This Affair

by June Gadsby

  “Yes…goodnight…and thank you…for the concert. And for the ride home.”

  He nodded. There was a brief look of indecision on his shadowy face, then he sighed heavily as he turned away and re-started the engine, but he didn’t pull away until I was inside the house. I heard him drive slowly down the road and there was a heavy sense of loss inside me as I switched on the light and called upstairs to Greg to let him know that I was home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I had not expected to hear from Hilary Andrews once my work on the portrait was finished, but two days later the telephone rang and there she was on the other end of the line.

  “Megan. Oh, my dear, how are you? It seems such a long time since we’ve seen you. I quite miss your little visits.”

  “Oh…well, it’s kind of you to say that, but….”

  “Why haven’t you called?”

  “Er…well, I…er…I didn’t like to….”

  “But of course, you must come around and see us whenever you feel like it. How about Sunday lunch? Just an old-fashioned family affair, you know? My son will be here with his wife and the grandchildren. Do say you’ll come.”

  “Well, I…I don’t know…”

  “Oh, please come. You know, we got quite fond of you during those few sessions you had with Callum. Of course, you must bring your husband! Shall we say midday for pre-lunch drinks?”

  “It’s very kind of you…” How could I get out of the invitation without seeming terribly rude and ungrateful?

  “That’s settled then. I’ll tell Callum you’re coming. He’ll be ever so pleased. He tells me that you enjoyed the concert on Saturday.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m afraid I have no ear for music of any kind and Stuart, my son, takes after me. It’s regrettable, I know, but there you are. Well, see you Sunday! Drinks at midday.”

  I hung up slowly, wondering just what Hilary and Callum had in common when they got married. Callum’s whole life was music. How could he possibly marry someone who could not appreciate what he did? Well, it was none of my business. Any more than it was his business to wonder what I saw in my own husband.

  Thinking of Sunday lunch, I experienced an uncomfortable twinge in the pit of my stomach. It was patently obvious that Callum did not like Greg and vice versa. So far, I had only seen them together in a working situation. The thought of them rubbing shoulders socially worried me. Callum’s behaviour, I was sure, would be impeccable. I harboured no such confidence regarding Greg.

  Why the hell had I married the man? How many times had I asked myself that, especially in recent years? Numerous times. I suppose I thought I was in love at the time. With hindsight, it had nothing whatsoever to do with love. Not the real, durable kind of love. The happy ever after kind of love. That ethereal commodity that people find only rarely. And some not at all.

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  Greg was standing in the doorway, a glass in his hand, swaying gently. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

  “What?” I was the one who felt slightly drunk.

  “The phone call. Who was it?”

  “Oh, that. I laughed self-consciously. “It was Hilary Andrews.”

  “Who?”

  “Callum Andews’ wife.”

  “Oh, her. What did she want?”

  “She’s invited us for Sunday lunch.”

  “Oh, brilliant,” he said with an unveiled note of sarcasm. “Are we going?”

  “I suppose so. It wouldn’t be polite not to.”

  “If you say so.”

  We looked blankly at one another, then Greg went back to his office and continued to drink. I could tell the way things were heading. He had returned to his old habits. The other women, the refusals, the depressions, the drink. He was going downhill rapidly. Then things would go wrong for him and it would be, as usual, the huge apology with theatrical emotions thrown in for good measure. ‘I’m sorry, Megan, it’ll never happen again. And the ‘I’ve changed, believe me’

  No, I wouldn’t believe him. Not this time. Never again.

  ***

  “Hello! Come on in!” It was Callum himself who greeted us on the doorstep, looking comfortable and relaxed in his cashmere cardigan and wide-legged trousers. They were the kind of things anybody’s father would have worn, yet on Callum they looked good.

