‘Heaven! I clasped him back to my bosom, Teri. I’ve ironed his shirts, I’ve performed sexual athletics in the bedroom, and in the back garden—but that’s another story. I’ve fed him sumptuous specials from Nigella Lawson every night for dinner. Take it from me, Teri, even in these enlightened times, the way to a man’s heart is still first and foremost through his stomach rather than his genitalia.’ Clare sighed. ‘Generally, I’ve pandered to his every whim.’
‘It sounds more like hell than heaven.’
‘He has been languishing in my boundless stream of love and has thrown himself at my feet declaring himself a fool for ever leaving me.’ Clare was jubilant.
‘So everything in the garden of romance is rosy again?’ Teri said with a twinge of jealousy.
‘Absolutely marvellous,’ Clare agreed triumphantly. ‘I threw him out two weeks ago.’
‘What!’
‘Well, he was a bloody idiot. I knew that, you knew that, I just wanted him to realise it too.’
‘So where is he?’ Teri was stunned.
‘I don’t know. He’s been phoning every night since, declaring undying love to my answerphone.’
‘I can’t believe you,’ Teri breathed. ‘You’re on a different planet from the rest of us.’
‘You know he always had the hots for you, Teri. I’m surprised he never made a pass at you.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she said warily.
‘Mind you, I used to think you encouraged it sometimes.’
‘That is grossly unfair—and untrue!’
Clare swept on, oblivious to her protest. ‘Anyway, he’s free now, if you’re interested.’
‘Why should I want your cast-offs?’
‘I seem to remember you rushing off with Stephen Whitely not five minutes after I’d broken his heart.’
‘That was different. He had a groovy Chopper bike and I was fickle then,’ Teri seethed. ‘Some of us have moved on since the playground.’
‘Some of us have, Teri. Some of us have,’ Clare said benevolently. ‘Still, that’s another chapter of my life closed. Onwards and upwards. I’m dating a pilot called Dermot who, thankfully, is neither gay nor married. How are you and Thingy getting on, by the way?’
Teri checked that her mother was out of earshot. ‘Jamie!’ she snapped at Clare before relenting. ‘I think it’s grinding to a slow and painful halt. You can put on your Sister Mary Bernadette voice and say “I told you so”.’
‘Well, I hate to remind you, Teri, but I did tell you so.’ She was right back at The Sacred Heart of Jesus Primary School. ‘If you would only listen to your aunty Clare, you’d save yourself a lot of pain. Remember when Michael Lacey wanted to meet you behind the bike shed and I warned you that he was only after your body?’
‘Clare, I was ten at the time.’
‘And what did you get? Nothing but a quick snog and a—’
‘Yes, thank you, Clare. I remember it very well.’
‘You’ve suffered from cold sores there ever since.’
‘Yes, you’re right! I should have listened to you then.’
‘And you should listen to me now. I’m so much wiser in the ways of the world than you are, Teri. You’re an innocent abroad.’
‘You were calling me a tart and a harlot and a ruthless adulteress last time we spoke.’
‘I was cross because you were making me homeless. After begging me to come and stay with you—’ Teri didn’t actually remember any begging ‘—you then had the cheek to fling me out. Sometimes you can be so perverse.’
‘You’ve spent months luring your husband back from the arms of another woman for the sole purpose of proving what a good thing he was missing—only to throw him out after two weeks—and you have the nerve to call me perverse!’
‘I didn’t phone to argue, Therese.’
Teri laughed. ‘Why did you phone?’
‘I want us to be friends again.’
‘We never stopped being friends.’ Teri sighed. ‘I’m going to have to go, my mother’s here and it sounds as if she’s trying to demolish the kitchen.’
‘Oh, give my love to her. I used to get on well with your mother.’
Teri nodded at the telephone. ‘You have such a lot in common,’ she said sweetly.
‘Phone me,’ Clare said.
‘I will.’
‘Teri,’ Clare shouted, just as she was about to put the phone down.
‘Yes?’
‘Good luck with Jamie.’
