and the station, they are in huge demand. And my stepfather is mates with the guy who owns the agency, so it was off the record, and I got a better deal.”

  Had I spoken out of turn in doubting the rental income potential of a house in Surrey? When you watch me with men it looks as if I live in fear of them feeling emasculated. I have no idea what I am afraid of there, or where I have witnessed the wrath of challenged manhood, but that’s what was happening again. I was cringing inwardly at my own words as I said them.

  “Wow well done, that’s brilliant! But where will you live?”

  “Putney hopefully. That’s the plan. Or Spain.”

  “Spain?”

  “I must have told you about that. Costa Blanca. Just a small place but perfect for the beach and the nightlife. Views over the Med. I’ve got to go out there anyway to do some notary stuff, put it into the kids’ names for tax reasons. All very dull really.”

  I felt a rush of abandonment. I wanted to say don’t go to Spain. I need you here, but I said, “Sounds like a plan, whatever works out.” And gave him a hug. “It’s all looking good for you Harry. And the app sounds so brilliant. You’re going to make your fortune.”

  “Well I’m not counting on anything yet, but if it works it will be massive.”

  We clinked our bottles and drank to the future, whatever it held. He caught my eye then a second later looked away, leaned back against the table and stretched his legs.

  I held the icy bottle against my cheek and relished the relief it brought.

  “So your company name Hasam – I’m guessing that is Harry and Sam?”

  “Yes he was the guy I set it up with originally.”

  “I’m a great detective. I knew it.”

  “You’re a great kisser,” he said, leaning over and brushing his lips against mine.

  “Yeah I know that too.”

  We sipped cold beers, hiding in the shade of an umbrella now that our sunburn was beginning to take hold. He held my hand, touched my face, looked right into my heart.

  Then the phone buzzed in his pocket again. He extricated himself, stood up and said “Harry” with the authority of one who has no need to elaborate. I would offer people my full name, and more often than not would at least have a go at working out who was calling so that I could address them as well. I admired his swagger, wanted to be like him, envied his not needing to please anyone.

  “Yeah, that all sounds fine. Can I call you back a bit later? I’m just with my…” he motioned to me and shrugged his shoulders, grinning and questioning, “….girlfriend?”

  I blushed, wanting it but not wanting it. When he hung up, he asked me formally, like a proposal. I was typing a quick check in to the girls, who hadn’t seen my last one, I noted.

  “So, I didn’t know what to call you…” He paused, raised his eyebrows in that schoolboy manner I was beginning to pick up on. “Would you like to be my girlfriend?”

  I put down my phone and hesitated much too long, which sounds surprising, because in my mind I was already there, living the dream. But the reality was that I didn’t trust myself to bring that dream into my life. I would be bringing it straight into the path of my self-sabotage, making it real would make it unreal. Men leave women. Men leave me. If we were together it would be just a question of time before he knew me better and saw me for the imposter I was.

  “It depends what you mean by girlfriend.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  Somehow, we came to an agreement that the definition of our relationship was not dating other people, not swiping left or right on dating apps. We drank to it. He composed a message to send to the girls he was still chatting to on Tinder. I never saw him send it. But I didn’t need to.

  I was on the coffee by now because of driving. I had paid for the beers, and now the coffees. It wasn’t relevant at the time, but it is now, not just because of how things turned out, but because it has taught me something. I can see that I pay for things to smooth the path to something I need. His wallet was in the car. I could have let him go and get it, but that would have interrupted the flow, and if you lose the flow, you risk falling off the trajectory, and that’s abandonment for me. I couldn’t risk that, but I should have. I should have trusted in the flow returning, because a flow that is so easily lost isn’t a flow worth having.

  He drove my car back to London in the end. I fall asleep easily in cars and the sun and the wind, as well as the early start were beginning to take their toll. I struggled to keep my eyes open, yet forced them awake, unused to being driven, conscious that he had drunk more than me, that I hadn’t even known him a day, had no proof he even had a licence. Ridiculous worries, but they were there, circling like flies. I dozed to the sound of the radio, giving in, letting it all go on around me, fighting sleep until I had no more fight in me.

