A Matter of Marriage

by Lesley Jorgensen

  She rolled one fat sphere between finger and thumb. But then she saw the back of her hand in the mirror, its greyish web of veins and scattering of age spots (fleurs de la mort, her half-French nonna used to call them) and the bones of her wrist, all highlighted by the necklace’s silky, nacreous glow.

  Thea met her reflected eyes, filled with dread. She flicked off the overhead halogens, but now, underlit by the sidebar fluorescents, her head looked hollowed and empty. She mustn’t be late for her brunch date: so late already, so much time wasted. With an effort she shifted her gaze to the mirror’s edge. Her favorite photo of Jackie was there, a black-and-white two-inch square tucked into a corner of the mirror’s bevelled frame as if casually, so that anyone coming in would see it as a temporary and unimportant thing. Jackie O, Jacqueline Onassis, formerly Kennedy, nee Bouvier. Guinevere to Jack’s Arthur, the perfect fairytale, then disaster and death and finally betrayal with the ugly, successful foreigner, the Greek Lancelot. Onassis’s Beast to her Beauty.

  Thea picked up the photo and brought it close, tilting the image into and out of the fluorescents’ glare. It was a candid head-and-shoulders shot, the background blurred, as if the photographer had been running to keep pace with Jacqueline Kennedy’s rapid shining star. She was gazing beyond the camera, her hair blown about and her collar slightly awry, but her expression was serene, unmoved. Carefree, in Givenchy, Chanel, Cassini. Unworldly, despite the worldliness, the infidelity and publicity. Centered calmly in the storm’s eye. Immortal, eternal.

  Thea’s eyes flicked back to her own reflection: the constructed, expensive, temporary perfection of her hair and face, tissue-thin over the deterioration beneath—lines pouching, darkening. And the wreckage within.

  Right now she couldn’t bear to leave this room. Henry used the family bathroom, thank god. Resolutely avoiding her reflection, she turned toward the glass shelving that bisected one wall and ran a fingertip over its precious bottles, casks and jars. The best of everything was in here: La Mer for smooth skin, Visine for clear eye-whites, Chanel primer and lipstick for the full, unlined mouth of the twenty-year-old. Forever young, if she stayed in here.

  If she stepped out she would see her bedroom, where last Sunday night, stinking of alcohol and vomit, she had fallen into Tariq’s arms, thought that he was falling into hers. She shuddered, remembering her hungry grasping, his detachment and disgust. How could she leave? Where could she go?

  She realized that she was gripping Jackie’s photo with both hands, and made herself put it down before it creased or tore. Why hadn’t she arranged to go to the beautician instead of brunch with the girls? She just wanted to be out of the house before Richard got up. She’d claimed a headache last night, gone to bed early to avoid the pain of his arrival, but then could not sleep. He’d let himself in late, must have been after one a.m, fresh evidence of his lack of interest in her, and had apparently declined Henry’s scheme of shopping with the boys, in favor of a lie-in. But he would be up soon.

  Hiding behind Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door Spa, face masked, eyes closed, seemed infinitely more appealing than faux jollity with her friends. Too late now, she just had to make the best of it. Get out of here. She smoothed her hair, smoothed it again. Now it looked too smooth. She glanced down at the little photo, thought about wearing dark glasses. But she would feel more naked when she had to take them off. If only she had chosen Red Door. If only Richard hadn’t come to visit again so soon—had cancelled like he always used to, given her time to adjust. To heal.

  She picked up her handbag, a baby-soft calfskin Hermès, and pulled out the contents, lining them up on the countertop one by one. She must be sure, be prepared. Eyedrops. Tissues, change purse, card holder, keys, blue-eye talisman, photos of the children, perfume (Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche, the fragrance of youth), panty liner (couldn’t remember when her period was due, all over the place lately), headache pills (mustn’t take too many), phone (what if Richard called), make-up bag: Chanel Rouge Noir lipstick, pressed powder (pure tinted cornstarch from Guerlain), Chanel Morning Dew nail polish, YSL Touche Éclat concealer, so good for older skin. Everyone said so. She zipped up the little make-up bag, stroked its plastic exterior. Eyedrops. Tissues. Change purse. A ticking started in her temples. Time was passing. She had to go.

