This Affair

by June Gadsby

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Oh, gawd, I nearly died when I saw him get out of the taxi. Ros was sitting next to me on the settee, one hand squeezing mine, the other rubbing my back in a motherly way that was surprisingly comforting. “I’d just put a coat on over my nightie, and I had my curlers in and my face all naked and shining with anti-wrinkle cream – not that it works, but I like to pretend it will one day.”

  She had arrived to find me in floods of helpless tears and lost no time in taking control of the situation like the good friend she was. Thank heavens Greg wasn’t there. On the other hand, had he been there I would probably not have succumbed to such pathetic self-pity. At least, not in front of him.

  “Just imagine how I felt when I opened the door and found him standing there,” I said and managed a shaky grin, then gave what I hoped was a last scrub of my handkerchief across my damp and reddened eyes.

  “He didn’t stay very long, did he, but he must have made a hell of an impression on you to reduce you to this state. What happened?”

  “He just…” I gulped. “He just wished me a Happy Christmas and…and he gave me this.”

  Ros took the silver locket in her fingers and admired it. “That’s beautiful. Nobody ever gave me anything like that. What’s the music engraved on it?”

  “It’s the first couple of bars from ‘Portrait in Pastel’ and on the back he’s had it engraved with our names…look. Megan and Callum.”

  “That’s unusual… Megan… Callum…just like that. No message. No ‘to’ and ‘from’. It’s as if it was just one name.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but now that she came to mention it, that’s exactly the way it looked.

  “Are you getting yourself in deep with Mister Music, then?”

  I drew my breath in sharply, let it out slowly and looked at my dear friend a long time before I could force the words out of my mouth.

  “Oh, I wish I could say ‘yes’, Ros,” I told her. “But there are too many obstacles in my way, and I’m not even sure…well, I mean…I suspect he cares for me, but…”

  “But?”

  “Maybe he just thinks of me as a sort of daughter image. Heaven knows, his wife treats me like one. That’s the difficulty. She’s very nice, Ros. If she gets hurt I don’t want to be the one to inflict it. Anyway, he still loves her.”

  “You’re certain of that, are you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Really? Have you asked him?”

  “Of course not. You don’t go around asking people if they still love the person they’ve been married to for a quarter of a century.”

  “There are all sorts of love, you know.”

  “Well, whichever sort it is, Callum won’t ever do anything to hurt Hilary. I’m sure of that. He’s far too loyal.”

  “So why were you the first person he rushed to see after months abroad?”

  “He was practically going past my doorstep. It was logical to call in with his present. There’s one for Greg too.”

  “Not another engraved silver locket, I’ll bet.” Ros picked up the long, slim package which bore Greg’s name and gave it a shake. Something rattled inside it. “Hmm. A silver bullet perhaps so Greg can go shoot himself and then you’ll be free and available.”

  “Oh, stop it, Ros!” I scolded. Normally, she could make me laugh talking like that, but this time her words irritated me. “There’s no way that Callum and I…I mean, it’s just not possible, whichever way you look at it. Besides, I think it’s all a bit one-sided and I’m making a thorough fool of myself.

  “Hasn’t he said anything…made any kind of gesture that shows he’s interested?”

  “No! Well, yes…maybe…Oh, Ros, I don’t know! He looked kind of strange tonight…you know, bothered about something, angry almost at one point…angry and a little embarrassed too.” I stared at her and saw her head fall to one side the way it usually did when she analysed a situation. “He kissed me…Oh, Ros, I didn’t want him to stop. Our lips hardly touched and yet…it was…Oh, God, it was so exciting.”

  “Well. Ros gave a satisfied smile. “You didn’t tell me he’d kissed you.”

  “He hugged me tightly too, but then fathers and big brothers do that, don’t they?” I saw her eyes mocking me now. “Oh, Ros, what can I do? I feel as if I’m caught between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.”

