by Sarah Duncan
'I'm going to do some work. As for your husband's payslip, as far as I'm concerned you're self-employed and therefore you can sort out your own tax and National Insurance. Just invoice me for the hours you've done.' He touched her shoulder lightly and said more kindly, 'I'll show you how to lay it out later.' He hesitated. 'Isabel, don't forget what I said. No falling in love.'
After he'd left the kitchen Isabel pressed her hands to her face. I don't love him, she told herself. I don't. I can't. I mustn't. But without love all it becomes is sex. Perhaps I should be like Patrick and say that sex is enough. No strings, no ties, no commitment. Isn't that what modern women are supposed to be able to do, say 'I like sex' and not be ashamed?
The money was still scattered over the floor and she bent down to pick it up, retrieving coins where they had rolled under the washing machine - £85.76, and sixty-five euros. She wasn't sure how much they were worth; about forty pounds she thought. Even if she said she spent half the day in bed with Patrick it wasn't enough to cover all the hours she had worked. I have earned this money, she thought. I have worked for it. It should be mine to keep. So why do I feel like a prostitute if I take it? She stacked the money into two piles on the table, unwilling to put either in her bag. Perhaps she should work out what she was owed, prepare the invoice he mentioned and then ask him directly. She'd seen enough invoices now to copy the format; she didn't need Patrick to help her.
There was a knock at the door and she got up, her bones aching as if she had flu. Why did life have to be so complicated? Patrick's sweater came halfway down her thighs, making her decent enough not to give anyone a thrill. More knocking.
'Coming,' she called and opened the door, expecting to see a deliveryman with a box of computer peripherals to be signed for. What she saw was Mary Wright, her eyebrows shooting upwards as she registered Isabel in Patrick's sweater.
'Isabel, good morning.'
Isabel nodded, speechless. Of all the people she expected to see, Mary was as likely as Nelson Mandela. What was she doing there?
'May I come in?'
'Of course.' Isabel opened the door wider and stepped back to allow Mary through. Mary came into the house and wrinkled her nose.
'Do I smell coffee?'
Yes, in the kitchen...' Mary started to move through into the kitchen and Isabel trotted after her, very conscious of her bare legs and naked feet padding on the cold floor. 'But you'll have to have tea. I smashed the cafetière and got coffee everywhere, which is why...' Her voice trailed away as Mary didn't seem to be listening.
'What did you make of the meeting last night?'
'Um. Very interesting.' Isabel tried to think of something to say. 'The Bonfire Party sounds fun.'
'Yes, people seem to enjoy it.' Mary ran her fingers along the top of the work surface. 'Anyway, I just thought I'd pop in to make sure everything was fine.'
Isabel stared at her. How did Mary know Isabel worked here? Through Justine? But why? Why was she there? What business was it of hers to check if everything was fine? And what did she mean by that anyway?
Mary gave Isabel a quick up-and-down, sniffed, then carried on. 'I haven't seen Patrick for ages. You know what men are like; they're useless about staying in touch. Unless they're gay, of course.' The phrase hung in the air. Isabel wasn't sure what to say. Any comment on Patrick's sexual preferences was beyond her, especially when some evidence was drying on her legs. She could feel herself blushing.
'I assume Patrick is here.'
'You want to see him?' Isabel felt even more stupid. Of course, there was no reason for Mary to want to see Isabel. But then, why did Mary want to see Patrick? Was she a client?
'Oh, look, my clothes have finished washing.' She hoicked them out of the machine, and shook them out. 'I'll just hang them up, and get Patrick for you. Help yourself to tea.' She pulled the airer out of the cupboard and escaped to the living room, calling to Patrick up the stairs.
He stuck his head over the landing. 'Who is it?'
'Mary Wright.'
'Mary? Good.' He clattered down the stairs.
What's she doing here?' Isabel hissed at him as he passed by, but he didn't seem to register the question before going through into the kitchen.
'Good to see you,' she could hear him say as she draped her damp clothes over the airer in front of the fire. 'And how's Richard? And the children?'
