by Sarah Duncan
Should she go? Or was that being hysterical? She hesitated, then started to mop up the coffee, in case the terracotta stained. Neil would be horrified if he knew what Patrick had called her, she thought. What she had said was anodyne to the point of stupidity, maybe. But it was outrageous to call her stupid, let alone with such passion. Neil would want her to go.
Good in bed.
It would be cowardly to go, she told herself. And she didn't want to go back to the weekly trudge through the Situations Vacant and the humiliation of being ineligible even for an interview. She squeezed out the dishcloth and draped it over the sink. She would stay for the moment and see what happened next.
- ooo -
An hour or so later Isabel was upstairs in the office, trying to sort out which invoices had been paid and which hadn't, when she heard the front door give a gentle click and footsteps downstairs. She kept her back to the door and her head down.
'Isabel?'
'Mmm?' she said, not turning round, apparently intent on her work.
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that.' His deep voice was contrite. A humble rumble, she thought, and smiled inwardly, still checking through the invoices. The nape of her neck felt naked where shed tied her hair back for work. She could feel his eyes on her and perhaps he sensed her mood because he came and stood next to her.
'I shouldn't lose my temper like that, but I do. It doesn't mean anything. My Italian blood coming out, maybe. My mother is a great one for flying teacups. I hope this won't stop you working for me.' He paused. His voice sounded hesitant and she realised that he was not used to apologising. It made her feel powerful. He lightly touched her arm. 'Isabel?'
She looked up at him and for a mad, wild second thought: he's going to kiss me.
But he didn't.
'Let me take you out to lunch at the pub, to make up for being so foul.' She could feel the blood rush to her face and turned away to hide her confusion.
'I've brought sandwiches.' Her voice sounded tight, as tight as his was relaxed.
'Chuck them. Say you'll forgive me, and come out to the pub.'
She swallowed. 'I do forgive you, and thank you for the offer, but I'm going to eat my sandwiches for lunch. I think that's best.'
'You haven't forgiven me.'
'No, really. Actually, I hadn't given it a moment's thought till now.' She smiled what she hoped was a particularly bland smile at him. The efficient and very respectable Mrs Freeman. 'Now. There seem to be a whole batch of invoices missing. From about reference number 4550 onwards. Any idea where they are?'
'Not really. I loathe paperwork.'
Quelle surprise Isabel thought. I'd never have guessed.
He looked around the room as if it was the first time he'd seen it. 'You could try in that box.'
He indicated an old photographic paper box, flat and shiny yellow, perched on top of a pile of computer monitors. She started to search for the missing invoices, hoping that her body language would indicate she was busy, although all her senses were alert to Patrick, who left the room after a few minutes.
She sighed and carried on looking through the box. She found old business cards, an Indian takeaway menu, a photograph. She picked it up. Patrick smiled lazily at her, his arm casually draped over a slim brown girl with silver-blonde hair in a white bikini. His ex-wife? Or some other girlfriend? They were on a yacht and the sky behind them was an intense cobalt blue. She turned it over, but there was nothing written on the back, no indication of when it had been taken. She slipped the photograph under the takeaway menu and tried not to think of Patrick looking impossibly glamorous. And good in bed.
She worked upstairs for the rest of the morning having located the missing invoices, scrunched and tom, behind the radiator of all places. When she looked out of the window she could see Patrick pacing up and down the garden, apparently talking to himself, arms waving. He looked absolutely mad, then she realised that he was wearing some sort of headset so he didn't have to hold his mobile phone at the same time as talk.
I was right not to go out to lunch with him, she thought. It was important to keep the lines drawn, not to cross them. He was her employer, after all. Although he shouldn't shout at her. Neil would be furious if he knew about it. She closed the window thoughtfully.