‘Thanks.’ She was going to need it. Why did human beings insist on making life unnecessarily complicated for themselves? It would be so much easier if we just simply fell in love with people who loved us back, who didn’t have wives and children and life-threatening mortgages and emotional baggage and hang-ups and roving eyes and wandering hands and uncontrollable urges.
Teri padded back into the kitchen. Her heart was still heavy from seeing Jamie in ‘Toytown’ with his wife and children. It put on a few more pounds when it saw what her mother was doing. Mrs Carter had removed the entire contents of the fridge, had spread them over every available work surface and was busy wiping down the inside with a J Cloth. ‘How’s Clare?’ she asked, without looking up.
‘Oh, she’s…she’s Clare,’ Teri said philosophically.
‘Good,’ her mother replied. ‘That’s nice. I always liked Clare. She’s got so much more about her than you have.’
Teri stuck out her tongue at her mother’s back.
Mrs Carter shook out the J Cloth. ‘I’m going home tomorrow, Therese. You’ll take me to the station, won’t you, dear? You’re looking much better now.’
She started to put the contents back into the fridge, examining them carefully—or as carefully as she could without her glasses—and wrinkling her nose at anything that looked remotely spicy.
‘I think it was that nice young man who came to repair the television, myself.’
‘Really?’ Teri said sardonically.
Her mother ignored her. ‘He seemed to buck you up no end. You know, you should ask him for a date. Take him to a rave or something.’ Mrs Carter wiggled her bottom. ‘That’s the sort of thing young people do these days.’
‘That’s the sort of thing sixteen-year-olds do these days, Mother. I’m over thirty years old.’
‘Then you should have more confidence. You never used to be backwards at coming forwards. These days the world is your oyster.’ She wiped each egg with the J Cloth before putting it back. ‘You’ve got equality. Things have changed since my day. There’s no need for you to sit on the shelf and wait for someone to take you down and give you a good dusting.’
‘Thank you, Mother, I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘By the way, I bought some nice bits and pieces in Marks & Spencer’s food hall. It’s wonderful food, but I don’t know how you can afford to shop in there all the time.’
‘I can’t.’
‘I certainly can’t on my pension. Anyway, you owe me thirty-two pounds and fifteen pence.’
‘What on earth did you buy—gold-plated chicken drumsticks?’
‘I told you. Some nice bits and pieces.’ Her mother lifted the Marks carrier bag onto the work surface and started to pull out the items one by one. ‘I got some smoked salmon. Not my sort of thing really, but I’ll force it down. I’d rather have a nice steak and kidney pudding, but I know you like it. Some rainbow-trout mousse. Some big prawns and some fancy-shaped little biscuit things.’
Teri had gone very pale. ‘You haven’t got any caviar in there, have you?’
‘Don’t be silly! Do you think I’m made of money? I did get some sickly little meringues. Oh, and a bottle of their cheapest champagne. Still, it looks all right.’ Her mother pulled the bottle out of the bag with a flourish. She frowned. ‘What are you looking for, Teri? Is it your purse you’re after?’
‘No,’ Teri said faintly. ‘I suddenly don’t feel very well at all, and this time I’m definitely going to need the plastic bucket.’
/>
Chapter 25
Pamela was going through his suit pockets. It was something that she had managed to avoid doing so far. She had also avoided pressing the last number redial facility on the phone every time he was out of the house, prising open his locked desk drawer and rifling through the contents of his briefcase—now that she had managed to work out his combination. He’d used their anniversary date—not very original, really.
However, this suit did need cleaning, and Jamie had the habit of leaving a pile of business cards secreted in one of his pockets. There was something unavoidably grubby about commuting. She crammed his wardrobe with fragrance sachets—nothing too flowery, woody scents of sandalwood, rosewood and patchouli—to dispel the lingering aura of city grime and diesel fumes. Despite using the dry cleaner’s Gold Service, Jamie’s suits could usually stand up by themselves within days. Collars and cuffs turned black at an alarming rate. Antiperspirants might work well on television adverts showing people running around in the fresh air, but the manufacturers should do a bit of product testing on commuter trains in the summer, when hot air belts out from the heating ducts unabated, and sweaty bodies are squashed together like Swedes in a sauna. Just recently there had been an unseasonal hot spell, and the trains had been delayed all week.