Her ears strained to catch Mary's response, but she couldn't distinguish the words. When she felt she couldn't arrange her clothes any longer she hesitated, then decided to go upstairs to the office like the good employee that she was. Back in the office she studied her list of things to be done, but none of them appealed. She wanted a soothing job, like untangling paperclips. A burst of laughter from downstairs. What could Patrick and Mary be talking about? Surely Mary and he... No, he couldn't. Not with Mary. Surely not. Another burst of laughter. She dithered between working and blatantly hanging over the banisters to eavesdrop. The decision was made for her by the phone ringing.
She zipped downstairs and hesitated in the kitchen doorway.
'Sorry to disturb you, but it's Andrew on the phone again. He says it's important.'
Mary was leaning against the washing machine, just as Isabel had been not so long ago. The thought that Mary might have turned up a little earlier and caught them made Isabel's stomach do an internal somersault.
'I'll have to take this call,' he said to Mary. 'Can you hang on for five minutes? Isabel will look after you.'
He left the room. Mary looked at Isabel in the same way that her formidable headmistress had done at school. It had the same effect on her heart, the sinking sensation of being scuppered by an iceberg.
Isabel tried for a beaming, welcoming, 'I'm not bothered' smile, but had a horrible feeling her lips had formed a sort of 'I'm as guilty as sin and please don't tell me off' simper.
'More tea?'
'No, thanks.' Mary heaved herself away from the washing machine. 'Patrick told me he'd got someone in to work for him. He didn't say it was you, however.'
'He's very discreet,' Isabel said, then thought it was the worst thing she could have said as Mary's eyebrows shot up again. 'I mean, he never talks about people. Only work,' she added, inwardly wincing, trying to sound more businesslike.
'I see.' Mary hesitated, then lowered her voice. 'I hope you know what you're doing.'
'I don't know what you mean,' Isabel said, heart pounding.
'I don't know you very well, but I know you have a husband and children.' Mary carried on, inexorable. 'I am very fond of Patrick but he is, how shall I put it? Unreliable.'
Isabel felt her face flush scarlet. 'Patrick is my employer,' she said, gripping the edge of the table. 'That's all there is to it.'
'I dare say,' Mary said, examining her gardener's nails, cracked and short with ingrained dirt. 'When I think what poor Caro had to put up with. Words fail me.' She lied, because words continued to roll out. 'I feel partly responsible. It was my idea that they move to Milbridge in the first place. Then there was all the trouble with Justine.'
'Justine?'
'Didn't you know? Caro found them in bed together - in her bed, what's more. It was the last straw and she chucked Patrick out.'
'I didn't know about... Not for sure.' Isabel held her hand to her mouth, seeing Patrick and Justine together, her blonde hair swinging against his darkness.
'Not that Justine stayed with Patrick for long - if I were gossiping I'd say she discovered that the money was Caro's and not Patrick's. How she kept it from her husband I don't know, but she managed to get a good settlement from him when they finally divorced. Justine's a clever girl, but greedy. Always one eye on the chequebook, though I think now she'd settle for a good provider,' Mary added, her tone that of the dispassionate observer.
'And Patrick?' Isabel asked, despite herself.
'You're not the first and you won't be the last.' Mary's expression was not unkind. 'I'd hate to see another marriage break up because of him.'
'I work for Patrick, and that's all,' Isabel said, trying to keep calm and obliterate the image of Patrick and Justine together from her mind. 'There is no question of anybody's marriage breaking up. He means nothing to me.' She could feel her lower lip quiver and her eyes fill with water. 'Nothing,' she repeated.
Mary looked at her, a steady, appraising sort of look. 'I really don't want to know what is or isn't going on. You're new to the area and I'm warning you to be careful.'
Isabel felt her spirit shrivel up. Lying to Neil was one thing, lying to Mary another. She tried desperately to think of something that could deflect Mary's clear-sighted gaze. 'I don't know what business it is of yours, anyway. What right have you got to come here and say these things?'
'There's no need to get upset. Patrick's reputation is common knowledge. You should know what you're getting into.'
'Know? I don't want to know all this - this gossip. That's all it is. Gossip, and jumping to conclusions. Just because I spilt coffee over myself and had to wash my clothes, you've decided I'm having an affair with Patrick.'