But she liked working for Patrick. The last two weeks had been absorbing and purposeful. She liked sorting all his stuff out, arranging letters in files and folders, organising the unused filing cabinet, writing headings in the tabs and sliding them on. She liked typing his letters, especially with the spellchecker for her useless spelling. She liked being useful; she liked being defined by her work rather than her functions as wife and mother. She liked answering the phone in her special efficient voice; she liked it when Patrick went out for a meeting and she had the house to herself; she liked it when Patrick was in, and the way he talked to her while she worked. She liked the way he dismissed bills so casually, whatever Neil said about it being completely irresponsible. Sometimes he would lean across her to change a word or two as she typed, close enough for her to feel the heat from his body. She liked that too.
'Right. No excuses. You're coming to the pub with me.'
Isabel jumped. Patrick had come into the office and was handing her her coat.
'But my sandwiches -'
'Feed them to the ducks. You're coming with me.' He helped her with her coat.
'But -' said Isabel, accepting her bag from him, and allowing herself to be gently pushed out of the room.
'No buts. It's company policy.'
'What is?'
'No one's allowed to say "but". And employers who shout at employees have to take them out to lunch in compensation.' He lowered his voice as they went down the stairs. 'Stops all sorts of harassment lawsuits.'
Isabel giggled. 'If I promise not to sue, do I get to eat my sandwiches in peace?'
'Nope, you've got to come to lunch.' He opened the front door. 'After you.'
Isabel hesitated for a second, then stepped outside. 'Thank you,' she said.
The Mason's Arms was at the end of the road. Isabel had passed it often, but never been inside.
'What do you want to drink?' Patrick said.
'Something soft. A bitter lemon please.'
'Have a proper drink.'
'I'm not used to drinking at lunchtime.'
'I insist.'
'A glass of white wine then.'
He went to the bar while she looked around, feeling guilty at being in the dark, traditional interior when it was a gloriously sunny day outside, perhaps the last sunny day of the year. It felt wickedly decadent, like going to an afternoon showing at the cinema in high summer. It wasn't what she had expected to be doing. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been in a pub like this, resolutely adults only. Before she was married, she supposed. Since they'd been back in the UK they'd tried a few country pubs with the children but this was quite different. No family ghetto in the conservatory, no fenced-off play area outside.
'Let's grab somewhere to sit while we can,' Patrick said, handing her a glass of wine and indicating a table by the fire. They sat down, Patrick opposite her, legs crossed so his left ankle rested on his right knee. He appeared totally relaxed.
Isabel perched on the edge of her seat. She hadn't expected this at all. A pub lunch, with a stranger. Well, not exactly a stranger. Her boss. She shot a glance towards him. Not good-looking, with a crooked nose, perhaps broken in a rugby match, and hooded eyes. Half-closed eyelids should have made him look sleepy, stupid even, not vibrant and alert. She had often wondered what it meant to have 'come-to-bed eyes', and now she thought she knew. It was a phrase that had intrigued her, like 'fuck-me shoes'. What on earth were they? She thought suddenly of the plum suede shoes she'd worn to the interview and blushed.
'It's getting quite full so I think we'd better order food now. Have you thought about what you want to eat?'
Her mind went blank. 'Ploughman's please,' she s
aid, being the only food she could think of.
She watched him weave his way through the other drinkers to the bar, tall enough to have to stoop under the beams. She wondered how old he was. Forty? Forty-two? The pub was filling up with people - office workers, she thought. Men in grey suits with jackets slung over striped shoulders, ties pulled down and slip-on shoes; women in tight skirts and blouses, and high-heels. She remembered Justine saying that Patrick's skeletons were more likely to be drinking with him in The Mason's Arms. Patrick was a regular, judging by the number of people who nodded to him.
He came back with another round of drinks. She fumbled with her purse, but he stopped her.
'It's on me, remember. My apology for shouting.' He settled back in his seat. 'Do you know Justine well?'
'I only met her, what, two weeks ago.' She blinked in the smoky atmosphere, surprised at how her life had changed. 'And you? Do you know her well?' Good in bed, she thought.
