Olivia’s Luck (2000)

by Catherine Alliot

  Later, when Molly reappeared from her interview, she stalked straight past me in the car park.

  “I don’t know how you could have done that, Liwy,” she muttered, making for her car and putting her key in the lock.

  “Done what?” I followed her.

  “Prattled away like that about Johnny. It’s so – so demeaning! God, I thought you were going to offer to make their bed! Dig their garden for them, pop out for some more hayfever pills – or condoms!”

  “I want her to think I don’t care,” I said slowly.

  “But she knows that’s not true!” She rounded on me fiercely. “She knows it’s an act – don’t you see? You’re making a fool of yourself! I mean, fine, I agree with your mother, you don’t have to spit in her eye or get her sacked, but you don’t have to pretend she’s your new best friend either!”

  “Oh, so what do you suggest I do, avoid her? Go out of my way not to go near her, so everyone thinks – poor Olivia, she can’t bear it?”

  “No, but you don’t have to go the other way! You don’t have to offer to bring bouncy bedding in for them! What about a bit of silent dignity?”

  I stared at her. Started to blink. “It helps,” I said shortly. “It helps me to know how he is.” A lump came to my throat. “The thing is…I sort of pretend…that she’s just a friend of his. Our mutual friend.”

  She stared. “Oh, Liwy!” She flung her arms around me and hugged me hard. I stood like a stone. Gulped.

  “I’m in trouble here, aren’t I, Moll?”

  She drew back and put her hands on my shoulders. “Maybe you should see someone,” she said gently. “A counsellor or something, I don’t know. And maybe you could go together? Would he come?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t want to. Too real somehow, too painful. What – raking through our lovely marriage with a perfect stranger? He’ll come back, Molly, you’ll see. It’s just a phase.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m worried about you, Liv.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  She took my hand. “So’s Imo. She wants to know if he’s mentioned divorce.”

  “Divorce!” I gave a cracked laugh. “Don’t be silly, we’re not that far gone! No, no, we’re – well, we’re not even officially separated. Just estranged. We don’t want a divorce.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “Of course not!” I said, stricken. “Why would I want to force the issue?”

  “So that you’d know. So that you’d be in the driving seat for once. I kind of feel that you’ve gone backwards these last few weeks. Your first reaction was downright bloody fury, and rightly so – how dare he? Let’s get the bitch sacked immediately – and now you’re much more…” she hesitated.

  “Pathetic?”

  “Accepting of the situation.”

  “Deluding myself it’ll be all right? Some day?”

  “Well, yes, and you could be helping yourself, Liwy!”

  “How!” I wailed.

  “By grasping the nettle a bit more, turning the tables, confronting him. When did you last talk to him?”

  I shrugged. “When he last picked Claudia up. Two seconds at the front door. When he rings I pass her straight over to him.”

  “But what do you do about practical matters – finances, the house, school fees, paying the builders? How d’you sort all that out?”

  I shrugged again. “I just do. We’ve always had a joint account. I just pay the necessary out of that as usual. It hasn’t come up.”

  She sighed. “It’s as if none of this is happening, isn’t it? As if you’re in denial, no decisions to be made, and meanwhile you carry on renovating that bloody house. I mean, have you talked about that? About whether you should stop? Sell it?”

  “Of course not, Molly!” I said aghast. “God, it’s – it’s our dream, our project! We wouldn’t sell it. We love it!”

  Molly sighed, rubbed her forehead. She shook her head sadly as she started to get in her car.

  “But don’t you see, Moll,” I urged, leaning into her open door, “he’s not doing anything either! I’m just following his lead! If he doesn’t want any major decisions to be made, why should I force his hand? He doesn’t want to rock the boat, does he? Otherwise he’d be saying, ‘Come on, let’s sell’ or, ‘Sign this decree nisi, Liwy’ – but he’s not, so that must mean he’s coming back!”

  “Or it could mean,” she said darkly, “that he’s a complete and utter coward and can’t face telling you, can’t face the truth. It’s as if you’re both putting your lives on hold, warding off reality.”