The word 'affair' reverberated around the room.
Mary paused. She stared at Isabel's feet and then let her gaze travel up her bare legs and over Patrick's sweater until she was looking Isabel straight in the eye. 'I am only informing you. Patrick has made a lot of women very unhappy. It's up to you if you're one of them.'
'You hardly know me. Why should you care?'
'I don't, particularly. But I do care for Patrick.'
Isabel clutched at this, anything to deflect Mary's attention from her. 'You're jealous, aren't you?'
Mary snorted. 'Hardly.'
'You must be, or why else would you be saying this?'
'Hasn't he told you?' To Isabel's surprise, Mary suddenly laughed. 'Well, I can see it might look a bit peculiar to you, as you don't know. Not that there's any reason why you should know, of course.'
'Know what?'
Mary smiled, 'Why, that Patrick's my brother.'
Chapter 10
'Why didn't you tell me Mary was your sister?'
Patrick shrugged. 'No reason. It never came up.'
They were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table the following day. Isabel had left the money, unable to bring herself to take it, and now it was gone. She knew she wouldn't ask for it again. After Mary's visit, Patrick had disappeared to deal with the importunate Andrew, so this was the first opportunity Isabel had had to ask him. Patrick appeared nonchalant, but Isabel knew him well enough now to detect the tension lines pulling at the corners of his eyes. The more tense he got, the more controlled his movements. She had seen him like this with clients on the phone, his words becoming slower, as his natural inclination to explode fought with his need to be calm and polite. Then, finally, the eruption. He usually managed to contain himself until he could put the phone down, but occasionally a hapless client was treated to clearly enunciated invective and then wild threats. He had promised to see so many people in court that it was astonishing the legal system hadn't ground to a halt - except that as far as Isabel knew he never carried out his threats. They would make love roughly, passionately and then Patrick would lie back on the bed and phone the client to apologise, his deep voice dripping honey and charm, one hand casually stroking Isabel's spine. It usually worked.
Now he sat sipping coffee, his lids drooping, hiding his eyes from her. Isabel put her head in her hands. 'It was so embarrassing.'
'So what? She won't say anything. She's already ticked me off and given me the usual lecture about being irresponsible.' He gave a snort of laughter. 'I don't know why she bothers; I know that one off by heart.'
'Did you tell her about us?'
'She knew not to ask. Don't worry. Whatever she knows, or thinks she knows, she'll keep to herself.'
'I do worry.' Isabel chewed her thumbnail.
'Why?'
'Is what Mary said true? About you and Justine?'
The tension lines tightened. 'It depends what she said.'
You told me Caro left you for her horse.'
'And so she did.'
'Mary said Caro discovered you in bed with Justine.'
Patrick stood up and looked out of the window. He ran his hand through his hair but it immediately flopped back against his forehead. 'Caro wanted to come out to the country,' he said at last. 'She wanted somewhere to stable her horse. I didn't want to leave London, but Caro's father gave her the money to buy a farmhouse with a bit of land. Her family's well-off,' he added. 'Anyway, we moved down complete with quadruped. I swear she loved that animal more than she ever loved me. So she took up hunting and left me to different sorts of country pursuits.'
'With Justine.'
'Sometimes.' He smiled, as if at a private joke. 'Not exclusively. There are quite a lot of bored married women out there.'
'You mean, like me,' Isabel said flatly.
'No. Not like you.' He frowned. 'I don't know. Perhaps. If the cap fits...' He smiled charmingly at her as if to take the sting from his words, however lightly spoken.
Isabel felt sick. He had told her to expect nothing from him, but now she realised what nothing might be. All those little caresses, the affectionate kisses, could they really mean nothing?
'I don't understand how you can do it. I mean, sleeping around like that, saying it means nothing. You were married.'
'Look who's talking.'
She looked up at him, startled. 'It's not the same.'
'Isn't it? Look, I don't know what arrangement you have with Neil but I can't imagine he's said, "Fucking Patrick are you? Excellent idea, old girl." You're doing now exactly what I was doing then.'
He spoke clearly and Isabel hung her head. He was right. Of course he was right.
