by Sarah Duncan
'Wake up!' Her neighbour elbowed her in the ribs. 'It's you.'
'Sorry.' There was a small ripple of amusement from the rest of the women.
Mary did not look amused. 'As I was saying, we'd like to welcome Isabel Freeman, who is a new mother and I'm sure she will be an asset to the committee.'
Isabel, hunched in her chair, felt that she was going to be anything but an asset.
The meeting dragged on for what seemed like ages. Isabel got home after ten to find Katie in the middle of a complicated game involving all her stuffed animals and Michael still in the bath, his fingertips wrinkled into white prunes. Quickly she hustled them into their respective beds, kissed them and turned the lights off, all the time inwardly seething at Neil, who couldn't even be bothered to put his children to bed.
'They kept saying they wanted you,' he said as if that explained Michael's everlasting bath, the unwashed dishes downstairs, and Katie's unread bedtime stories. He had managed to get himself to bed, she noticed sourly, and was halfway through a gold-embossed thriller. He was an intelligent adult with two arms and two legs who professed love for his children, she thought. Was he deliberately incompetent because he thought she wouldn't ask him to manage the evening again, or was he just incompetent? And which was worse?
She loaded the dishwasher and tidied up downstairs, then came back up and got ready for bed. As she slipped under the duvet Neil looked up from his book.
'By the way, my parents rang.'
'Oh, yes? Are they well?' she asked, polite as ever about Neil's parents, safe in Scotland. Far enough away for her not to have to think about them.
'Fine. I've invited them down for the weekend.'
'Neil, no, you haven't.' It was an appalling thought. Neil appeared distinctly put out.
'They haven't seen the house yet.'
Isabel swallowed. 'When are they coming?'
'Two weeks' time. Ma's got some basketweaving course that she doesn't want to miss.'
'Two weeks.' She mentally ran through their diary. 'I don't think we're doing anything that weekend. I suppose I'd better ring Moira up and confirm.'
'No need, I've already said it's okay.'
'But I might have arranged something else.'
'Have you?'
'It's the first weekend of half term. We could easily have been doing something - going away, even.'
'But we're not.'
'No, but don't you see -'
'What?'
'You should have asked me.'
'You weren't here. You were off at your PTA meeting.' He went back to his book, making what sounded like a little grunt of satisfaction deep in his throat.
'I can't win, can I?' She closed her eyes. Everything seemed so difficult with Neil at the moment. All conversations ended up in antagonism, the grit in the shell rasping against the side. Only there was no pearl to soothe the irritation. Did being with Patrick make it better or worse? Better, because she had her other, secret life to dream of, or worse because it emphasised the contrast with her life as Neil's wife?
Did she love Neil? Underneath the irritation, was there love? She couldn't imagine her life without Neil being in it, but that could be habit. She had favourite books that she felt the same way about, dusty paperbacks she hadn't read for ten years or more but had lugged from one country to the next. She could never throw them away. They were part of her, in the same way that Neil was part of her.
'I'm sorry I was sharp,' she said. 'Just tired, I suppose.'
'Perhaps you should give up work,' he said. His voice sounded neutral but she thought she could detect a spike of something else, like guacamole laced with chilli. She decided to ignore it and settled herself down to sleep, her back towards him.
'By the way,' he said, 'speaking about work, I know you said you weren't earning much but the accountant needs to know. Give me your payslips and I'll pass them on to him.'
'I don't get payslips.'
'What then, cash stuffed down your bra?' He sounded amused and for a second she hated him.
'No, of course not.' She hunched the duvet over her shoulder. At the end of the first week she had asked about her wages. Patrick had looked surprised, and said they were having a four-week trial period. He'd pay her at the end, and if both wanted to continue the arrangement, at the end of every month thereafter. It had sounded reasonable; after all, she might have been useless or got bored. But she wasn't useless, nor was she bored. The afternoon of the storm had come before the four weeks were up. Since then, Patrick had not offered her any money, and she hadn't liked to ask. Neil made an irritated 'tsk' noise.
'I've told you before that it's important to keep proper records. It doesn't take much to go over the tax threshold. We'll have to do a certain amount of juggling.'
'We?'
'Gordon and me. Our accountant, yes? We've been minimising my tax bill through using your allowances as a non-earner. You know that.' Well, yes, she did know that. Or at least, Neil told her what he was doing and she let it pass cleanly through her head without touching the sides. Dealing with the money was what Neil did, like she looked after the children. Occasionally she felt guilty, thinking of the great campaigners like the Pankhursts who had struggled to gain independence for women. On the other hand, if Neil wanted to do it... She rolled over and looked at him. He was still talking.
'Now you're making some money, however little, we'll have to look again. And there's National Insurance to consider.' He smiled at her, as if metaphorically patting her little head. 'But you don't have to worry about it. Just make sure he gives you a proper payslip.'
'I don't think I can.'
'Don't look so dismayed. If you like. I'll give him a ring and sort it out for you.'
'No!'
'All right, don't bite my head off.'
