by Sarah Duncan
Mr Sherwin was seated at one end of a garden table, legs crossed and feet on top as he rocked the chair backwards, still talking into his phone. As soon as he saw Isabel he put his legs down and finished off his conversation.
'Thanks, that's just what I needed.' He smiled up at her. 'As you can see, it's all go at the moment, but hopefully it'll calm down later. What I'd like you to do today is answer the house phone and take messages, and start sorting the office out. It's the room upstairs, at the back.' His mobile started to ring, and he reached for it. 'Sorry, you're going to have to make it up as you go along today. When you've finished your coffee, can you find out about flights to Milan on Friday? Returning Sunday - from Heathrow, if possible. The computer's in the office.' He looked at the phone display. 'Christ, it's that fool Andrew again.' He pressed the answer button and, with a big smile, said, 'Andrew! What can I do for you?'
It was embarrassing sitting there doing nothing, trying not to listen to Mr Sherwin's phone conversation. Isabel sat for a minute then took her coffee inside. She decided to do the flight booking while he was safely outside and yabbering on his mobile so he wouldn't see her first attempt at booking something over the Internet. She rinsed out her mug, then went upstairs to discover the office.
The office was the back room, not the one with the closed curtains. The room had obviously once been used as a bedroom, with a mattress sagging against the wall. More papers were stacked on the floor or spilled off the edges of the bookcase. There were two large cardboard boxes filled with a tangle of electrical leads and crocodile clips, while computer monitors and keyboards were stacked haphazardly in the corner. Propped up on top of them was a pinboard nearly hidden behind multiple pieces of paper skewered at strange angles, business cards stuck into the frame corners, and a couple of photographs of a gleaming sports car, lovingly polished to a high shine.
Other photographs were pinned on the walls, landscapes mostly. Isabel recognised several local landmarks. They weren't snapshots but what Isabel thought of as proper photographs. She remembered the film canisters in the fridge. He was obviously serious about photography.
One photograph traced the contours of a woman's body in silhouette, just discernible in the darkness. A solitary square of golden light illuminated a patch of naked skin. Mr Sherwin's wife? Or someone else? Isabel peered intently at the photograph, trying to make out the woman's features, but they were hidden in soft darkness. A noise downstairs made her jump, and she left the photograph.
In the middle of the room was a desk, and on the desk was a computer. She eyed it nervously. Although she'd told Mr Sherwin that she knew what she was doing, she'd only used the Internet for email before. Neil had given her a computer lesson at the weekend. It had reminded her of him teaching her to drive, endlessly patient with her mistakes. A good teacher. I must remember to say thank you properly she thought, smiling at the memory of his tolerance. She hesitated by the sole chair placed directly in front of the computer. Mr Sherwin had obviously been using it earlier; the machine was on and two empty mugs sat to the right. She touched the monitor. What if she couldn't do it?
The room felt stuffy so she opened the sash window and leant out. She inhaled the dean morning air deeply, letting the freshness fill her with confidence. If she got into difficulties with the computer she knew Neil would help her, would come to her rescue with technical support. Dear, dear Neil. He was good. She looked down and saw Mr Sherwin in the garden below. It seemed an odd thing to do, give a stranger a free hand with sorting through your papers and possessions. But he seemed an odd sort of man, very casual and not businesslike at all. She couldn't imagine him working in Neil's office, for example. She wondered how old he was. There was no sign of his hair thinning, even from this angle, whereas poor Neil already had a bald patch and receding hairline.
A rustle behind her made her realise that the breeze from the window was threatening to disperse the papers even more thoroughly around the room, so she pulled the sash down. Then it seemed a pity to shut out the freshness so she pushed it up again, to leave a crack for the air. Time for work, she thought.
The first priority was the flights. She quickly ran through the different airlines and came up with a selection of times and prices that she wrote down in her neatest writing, as she imagined an efficient secretary would do. Rome the weekend before, Milan this. It seemed very glamorous. Perhaps, she thought, she and Neil could go one weekend. They could ask his parents to look after the children. She'd never been to Italy before, having missed out on being a student and backpacking around Europe.
