The Girl in His Eyes

by Jennie Ensor

  Suzanne put down the make-up brush and let out a long breath.

  She’d noticed it many times, Laura’s reluctance to engage during family get-togethers. Family get-togethers wasn’t quite the right term – her family didn’t joyously come together as they did in adverts and American films. The kids came to visit more from a sense of obligation, because they didn’t want to let down their mother. This time though, Laura’s uneasiness had been palpable. Her silence during the meal. The way she’d darted away after talking to Paul, and then insisted on leaving virtually immediately … Laura was uncomfortable around her own father.

  She had an instinct to deny the thought. But a deeper part of herself knew it to be true.

  From outside, the lazy growl of a powerful engine. At the squeak of the front gate, she sprayed Chanel No. 5 into her cleavage and reached for the dress.

  Paul stepped towards her, two bunches of red roses outstretched.

  ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘you look stunning. I’m not sure I should let you out in that dress.’

  He went to the fridge and helped himself to a beer, talking non-stop of his day at work. He and his sales team had thrashed out the details of the new incentive scheme to everyone’s satisfaction. Not only that, the managing director had promised Paul and the other directors a five per cent pay rise, unexpectedly generous after the year’s disappointing results.

  They left shortly afterwards. Suzanne climbed into the Porsche that was parked next to her reliable Toyota hatchback. Paul drove too fast as usual, continuing through the first flash of red at the traffic lights and slowing just in time at the roundabout. She looked at him sternly, but did not speak, bracing her left leg against the door, a position she half hoped might afford greater protection in the event of a crash.

  He had taken extra care getting ready, she noticed. He wore his cashmere jacket and black linen shirt; his hair, damp from the shower, was combed back from his forehead. He had the same forties film star look about him that he’d had the night they met – at a dreadful party where she’d known no one except the host. For an interminable time, she’d floundered among a gaggle of self-important people, who all seemed to be either excessively successful entrepreneurs or TV producers, all the time trying to ignore the fact that it was impossible to walk properly because her heels were ridiculously high. The very moment she decided to leave, Paul appeared and said, ‘I’ve come to rescue you. You shouldn’t be miserable, you’re the prettiest girl here.’

  Clouds of white billowed from their mouths as they walked along the icy pavement to Katherine and Jeremy’s house. Jeremy greeted them and asked Paul to show him the new car; Suzanne went inside, alone.

  The hall walls were a deep shade of burgundy. Nothing in Katherine’s house ever looked out of fashion or out of place, as it did at home. She was a good hostess too, introducing the people who needed introducing, remembering what they had in common, and never getting flustered when something burnt or the bottle opener disappeared.

  Suzanne hesitated in the doorway of the spacious living area. It appeared to be stuffed with a significant proportion of Wimbledon’s population. At one end of the room, couples were swaying to a Latin rhythm; Katherine’s daughter was dancing with a young man who didn’t look like her boyfriend. There were familiar faces from previous parties. James, from Jeremy’s bridge club, and Sheila or Shauna, from Katherine’s wine tasting group. And who was that woman with the long nose, a purple boa draped around her neck, chomping down things on cocktail sticks?

  She ventured inside. Katherine emerged from a group of glamorously-dressed women, all talking loudly and at once; newly-cut hair framed her jaw.

  ‘Hello, m’dear.’ Katherine plonked a kiss on Suzanne’s cheek. ‘Love the dress! Let me take that bottle.’ She tugged at her arm. ‘Come with me, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

  Beside the buffet table, Jeremy’s barrister friend was talking to a tall man in a casual shirt and jeans. ‘Excuse me for butting in. Suzanne, meet David. We worked in Melbourne together, yonks ago. David’s an architect. He’s come back to live in England after fifteen years in Chicago.’

  He had silver streaks in his hair and a worn face that dimpled when he smiled.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Suzanne.’

  There was more than politeness in his voice. She felt keenly aware of her breasts, more exposed than usual. Katherine turned away to the barrister, leaving her alone with David.