There was a handkerchief in the top pocket of the suit—folded neatly, but decidedly dirty. Pamela pulled it out gingerly, holding it between her immaculate fingernails. It had been washed—but not by her. Whoever had done this didn’t use her brand of detergent. There were faded red stains all over it that were probably lipstick, and when she shook it out to examine it further, a tidy little note fell out.
It was neat handwriting. Neat and girlish. She closed her eyes and tried not to look at it. This was a personal note between Jamie and his lover—she knew she shouldn’t look, but it taunted her and teased her and tempted her to read it. She had found her mother’s diary once—coincidentally, when she was looking for a handkerchief. It was hidden in the back of her underwear drawer, beneath the silky petticoats and sensible-sized knickers, and the lure of it had proved too great. Pamela had read of things she shouldn’t—her mother’s irritation with her father, how they struggled to make ends meet despite the affluent lifestyle they’d adopted and how, although she tried to love her children equally, her mother couldn’t help favouring Pamela’s sister, who reminded her so much of herself. Pamela blew her nose hard on the handkerchief that she eventually found. Returning the diary to its secret place, she closed the drawer quietly, firmly, and she never looked at it again. It was with the same sense of foreboding that she viewed the note she held in her hands. She should tear it into shreds, she knew that. But now that she had seen the tiny, perfect script, she wanted to know what it said. Jamie was downstairs. She listened for his footsteps, but none came. All she could hear was the faint murmur of the television drifting up from below. It was a comedy programme and someone was laughing too loud. She spread the square of paper on her lap and smoothed it out.
Her eyes filled with tears until the writing was blurred and she could read no more. Pamela sat on the bed, the grubby hanky looking up accusingly from the crisp cotton whiteness of the duvet cover. The note spoke of dreams. Shared dreams. Unfulfilled dreams. No protestations of love, no lustful lamentations, no sordid or smutty thoughts. Just sadness and regret—for opportunities missed, chances wasted and plans turned to dust.
Pamela held the note cupped in her hands. She could tear it up, destroy it, obliterate it—but what would that achieve? What was written would still be in her mind, waiting there for the darkest moments to regurgitate itself.
Was this what Jamie had really wanted from life? Had she crushed his ambitions, his goals, his spirit, as easily as she could crumple this note between her fingers? Or had he simply abandoned them to devote himself to family, responsibility, commitments, duty? That didn’t mean his dreams had gone away. Perhaps he felt them more keenly now that he knew they would never be achieved. She felt devastated. Why could he tell his lover about his innermost thoughts and dreams when he had shared nothing of this with her, his own wife?
She needed to see Teri. She needed to know what made her so special. She needed to know why Jamie could share with her things that he had never mentioned to another living soul. Now that Pamela had spoken to Teri, it only made matters worse. Her voice was etched into Pamela’s brain as if it had been scored deeply in cut-glass. Was she dark? Was she blonde? Would Pamela be consumed with jealousy when she saw her, or simply wonder why Jamie had chosen her?
Pamela folded the note, following the previous creased lines carefully, like one does with a road map or a knitting pattern. She went to Jamie’s wardrobe and put it back in the pocket of another suit that hung silently expectant in the wood-scented air.
Jamie was sprawled on the sofa, reading the remains of the Sunday papers and sipping a therapeutic whisky. He had been to see Charlie in the hospital again and had returned home pale and drawn. Pamela sat by his feet. ‘I’m going to come into town with you tomorrow.’
Jamie lowered his paper. ‘Why? You hate going into London.’
‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘What things?’
‘Just stuff.’ She picked up the glossy magazine which he had discarded on the floor. ‘I wouldn’t mind coming into your office,’ she said over-casually. ‘Perhaps we could meet for lunch.’ Her face had coloured and she leaned earnestly over the magazine so that her hair would drape forward and hide it.
‘You’ve never wanted to come to the office before.’
‘Well, perhaps now is a good time to start.’
Jamie put his paper down. They had lit a fire to dispel the chilliness of the evening—a legacy of a clear, cloudless day. The embers cast a golden glow across the room which pooled where Pamela sat and picked out the autumn colours in her hair. Her face was pinched, her cheeks flushed, her pain transparent.