  Callum kissed me on the cheek. A light peck, nothing more. With Greg, his handshake was brief before he ushered us into the lounge where the family was gathered. He introduced us to his step-son, Stuart, who was about my age, perhaps a little younger. In fact, he looked rather dissipated. He was podgy with thinning hair and had his mother’s pale eyes. Stuart’s wife, Pamela, was an attractive blonde, a little too thin with ice-cold eyes and a smile that would freeze the rump off a penguin.

  Their two children, a boy and a girl, were adorable, but incorrigible toddlers. The girl, at three years old, was already showing signs of having a strong character. The boy, at two, was too young yet to have formed any character other than ‘typical boy’.

  As always, when around young children, I was seized with the sensation of loss and a great lump in the throat. Especially when I saw how good Callum was with his two grandchildren. That made me want to cry.

  Instead, I went in search of Hilary and offered any help that was needed. Of course, she didn’t need any help at all. She was the perfect hostess and completely organised.

  “Do have a drink, my dear.” she insisted, her motherly arm hugging me around my waist. “What would you prefer?”

  “Oh, a glass of red wine please,” I told her, and she looked at me askance, her thin, short eyebrows raised.

  “Really? The same as Callum. Personally, I’m a sherry drinker. Always have been and I’ll never change.”

  So, with a glass of best Saint-Émilion Bordeaux in my hand I went back into the lounge where Greg was sitting clasping his glass of whisky and indulging in an animated conversation with Callum’s daughter-in-law. Stuart Andrews, on the other hand, was standing looking out of the window, his expression somewhat glum. Callum was lying back in his chair, eyes closed, listening to a piece of music from the Greenfield Collection on the radio.

  “It’s a beautiful garden,” I said to Stuart, joining him by the French windows, where he was trying, I thought, to make himself inconspicuous.

  “Hmm, I suppose so,” he said with a sidelong glance at me that wasn’t exactly amicable. “I’m not into gardens myself.”

  “What are you into?” I asked out of politeness, though I had to admit I wasn’t particularly interested. This was a young man who didn’t come over well considering who his step-father was.

  “I’m an accountant,” he said flatly, then turned away from me, rather rudely I thought.

  “Do you like orchids?”

  I was taken by surprise, finding Callum standing by my side. I smiled up at him, feeling the annoying sensation of warmth rushing to my cheeks. “I love them.”

  He nodded. “In the conservatory. I’ve just had a new batch delivered. Come and see them. Hilary!”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I’m taking Megan to see the orchids.”

  “Yes, all right, dear. I’ll give you a shout when lunch is ready.”

  The visit to the conservatory was like a nostalgic trip for me. Scenes of my previous visits flashed before my eyes like video playbacks. It was exciting, and yet at the same time, I felt saddened that I no longer came here, no longer spent hours in his presence.

  Of course, there had been orchids in the conservatory before, I remembered, but not like there were now. Callum pointed out the new varieties with pride and I admired them sincerely, though my mind was knotting itself around the love I felt renewed for this man who was oblivious to the fact that he had turned my life upside down. To him, I was nothing more than a talented artist, someone to whom he could talk music and flowers; someone with whom he had walked in the wind and the rain and the sun; someone, I hoped, with whom he
had never been bored.

  “I’m sorry?” I snapped my head around, my eyes widening, my brain struggling to believe what I thought I had just heard.

  “I’ve missed you, Megan,” Callum repeated softly.

  “Oh?”

  There was a short silence when his brows knitted together, and his dark eyes seemed to become even darker. “Yes. I enjoyed our sessions together.”

  “Really?”

  “You gave me…inspiration.”

  I inclined my head and pretended to inspect a deep golden orchid more closely. On the ticket, I read: Onoidium Nona, II ‘Comtesse de Breton’. “Well, I’m glad I was able to help, even though I wasn’t aware of it.”

  Then he fell silent. It was, I felt, an uncomfortable silence. When I sneaked a glance in his direction I thought a shadow had descended on his expression. He looked somewhat confused and, yes, angry with himself. Then the cloud cleared instantly as he caught my eye. He smiled broadly, perhaps a little too broadly, and looked at his watch.

