Strangers in a Garden

by Deanna Maclaren

  Laura sat on the beach with the Daily Express and read what Diddley had told them about Hugo and her.

  ‘When the lift doors opened in that hotel, and there was Hugo saying he’d been trying out the gym, well at first sight everything seemed normal enough, Jean, but then I thought, but he hasn’t got his sports bag with him, and anyway, there’s a perfectly good gym at the House. Anyway, after Hugo had gone I thought I’d just go and check and I found the gym was closed.

  ‘It was a horrible moment, Jean. I still didn’t want to believe it. Hugo and I have been married twenty five years and I’ve always trusted him. No, I didn’t want to confront him, not till I’d established things one way or the other.’

  The way Diddley Om established things was to follow Hugo on successive Wednesdays. Laura got the feeling she rather relished the chase.

  ‘I disguised myself. It was easy. Like most men, Hugo never looks at anyone who’s drably middle aged. Of course, I accept I am middle aged, Jean. I know how I look on a bad day! But I’ve always made an effort to keep up appearances for Hugo. So when I was in my disguise, all I had to do was wear dreary clothes and let my face sag.’

  She tailed Hugo to the restaurant. Saw him with Laura. Saw them leave, as usual, separately.

  ‘I wanted to catch them red handed but I had to leave it a few weeks because my father was ill and I had to go and look after him.’

  Thank heavens for that, Laura thought, watching the Littlehampton tide coming in. If she’d stormed the barricades during those intervening weeks she really would have got an eyeful.

  ‘Then when I came back realised I would have to confront him and he let slip that the slut’s name was Laura. I remembered, there was a Laura James who sent in reports to one of Hugo’s committees. Of course, Laura’s a common name so it was a long-shot on my part, but Hugo caved in immediately.’

  Laura read day two of the interview in a workmen’s café that served all-day breakfasts. At first she felt conspicuous. Then she winced at her vanity. No one was reading the Express, although they were looking at a picture of Hugo in the Mirror. It was the devoted-family-man shot taken with Diddley on the day he won the pools.

  ‘He may have cheated on his wife but at least he didn’t rat on his mates,’ was the quote from a young city banker called Jeremy. Pin-striped Jeremy had been in a syndicate with two colleagues and they had shared the million pound payout with Hugo. At least, the two colleagues had shared the money. Jeremy had got nothing because, the other two alleged, he’d omitted to give them the two shillings for his stake.

  ‘It’s outrageous,’ blustered porky Jeremy in the paper. ‘We’ve had our syndicate going for years. Every week we take it in turns to fill in the coupon. When it’s been my turn, I never bellyached if the others didn’t hand over their dosh in time. I mean, two bob for heaven’s sake!’

  The guys in the caff were hooting with laughter. ‘Two bob each a week! Well, can’t be much over once you’ve filled up the Rolls.’

  ‘Wouldn’t happen round here.’

  ‘Too right. Some jerk treated me like that I’d break his fucking legs.’

  Fortified with bacon, sausage, egg, tomato and fried bread, Laura turned to the double page spread showing pics of Hugo and Diddley on their wedding day, Hugo and Diddley on the day he was first elected to parliament, and a shot of Laura kneeling, naked, on Tom’s floor.

  She groaned. That bloody Mikey, she realised. The one who’d slouched with his hands in his pockets while Tom was getting married. He must have found the pics and decided to make himself a few bob.

  The article was headlined, WHY I’M SPEAKING OUT by Dinah Monteith.

  ‘When I collared Hugo, he was very calm, very courteous, very understanding of my feelings. We talked long into the night. He apologised for the affair. He was gentlemany enough to say it was all his fault, a complete error of judgement, that he had pursued her, but of course I knew she’d set her cap at him right from the start.

  ‘Hugo was abject. He swore I meant everything in the world to him, he swore he would never stray again. I said how are we going to hush this up, that woman’s bound to go to the papers. He said he didn’t think she would, but if the worst came to the worst, would I stand by him?