  I wanted to drop him at his house (partly so I could see it, put him in context and tick a box somewhere) but he had promised to visit his friends Neil and Cass in Farnham on the way back. My stomach lurched momentarily. Cassandra the lustrous-haired model was actually real. My vision of her must have been a premonition. I fought the thought and it subsided as Harry explained the background, oblivious. They were going through a rough time and Cass wanted to move out but couldn’t afford to, so Harry was offering her cash to help her make a new start. The next day he told me she wouldn’t take the money. It seemed she and Neil were going to try again to make things work. But at least the money was there if she needed it. Can’t say fairer than that. I put that on the pile with his offer of my week in Dorset, and concluded that if he was this generous, then there was even more wealth to manage than I had first thought.

  I would like to say again, now, that money doesn’t matter to me, but if I was impressed by his generosity, then that can’t be true. It’s like I said on the walk with Maya and Sally, if you are at pains to assert something, then maybe the opposite is true, and maybe at some level I want to be with a rich man. Maybe money has connections with safety. My father spent huge amounts of money on his mistresses. Having money spent on you must mean you are loved.

  The sun was setting on our second day together as we pulled into the empty station car park. Neil and Cass lived around the corner and it was the easiest place to drop him without losing my way back to the A3. That’s what he told me, and I had no real reason to disbelieve him. It was our third station in as many days.

  There was no-one about. He kissed me on the lips and walked away, rucksack on his back, and I climbed into the driver’s seat, for the last leg of my journey back to reality.

  Chapter 9

  Neither the time nor the place

  Maya had left two messages on the WhatsApp group. Was I okay or had I been murdered in my bed? Was I back yet? How had it been? Sally had sent a few messages, impatiently demanding an update, and to know I was still alive. What was with all these people worrying about nothing? I reassured them both that I was home, and that they could check their app to prove it.

  Can I pop round? Or is it too late? replied Maya straightaway.

  No, come round, it’s fine.

  The children and the dog were still at Adam’s. I was grateful for the slow transition back to my other life, my life from before the weekend which now had a new sheen to it. The house was chilly; the cat unsettled. Another bulb had gone in the chandelier, which gave off a sad half-light as I sank into the sofa. I reached for my phone to check my emails. Anxious parents were asking whether I was back yet, and would I be able to fit in a session with Connor, Max, Alex one evening this week…? There was a long message from Adam about his limited availability to have the children over the next few weeks. My eyes flicked over the words that jumped out at me work….. travelling ….. problem…. busy and half absorbed them. There was a mutual understanding between us that he wouldn’t be upfront about when he was away with Sophie. I must have made it clear on some drunk occasion or other that it
wasn’t the done thing to parade your new girlfriend in front of your ex-wife, not that Adam would have done anything of the sort. But you can phrase things a certain way and they take on a whole new look. I did that to make my friends feel sorry for me, take me under their wing and point the finger back at the bad husband who abandoned me.

  I looked back at WhatsApp. Nothing from Harry, just my face staring back at me from his profile picture.

  “Never put a woman in my status picture before.”

  Those had been his words just before he got out of the car. A token of his commitment to me, and a sign that this was different, better, worth making changes for. I needn’t worry. Everyone would know about me now.

  The doorbell rang and the cat jumped off my lap in anticipation. Maya bustled in with crisps and a bottle of elderflower fizz.

  “I thought maybe a night off the booze?”

  “You thought right.” I took the offerings and gave her half a hug with my free arm.

  “Well that was a fun weekend. I’m still recovering. My liver is not thanking me for the half bottle of port I managed to pour into it on Saturday night.

  “I don’t think sticking to the red wine did me any favours. My students haven’t had the best lessons this week, to be fair.”

  “No refunds for hangovers Rach. Or you’d never make a profit.” She nudged me and threw her head back in an almost Maddie-like cackle. I told her so.

  “Oh no, don’t say it’s infectious. What was it with you two though, by the way?”

  “What do you mean? Did she say something?” My reaction was instinctive, defensive. I thought it was just me that had picked it up, but the sadness in Maddie’s eyes when Caro mentioned our “misunderstanding” had not gone unnoticed.