There was a slight pause before he continued. 'I told Caro that I couldn't promise to be faithful to her. She knew that, right from the start. Same as you did. I haven't lied to you.'
'And you think that lets you off the hook,' Isabel said slowly, turning the idea over in her mind. 'You tell people - women - that you're going to be unfaithful and unreliable, then when you are, you turn round and say, "But I told you it was going to be like that." I don't think it works that way. I don't see how you can pretend that it doesn't matter.'
Patrick shrugged. 'You have Neil. I'm the one who's sharing you, and you expect me to put up with it. He gets all your loyalty, your commitment, all your -' He pulled himself up sharply and Isabel wondered if he had been going to say 'love'. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen worktop, then turned on her. 'I ask nothing from you. Nothing,' he said, his voice silky, smooth and dangerous.
'But it doesn't have to be like that,' she said, her own voice trembling, as she got up and stood by him, the jagged mood changed to something smooth. He had been going to say 'love'. She reached out for his arm and spoke softly. 'Patrick? It doesn't have to be like that.'
He flung her arm away from him. 'Yes, it does,' he shouted, his face dark. He stalked out, slamming the door behind him so hard the house shook.
Isabel mooched around the house aimlessly waiting for Patrick to come back. Every now and then there were phone calls for him. 'I'm not sure when Mr Sherwin will be back,' she said politely. 'I'm sorry, I couldn't say,' and the caller would ring off, frustrated, although not as frustrated as Isabel. She watched the enormous wall clock she had installed in the office in an attempt to get Patrick to appointments on time. In ten minutes I'll go to the pub and see if he's there, she thought. When ten minutes were up she waited for another five, not wanting to go, but not wanting to stay. When the second tranche of five minutes was up she went downstairs to collect her coat. At the foot of the stairs she paused, hearing a noise. A key in the lock, and Patrick came in.
They stared at each other, Isabel trying to read in his eyes what he wanted from her. Then they moved closer, like magnets being drawn to each other and Patrick was kissing her and stroking her hair, and saying 'I'm sorry' over and over. She felt miserable and happ
y and confused because all that mattered was that he had come back.
'I -' she started to say, but he put his hand over her mouth as soon as he heard the start of the word 'love'.
'Don't say it,' he murmured. 'Don't say it. Come to bed.'
'Yes,' she said, arms around his neck, and he picked her up and carried her upstairs.
- ooo -
'Teach me Italian?' Isabel said, snuggling under Patrick's arm.
'Ciao bella,' Patrick said sleepily. Isabel could feel the sound rumble as she pressed her cheek against his chest.
'I thought ciao was goodbye.'
'Hello and goodbye. Both.'
'Say something else.'
'Mi piace questa donna. Mi piace i suoi occhi, il suo naso, la sue bocca,' he said, kissing her eyes, nose and mouth. He moved further down to her neck, and then beyond. 'Mi piace la sua gola, le sue tette, la figa,' he mumbled, his voice muffled.
Isabel languorously stretched her arms out across the bed. 'I'm not sure how much Italian I'm going to learn if you carry on doing that.'
'Should I stop?'
'No.'
Later she said, 'Will you teach me some Italian every day?'
Patrick picked a hair off the tip of his tongue and examined it. 'If you like. If you're a good girl. Una buona ragazza.' He settled back against the pillows.
'Una buona ragazza,' she repeated happily, running her fingers over his chest. 'I'll try. Is it your father or your mother who's Italian?'
'My mother.'
'Does Mary speak Italian?'
'A little.' He sighed. 'My father had three children by his first marriage. Then his wife died leaving him with Anna, June and Mary. My mother came over from Italy to help look after them. He had that tweedy English gentleman sort of charm and I suppose my mother thought it exotic. Anyway, they had me. But after a bit my mama discovered that he wasn't exotic, in fact he was just like any other Nigel or Henry you might meet at the Golf Club or at the annual Conservative Summer Garden Party. And then there were the girls.' He raised his eyebrows. 'If you think Mary is bossy, you should meet Anna and June. I don't really remember, but I get the impression that Anna especially thought my mother was taking her mother's place. Usurping the blessed memory, and all that. It can't have been easy.'