  “Go with the deep blue sea every time, luv. The Devil you know all about and he doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  “I feel so guilty, and yet I’ve done nothing. Not really. It’s all in my mind, this affair with Callum Andrews.”

  “The point is, what’s in his mind?”

  As she spoke the telephone shrilled out and we both jumped and laughed out loud at one another. It’s strange how a telephone can sound so much louder and more urgent after midnight.

  I picked it up and a female voice I didn’t recognise asked me if I were Mrs. Greg Peters. I told her I was and raised curious eyebrows to Ros.

  “Please don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Peters,” the voice told me. “This is the Royal Victoria Infirmary, Accident and Emergency Department…Mrs. Peters, are you still there?”

  “Yes?” I said in a small voice, feeling the colour drain from my face.

  “I’m afraid your husband has met with an accident. Nothing too serious. A broken leg and some cuts and bruises, but we’ll be keeping him in for a day or two. Would you mind bringing him in a few personal items? Pyjamas, toiletries etc.”

  “Yes…yes, of course I will…right away.”

  “Tomorrow morning will do, Mrs. Peters. He’s under sedation right now. Sorry to be the one to bring you bad news at this time of year, but it could have been much worse.”

  “What was it…a…a fight or…what?”

  “It was a road traffic accident, but I’m not able give you the full details.”

  “Oh, my God. Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Thankfully no…at least, not badly. There was a passenger, but she got off very lightly considering. Well, Mrs. Peters, can we expect you on the ward tomorrow morning? It’s Christmas Day so the rules will be relaxed a little. You can come in at any time.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Peters. Merry Christmas.”

  Merry Christmas, indeed! My husband in hospital with a broken leg and whatever else he had after crashing his car. And there had been a passenger. A female passenger.

  Chapter Twenty

  I drove into Newcastle the next morning. Being Christmas Day, the city was quiet, though the parking around the Infirmary was almost full as people voluntarily gave up their most festive day of the year to visit less fortunate loved ones. I was, if anything, a reluctant visitor.

  Greg was sitting up in bed reading a newspaper when I arrived on the ward. He had a cage protecting his broken leg and a large dressing on his forehead that half covered his right eye. His face was generally bruised and swollen and two of his fingers were bandaged.

  “I’ve brought you some things,” I said dryly as I stood by his bed, waiting for him to notice my presence.

  “Oh, hello, Megan,” he put his paper down, but kept a finger in the place, and rested his head back against his pillows. “Sorry about this, but these things happen…you know…”

  “Yes,” I squeezed the word out with difficulty because my jaw was set hard.

  “I was lucky, really. Only a broken leg, concussion and some cuts and bruises. It could have been worse.”

  “You might have killed yourself,” I managed with a frozen smile.

  “That’s true, and you have every right to be angry. After all, it’s Christmas and…” He shrugged, and his eyes fell once more to the paper he was still clutching.

  “As you say…it’s Christmas. They tell me that your…passenger…only had minor injuries, otherwise you might be facing a manslaughter charge instead of a simple drunk driving charge.” I had received a call from the police before leaving the house. Greg had been well over the legal limi
t when they tested him. It was no surprise. “Who was she, Greg? A prostitute? A schoolgirl looking for a cheap thrill to giggle over with her friends?”

  “It was a colleague…Patty Jeffries.” He was looking suitably shamefaced. The hand that wasn’t holding onto the newspaper was twitching on top of the custard coloured bed cover.

  “I believe I have heard of her. She’s quite new, isn’t she?”

  “She’s been with the paper about two years now.”

  “I see. I won’t bother to ask what the pair of you were doing joy-riding on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t she have a husband to go home to?”

  “She’s not married…and…Megan, it’s not the way you think.” His eyes were dark and imploring. Big spaniel eyes looking sorrowful, begging forgiveness. I used to be a sucker for those eyes. Not any longer.

  “So, tell me how it was, Greg?”

  “Yes…okay, so we’d had a drink…it was a party, for Chrissakes! She’d bought herself this extravagant car…one of the new BMW sporty jobs. God, you know how I’ve always dreamed of owning a car like that.”