  “Well, I’m sure Hilary must be ready to give us a shout. Shall we go back inside?”

  Ever the perfect gentleman, he hung back and waited for me to proceed him all the way back to the lounge where Hilary was rounding up the family, Greg included, and ushering them all into the dining room. I found my place, next to Stuart and opposite Callum. Greg sat next to Pamela and opposite Hilary. The two children sat one at each end of the table, strategically kept apart. They were already giving forth on what they didn’t like to eat, hoping that ‘Gran’ wasn’t going to give them cabbage or peas or ‘anything horrible and green like that’.

  The meal was delicious, though the children decided they had had enough after the beef consommé and the warmed French sticks dripping with herb butter. They retired to what Hilary referred to as the ‘nursery’ room upstairs. She reported on returning to the table with a platter of melon cups containing spiced port, that they were already asleep. I don’t remember much about the conversation. I was disconcerted, however, to find Callum watching me closely, every time I lifted my eyes from my plate.

  “Megan, dear, do help yourself to more of everything.” Hilary instructed, at one point, from further down the table.

  “Thank you, but I’ve already had seconds,” I told her, dimpling shyly at my host who had insisted that I take the juiciest slices of beef. “Callum’s looking after me well.”

  “Good. Normally, he doesn’t think to look after anybody but himself.” she responded, though her tone was jocular rather than reprimanding.

  “Hilary is an excellent cook,” Callum said proudly, placing yet another succulent slice of beef on my plate. I felt a stupid downward swoop of my heart. Jealousy. What else could it be? My cooking skills were mediocre at best.

  “Megan’s not a bad cook when she puts her mind to it,” I heard Greg’s voice raised for the first time. He didn’t often compliment me on my achievements, so his remark just then meant a lot.

  “Oh, really,” Hilary exclaimed with unbridled interest that made me feel guilty. It was so difficult to dislike this wife of Callum’s, though subconsciously I knew I was doing my best to detest her, simply because she was Callum’s wife. “Which famous name do you subscribe to?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know…the famous cooks. I have all the books. From Mrs. Beeton to that other woman who’s always on television. She’s glamourous, of course, and makes everything look so easy, even when it’s not.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m afraid I don’t use cookery books,” I said with a grimace. “I sort of throw things in and see what happens. I suppose you’d call me a bit of an experimental cook.”

  “Oh, dear.” Hilary was clearing the plates and looking at me curiously while Callum chuckled at my side. “I’d never be able to do that. I must do everything by the book. You know…the precise weights and all that kind of thing. Otherwise, it would be a disaster.”

  “My mother-in-law’s middle name is ‘precise’,” said Pamela Andrews, pulling a face that spoke of experience perhaps bitterly learned.

  “Well, it’s better than being ‘disaster’,” Callum remarked lightly, and everybody laughed except Pamela.

  “Pamela’s great at anything pre-cooked and frozen.” Stuart, who had been largely silent during the meal, suddenly spoke out in a loud, censorious voice. “She’s particularly good with canned goods, if I open the can for her.”

  An embarrassed silence followed his rather cruel remark.

  “That was a bit unkind, Stuart,” Callum admonished and raised an eyebrow at me. There was a smile in his eyes that I returned, then glanced across at Pamela, who was looking thunderous, her thin lips clamped tightly together as she gripped her dessert fork and carved patterns into the pristine, starched linen tablecloth.

  “You must all come for dinner one evening,” I found myself inviting them out of the blue and received a stony stare from my unsociable husband who thought dinner parties were unnecessary, expensive affairs exclusive to people who needed to impress.

  “Oh, Megan, how kind, but we’re leaving for France soon,” Hilary looked genuinely disappointed. “Callum is insisting on us spending some time together en famille, as they say, before he goes off on his next long tour.”

  “Oh, I see.” Did I sound downhearted at having my invitation turned down? Or was it that I wished I were a part of their family?

