About Last Night

by Adele Parks

  Or had he? Julian had worn glasses for reading, driving and watching TV for as long as she’d known him and it had never bothered him beyond a mild irritation when he couldn’t find a pair in the morning. But some months back, he’d suddenly started talking about having laser surgery, and when Steph had discouraged it, he’d settled on lenses. For the first time Steph questioned the motivation behind his sudden vanity. Did he only wear lenses on Tuesdays or more regularly than that? When exactly had he started to care about wearing glasses? Was it about the same time as he started mucking about with the Atkins diet?

  Steph hated the Atkins diet, she liked carbs. There was nothing better than chunky slices of warm, homemade, wholemeal bread, slathered in butter, or a steaming bowl of al dente pasta with a fresh tomato sauce. She thought the Atkins diet was ludicrous and inconvenient, it did not promote healthy eating habits and therefore defied good sense as a lifestyle choice. Steph valued good sense above just about anything. Yet, she had still prepared the meals he requested. She had been quite surprised when Julian had embraced the diet with such enthusiasm. He’d said Rosie, his PA, had lost half a stone on it and she swore by it. He insisted he needed to move seven or eight pounds that had started to cling to him over the past couple of years. He seemed to suddenly know everything there was to know about metabolic advantage. Had Rosie really introduced him to the diet? Or was his mistress a skinny, carb-loathing bitch? Steph didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.

  Julian walked through to the kitchen, put his laptop and the Evening Standard on top of the breakfast bar and his regular mobile in his trouser pocket. As he did so he briefly scanned the kitchen. Steph wondered whether he was looking for his other mobile. The one she’d secreted in her bedside drawer, hidden beneath her nighties and tights. Had he been searching for it all day? Fretting about it? Was he inconsolable because he couldn’t send dirty, flirty, filthy texts to his mistress today? Had he had to stick to The Times Sudoku for his entertainment this lunchtime?

  ‘The kids are in bed, are they?’ he asked, as he always did.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure they’re still awake. They’d appreciate it if you popped your head round the door,’ Steph answered automatically.

  Why was it her responsibility to remind him to go upstairs and say good night to his children? she asked herself. Surely, after eleven years of being a father, he knew what was expected of him. She thought of the text messages and had her answer.

  No, Julian didn’t know what was expected of him as a father.

  Julian nodded and dragged a smile to his face. Steph thought it was a painstakingly designed smile that had something of the martyr about it. He wanted Steph to know that after a hard day at the office he was absolutely fried, but still willing to ‘be dad’ before he helped himself to a well deserved G&T. Normally, this smile cut through any exhaustion Steph might be feeling, routinely she dashed to the cupboard and poured him a drink, checked on the dish that would be simmering in the oven, sometimes she even pulled him into a sympathetic hug. This evening she said, ‘I haven’t had time to read with Freddie, will you do it? He needs to read at least eight pages.’ Then she poured herself a glass of wine and pressed the start button on the microwave. ‘This takes five and a half minutes and a minute standing time, so don’t dawdle.’

  ‘A microwave dinner?’ Julian couldn’t hide his surprise or disappointment. The lines around his mouth sharpened. He’d only eaten a sandwich for lunch. He was starving and those plastic dinners never left him feeling full, the way a home-cooked dinner did.

  ‘I found it lurking in the fridge, thought it needed eating up,’ said Steph. ‘I’ve already eaten, with the children.’

  Steph was lying. She hadn’t been able to swallow a morsel.

  This morning she’d planned to cook roasted haddock on chickpea and chorizo sauté for their supper. She’d even started to prepare the dish this afternoon, before she collected the children, as that was her habitual time to do any prep that might be required for the evening meals. She had considered that it was rather strange that she was cooking their dinner, under the circumstances, but she didn’t know what else to do. She had to do something.