  “There’s only so much reality a person can take,” I said sadly as I shut her car door. “Maybe he’s had his fill of it too.”

  As I drove home I was ambushed by tears. They fled down my face in torrents, and whilst one hand whipped them away like a hysterical windscreen wiper, the other gripped the steering wheel hard. “Oh God, you complete and utter bastard,” I muttered to the dashboard, “look what you’ve done to me.”

  When I’d recovered some equilibrium I stopped off at Waitrose. I wanted to feel normal again, like a normal housewife cruising those aisles, shopping for her family. Cheese, I thought decisively, striding in, proper smelly cheese – I haven’t had that for weeks. But when I got to the cheese counter I realised I didn’t know what to buy. Parmesan, Johnny always had to have, in a huge chunk, and Roquefort too, but now – 1 didn’t know. Didn’t know what I liked. I suddenly felt panicky as I stood there clutching my numbered ticket, the girl behind the counter in her white hat and apron raising her eyebrows patiently. I dropped my basket and fled from the shop. Out in the car park, as I tried to open the car door, I realised my hands were shaking like crazy. I touched my forehead. God, perhaps I did need something. Perhaps Vi was right, Prozac maybe. I took great gulps of fresh air instead and, after a minute, got back in the car and drove home.

  As I drew up to the house I realised there was a car in my usual parking place. I knew this car, this blue BMW. I drew up behind it and sat for a moment. Well, it had to happen, but right now, on what could not, in all honesty, be classed as a good day, it was all I needed.

  After a moment I got out and walked past it, noticing a huge dent in the front wing. That looked nasty. I trailed round to the back door to give myself a moment to compose myself before I went to the sitting room where I was sure she’d be but, as I turned the corner, I realised my mistake. It was a beautiful day and, of course, the party was taking place in the garden. Down by the stream, under the spreading cedar tree, draped in various positions about my white, wrought-iron garden furniture, my builders were At Home.

  Alf was standing pouring tea from a china pot, Spiro sat cross-legged on the grass, Mac relaxed in a deck chair and Lance was mixing what appeared to be a large gin and tonic. Sitting centre stage, looking radiant in a crisp white shirt and brown linen trousers, her copper-coloured hair shining in the sun, was Angie. I smiled in spite of myself. Wherever Angie went, people flocked around. Not that my builders needed much excuse to flock.

  “Liwy!” she called to me, raising her hand in a wave, just as if nothing had happened. As if her son hadn’t left me. As if she’d seen me since. I bit my lip and walked towards her, down the gravel path edged with lavender bushes, under the rose arbour, stooping, as I reached her, to kiss her cheek.

  “Angie, it’s lovely to see you.” I suddenly meant it; felt almost choked at the sight of her.

  “Darling, forgive me for not getting up but look what I’ve done to my stupid foot! Too maddening.”

  I glanced down and noticed her shoe was off and that her foot was badly swollen. Spiro – whom I seemed to remember attending to my own feet very recently – was lifting it gently and wrapping a wet towel around it.

  “Should be in hospital,” he muttered grimly. “I say so, but no one listen.”

  “Some lunatic pranged into me just as I was coming round your corner – didn’t even stop!”

  “Oh Angie, how awful. I
saw your car but didn’t realise you’d just done it!” I dropped down on the grass beside her. “Are you OK?”

  “No, she not,” growled Spiro.

  “I’m absolutely fine, and this dear boy is doing wonders. I just banged my foot on the pedals, that’s all. In fact all these boys have been absolute sweethearts. Thank you, Lance.” She looked up and took her gin with a smile.

  “I just thought something stronger than tea might do the trick,” he explained. “Angie directed me to your drinks cupboard. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “This is my second one,” she admitted with a wink. “But the boys are on tea.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” Heavens, it had certainly all been very matey here, hadn’t it? First-name terms and buckets of gin.

  Angie swirled the ice around in her glass and giggled. “I was just telling Lance here about that time when you and I flew to Paris for a shopping weekend, remember? And that woman beside us on the plane said to the steward in a very imperious tone, “I’d like a G & T, please. That’s a gin and tonic to you.” And he retorted, “Ice an’ a slice, madam? That’s a bit of frozen water and piece of citrus fruit to you.” Her face! D’you you remember, Liwy? God, how we laughed!”