  “We’ll be there for a couple of weeks,” Hilary continued, her voice flat and void of any enthusiasm.

  “That’s wonderful.” I managed, scolding myself because I didn’t like the idea of Callum going out of reach again so soon. Even if I harboured a largely unrequited love for this man, it was a consolation to have him where I could see him, speak to him on occasion.

  “We have a house in south-west France near the Pyrénées,” Callum informed me. “It’s really my pied-à-terre. I go there when I feel the need to get away from everything and everybody. Hilary, however, detests France, don’t you, dear?”

  “My poor mother-in-law,” announced Pamela primly. “She can’t come to terms with people who hug and kiss one another all the time, keep chickens and eat snails and frogs…and, of course, who speak a foreign language.”

  “Well, that’s choice, I must say,” Stuart said in his mother’s defence. “I seem to recall that you only tolerate the French if they speak with a Parisian accent and serve you champagne and foie gras.”

  “Well, you’re not much better,” his wife remarked with a cutting edge to her voice, then she turned and virtually oozed up to Callum, flirting with him outrageously. “Whereas Callum, here, can speak the language like a native. I think the French language is so sexy.”

  Callum eased away from her and I could see that her attentions were embarrassing him. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan,” he announced, a trifle triumphantly, I thought. “My Australian tour has been brought forward. So, you see, Hilary, you don’t have to go to France after all. At least, not until next spring.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Hilary disappeared into the kitchen and returned with her piece de resistance, a meringue filled with cream and fresh fruit and dripping in chocolate sauce.

  “Here, let me take that from you before you drop it.” Callum was on his feet and at her side immediately. “Would you like me to serve? I think you’ve worked hard enough for one meal.”

  “Yes, dear, if you would.” Hilary sat down wearily and caught my eye. “Oh, Megan. French? Awful language. How can one go through life trying to decide whether the person one is speaking to is tu, vous or toi? And, which is worse, trying to figure out which sex is a watch or a book or a table. I mean, it’s quite ridiculous. I refuse to learn it. I won’t even try. Let them speak English if they want to communicate with me. Oh, I’m so relieved that we don’t have to go.”

  Callum looked at me and shrugged. “You see what I have to put up with, Megan,” he grinned. “No enthusiasm. Even Stuart and Pamela, when they come to France with us, spend all t
heir time lounging around the pool. No sense of adventure, that’s the trouble.”

  “Stuart’s like me,” Hilary laughed and looked fondly at her plump, bland-faced son.

  The conversation continued much in the same vein. Callum wanted to talk about his house in France. Hilary didn’t. Stuart didn’t seem to want to talk at all and his wife, Pamela, when she wasn’t flirting with her father-in-law, was flirting with Greg, who lapped it up for a while. Then even he became bored and snoozed off a little by the time coffee and petits fours were served in the lounge.

  I flinched at the occasional soft snore emitting from my husband but was too far away from him to give him a nudge.

  “When do you leave for Australia?” I asked Callum as he leaned over me for the second time with the silver tray of petits fours.

  “It’s not settled yet, but any time in the next few days.”

  “But you will be back home for Christmas, Callum, I hope?” demanded his wife with a worried frown, then she grimaced at me. “It’s just not the same when we’re separated by half the world.”

  “Don’t worry, Hilary,” Callum held out the small silver platter in her direction; she took two of the tiny sweet almond cakes with an apologetic giggle, muttering how she couldn’t resist them. “I plan to get home by about the twenty-third.”

  “Oh, good!” she grimaced at me. “I’d hate to have to carve the turkey. That’s always been Callum’s job. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  I could see them, the happily married couple, with their children and their grandchildren, gathered around the Christmas tree, passing out presents, eating the traditional turkey with all its trimmings. By comparison, I didn’t like to think of Christmas with Greg, so I pushed it out of my mind. It seemed too far ahead, and would no doubt be a disaster, as usual.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Here you are, Megan. Read this. Callum writes the most wonderful letters, don’t you think?”