'You're not to phone.' Her nerve ends jangled at the thought of Neil ringing Patrick. It suddenly seemed too much, Patrick and Justine, money, the PTA, and now Neil. Anger flared. 'What are you doing, talking about my business to some stranger?'
'Gordon's hardly some stranger, darling.'
'He is to me.' She covered her mouth with her hand, as if she could keep the words inside.
'Now, come on, that's not fair.'
They lay beside each other in the bed, letting the hot, red silence between them dissipate. Neil picked up his book.
'We'll talk about it in the morning when you're a little less tired.'
'I promise I'll ask, just please don't phone. Please.'
'There's no need to look so tragic. I only want to make sure you're not taken advantage of.'
Oh, to be taken advantage of by Patrick, she thought. After a whole weekend without him her body was taut with longing. She wrenched her mind back to Neil and his wretched payslip.
'Promise you won't phone?'
'I promise. Just bring back a payslip.'
Chapter 9
'He wants a payslip.'
'Mmm?'
'He wants a payslip.' Isabel looked at Patrick stretched out on the bed stark naked, eyes closed, as unselfconscious as a cat. She pulled the sheet more tightly around her. Patrick opened one eye and squinted at her.
'What are you rambling on about, darling?' he said on a yawn.
'Neil. He wants me to have a payslip to give to his accountant.'
Patrick considered this for a moment then shut his eye. 'Prat.'
'Patrick!'
'Man's a complete arse.'
'He's my husband.'
'I rest my case.' Patrick rolled over and twitched the sheet away from her. 'Look at you. La bellezza.' He ran his hand over her outline. 'You must let me photograph you one afternoon.'
Isabel reached for the sheet again; too hard to concentrate on holding your tummy in and talk at the same time.
'Seriously, what am I going to do?'
'Ignore him. Let me teach you Italian. This is your pancia, your ance, your lovely coscia and down here, down here is your figa. C'mon, relax.'
'I can't,'
said Isabel, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
'Don't go. I was going to teach you about my erezione.'
'I can guess what that is.' Isabel started to get dressed.
'For a mistress you're being very boring.' Patrick flopped back on the bed. 'I wish I hadn't given up smoking. This is just the right moment for a lungful of tar.'
Isabel paused from doing her new jeans up. 'Is that what I am? A mistress?'
Patrick shrugged. 'What else? Employee, if you prefer. What's wrong with mistress anyway?'
'It's just -' Isabel paused, trying to work out in her own mind what she felt. All these labels defining her with reference to someone else. Wife, mother. Now mistress. She watched a shaft of sunlight filter through the curtains and light up a slice of shimmering dust motes. There was hardly any furniture in the room, just a chest of drawers and a chair as well as the bed. Several heaps of clothes were dumped on the floor.
The phone started to ring and she crossed the landing into the office room, tugging down her sweatshirt as she went. 'Patrick Sherwin Associates... yes, I'll just see if he's available.' She held the phone to her chest. 'It's Andrew. Are you available?'
'No. Damn, I should speak to him. Tell him I'm coming.' Patrick started to pull his trousers on. 'Make me a coffee, would you, hon?'
'He's just coming,' Isabel told the long-suffering Andrew, then put the phone down on the table and went downstairs to the kitchen.
Only three weeks, she thought, staring out of the window and waiting for the kettle to boil. Three weeks ago I was standing here watching Patrick get wet in the rainstorm. And now I'm his mistress. Mistress. Such a loaded word. She smiled, picturing herself on a chaise-longue, dressed in a frothy negligèe, waving one white arm languidly in a come hither fashion, half-eaten box of chocolates lying discarded on the floor. That sort of mistress probably wore high-heeled mules with puffs of pink swansdown on the front, and satin French knickers and stockings, and simply existed for sex. It had a certain appeal, she admitted to herself as she put the cafetière together. She couldn't see Patrick being attracted to it though; he was far too restless. No, the soothing geisha-like passivity would be more attractive to the tired businessman, popping into his nid d'amour, after a long day at the office, for a few hours of pampering and fluffing up of the male ego. Someone like Neil. She pushed him out of her mind.
Perhaps she was closer to the modem mistress, the businesswoman who managed her life, her lover, her husband, her children and her personal trainer with consummate ease and a Psion Palmtop. She could see herself successfully playing that role for about ten minutes. She smiled. I don't think I'm very good at bossing people around; I'm too worried they might say no, she thought. Perhaps I should be more decisive, more assertive. She pushed the cafetière plunger down hard, too hard. The cafetière broke and scalding coffee spurted out, splattering across her top and jeans.
'Shit!' She grabbed a tea towel and scrubbed at her front, leaving hot, dark coffee splodges. Her jeans were burning her legs. 'Why am I such a mess?' A vision of Justine's perpetually neat bob and self-contained expression passed across her mind. She took off her sweatshirt and saw that the coffee had gone right through to her white shirt. Bugger. Now what?
'Problems?' Patrick was leaning against the door, half-dressed.
'I've stupidly managed to get coffee all over me.'
'Bad luck.' He didn't sound very sympathetic and she felt put out.
'But I've got nothing else to wear.'
'Just how I like you,' Patrick leered at her, then relented. 'Grab one of my sweaters from upstairs.'