Flight information sorted, she turned her attention to the room. There was an old filing cabinet in the corner. She opened the drawers in turn and discovered that it was almost empty, just a few manila folders lurking among the suspension files. She wrote labels for the front of the drawers: Clients and Accounts were obviously the first two drawers. The magazines, newspaper articles and advertisements could all become Information in the third drawer. And everything else could go into the bottom drawer marked, for the time being, Stuff. That settled, she began to work through the piles of paper, dividing them into the categories.
Underneath some computer magazines she found a scarlet clipboard, complete with pen. She made a list of what she had to do. Flights. System. Sort out office. Sort out sitting room. The list grew longer as she thought of things to do until she came to the end of the piece of paper. She ticked off the first two.
As she looked at the clipboard with a sense of achievement the phone rang. She found it on the floor underneath the table.
'Good morning, Patrick Sherwin Associates,' she said in the sort of voice she imagined an efficient personal assistant would use. 'Can I help you?' She inwardly prayed they wouldn't ask any awkward questions. Which could have been almost anything. But luckily the caller simply wanted to speak to Mr Sherwin.
Isabel opened the window. 'Mr Sherwin, Mr Sherwin,' she called down into the garden, waving her hand. 'Telephone.' He looked up and round at her. 'Telephone,' she repeated, miming holding a receiver to her ear.
'I'll take it downstairs,' he called back up to her. 'Who is it?'
Isabel grimaced. 'Sorry.'
He shook his head. 'No matter.' Isabel felt dim for not asking. An idiot would have thought to ask who it was. She turned away from the window when he called her back.
He was squinting up at her, eyes closed against the sunlight. 'You don't have to call me Mr Sherwin.'
'Oh.'
'Patrick will do fine.'
He nodded, then went into the house. Isabel turned back to the phone.
'He's just coming,' she said, forgetting to put on her ultra-efficient voice. She then waited until she heard the click as he picked up the downstairs phone. Then she put the phone down, thinking about calling Mr Sherwin Patrick. It seemed almost disrespectful to call an employer by their first name. Or was that old-fashioned, a remnant from living abroad for so long? But then, he doesn't call me Mrs Freeman, she thought. Neil would probably think he ought to. But then Neil thinks I ought to be at home washing his socks or something. Instead, here I am - at work. And it feels good.
- ooo -
'You'd have been very impressed by your old mother,' Isabel said to the children as they ate spaghetti, spattering tomato sauce over the table. 'I even did the bit with the credit card when Mr Sherwin had chosen the flight he wanted.' She'd got used to calling him Patrick over the day, but felt reticent about using his first name to the children.
'Does that mean I can have a PlayStation?'
'Nope.' She mopped round Michael's face, despite his protests. 'Mr Sherwin is half-Italian.'
'Why can't I have a PlayStation?'
'Because.'
'Won't you have lots of money now you're working?'
'No, and it's a matter of principle, not money, anyway. I don't want you to have a computer in your bedroom.'
'Everybody else has.'
'Tough. Listen, don't you want to hear about Italy? It's w
here spaghetti comes from.'
'I thought you got it from the supermarket.'
'Very funny. Eat up, Katie.' Katie was sucking up long strands of spaghetti, leaning back as if that would help. With one final suck, mouth like a goldfish, the spaghetti strand disappeared.
'I'm being Lady,' she said, starting on the next strand. Isabel was confused, then remembered the Disney film. 'Oh, Lady and the Tramp. Yes, they have spaghetti in an Italian restaurant, don't they?' Katie nodded, eyes popping with the effort of sustained suction.
'Yeuch, kissing.' Michael made a gesture as if putting two fingers down his throat, and added retching noises.
Typical boy, Isabel thought, not without pride. Whatever you did with them, children divided on gender lines, the boys liking guns and battles, the girls liking puppies and princesses.
'Mr Sherwin's very untidy, much worse than me.'
'Do you tell him off?' Michael asked.
'Of course not. He's my employer. C'mon you two, eat up. There's chocolate cake for afters.'
'Mmm.' Katie started to eat properly.