  ‘My first instinct was to say of course I would. It’s what politician’s wives do, isn’t it? Smiley pictures on the doorstep, his arm protectively around me at the garden gate. The golden rule, no comment, no comment, no comment. I’ve seen so many parliamentary wives go through this. I knew what hell it was for them, beaming away for the cameras and sobbing their hearts out in the kitchen.

  ‘And you know what? I’ve also seen how many times it was all for nothing. Because six months later, when the fuss had died down and the cameras were pointed at someone else, the husband strayed again. They love the risk, you see. And the tarts they take up with love the power.

  ‘And I thought NO. It’s got to stop. Someone’s got to make a stand. I want everyone to know the hurt and grief I’m suffering. I want these women to know what the consequences are to a wife when they steal away our husbands.

  ‘And I’m warning you, Laura James. This time, you picked the wrong husband and the wrong wife. I’m not some little mousewife sitting obedient and quiet in a corner. I’m a strong woman. I love my husband and I intend to keep him. Go and find your own man, Miss James. If you can.’

  ‘It’s nearly twenty to two!’

  ‘Calm down, Penny.’ In his Norfolk kitchen, Richard waved the gin bottle in Laura’s direction. Admirably, Laura shook her head.

  On her return from Littlehampton, she found that the James family team had swung into action. Penny was packing Kay’s clothes, and Richard was pacing the floor. Kay was to be taken to a nursing home recommended by the president of Penny’s local Women’s Institute.

  ‘You’d better get your stuff together and come back to Norfolk with us,’ Richard told Laura.

  Hardly the invitation of the year, Laura thought now, as Penny knocked back her half-glass of white wine.

  ‘I hate people being late. It’s so unfair. You sit around for ages, waiting, waiting and then they come dancing in, so sorry I’m late everybody, so sorry and all eyes are on them and they’re the centre of attention –‘

  Laura gave in and helped herself to another gin. Richard said, ‘It does seem odd your father not getting here on time.’

  ‘That’s the point! If we were ever late as children he’d be at the gate in a cloud of blue smoke.’

  ‘I’d better check the traffic reports. Just in case.’ Richard snapped on the radio.

  Diddley’s by now familiar voice oozed into the kitchen. ‘The point is Carol, that Hugo is a good man, a Christian man who has been led astray by this evil woman.’

  ‘That’s unfair!’ Penny shouted at the radio.’Laura’s a single woman. A free agent. Hugo’s married and an MP. He started it. He was the one who led Laura –’

  ‘I wasn’t led anywhere –’ Laura interrupted. ‘ I’m not a victim. I chose him too.’

  ‘That’s no reason for them to persecute you. I won’t have it!’

  ‘At church this morning, Hugo and I knelt together and I prayed –‘

  ‘For Christ’s sake turn that blasted woman off.’ It was Peter, Penny’s father, small and spry, bustling through the door followed by Janet miming God, what a journey we’ve had.

  ‘Horrific traffic. We tried two phone boxes but they were busted. Then when we got here I nearly ran down a bunch of photographers at the gate. ‘

  Laura had seen them from the kitchen window, banging on the roof of Peter’s Vauxhall, pulling on the doorhandles. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see the worst of them – Rex Salter – swarming up the exhaust. Except it would have ruffled his matinee idol hair.

  Peter accepted a beer from Richard. Janet had her customary port and lemon. Penny handed Richard the carving knife, but Peter said, ‘I think it would be best if we gave the photographers a picture. Then they might clear off
.’

  Peter felt qualified to pontificate on all media issues, because years ago he had ‘squired’ as he put it, a girl who worked in the competitions department of a national newspaper.

  Penny slammed the lamb back into the oven. Janet, lipstick in hand, dashed for the loo.

  Peter marshalled them all in the hall. Laura said to him, quietly, ‘Sorry about all this, Peter.’

  He shrugged. ‘Must stick together. And I must say, I’m damn sick of that Monteith woman. All over the papers, blethering away every time you turn on the box.’

  ‘Come on’, Richard said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  They walked down the drive to the big gates set in the high wall. They all said good afternoon politely to the cluster of photographers and reporters but apart from that they were under strict orders from Peter to say not another word. It seemed unnatural to Laura, going for a walk with your family and not saying anything, but as Peter said, reporters these days were trained to lip read or they had advanced mikes that could pick up sound over long distances.