'Justine and I go back a few years.' His voice was still deep, still relaxed, but there was a finality about it. 'Tell me about working at the BBC. I know a few people who work there.'
'It was ages ago.' She took a swig of wine, feeling the cool oiliness around her mouth. 'Before I married.'
'And did you stop working the second you got married? How very Fifties.'
'The sort of places Neil was posted, it was difficult for me to do anything. Even in countries where there aren't restrictions on women working it's often difficult: you haven't got the right permit, or your qualifications don't count.' She fiddled with a beer mat, thinking back. 'At the time it seemed logical. Neil was going abroad on a two-year contract, and I could only go with him if we were married. And if we were married the company provided a house, but if Neil was single he had to stay in a hostel. And I wanted to travel so...'
'It sounds a very convenient arrangement.' His voice was dry. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea.
'We were madly in love, of course.'
'Of course.' His eyes were half-closed, but she caught a glint of reflected firelight. 'And now?'
Isabel ran a finger round the rim of her wineglass. 'Well, of course. That goes without saying,' she said, conscious of a stiffness in her voice. 'Look, is that our food?'
Patrick turned and beckoned the waitress to their table. She put down the simplest ploughman's lunch in front of Isabel and a steaming pie with chips in front of Patrick.
'And another round of drinks on my tab,' he added as the waitress left.
'Oh, no, I mustn't,' Isabel said. 'I've got the school run later.'
'That won't be for ages. And you're not doing anything else this afternoon, are you?'
'Um - working for you?'
'And this is what I want you to do. You did say at your interview you were prepared to be flexible.'
Was he teasing her? Isabel looked at Patrick, but he was busy digging into the top of his pie, letting out clouds of steam.
'That smells good,' Isabel said.
'Guinness and beef. They make them here. Try some.' He speared a chunk of steak onto his fork and held it out to her. Isabel hesitated, then opened her mouth and took it. It was delicious. Their eyes met and Isabel blushed. I shouldn't have done that, she thought. A boundary had been crossed. You simply didn't behave like that with a stranger. An employer, what's more. She reached out for her glass of wine, spilling a little on the table.
'Sorry.'
'Don't apologise,' he said, mopping up the pool with a paper napkin. 'A beautiful woman should never apologise.'
Isabel quickly put down her glass before she spilled more wine all over the place. Patrick ate more pie as if he'd said nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps to him he hadn't, Isabel thought, but to her it felt like another boundary had been crossed.
'Help yourself if you want more.' He indicated his plate.
'No, I'm fine,' she said, picking at a crumb of cheese and popping it in her mouth. Her finger tasted salty. Had he really called her a beautiful woman? She hugged the idea inside. It was a long time since anyone had commented positively on the way she looked. She stole a glance at Patrick who was finishing his meal. As if he could feel her eyes on him he looked up.
'You're not eating. Don't you like it?'
'No, no, it's fine, thank you. I'm not that hungry, that's all.' She tried to think of something to say that would steer her back to safety. 'Have you lived here long?'
'In the area, about eight years.' He used the last chip to mop up the gravy and ate it with relish. 'My wife wanted to move out of London, find somewhere for her horse.'
'Her horse?'
'It was costing a fortune at livery in London.'
'So you moved to the country.'
'Yes. Biggest mistake I ever made.' He leant back on his chair.
'Why, don't you like the countryside?'
'Did I say I don't like the country?'
'Didn't you?'
'I don't think so.'
She waited for him to say more, but he didn't, he just sat there, his crisp white shirt emphasising his dark skin.
'I'm sorry. I thought you said you didn't like the country.'
'No.'
'My mistake. I must have misunderstood you...' She drank some more to hide her embarrassment. Patrick fiddled with his fork, frowning.
'I don't dislike the country. Not real country at any rate. I dislike what this sort of commuter-belt country does to people. The men go off to work during the week, while the women stay at home and have babies and run houses. Or they become horsey, and sublimate all the energy they should be putting into their sex lives into some wretched quadruped. Or worse, both husband and wife take up horses and start hunting. And that's the end.' He rolled his eyes.