Only bought cake, not home-made, because she didn't have time to make her own. The first pangs of Working Mother Guilt gave her an illicit thrill. No longer merely someone else's adjunct, but a working woman too busy for trivia, rushing from one meeting to the next. A life filled to the brim with purpose. She cut each of them a tranche of cake, including herself on the grounds that she deserved a little treat. And although it wasn't as nice as home-made, it was still satisfyingly squidgy.
She sang to herself as she cleared up the tea things, and the good mood continued all the way through Neil's return home. He asked a few questions about her day, which she answered as neutrally as possible, not wanting to trigger any unpleasantness. She hoped that if she kept it low key, Neil would accept her working for Patrick. She'd sent a few emails to her friends about the new job, including one long one to Frances, her closest female friend, halfway across the world on a posting to Thailand, but she wanted to talk to someone about it.
She fished out Justine's business card from her handbag, now dog-eared and creased, unlike the immaculate Justine. She used the phone in the hall, away from Neil in the sitting room, safely ensconced in his armchair in front of the television - so like his father.
'I just wanted to say thank you. I've started working for Patrick Sherwin.'
'I heard.' Justine sounded amused.
From him? Isabel wondered what he had said about her. She wasn't sure she liked the idea of Patrick and Justine discussing her. No, she was being silly. Patrick had probably just said something in passing. She paused, uncertain of what to say next.
'I don't want to rush you, but I was just on my way out,' Justine said.
'Somewhere nice?'
'Just the usual crowd.'
The usual crowd. She imagined Justine sipping sapphire gin and tonic in a club, spotlights shining on her hair, perched on a bar stool while a group of admiring men leant against the polished brass rail.
'I wondered if you and Rachel would like to come round for tea after school one day next week?' Isabel blurted out.
'That sounds good.' They fixed a date for the following week.
'Look, I must dash. I'll see you next week. I expect you want me to dish the dirt about Patrick,' Justine added.
'No, no, of course not,' Isabel responded, but couldn't stop herself from asking, 'Is there any dirt?'
Justine laughed. 'Gotta go. You'll just have to wait.'
Later, Isabel undressed for bed as Neil sat in bed reading some company report. She wondered if he would notice if she grew a thick coat of body hair all over or developed a third breast. She pulled her nightdress over her head and hopped into bed. After a minute she snuggled up to him. He carried on reading but put his arm round her. With her head against his chest she could feel his heart beating, strong and regular.
'Neil -' She paused to get his attention. 'I'm really grateful for all the help you gave me with the computer.'
He squeezed her shoulder. 'I'm glad to help. You know that,' he said, turning the page.
She snuggled closer, letting her mind drift back over the day. It had been surprisingly tiring, and she had a long way to go before Patrick Sherwin's affairs were in order. But she'd enjoyed it, bringing order out of chaos. And he'd been impressed by what she'd managed to do.
'It's funny; I never do the bills or anything like that at home, and here I am doing a complete stranger's. Perhaps I could take it over.'
Neil grunted. 'Only if we wanted to be getting final demands all the tune.'
'You just won't let that go will you?' Isabel rolled away from Neil and settled down to sleep, back towards him. 'Anyway, Patrick says that no one in business pays until the last moment. It's called cash flow management.'
'Bloody poor management, if you ask me. Completely irresponsible.'
Isabel could just picture the expression on his face as he said it, unconsciously mimicking him under her breath. Completely irresponsible. You could tell he'd been a prefect. It made sense to her, making the bigger companies wait. They could afford it.
'And since when has this man been called Patrick?'
She froze for a second. 'Oh, since birth I suppose,' she said airily, and turned out her bedside light. 'I'm going to sleep now.'
'You know what I mean.'
And she did. 'Don't be so old-fashioned. I bet you call everybody else in your office by their first names.'
'That's quite different and you know it.'
'Well, I don't think so.' She hunched her shoulder into her duvet. 'I'm tired. Good night.'
She screwed up her eyes against the light from Neil's bedside lamp, willing for sleep to come quickly. In the half-darkness she could hear him turn the pages of his report. Strange how such a little noise could fill the room. After a while he laid down the report with a sigh and turned his light off.