  Her chest hurt; she tried to breathe more slowly. How could she escape without being seen? Jackie’s image lay on the countertop, youthfully serene. For a moment their eyes met. Thea snatched it up and reached awkwardly, inside and down her own neckline, to tuck the photo into her left bra cup. A talisman, stuffed into her underwear like Zia used to do with tissues, god help her.

  Thea packed the countertop items back into the bag and shuffled quickly out of the bathroom, eyes averted from the bed, and into the passage, down the stairs, out the front door, to the garage, find the car keys. Keys. She felt sick at the thought of having forgotten her keys, and tried to remember to breathe out. There they were, in the bottom of the bag. She fumbled and almost dropped them. What if Richard got up now and saw her like this?

  The Mercedes flashed its lights, making her jump, then flashed again. Damn, she’d re-locked it. Her hands shook, and she kept missing the button. In the cement-floored quiet of the garage, she could hear her heart pounding like a warning, counting down, faster and faster. The keys fell to the floor, and she cried out in fright, looking furtively at the garage door, open to anyone. She would never escape, never get out. She bent to grab the keys, but bile rose into her throat, and she hesitated, dropped the Hermès on the floor next to the keys and stumbled outside.

  She leaned over, hands on knees, and retched once, one useless violent heave with no result, sweat prickling her back and upper lip, eyes closed against the sun’s public glare. Anybody could see her. She couldn’t stay here, had to find shelter, privacy.

  What was that sound? Was that Henry’s car coming back early? God. She took off in a clumsy run around the side of the house, toward the back garden, her heels twisting in the gravel. Her eyes had filled with the effort of trying to vomit, and her vision blurred and stung. No tissues, no bag.

  The garden sloped down away from the Lodge, and Thea followed it, weaving sharply between a series of prickly bushes. Hot tears were sliding down her cheeks now, and she placed a hand over her pearls, with some vague recollection that salt water was bad for them.

  If Richard got up and found no one at home, he would probably just go down to the pub for lunch. But what if, before he left, he looked out of one of the Lodge’s back windows? She must get out of sight. She kept moving, her heels sinking into the turf, following the downhill gradient as the vegetation around her became larger and less cultivated, and weeds whipped and caught at her stockings.

  One heel sank deeply, and she tripped forward and almost fell. Her right shoe, handmade, handstitched, a present from Henry, was buried in mud. She bent, breathing hard, and tried to wriggle it out with her fingers. It would not budge. When she looked up, the noisy glitter of the river was right before her, inches from her toes, and she stared uncomprehendingly. She’d never been down this far before, hadn’t realized it ran so close. Her way was barred.

  But she couldn’t stay here. She pulled her foot out of the shoe, which remained staunchly upright in the mire. Stupid fucking shoe, she’d get it later. She turned to her left, took a few more crooked steps along the bank, lost the other shoe, staggered forward, then continued more sedately, her stockinged feet sliding a little in the cool mud and cooler water. Fuck the shoes. The pull of her Achilles tendons from walking flat-footed, and the mud’s soft, spreading pressure between her toes, became oddly comforting, as if she had come down here just for this: to get dirty, make mud pies or something. Had there been a river near where she grew up? She couldn’t remember.

  Thea was still hot and sweaty, but a little calmer and, squinting ahead, could see a patch of dark vegetation. She made her way along the river’s edge, feeling l
ike someone marooned, or maybe an explorer. Her legs were beginning to ache, her stomach too, and when she came to one of the larger trees, with a mess of roots forming a natural seat, she squatted awkwardly, sat down and leaned back. She could feel the roughness of the bark through the linen of her dress, but it wasn’t really unpleasant, rather like sitting on wickerwork. She stretched her legs out in front of her and saw without surprise that her silk stockings were shredded and filled with grass seeds. Her feet, still heavy with mud, flopped outwards, making a V through which she could see a sunlit patch of river below. She let her hands rest on the ground at her sides.