Isabel went back up to the bedroom and stripped off her steaming clothes. There were red marks on her legs where the coffee had scalded, but they weren't painful. She rummaged through Patrick's clothes, choosing the largest sweater she could find - one hundred percent pure cashmere, she noticed, and the thick, expensive kind. She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, feeling the softness and inhaling his smell. He's selfish and he doesn't love me, she thought. He might even be seeing someone else. As a mistress I have no rights, no claims. I can't even ask. This relationship is about sex, and that's all there is. Falling in love is out of the question.
She came back down to the kitchen and bundled her coffee-stained clothes into the washing machine.
'Why don't you chuck some of my stuff in while you're at it?' Patrick said, slipping his arm about her waist and planting an affectionate kiss behind her ear. She twisted round to face him.
'Yeah, and I expect you think I could do a little bit of housework while I'm at it.'
Patrick ran a lazy hand down her spine. 'I was hoping you might...'
'You must be joking,' Isabel laughed. 'I'm famous for being the untidiest person in the world.'
'Really?' Patrick looked surprised. 'You seem very organised to me. You're brilliant at sorting my stuff out.'
Isabel thought about it. It was true that since she'd been working for him she'd put Patrick's papers into some sort of order, persuading him to use his filing cabinet and bookshelves, and devising a system that he could follow. There were no more papers strewn around the sitting room and the office looked positively professional.
'Perhaps it's different when it's someone else's mess. Easier to deal with than one's own.'
'I need you to sort me out.'
'No, you don't. I don't mind doing the office stuff, but your dirty washing is your own. Don't sulk.' She kissed the palm of his hand, thinking, is this really just sex? 'Wives get the dirty socks, mistresses don't. Even I know that's the deal.'
'I see... And what do you think mistresses should get? Apart from payslips, of course.'
'It's not me that wants a payslip, it's Neil. And his bloody accountant.'
'I hope you don't mind me saying this, but your husband seems a complete buffoon.'
'I do mind you saying it, and you still haven't given me a payslip. Actually, you haven't given me any pay.' 'How much do you want?'
What I've earned, of course.'
'Ah. Now that's an interesting issue.' He was very close to her. 'Are you charging me for services rendered, or am I charging you?'
How much do you think your services are worth?' she murmured.
'It's what they're worth to you.'
'Why don't we just say they're mutually beneficial.'
He kissed her. 'Shall we go and be mutually beneficial upstairs?'
'Not until I've got some money.' The washing machine clunked on and started to vibrate against her backside.
'You're a hard woman, Mrs Freeman.'
'You're a hard man, Mr Sherwin,' she said. 'In several senses of the word.'
Are you blackmailing me?'
'No, I'm going on strike.'
'Do you think you can?'
'Um.' She tried to ignore his hand on her. 'To be honest, I'm not sure.'
'I'd hate you to have to suppress yourself.' He reached into his back pocket, brought out his wallet and shook it out, coins spilling onto the floor, notes fluttering down. 'Every penny I possess I give to you. All I have.' He nibbled her ear.
She put her arms round his neck. 'Everything?'
'Of course. Will everything be enough for Madam?'
'Mmm, s'pose so. It'll do for now. For the moment,' she said, kissing him back.
'Then turn around, you gorgeous creature, and bend over.'
- ooo -
Afterwards she said, 'In some ways the money's not really important, but in other ways it is. Let's face it, I'm not your kept woman, I'm somebody else's kept woman. So in that way I don't need the money. But coming to you was, in a very small way, a chance to do something with my life, to have a little money of my own. Keep myself, rather than be kept. So it is important.' She sipped her tea.
'Money's the most important thing there is.' Patrick leant back on his chair and stared up at the ceiling.
'More than love?'
'Oh, yes. Love comes and goes, but the bills have to be paid.'
'I don't believe you're really that cynical.'
'Perhaps not. I don't know, Isabel, I'm as confused as the next man. I just know that if it's a choice between love or money, money will win every time.'
'That's not true.'
'Look around you. Look at all these empty marriages.'
'They didn't all marry for money.'
'But they stay because of it. Don't you?' he asked very softly.
Isabel paused, pushing back the sleeves of Patrick's sweater.
'If I say I stay for things like security and stability and company, you'll say that's just the same as money, won't you?' She clasped her hands in front of her, trying to disentangle her thoughts. 'I do love Neil. Perhaps not in the same way I once did, but... we've shared so much. That matters. And then there are the children.'
'The clinching argument.'
'At the end of the day, yes. Why not? Don't sneer; just because you're not interested, it doesn't mean that other people aren't. Anyway, it's all right for you. In ten years' time, if you decide to have children, you'll be able to pick up some girl and have children, no problem.'
'Perhaps.' He looked out of the window, his face sad.
'I suppose that what it comes down to in the end is. I'd never leave my children, they want to be with both me and Neil, and so we stay together.'
'So romantic.' He looked back at her, as if in contempt.
'What about us? Is that any more romantic? Sex without love? Without a future?' She spoke more bitterly than she had meant and the atmosphere became as brittle as icicles. There was a slight pause, then Patrick got up.