  While she’d chopped the large red onion and the coriander leaves into fine parts, she had suddenly been filled with such an overwhelming, unstoppable fury that she’d flung the chopping board, the knife, the onion and coriander against the kitchen wall. She hurled it with all her might. A deliberate act of violence. The board fell with a satisfying clatter. So satisfying in fact, that next she’d thrown the bowl of chickpeas (already decanted, drained and rinsed). It was a heavy wooden board and it had taken a huge chunk out of the wall. The ingredients had scattered everywhere, settling like confetti under cabinets, under the breakfast bar, near the fridge. Steph could see a piece of red onion right now, next to the dishwasher. She hadn’t cleaned up very well.

  The violence had been such a release. To see the wall stained and chipped felt wonderful, exhilarating. She wanted to smash something else. Their glassware perhaps? Or the new crockery? Both. She wanted to continue to hurl, smash, shatter and sever until everything they owned was ground into tiny parts, too small to offer any satisfaction when breaking them further. She wanted to pick up the chopping knife and plunge it into the cushions in the sitting room and gouge out their innards. She’d like to see feathers from the pillows on their bed flutter around their bedroom. She wanted to rip and shred their bed sheets. Steph’s heartbeat had trebled; adrenalin caroused through her bloodstream like a stag party hurtling through city streets on the lookout for trouble. Who knew what damage she could have wreaked if Mrs Evans hadn’t come tearing down the stairs and stopped her.

  Not enough damage. She knew that. Whatever she smashed, ripped or flung, she couldn’t cause as much harm as he had. She couldn’t even the score. Least, not like that.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mrs Evans had yelled as she ran into the kitchen with a speed Steph had never witnessed before, in all the ten years Mrs Evans had been cleaning for the Blakes.

  ‘Nothing,’ lied Steph. ‘I dropped the chopping board.’

  If Mrs Evans wondered how Steph had dropped the chopping board up the opposite wall and the bowl of chickpeas too, she was discreet enough not to ask for any more details. All she said was, ‘Evening primrose capsules are very good for PMT, you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Evans. I shall go out and get some. Just as soon as I’ve cleared up here,’ replied Steph carefully.

  ‘I think that wall might need a spot of paint,’ Mrs Evans muttered and then she’d shuffled off back to the ironing.

  Stephanie didn’t go and buy evening primrose capsules or paint but instead she went out and bought Julian a microwave roast chicken dinner. She simply could not chop, dice, stir and sauté food for him. Not when he’d sent another woman a text saying he wanted to take her bent over, in front of a mirror. She couldn’t cook for that man.

  Julian was now seated at their fine dining-room table, wolfing down the tasteless supper. Part of him wanted to grumble about its inadequacy but a bigger part of him knew that doing so was impossible as they were not living in the 1950s.

  ‘Are you happy?’ His wife blurted the question just as his teeth had closed down on a particularly hard piece of chicken gristle. With his tongue he worked the unyielding piece of meat to the side of his mouth, so that he could retrieve it as politely as possible and leave it on the side of his plate.

  ‘Funny thing to ask,’ he replied.

  Steph noticed that wasn’t an answer. ‘Do you like your job? Our home? Do you like living in Riverford?’ She spat out the questions like a round from a machine gun.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Julian without looking up from his plate. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  Why indeed? It was Julian who had wanted to leave London and come to Riverford, a prosperous and pleasant county town in Surrey with good schools and large gardens. Steph sighed at the hopelessly inadequate questions she’d posed and the predicta
bly defective response Julian had offered. They would never get to the heart of the matter like this. They weren’t the questions that needed to be asked but how could she say, ‘Do you like me?’ How could a woman ask her man of nearly twenty years such a humiliating, reducing question?

  Steph sat still for a moment or two, concentrating on the sound of Julian’s knife and fork scraping on his plate, the sound of his wine glass clinking against his front teeth and him gulping and swallowing. She couldn’t ask the question she wanted to ask.

  How could you do this to me?

  Steph wondered what she ought to do next. What to do in the next five minutes? What to do with her remaining fifty years. Her mind was a blank. Trauma had temporarily erased everything. Stupidly, she couldn’t remember how she usually spent her evenings with her husband. How did they behave with one another before she had this vile knowledge swirling around her head and threatening to spill all over their dining-room table, all over their lives?