  It was so quiet she could hear her own breathing, rapid and harsh against the shushing of the river. All that time in the gym: she’d thought she’d been keeping up with the twenty-somethings. That dull, tight pain was back. She bent her head, tried to ignore it. She would just focus on the grass seeds, pick out each one.

  Soft murmurs came from the river. She looked past her muddy feet to see Tariq’s golden body float into view on the surface of the water. He was on his back, eyes closed, and his palms floated with fingers cupped and pointing upward. The bloom of his sex was visible, against a cushion of black hair just below the surface. She gasped. Magical, supernatural. She instinctively gestured with her fist, index and little fingers extended, against the evil eye. But he did not disappear. Or transform.

  He had come for her. Thea stumbled to her feet. The power of her desires had brought him into being. But before Tariq reached the bank, there was a splash as another body dived in and surfaced near him. Thea froze. This man was white-skinned but covered in dark body hair. His face was obscured by long, hippyish locks, with a separate stream of water running off each. He tossed his head to free his face, and she saw with shock that it was Denny Upwey, Audrey and Colin’s son.

  The men reached for each other in the water. Embraced. Kissed. Tariq’s fine fingers in Denny’s hair. Thea stood still now, like Lot’s wife, unable to look away. They broke apart and swam for the far bank. Denny, broader of build, climbed out first, and turned to give Tariq an arm to pull him up. Thea dodged behind the tree and crouched down, feeling such shame and sorrow that it was a relief to bite her tongue and taste the rusted blood, which had surely come straight from her heart.

  They were talking now, in low voices. She couldn’t make out the words but she could hear the relaxed tone, the staccato breaks of soft laughter. The smell of cigarettes. How fiercely she suddenly longed for one.

  Silence fell across the water. She inched forward on all fours, holding her breath, until she could just see round. There, on the opposite side, above the riverbank, was a figure walking stiffly downhill from the cottage, toward them all, carrying what looked like a shiny metal thermos. Dr. Choudhury? She had a desperate urge to pee.

  Were they gone? She looked down to the river itself, her vision blurred with sweat and tears. On the far bank, dappled shadows shifted under the trees. Amongst them, shining against the dull earth, she could just make out two bodies mingling. A few small stones and pieces of leaf rubbish rolled down the slope and into the water, and she crept back around her tree, alone again in this hostile natural world.

  —

  THEY HAD LEFT eventually, laughing and talking quietly, as relaxed as when they had arrived. It was only she that was different. Stiff with fatigue and filthy, Thea crawled out of her hiding place, but her legs were too cramped to stay upright, so she slid on her bottom down the leaf-mould to the edge of the bank, just stopping in time. She grabbed hold of an overhanging branch and edged first her feet, then her legs, into the river. She could smell herself, sweat and urine and mud, and the shock of the cold water made her wet herself again. Her feet found the bottom, oily and soft, and she knew then that she would sink no further. She let go of the branch and stepped away from the bank, hip-deep, trailing her hands. She was suffused with weariness, cried out, completely empty. Nothing mattered anymore.

  Thea cupped her hands and brought water up to her face, ran her hands over her hair, let it trickle down the nape of her neck. She bent her knees and dipped down into the water, up to her neck, and pushed off in a cautious, old-lady breaststroke, toward the center of the river.

  She closed her eyes and bobbed under the water for a couple of strokes, enjoying the sensation of holding her breath, moving her face against the water’s soft resistance. Then she came up, reached with her feet for the bottom, couldn’t feel it and, after a moment of panic, slipped into an awkward sidestroke that by degrees became elongated, leisurely. She hadn’t swum like this since she was at school.

  When she started to feel cold, she let herself drift back to the bank, to a shell-shaped outcrop a little further down, and climbed out. She pulled the remaining pins out of her bun, and stood enjoying the sensation of looseness and movement on her scalp.