  ‘So,’ Suzanne said quickly, ‘how are you finding life over here?’

  ‘It’s a refreshing change, to be honest.’ He paused, his grimace just visible before it became a smile. ‘After my marriage ended I needed a change of scene.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I bought this cottage a couple of months ago,’ he went on. ‘It keeps me busy, which is just as well. I spent most of yesterday in the garden trying to decide which plants were weeds.’

  ‘That can be tricky, can’t it? I’m not much of a gardener either. But I love to sit out on the patio when it’s sunny.’

  Glancing towards the mantelpiece, she saw Paul with Jeremy and an older couple she remembered from a previous party. She caught a quick movement of his head away from her.

  ‘Your husband?’

  Suzanne nodded. Paul wouldn’t like her chatting to another man. But she quickly forgot about him as the conversation continued, somehow veering off to ancient Egypt. As David enthused about the Valley of the Kings and how she ought to see it, she warmed to him. She didn’t feel, as she often did at parties, that she ought to justify herself for being a rather ordinary, unaccomplished woman whose children had left home, and who earned an unpredictable income from correcting dull articles in magazines that most people had never heard of. True, she had a degree in English, a passion for classical music, and could play the piano quite well considering her sporadic childhood lessons. But she wasn’t witty or knowledgeable about things in the way some people were – in the way her husband was.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ David gestured to some couples dancing to ‘Blue Suede Shoes’.

  She glanced over to the mantelpiece again. But Paul wasn’t there.

  Before she could protest, David put her into a firm dance hold and propelled her backwards. She tried to keep up with him but her feet couldn’t move as fast as his. He spun her unexpectedly under his arm and she lost her balance. Just in time, he caught her. They tried again, their legs tangling together. She laughed with him, relaxing into the rhythm of the music.

  The song ended. They danced the next one, and the next. While she recovered her breath, David stood apart from her, watching her face.

  ‘It’s about time I was getting home, I’m afraid,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s a long drive back.’

  ‘Goodbye then, David.’ She was disappointed that he was going, and wondered if he could tell. ‘I enjoyed our conversation – and the dancing.’

  ‘Bye, Suzanne. I hope things go well for you.’

  He touched her hand lightly and left the room. For a few moments she felt wistful, then remembered herself with a twinge of guilt. Had Paul noticed them together? And where was he? Usually at the first sign of another man’s interest he’d be over like a shot.

  After checking he wasn’t anywhere in the room, she went to the kitchen. Inside, two middle-aged men, with protruding bellies and receding hairlines, swigged from Heineken bottles and argued about politics. Paul was standing at the far end with a young woman – no, not even that, just a girl. She stood very close to him. Long, glossy hair, reaching towards the curve of her back. Her skirt was ultra-short, exposing very long, lightly muscled legs. Sheer tights, little make-up. A trace of concealed acne on her chin. She could be no older than fourteen or fifteen.

  Suzanne took a few steps towards them. Neither had noticed her. The girl carried on talking, eagerly, in a low voice. Paul was listening intently. Then the girl rolled up her sleeve and moved a white arm towards him. He inspected something there and touched the flesh, entrance
d.

  The girl saw Suzanne first, and stared back, boldly.

  ‘Hello, darling, have you met Lindy?’

  Paul’s eyes were too bright, his voice too loud. He said something else but she couldn’t hear it. The girl waved a hand at Paul and loped away.

  ‘What were you doing with that girl?’

  ‘She was only showing me her tattoo.’ He drank the rest of his wine. ‘What’s the harm in that?’

  At that moment, the barrister came in and began to rummage in the fridge.

  ‘Let’s go back and join the party,’ Paul said.

  Suzanne followed him, unsure what to say. She felt unsettled. His expression had been so … intense. But he hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?

  They rejoined the crowd and were propelled into one conversation after another. As usual at parties, Paul was gregarious, energised by the crowd. After the New Year toasts, he asked her to dance. They danced very well together, she knew. Whatever the dance – rock ’n’ roll, salsa – he was always nimble, sensing her next movement.