  ‘All you’ve got to say is, what sweet little ducks in the pond and it’ll be all over the papers tomorrow that you’re feeling broody and could you be carrying Monteith’s love child,’ Peter warned.

  They walked arm in arm to the village duck pond. They fed bread to the ducks. They walked arm in arm back. No one said anything, and at the house gates, Richard posed with his arm around Laura.

  After lunch, Janet helped Penny clear up and they made it clear it would be a good idea if Laura made herself scarce for ‘a little rest.’

  ‘I’ve put you in the girls’ room just for the moment,’ Penny said, ‘but next week I’ll clear out the spare room and make it nice for you. You must look on this as your home now, Laura, for as long as you like.’

  Laura lay in the girls’ room surrounded by rosettes and pictures of ponies. She lay sunk in ungrateful gloom. It was kind of Penny and Richard to offer her a home – she had made it clear she had no intention of going back to the Wye valley – but Norfolk was not going to work. They had four bedrooms. The girls, already, were agitating for a room each. John-John was growing up fast and would need space for his train set. And Peter and Janet were frequent visitors.

  But it wasn’t just a matter of who slept where. It was more a question of how long it was reasonable to expect family solidarity to hold up. Laura found Peter and Janet irritating, Penny unworldly and Richard increasingly inclined to their father’s pomposity, until Laura teased him out of it. But they were family and she felt at home with their faults as they did with hers – for a time. A finite time.

  They had closed ranks admirably over Hugo, but inevitably the conflicting demands of their lives would put that solidarity under strain. Instead of feeling noble about supporting wayward Laura, they would start to feel put upon and resentful.

  Laura stretched in the warm bed. She should make plans. She knew she should make plans.

  Over the sound of the men snoring in the sitting room, she heard Penny running upstairs to help her mother unpack. In the bedroom across the landing, they adopted the solicitous murmur of relatives outside a sick-room.

  ‘So unfortunate. Has she ever trained for anything?’

  Laura imagined Penny looking smug. Penny had gone to art college and then did a year in teacher training.

  ‘I think in Glasgow she worked in a shop.’

  ‘Darling, it’s going to be desperately inconvenient for you. And you have to consider the children. What will you tell them when they get home?’

  ‘I’m going to say Aunty Laura has done something very silly and fallen in love with someone very unsuitable. I’ll say we all do silly things at times and we must be very kind because Aunty Laura is very unhappy.’

  Aunty Laura was regretting not bringing a hip flask.

  ‘Tell you what, rope her in to help with the catering for the bonfire night supper. Make her feel involved in the community. I know Norfolk people are very tight emotionally, take a long time to be friendly, but I’m sure the WI would rally round. Have a quiet word with Mrs Percival. She’s the new president, isn’t she? I’m sure she’d take a Christian view…’

  Don’t be so churlish, Laura lectured herself. It wouldn’t be so bad. They meant well, all of them. She thought of long walks, fish and chips by the sea, crumpets for tea and curling up by the fire with a good book. She was sleepy, feeling safe in her brother’s house. And this business with Hugo. It would all blow over.

  It didn’t blow over. It blew up.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘What the devil’s going on?’

  Peter’s voice was like a klaxon above the clamour of the phone and baying reporters sounding as if they’d got hold of a loud hailer. Still drugged with sleep, Laura hauled herself to the window. In the gathering dusk of the autumn afternoon, the road outside the big front gates was bright with camera lights, and teeming with shouting reporters.

  The phone was ringing. Someone picked it up. Slammed it down. It started to ring again.

  ‘They’re coming over the wall!’ Janet shrieked.

  Laura heard Richard: ‘Do not answer the door. Do not answer the phone. Leave this to me.’

  She heard him take the stairs two at a time. He blasted into the bedroom.

  ‘Laura! What the hell is going on? Do you know?’

  Oh, she knew all right. She knew they’d found out about Marla.

  ‘Are you going back to the House?’ she asked Hugo as he knotted his tie. It was the first time they’d been together since his pools win.

  ‘Later. Got to pop in on Marla first.’