‘I don’t work with her,’ he said.
Pamela started to protest and changed her mind.
Jamie massaged his hairline. ‘I met her on the train.’
‘I need to see her,’ Pamela stated flatly.
‘What good would it do?’
‘None.’
‘Then why?’
‘It’s a woman’s thing. ‘She looked into the fire, and her eyes flickered with the reflected dying flame. ‘Like calories and hormones and stretch marks.’
‘Like masochism.’
She turned to Jamie. ‘If it were me, you’d want to know, wouldn’t you?’
‘I do know!’ Jamie tossed his paper to the floor. ‘And believe me, it doesn’t help one bit.’
Pamela sighed. She should explain about Tom, that it had all been a silly, stupid plot—a pretend revenge affair—and get this whole damned sordid business out into the open. Except that now she didn’t want it all out in the open. She only wanted certain bits out in the open and, when pressed, would she feel the urge to confess?
However hard she tried, her Catholic upbringing would never really go away; there was always the underlying urge to purge the soul of stains of sin and guilt. Would it help or would it hinder? Could she really stand there and play the innocent party when she had courted the danger of temptation all along? And had finally not only succumbed but had actually instigated it? How could she explain to her husband that they both had more than a passing interest in room 405 of The Happy Lodge?
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Jamie sighed. ‘My brain’s about to explode as it is. I can’t stop thinking about Charlie.’ He had swung through the ward doors and had been at Charlie’s bed before his friend had noticed him. The true pain had been shining through there too, before he had put his carefree mask back on. He was bruised, bandaged and bereft.
At this moment, Charlie was a sadder character than Gordy. And that was so sad, it made you want to weep. Jamie had taken some grapes and a Get Well card, and they were the only things Charlie had re
ceived.
‘So—’ Pamela broke into his thoughts ‘—do you mind if I come tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ Jamie said. ‘But you’ll come anyway.’
Pamela hated railway stations—and airports. To her they were the epitome of purgatory. A place of disembodied coming and going—as many people happy and reunited with loved ones as there were devastated ones, cast out and abandoned, starting a life of enforced, eternal separation. These places were always so bleak. Bleak and windy, with the sort of wind that clings to your bones and chills you right down to the marrow. At least at airports there was the tax-free shopping to cheer you up.
Her thoughts turned miserably to Jack and Francesca, whom she had dragged screaming from their beds at an even earlier hour than normal to deposit—still protesting—with a bleary-eyed and infinitely obliging Kathy from next door. She and Jamie would be late home too, and Pamela had asked Kathy to give the children whatever they wanted/demanded for their tea in the vain hope that copious amounts of junk food would buy their forgiveness for indulging in this selfish pilgrimage.
It was drizzling, and at her insistence they were waiting for the train—which was late—in the unpleasant waiting room, a cold glass box made up of windows two-feet wide, banded by garish red aluminium. Three of the windows had no glass in them, and the wind whistled peevishly through the gaps; the jagged edges of the broken glass looked like an evil smile. The floor was strewn with old newspapers and empty burger boxes, and it stank of urine. As soon as she had walked in, Pamela wished they had waited outside in the wind and the rain.
Jamie was subdued. No, morose. He hadn’t tried to dissuade her from coming, but he hadn’t spoken all the way to the station in the car, although he had held her hand as they queued to buy her a ticket. Now he stared out of the windows, peering past the numerous unmentionable substances that were smeared across them. When the commuters on the platform started to shuffle towards their favoured spot, Jamie and Pamela went out to greet the impending arrival of the train.
You could always get a seat so early in the morning. It was something Pamela had learned over countless dinners with friends who also commuted. They talked endlessly about the vagaries of British Rail and now Railtrack, the price of their season tickets and the comparative time they travelled. Their lives were measured by the length of their journeys. If yours was longer, more expensive and more hassled than your colleagues’, you were lauded rather than ridiculed. The British spent longer than any of their European counterparts commuting and, as far as Pamela could tell, that wasn’t something that we should be celebrating.
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