Isabel wasn't sure what to say. 'You're anti-hunting then.'
''Course. I don't give a stuff for foxes, and nor would anyone else if they looked like rats, but hunting people are the pits, puffed up on snobbery and self-importance.'
'Your wife didn't hunt, I take it.'
'No, she was mad keen on it. Still is, she's always fiddling about with a martingale or polishing her snaffles.'
'Didn't that make life difficult?'
''Course not.' He grinned at her. 'We got divorced.'
Isabel felt very stupid. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be. Best thing for us. Except it left me in this dump instead of in London.' He stretched. 'Mmm, that was just what I needed. D'you want something else? What about a brandy?'
'Shouldn't I get back to work?' Isabel pushed her chair back as if to go.
'Don't be silly. Stay and have a brandy. Or a coffee.' She hesitated. She'd had two large glasses of wine and felt distinctly woozy.
'Perhaps a coffee would be a good idea...'
He ordered two coffees and two brandies despite her protests. When they came they looked suspiciously like doubles. 'If you don't drink it, I will,' he said airily. He raised his brandy glass towards her, and out of politeness she touched it with her own. It was years since she had drunk spirits and even the little sip she took caught the back of her throat.
'I shouldn't have shouted at you,' Patrick said. 'I wouldn't blame you if you decided to walk out.'
'No, it's fine,' Isabel said, embarrassed.
'Of course it's not fine. You're only being polite.'
'No, really. I didn't take it personally.'
'That's very generous of you.'
Isabel wasn't sure what to say, so she sipped her brandy.
'I'm always impressed by people who manage to stay married,' Patrick said, as if that had been what they were talking about. 'And are happy, of course. It's not impressive to stay married and be miserable.' He finished the rest of his brandy.
'It might be. All marriages have rough patches.'
'That's a euphemism for cowardice. Being too frightened to get out of the cage.'
'No, it's not cowardice,' she said, stumbling over the words in her eagerness to defend. 'It's about being a family, staying together whate
ver happens.'
'For better or worse?' His voice was cynical. 'Sounds too much like that poem - "And always kept a hold on nurse for fear of finding something worse".'
'That's not my experience,' she said, pushing the brandy glass away from her.
'Then I congratulate you on being one of the lucky ones.'
There was a short, uncomfortable silence. She could feel her heart racing and there was a film of sweat on her skin. I'm not used to drinking in the day, she thought. I shouldn't be here.
Patrick broke the silence. 'You think I'm too cynical.'
'I wouldn't know. I hardly know you.'
'Perhaps I am cynical about marriage.' He leant forward and she realised that his eyes weren't brown, as she'd thought, but a dark green. 'You see, my wife left me.'
'I am sorry.' Her heart went out to him, and she touched his hand lightly to show sympathy, then drank some more brandy so the hand touching looked incidental.
'Yes, she left me,' he said almost to himself, his voice soft and low. 'Left me for that bloody horse.'
Isabel let out a shriek of laughter, which she stifled with her hand firmly over her mouth. 'I'm sorry,' she said when she could. 'It just sounds so funny.'
'Not very funny when it happens to you,' he said, but his eyes were twinkling at her. Isabel tried to be serious.
'Did she really leave you for her horse?'
'More or less.'
'That's dreadful,' she managed, before having to put her hand over her mouth again to stop giggling.
'Glad you find it so funny.' He added lugubriously, 'And it was a bloody mare too.'
I've drunk too much, Isabel thought, eyes watering with laughter. But I haven't laughed like this for ages. Patrick started to talk about Milbridge and the business, and she tried to listen but her brain wouldn't concentrate, it kept skimming over the surface. Patrick ordered two more brandies, and drank both of them but she didn't care. She didn't care about anything. She didn't care if people were looking at her and Patrick, didn't care that Neil would be appalled by her drinking brandy in the middle of the day.