  “I do,” I smiled, remembering.

  “Oh – and Lance has been showing me all his marvellous bits and pieces!”

  I boggled. “Has he?”

  “Yes, didn’t you know? He makes coffee tables, chess boards – all kinds of things, and all with the most marvellous inlay and marquetry – terribly talented. Has he not shown you his portfolio?”

  “I only arrived the other day,” explained Lance quickly, looking slightly embarrassed, as well he might. Yes, he’d only arrived the other day and so far I’d seen him do little more than eat my cornflakes, drink my tea and mix my gin.

  “There hasn’t really been time, has there, Lance?” I said smoothly, but Angie caught my tone. She looked around.

  “Well, boys, now that Mrs McFarllen’s back, I’m sure I’m going to be absolutely fine,” she said, beaming. “Thank you all, so much.” Despite her charm, there was no disputing the fact that this was a directive for them to leave. Even Mac, who’d been falling asleep in his chair, got to his feet, yawning widely, and as was his wont, scratched his balls. “Come on, lads, back to work,” he muttered. “Let’s leave these ladies to their tinctures.”

  “Oh, Liwy darling, you haven’t got one,” said Angie. “Lance, would you – ”

  “Sure.” He turned to go but I stopped him.

  “Thank you, Lance, but I’ll stick to tea. I’d be grateful if you’d take a look at the waste pipe under the scullery sink, though.” I eyed him beadily. “I think it’s sprung a leak.”

  Let’s get things straight around here, I thought as he wandered off, hopefully put in his place.

  “Nice boy,” murmured Angie, to his departing backside. “Reminds me of David Gower. And, as I say, very talented. More of a cabinet-maker than a chippy. Strange to think he’s the fruit of his father’s loins.”

  “Strange to think anyone would consider utilising Mac’s loins in the first place,” I muttered irritably, getting up from the grass and sinking into his vacated chair. Why the hell were we talking about Mac? Intuitively, Angie stretched out and squeezed my hand.

  “How are you, my dear?”

  I delved into my bag for my sunglasses and put them on quickly. “Pretty good, normally, but for some reason I’m having a bit of a bad day today.”

  Spiro put his head around the French windows. “Lance found a very big leak!” he announced importantly. “It’s all gone slippy-sloppy up your back passage.”

  Angie snorted with laughter. “Heavens – what a ghastly thought!”

  “Shall I mop it up?” he went on.

  I sighed. “I’ll come, Spiro.”

  “No, let him.” Angie put a restraining hand on my arm. “Yes, please, Spiro!” she called. “And tell Lance we’ve changed our minds, we’ll have that other gin and tonic after all!” She dropped her voice. “You look like you need it, Liwy, and we might as well make use of the extra hands about the place.”

  “Yes, except that I seem to be paying fifteen quid an hour for the privilege.” I blinked behind the shades. “Feel I’m losing control a bit here actually, Angie. Feel I’ll come home one day to find they’ve done the washing up, cooked my supper, and that one of them’s tucked up in my bed or something.”

  “Well, just so long as it’s not that one,” she muttered as Alf, bending to pick up some bricks, gave us the classic builder’s behind. We giggled, but then a silence ensued. I waited for her to speak, not trusting my voice.

  “The garden looks lovely,” she said conversationally, sipping her gin, but not looking at me. “You’ve made a super job of those borders, which, let’s face it, were rather dull and conventional. I love the way you’ve contrasted those mauve campanulas with the Boule de Neige. It works beautifully with the Alchemilla mollis at the front and the dark foliage behind.”

  “It’s my refuge,” I said quietly. “I’ve lost interest in the house, but this is where I get rid of all my angst. Blow out my passion.”

  She nodded. “I remember when Oliver died, I had this strange compulsion to have my hands in the soil at all times – remember? Sometimes I’d find myself out there in the middle of the night, pulling away at the weeds. It made me feel closer to him, somehow. At first I thought it was because we’d buried him, so there I was in the dirt with him, earth to earth, as it were, but now I think it had something to do with control. Which you mentioned earlier. Controlling nature when I hadn’t been able to control someone else’s. Hadn’t controlled Oliver.”