  “So, you were driving this woman’s car…Patsy, is that her name? And you were drunk, so you crashed, but as luck would have it you didn’t manage to kill yourself or anyone else.”

  His chin dropped onto his chest. “The car’s a write-off. She’d only had it a week.”

  “Oh, wow! Patsy must be really thrilled about that.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I delved into my bag and extracted one or two parcels carefully wrapped in festive paper and ribbons. I put them on the bed where he could see them. “Merry Christmas, Greg.”

  He blinked at the parcels and I saw him swallow, saw the difficult rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. “Aw, jeeze, Megan, I’m sorry, you know…I really am. You have every right to be angry.”

  He picked up Callum’s present and frowned at it, seeing his name and the now familiar sloping handwriting.

  “That one’s from Callum Andrews,” I informed him casually, but just the mention of Callum’s name made my face go hot. “He called around last night on his way from the airport with presents for both of us. Of course, you weren’t there.”

  “I said I was sorry, dammit!” he snapped as he ripped open Callum’s package to reveal a beautiful cloisonné fountain pen, thick and sturdy for a big man’s hand to grip with ease.

  “He gave me this,” I said, indicating the silver locket around my neck – I felt I never wanted to take it off. “Isn’t it beautiful? He’s a very generous man to think of us in such a way at Christmas.”

  “When you’re as bloody rich as Andrews it’s easy to be generous.” he said with nothing more than a cursory glance at the locket.

  “He didn’t need to buy us presents. After all, we’re nothing to him.”

  “I wrote his fucking biography and you did the book cover. I figure he owes us more than a piddling Christmas bauble or two.”

  “Oh, Greg, you’re so mercenary.” I cried out at him and saw heads being raised in the adjoining beds. I lowered my voice and hissed at him: “We’ve already been paid quite handsomely for our work…”

  I stayed as long as my patience would allow. Greg showed no enthusiasm for my company, but then I made it clear that I was there under duress and was, in the circumstances, anything but sympathetic. I must say, he did look terrible. The puffy discoloration of his face made him appear as if he’d gone a few rounds with all three of Charlie’s Angels. I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I couldn’t. He’d been asking for this for years. I was just surprised that the outcome had not been worse. Much, much worse.

  “Mrs. Peters?”

  I was leaving the ward, walking as quickly as my heavy legs would take me, feeling as if I was treading through treacle.

  “Yes?” I turned to find a young woman in a white coat with a badge that identified her as Dr. Barbara Stoneham.

  “Would you mind stepping into the office for a few minutes?” She indicated a glassed-in box at the end of the ward.

  The office was cluttered and untidy with patient files and polystyrene mugs of half-drunk coffee, cold and stale-smelling, strewn everywhere. There were one or two fancy boxes of chocolates, probably gifts from grateful patients or their relatives. On the desk there was a vase of mixed carnations and freesias. The heady perfume from the flowers filled the air.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said, smiling ruefully as she gathered up the dirty cups and dumped them unceremoniously in the waste bin. “At this time of year there are too many post-party patients and not enough staff.”

  Having just left my drunk-driving charged husband I could well imagine how busy they must be.

  Dr. Stoneham sat down behind the desk, cleared her throat and invited me to sit in the chair opposite her.

  “Is there something more serious wrong with my husband?” I asked her, sensing her hesitation. “I mean, it is just a broken leg, isn’t it?”

  She looked at me for what seemed a long time before she replied. “The broken leg and the contusions were certainly caused by the accident, Mrs. Peters,” she said at last. “However, it’s what caused the accident that is giving us some concern, which is why we’re holding your husband for at least another two or three days. Until we’ve had time to run more tests.”

  “Tests?”