  They left the party soon after 1am. Paul accepted her offer to drive home. She turned the key in the ignition. Instead of reversing, the Porsche shot forward. She swore, braking hard to stop the car from slamming into the one in front. The thing was impossible to drive at the best of times.

  ‘Look out! You nearly hit that car.’ Paul’s face was scrunched tight with anger. ‘Do you have to be so damn careless?’

  ‘If you didn’t have to drink so much, you’d be able to drive the bloody thing yourself!’

  ‘I drink too much, do I?’

  ‘You know you do. It always makes you bad tempered and miserable.’ The small amount of alcohol she’d drunk had loosened her tongue too. ‘And, by the way, who was that schoolgirl you were talking to? You were lapping up her every word.’

  ‘I think you’ve got it the wrong way round.’ His voice was scornful. ‘I was wondering when you’d finally extricate yourself from your new friend.’

  ‘His name’s David,’ she hissed, finally putting the gear into reverse. ‘Katherine introduced us.’

  ‘When I saw you two, he practically had his dick out – and you were enjoying it.’

  Relief flowed through her. Paul had been jealous, that’s all.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Suzanne,’ he went on in a conciliatory tone. ‘She’s just a kid, for Christ’s sake – she’s studying for her GCSEs. Do you seriously think I could be interested in a fifteen-year-old?’

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. She wondered why she had reacted so strongly to that girl.

  Suzanne gave the fruit bowl a final flick with the feather duster and turned to the framed photographs on the sideboard.

  The first one was her as a child, aged three or four, on her father’s knee. Bright sunlight making her hair blonde, her face split by the hugest smile. Her father’s hand on her shoulder, his face bearded and weathered by the many afternoons he’d spent sailing, the tip of his nose red. His expression was serious yet happy – and proud, too. In the next, her brother, Richard, was surrounded by friends, holding up a pint glass and laughing. Untidy curls skimmed the collar of his shirt – one of those gaudy, fashionless shirts he loved. It was in the Lamb & Flag on his fortieth birthday, four years before he died.

  At the third photograph, she lowered the duster.

  Herself and Paul on their wedding day. His unwavering gaze into the camera contrasted with the teary brightness of her eyes and her generous smile, a trace of shyness lingering. She was so young then, much younger than her twenty-five years. You could see it in her face – the face of a girl so hopeful for her future and so inexperienced in the ways of men.

  Everyone had been surprised at the news they were to be married. Especially Irene.

  ‘You’ve only known him for five months,’ her sister had said, gravely, as if she thought Paul might be a spy or a bank robber. ‘Why don’t you wait until you know him better?’

  She hadn’t waited though, had jumped straight in. Had their marriage been a mistake? Paul hadn’t wanted to have children nearly as much as she had. Being a father often seemed more of a burden than a delight. And his moods hadn’t got any better over the years.

  He’d come home from work, scowling, and scurry to his armchair to watch TV, or into his office to sit at his computer. She’d be taken to task for leaving creases in his shirt, or one of any number of things he might find fault with. Every now and then he’d say horrible things to her; afterwards he’d tell her he was sorry, he hadn’t meant it. His words would burrow under her skin though. She imagined them slowly dissolving her, like acid eating into metal. She was too soft, that was the trouble. Yet, after a big sale, or some good news at work, he’d be bursting with boyish enthusiasm, and he’d become the affectionate, undaunted man she used to know. The man who gently teased her, who would come up to her in the kitchen and give her a hug. ‘You’re my woman, Suze,’ he’d say. ‘I love you.’

  An ache lodged in her throat. Why was he like this? Whenever she tried to comfort him, or offer support, he would pull away, shutting her out. Something seemed to be gnawing away at him, something he couldn’t share with her.

  An image of the girl at the party came into her mind – she could see again the whiteness of her arms, and her animated, unlined face. And Paul, clinging to her arm, unable to take his eyes off her.