  She normally had some little bit of news or an anecdote to tell him. Often it was about the kids, their daily triumphs and disasters. Sometimes she had a snippet of info about his father, she called Julian’s father every couple of days to ask how his golf game or his vegetable plot were faring. Or she’d tell Julian about the places they had been invited. This year they’d seen a trickle of invites to fortieth birthday parties, next year she anticipated there would be an avalanche. Stephanie had already started thinking about Julian’s birthday party, even though it was a while off. She envisaged a jazz band and fancy dress – the house full of molls and gangsters, as Julian had an interest in that period of history. She’d thought a Sunday afternoon party might work well so that people could bring along their children. There was nothing so lovely as to watch your offspring and the offspring of your friends play together.

  Now, those plans seemed pathetic.

  Stephanie and Julian always accepted the invites to parties, weekend, dinner or lunch dates, they had a full social life. Thinking about it now, Steph had to admit that Julian was rarely what you’d describe as enthusiastic about these invites. He went along, of course. He chatted, ate the food and drank the wine that was served, but he didn’t seem to look forward to these socials the way she did. He often said he’d be just as happy staying in. Stephanie had thought that it was a huge compliment that Julian found everything he needed with his family, that he was content within the walls of his castle. Now she reasoned that no doubt the walls of the castle were enough for him because when he was out alone he spent his time ravaging and pillaging, which provided more than enough entertainment to privately reminisce on while they watched the evening news. But, even before she’d known about his ravaging another woman, she’d patiently explained that while he got plenty of social interaction at work, she was mostly confined to brief snatches of conversation thrown out and sponged up at pick-up and drop-off. She needed to go somewhere at least once a week where she could enjoy a glass of wine and expect a sentence to be finished.

  A dinner or lunch invite necessitated a reciprocal one, it was simply a matter of manners. Stephanie didn’t mind, in fact she loved entertaining. She approached hosting with a keen sense of order. She would spend hours flicking through recipe books deciding what to serve (she kept a note of who had eaten what and been invited with whom, so as to avoid ever serving the same guest the same dish twice). She spent hours in the local butchers, fishmongers, deli and bakery, carefully selecting the best ingredients she could track down. She regularly served three courses, cheese and then coffee and chocolates. She lit candles and arranged flowers in the hall, dining room and downstairs loo. Julian opened the wine.

  The realisation that Julian’s contribution was minimal sent a shiver scratching across Steph’s body. On so many occasions she’d told herself that Julian was happy enough to go with the flow, and that he had no problem at all with their endless stream of house guests but now she had to wonder. What was he thinking about when he carved the pistachio nut crust rack of lamb or set a match to the Bombe Alaska? Her? That woman? While Steph was in the kitchen carefully inching the pudding out of its case, did he nip to the library to send a text to his mistress detailing how he wanted to inch down her pants with his teeth? Did he find their friends tedious? Did he think Steph’s form of entertaining was a painful symptom of their settled existence?

  Julian had not always been quite so indifferent to entertaining their friends. Before dinner parties (before kids) they used to throw wild parties which people anticipated for weeks in advance and talked about for months afterwards. At those parties Steph would weave amongst the guests, handing out canapés, topping up glasses, laughing at their jokes, and Julian would flay around on the rug that was making do as a dance floor. He loved dancing. He wasn’t trained and was unlikely to ever find himself compared to Justin Timberlake but what he lost in expertise he made up for with enthusiasm.

  Julian used to say that dancing was unadulterated fun, a pure extravagance. Not something to be self-conscious about, not something to even think about. For him it was all about instinct. He liked to throw his limbs and shake his head. He was often careless of the actual tune or rhythm but still he was admirable and mesmerising because his dancing exuded pure, unadulterated joy. He used to like to gyrate and whirl so madly, he’d often have a head rush. He used to dance until he had a sweaty body, hair sticking to the back of his neck, sometimes he’d even whip off his T-shirt, bravely showing his squish-pack. The copious amount of alcohol they served at their parties definitely helped.