A whisper of breath.
'Isabel?' A hand sneaking towards her, groping its way up past her nightdress.
'I'm tired.' The hand pawed an inert breast. A cold, thick hand with stubby fingers. She closed her eyes, not that Neil could see in the dark.
He pressed against her and asked, as he always did, 'Is this...?'
Pointless to say no. She always said yes, because yes was easier than no. No meant discussion, fumbled attempts to arouse her that she found deeply embarrassing. No nearly always meant giving in later. She got more sleep with yes and, most of the time, sleep mattered more. Tonight it mattered. She swallowed, a small sound in the darkness.
'It's fine. Go on.'
'Sure?'
As if in answer she hooked her leg over his hips to draw him towards her. Needing no further encouragement he plunged in, losing himself to the physical sensation, a dance that both of them knew, smooth and practised over the years. Practised to the point when it had ceased to have any meaning. Once, of course, it had been the most wonderful thing ever, but eighteen years and two children later, sex had dwindled into a routine activity. She didn't think she was unusual, judging from what other women said.
Sex with Neil was like a hobby, like playing golf. Neil was still keen and Isabel, supportive wife that she was, joined him. Sometimes it engaged her, held her interest, drew them together. Other times she merely strolled around the course with him, breathing deeply, applauding Neil's good shots, and vaguely hoping that the exercise at least was doing her good. It was nothing to be either unhappy or happy about - just another facet of married life.
But that evening there was something else, a lurking question: is this it? There should be, ought to be, something more. Acceptance was not the same as contentment. No matter how Neil pumped away, she felt empty. It seemed insignificant, no more important than a putter rattling in a golf bag. An unexpected hot tear slid out from under her tightly closed eyelids and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be alone.
Knowing it would hurry him up she dug her nails into his arms, breathed more heavily, m
uttered, 'Go on. Now.' Encouraged by those sparse tokens of passion he reached the eighteenth hole and collapsed down onto her. His body felt heavy, replete and contented. He kissed her, then rolled off and settled himself down for sleep. Curling up into a foetal position, she realised that she couldn't remember when he'd last bothered to ask if it was all right for her.
Chapter 5
When Helen had invited the whole family over to Sunday lunch, Isabel had been thrilled at the invitation, their first since coming back to the UK. Now, standing outside Helen's large Victorian house in the countryside outside Milbridge, she was not so sure. She hardly knew Helen, and had never met her husband, George. The links between the two women - both new to the area, both having gone to the same school - didn't seem enough to justify the formality of a Sunday lunch. Neil rang the bell, an ornate piece of cast-iron work that pulled out on a chain.
Silence.
'Perhaps I've got the wrong day,' Isabel said, shivering. It was cold out of the sunshine and she wished she'd brought a coat She wanted to tug Neil's sleeve and whisper, 'Let's not bother, let's just go home.' But that would be childish.
'Sunday lunch, you said. It's Sunday.' Neil rang the bell again.
'Perhaps I've got the wrong week.' But no, there were footsteps inside, and Helen opened the front door, her cheeks flushed. Then it was introductions, children being sent off to the playroom, and drinks for the adults - mean dribbles of gin and vast slurps of tonic. George and Neil recognised each other from the station platform and Helen exclaimed about yet another coincidence.
'Hardly,' snorted George. His eyes were pale blue and surprisingly large in his red face, like a Hanoverian portrait. 'Everybody takes the seven twenty.' His voice was contemptuous and Helen seemed to shrink down a size.
'What a lovely house,' Isabel said quickly, although she thought the house depressing.
'We were so lucky to find it,' Helen said, brightening. She launched into a long story of estate agents and probate, surveyors and footpaths. 'It took nearly a year.' They talked about houses and house prices, then moved on to soft furnishings. Helen confided that you could get amazingly cheap fabric from the market that really wasn't bad at all. It was the sort of conversation that is excruciatingly boring to anyone not involved but completely absorbing if you are, the equivalent to snuggling down on a Sunday afternoon with a fresh cup of tea and a packet of chocolate digestives in front of a black and white film starring Bette Davis.