  “Mrs. Peters,” she looked almost apologetic as she pronounced her next words. “Although your husband had drunk well over the limit of alcohol, it wasn’t the cause of the crash. He crashed because he blacked out. We suspect a small cerebral accident…a stroke. His blood pressure is incredibly high; he has a fluctuating heart beat and a high cholesterol count. He’s also rather overweight. I would suggest, Mrs. Peters, with all due respect, that your husband’s lifestyle constantly in the ‘fast lane’ has finally caught up with him. If we can’t stabilise him, it’ll overtake him completely. We can, of course, pull him out of this crisis and put him on the right track, but after that…” She spread small, thin hands and shrugged equally thin shoulders. “After that it’s up to him. With your help, of course.”

  I sighed deeply and nodded, my own heart sinking. “I’ll do what I can, of course,” I assured her. “But Greg isn’t the easiest man on earth to reason with.”

  “Mrs. Peters, I’m going to be frank with you. If he doesn’t do what he’s told he’ll never make fifty.” She paused for effect and I continued to stare at her, my expression unchanged. The news was no surprise to me. I’d half expected this outcome for quite some time now. “In fact, I’d say he’ll be lucky to see forty-five.”

  “What does he have to do?”

  “Lose at least twenty kilos in weight, stop smoking, cut out all alcohol and do a couple of workouts in a gym each week. He should take up walking or swimming or both. And, of course, diet is all–important. He must eat more fresh fruit and vegetables and less fast-food from the local pub or take-away. And, of course, avoid stress.”

  “He’s a journalist,” I told her. “His life is one long stress pattern.”

  She simply shrugged those thin shoulders again and arched her eyebrows. “At the moment, I’d say he’s on a short fuse to nowhere unless he does all the things I’ve just mentioned. And does them immediately. I’m going to recommend that he takes three months’ leave from his job. That will give him sufficient time to take stock of his life. And take the necessary action. Otherwise, zap!”

  I jumped as she snapped her fingers with her last word and my heart started to thud uncomfortably in my chest. Greg really was ill then, I was thinking. And I had been so horrible him. I was so full of recriminations and self-pity that I hadn’t stopped to think beyond the crass inconvenience of the situation.

  “Thank you, Dr. Stoneham,” I said, getting to my feet and heading for the door. “I’ll do my best to see that he toes the line.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be grateful for your help and understanding, Mrs. Peters.”

  I wished I had her confidence. Greg was not the kind of man that would liste
n to anybody.

  * * *

  “Well, here’s to Greg and his broken leg.” Ros leaned back in her seat and raised her glass to the ceiling as she toasted my absent husband. “If it hadn’t been for that accident, I would have been sharing Christmas with Marley’s Ghost and his rattling chains. Thanks for inviting me, Megan, pet.”

  “Well, it seemed a shame to waste the turkey,” I told her truthfully. “Not to mention the Christmas pudding. Glad you enjoyed it, Ros…and thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Oh...just everything!” I got up from the table and started carrying dirty dishes into the kitchen. She followed me and before I knew where I was I was being crushed in a big bear hug and she was looking at me with tears in her slightly bleary eyes.

  “Look, luv, if anybody has anybody to thank, it’s me,” she frowned at her own odd turn of words, then gave a shrug and grinned at me. “That wine was very good. Anyway, Megan, luv, I just want you to know that I appreciate your friendship. Hell! I’ve never had a friend before. Not a real friend, that is. Most people, when they find out what I used to do for a living…well, they give me a sickly smile, then go out of their way to avoid me as if I might pass on the plague or something. The only time I ever had anything nasty…well, I was only a kid of fourteen…and it was me dad that gave it to me. Me mam used to go around shaking her head and laughing about it, saying there must be an epidemic or something for us both to be stricken with the same thing. She was ignorant, me mam. She knew nowt! Or she pretended…Mothers are a breed apart, ye know?”

  “I know!” I commiserated with feeling, having suffered the slings and arrows of my own mother’s miserable misfortunes over the years. “Coffee, Ros?”

  “Later. Can I just have another bit of that pudding,” she looked at me sheepishly and I had to laugh. “And then we can finish off the wine…or have we already done that?”