  Another silence broke over us. Suddenly I could bear it no longer.

  “Have you seen him?” I blurted out.

  “I have.”

  “So – he’s told you?”

  “He has. A couple of weeks ago.”

  A couple of weeks ago. But she hadn’t come to see me.

  “I didn’t want to intrude, Liwy,” she said gently. “Hoped you’d come to me.”

  “Well, I – just wanted to be on my own for a bit. You know.”

  “I understand.” She patted my hand.

  “Did you…meet her?” I managed.

  “Yes.”

  God. Already. “Where?”

  “Johnny and I met for lunch. She just came for a drink first.”

  “And so…what did you think?” Vocalising it was awful.

  She turned to face me fully for the first time. “Well, if I was being kind I’d say she was a sweet little thing, but as you and I both know – since it appears that by some horrific coincidence she teaches at Claudia’s school – that’s generous. She’s tres ordinaire. What the devil’s he up to, Liwy? I expected Claudia Schiffer at the very least but, good heavens, that bosomy little nobody – and to leave you for her!”

  I sighed. “I know. Defies belief, doesn’t it? And there was I thinking you might be able to shed some light on it, tell me he’d always had a penchant for plain, buxom women.”

  “The only light I can shed is the little I gleaned when she left the restaurant – which she tactfully did when she’d had a drink.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it seems…” she hesitated, “it seems he’d been rather unhappy.”

  I jumped. “Here? Did he say I’d made him unhappy?”

  She shifted in her chair, looked uncomfortable. “Not in so many words, my darling, but – ”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, he said…said he was tired of you always trying to please him.”

  I stared at her. “What?”

  “Said it bothered him that you had no life of your own. That everything you did revolved around him, that he wished you’d do something for yourself.”

  “He said what?”

  “Apparently you were always running around after him, fixing up treats, weekends away, with his friends, not yours. Accommodating him.”

&nb
sp; “But – but I thought he liked that! Jesus, he’d go into a steep decline if I didn’t do all that, and that made my life unbearable! I had to think of things to do! Christ, and I bust a gut doing it!”

  She sighed. “I know. There’s just no pleasing some people. I’m not judging, Liwy, just reporting back.”

  “Jesus!” I slumped back in my chair in disbelief, eyes wide, staring. “Hang on, let me get this straight. I made him unhappy by being too nice to him? Is that it?”

  She leant forward. “Think about it, Liwy,” she urged. “What sort of people are we attracted to? Not ones who hover around us solicitously, but ones who impress us, ones who make things happen!”

  “And what does she do that’s so bloody impressive!”

  “Oh, apparently she does all sorts. Ran the marathon a couple of years ago – God knows how, with that bust – wants to swim the channel one day apparently, does a lot of deep-sea diving. Oh – and they go off on mountain bikes together. She bungee jumps too, if you’re interested.”

  I stared at her incredulously. “Bike rides and bungee…Angie, are you telling me he gave up on our marriage because I wouldn’t fix a bit of elastic to my back and jump off the Tamar Bridge?”

  “No, I’m not saying that,” she said patiently, “but what I am saying is that maybe, subconsciously, you’ve put your life on hold because of him. Because of that huge personality of his – and, believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I had it with Oliver too, and how. In that grand racing world I could quite easily have slipped under the quicksand of money and glamour and beautiful women, but I made a conscious decision early on that I wouldn’t just be Oliver McFarllen’s wife, that I’d go my own way. And I always did. He ran around me.”

  I thought back. It was true. She’d always been elusive, never at his beck and call, and he was always anxious about her. Striding in from the stables – “Is Angie OK? Has she got enough help in the kitchen? Are you girls lending a hand? How about someone laying the table. I don’t want her tired, we’re going out tonight.” No, Johnny had never been like that. But then I’d never been like Angie. God, only a few months ago I’d turned down a job at the Chelsea Physic Garden, thinking it would clash with the building works, with family life.