  Her dress clung to her, dripping down her legs. When she looked down, it was sheer and she could see, over her heart, Jackie’s outward stare. Thea’s underwear, a flesh-colored set from La Perla, was not only outlined by the dress but was see-through as well. For a second her hands went to pubis and breasts, then she dropped her arms. Who was she covering for? She strode up the bank and started to walk home.

  The sun warmed her back, and she swung her arms, letting their momentum carry her up the hill. When she reached the back garden, she could hear the dogs barking inside, and a man’s voice, happily chastising their noise. Feeling as if it were someone else’s house, she walked softly to the sitting room’s back window and peered in.

  Henry was on the floor wrestling with the two Retrievers, brandishing a slipper and yelling over their barks. One of the dogs had hold of his shirttail and was growling and shaking its head, and Henry, in twisting away, had his shirt pulled up to his shoulderblades. How like his sons he was right then, writhing and quick, white skin gleaming against the dim carpet. The two dogs were tumbling on top of him and each other in an effort to take the slipper, and while she watched, they knocked into the Pembroke table and her carefully dérangé Abbey drawings fell onto the floor.

  From the outside the sitting room looked dark and static, as oppressively full of meaningless objects as a Victorian parlor. Her precious cluster of silver-framed photos, her row of Meissen figurines on the mantelpiece, the stack of fashionable magazines looked like nothing more than pointless obstacles to be negotiated by eager dogs and men. Was it just a trick of the sun blazing on the glass, or was what she was now seeing more real, closer to the true nature of things, than she had seen before? She gripped the windowsill, staring at the puzzle of her own life before her.

  The slipper went flying, followed by the yelping dogs, and an occasional table tilted under the onslaught. The china bowl on top slid and fell onto the stone hearth with an audible crack and a waterfall of potpourri. Dogs and man parted, temporarily silenced. With a sudden sadness, Thea realized that the real tragedy of the shattered bowl, her prized Moorcroft ware, was that the rhythm of the joyous game had been broken.

  “Shit! Scheisse!”

  Henry looked worriedly to the far end of the room, where the double doors opened onto the hallway, as if anticipating a judgemental visitor, who, she then realized, was herself.

  He had the dogs by the collars now. “Out, maties, out you go before we get caught!” He was running them forward out of the room, almost catching their tails in the slamming door.

  Henry came back into the center of the sitting room, but he was different now. He was her familiar Henry, slightly stooped and staring a little absently at nothing in particular, before squatting to replace spilt papers and fallen cushions with much unnecessary patting and shuffling. She felt bereft. Where was that quick, laughing man?

  Henry left again and returned carrying a cloth, which he laid on the hearth next to the shattered bowl. He knelt down with his back to her. She guessed that he was picking up the china pieces, but still resented being shut out by the gentle curv
e of his back. She wanted to see everything. She wanted to see the dogs again, the wrestling, how they brought the room alive and sparked off her husband’s bright vitality, unfettered by domestic constraints.

  But that was all gone now. She was expected home. The breeze had cooled, and her dress and underwear felt gritty against her skin. She walked around the side of the house, avoiding the gravel of the center path. The water pipes that ran down this side and into the scullery started to vibrate: Henry must be washing his hands downstairs. The television blared faintly from the boys’ bedroom, and she thought she could hear Richard’s voice in there too. Henry still had the potpourri to sweep up: if she moved now she could avoid explanations and get upstairs. She trotted quickly around the corner to the front of the house, and straight into the dogs.

  For once they did not stand off and bark, instead surrounding her and nosing her with quiet intent, as if she were some large but not unfriendly creature that had wandered into their garden from the woodland. Perhaps she smelled different now. Feeling strangely tender, even regretful, she ruffled their ears, getting a lick on the hand in return, then slipped through the front door.

  As she tiptoed past the sitting-room doors, she caught a glimpse of her husband, kneeling by the hearth. There was the scrape of a brush and pan. She crept by and sped upstairs.

  Twenty-eight

  TARIQ RETURNED HOME before eleven, hair wet and his appetite sharp, in time to placate—and distract—Mum with an offer to drive her to the shops. But he had barely sat down at the kitchen table when his mother’s hand smacked him hard across the back of the head.