  She dabbed the duster clumsily at the photograph. It fell over with a clatter. She set it right, gritted her teeth, and fiercely buffed the sideboard until a grainy reflection of her face appeared in the oak. From the corner of her eye, she saw something dark move away from the sofa. A spider, bulbous and hairy, the size of a plum, heading straight for her. She flung the duster at it but missed by a foot. She grabbed the thick Collins dictionary on the coffee table, waited for the thing to reach her, and walloped down the book. Pressing her foot down on the book, she imagined the mangled body beneath. The horror of it prickled in her scalp.

  Suzanne made a cup of strong tea and took it onto the patio. She loved this garden. A path cut through the lawn, leading to a cluster of fruit trees and a vegetable plot. Rhododendrons blazed purple in spring and later there were blood-red roses. The trees and shrubs were bare now though, except for a single yellow leaf clinging from a twig, flapping furiously in every movement of air.

  She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on each breath. Mindfulness, they called it at the meditation group. It was a good way to let go of stress, everyone said, only she hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet. Thinking about her breathing tended to make her feel less relaxed. Besides, household tasks she had forgotten to do and all manner of things always intervened – and cats.

  ‘Eeeeaaaow.’

  Marmaduke pushed his body against her leg. She stroked him then got up and walked to the other side of the garden. At the rockery, patches of weeds filled the gaps where stones had fallen. The pond was covered with dead leaves. There had been goldfish, once. She stared into the murky depths. What was the matter with her today? Perhaps it was just this time of year.

  No, it wasn’t that. It was Paul.

  He’d changed. When they first met he’d been affectionate, attentive, adoring. But now … It was hard to pinpoint exactly when it had started. There were countless little things, each with its own rhythm. Some seemed to ebb and flow like the phases of the moon, others seemed to change imperceptibly, like yellowing paper.

  His kisses, for one. Instead of a kiss on the lips when he came in, he’d go past her to get a beer from the fridge. He’d come home tired and withdrawn, not wanting to talk to or touch her. They only kissed when they were making up, or during sex. That too had changed. These days it was more like an over-familiar ritual than an expression of love, let alone desire.

  Could he be seeing another woman? He had always denied it. He said he was tired out from work, and he had no interest in anyone else. He would only ever love her.

  A brown leaf jiggled in the pond
. Suzanne stepped closer. She could make out dark shapes among the reeds that didn’t look like fish. She rubbed her arms.

  No, she’d know if there was another woman. She was in a gloomy mood, that was all. Maybe things were getting better. This new interest in swimming coaching – perhaps it was a good sign. Paul needed something to take his mind off work. She’d said enough times that it was taking over his life.

  Suzanne turned away from the pond and walked towards the house.

  No one had a perfect relationship, did they? No marriage stayed the same for twenty-five years. They’d both changed. Before they were married, Paul said he loved her for being feminine – unlike other women who needed to prove how tough and clever they were. And hadn’t she been drawn to his ambition, his confidence, his unrelenting alpha-maleness?

  Only she wasn’t a young woman any longer. Now, instead of giving in, she would stand up to him when they argued. She had joined a meditation group, in addition to her yoga class, despite him telling her she was taking on too much, and she’d stopped cleaning the house twice a week just because he liked it spotless.

  Did he prefer her as she used to be? He’d never said it. But so many things were locked away inside him, unknowable.

  Shortly after 7pm, Suzanne took out the rack of clean cutlery from the dishwasher. Paul shouldn’t be much longer, she thought for the third or fourth time. He hadn’t said he would be late. She put the final fork away, closed the drawer and went into the living room, giving a wide berth to the dictionary still on the floor. She switched on the television and flicked through the channels. Soaps, a documentary about welfare cheats, another on the mating habits of foxes. She switched it off, moving quickly away from the mirror above the mantelpiece. She didn’t need to be reminded of the crows’ feet gathering at her eyes, or her eyelids that were beginning to droop.