  Steph was a fair dancer too, although her style was totally opposite to Julian’s. She did not have the confidence to rely on her instincts and so she used to take classes to painstakingly learn steps and routines. She had always been guarded and considered. She danced because Julian asked her to, not because she enjoyed it. She’d been rather relieved when clubbing and loud parties became a thing of their past. Steph hadn’t had to dance since – oh, when was it? she wondered. Her cousin Jenny’s wedding reception, which was almost four years ago.

  Looking at Julian now, Steph couldn’t see the young man who used to dance until he was clammy. Did he miss it?

  Oh God, did he go dancing with this other woman? The carb-loathing bitch was probably an awe-inspiringly cool dancer. She probably parted crowds with her sexy moves. They probably looked like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. And everyone knew – it was universally agreed – that good dancers were always phenomenal in the sack. Steph was too numb to know what hurt her most, the thought of her husband shagging another woman (a fact she’d allowed to slosh around her head for some hours now) or this latest thought, the thought of her husband dancing with another woman. Falling in love with another woman.

  Possibly the worst of it was the thought that she had not as yet dared examine.

  She’d had chances too.

  And she’d let them go.

  Stephanie was aware that their evening meal was unusually quiet, so quiet she could hear the clock on the wall tick and her heart beat. It seemed some sort of cruel irony that her heart seemed so determined to pound on, drawing attention to the minutes slipping away. Hadn’t she wasted enough time? Her heart and her head knew the answer to that question at a deep and terrifyingly profound level. Yes, she’d wasted enough time. Too much time. But what could she do about it? What were her choices? Was divorce a choice? She’d always said she’d rather Julian died than divorce her. She’d seen what a divorce could do to a woman, to a family. She thought of Pip and Chloe. The pain was gargantuan. It put her in mind of going to one of those space exhibitions that Harry was so fond of, one that tried to offer perspective about the size of planet earth in relation to the sun and then the size of the sun in relation to the galaxy. It was impossible to comprehend.

  Julian didn’t seem to notice the silence. The onus of conversation was never on him and it was disturbing and distressing to discover that her endless past efforts to chat, to be interesting, had probably been futile, he appeared
to be happy enough to eat in silence. Julian exuded a sense of self-possession. He did not sift through his post, flick through gift catalogues or read newspapers at the dinner table, the way Stephanie was inclined to do, especially if she was eating alone. She liked to keep busy. She found it helpful. It stopped her thinking.

  About him. About chances. Julian wasn’t the only one with secrets.

  Steph shot Julian another resentful glare. No doubt he was thinking about her. That’s why he could dwell in an all-consuming silence. He’d allowed himself to think of his other woman. More than think – obviously. What a luxury. What an indulgence.

  What a bastard.

  Stephanie wondered whether she ought to tell him about Pip’s triumph with Selfridges. She decided she would, if he asked. She could not be so ungenerous as to keep the information to herself, not if he showed any genuine interest in the outcome of the meeting. But as Steph stared at his head – dark blond hair that was brushed with grey now (rather fortunately giving the effect of expensive highlights), thinning at the temples, exposing a delicate scalp that had a small mole to the left of the crown – she doubted he would think to inquire.

  Julian’s blond scalp had long since been a worry to her. He was careless about wearing a hat on holiday and would sit for long periods of time beneath the blazing sun while she fussed that he’d scorch his head. She lived in dread of him, or the children, suffering from sun damage, or clogged arteries, or being involved in a ski accident. Julian called her Little Mrs Worrypants and his teasing encouraged the children to take up the nickname. It had long since occurred to Steph that their playful mocking was a little patronising. Julian and Harry (perhaps even Alfie) thought she was ludicrous to worry so much about applying suncream, eating antioxidants or avoiding double black diamond ski runs, and perhaps they were right. The most insidious threat had snuck up on her without her realising and she’d been powerless to prevent it.