  Marla! The name sounded stickily suggestive. ‘Mmm! And who is Marla?’

  Laura was expecting him to say she handled his insurance or filled his teeth. But he said, ‘She’s a prostitute.’

  Laura watched him straighten his tie. How typical of Hugo to wear a tie to visit a hooker. Going straight from her to a professional struck Laura as deeply insulting. To hide her hurt she said cheerily,

  ‘Known her long?’

  ‘About ten years.’

  Laura digested this. ‘But you had a mistress.’

  ‘Yes, but mistresses have the curse, mothers to visit or sometimes they just get uppity. So Marla comes in jolly useful.’

  Never having known a man who had visited a prostitute, Laura was intrigued.

  ‘How much do you pay her?’

  ‘£50 an hour.’

  ‘And do you pay the money up front? I mean, what does she do with it, stick it down her bra?’

  ‘No, no. She has a maid who handles all that. The maid lets me in. I tell Marla what I want that day. The maid takes the money.’

  ‘Does the maid ever join in?’

  ‘God no. Wouldn’t want her to. She’s got a face like concrete. No, she leaves the room and Marla gets on with it.’

  ‘With what? Does she do a strip or –‘

  ‘For heaven’s sake. Why don’t you come along to her flat and see for yourself.’

  ‘But you said going to a flat was dangerous. And a prostitute! If the Press got hold of that –‘

  ‘Marla has a cover story. In the mornings she works at a nursery school. Lunchtimes she takes the kiddies to play on the swings. Then she comes home and starts work. All the police know her. Every Christmas she has a party and all the coppers come.’

  Laura couldn’t imagine Hugo in a sleazy flat, the place smelling of stale sex, the sheets cruddy, being worked over by some unwashed tart.

  And what are you, Laura, said a voice in her head. What are you but a tart seeing Hugo for sex every other Wednesday?

  But I don’t get paid for it.

  Hugo was watching her. ‘Marla’s spent a lot of money on her flat. She told me, her clients have very good homes and they expect quality surroundings when they come to her. She’s a nice girl. Smart, kind, interesting. You’d like her. And you’d like to watch, wouldn’t you? See what prostitutes do. I’d like you to watch. I’d find it a terrific
turn on.’

  Laura looked into his searchlight blue eyes. Started fiddling with her watch. ‘You’d want me to join in.’

  ‘Of course I would. But only if you wanted to.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Come and watch then.’

  Laura reached for her clothes. ‘I’m going home.’

  A fortnight later, she was on the train to Paddington, dressed in a way she knew Hugo wouldn’t approve of. An enveloping top and loose-fitting trousers. Plus sensible boots in case she needed to run away. Armour, not amour, was the order of the day.

  Of course he’d persuaded her to come with him to Marla’s. Of course her curiosity had got the better of her. Of course she was dripping with anxiety.

  Impossible to explain her fear of leaving a world where she was experienced enough to understand the risks inherrent in most situations, and enter an unfamiliar realm where the standards, morals and expectations were different. It had been bad enough on the train. She compared herself with her fellow passengers, dressed for work, a day’s shopping, college. Chatting away normally, thinking of everyday things, the fight with the defective stapler, the blue shoes or the black, which pub to go to tonight. No one was en route to watch a lover fuck a prostitute.

  ‘What name should we choose for you?’ asked Hugo, as he paid the bill in Poppy’s.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Well Marla’s not her real name. I doubt it. I call myself Philip. What do you want to be?’

  It was bizarre, the question of a name obsessed her all the way there. For once, Hugo broke his rule and they took a taxi together. Laura supposed he sussed that if she had to go on her own she’d bolt and anyway, she felt she looked so boring in her staid outfit, he could say if challenged that she’d come to mend the drains.

  ‘Sue,’ she decided. Afterwards, she could have kicked herself. What an opportunity missed. She could have been Carlotta, Tempesta or Esmeralda. On the other hand, she had never met a Sue she hadn’t liked. She could envisage all the Sues in Britain concerning themselves with what was in the fridge for the family supper, not sweating about what would happen in this strange room, what would happen if they locked the doors, tied her down, made her perform appalling acts with dildos and dogs…