by Sarah Duncan
Once Katie was in the bath, Isabel slipped in to see Neil, still lying on the bed with the curtains drawn. Isabel noticed that the hot toddy, now cool, was undrunk on the bedside cupboard. He was awake.
'Your mother thinks you're dying,'
'I am.' He flopped his head back and rolled his eyes.
'Mmm. I need a potato peeler.'
He started to get up. 'I'm sorry, I'll come and help.'
Isabel pushed him back down.
'Don't worry. If the worst comes to the worst we'll have instant mash and frozen peas. I only have to boil a kettle for that. Your ma thinks I'm hopeless as it is, so I might as well prove it.' She could see that he was tom between two loyalties, and felt guilty again. Why should he feel loyal to her, when she... She kissed him on the forehead, wincing at the pain in her back as she leant forward.
'Are you really ill?'
'No. She just likes to fuss. A bit under the weather, maybe.' He rubbed one eye and yawned. 'It's been a tiring week. Office politics.'
'I'm sorry.' She realised how little she knew about his work at the moment. 'Do you want to talk about it?'
'Do you want to listen? 'The question hung in the air between them.
'Of course,' she said finally. 'I always want to listen.'
'You seem rather preoccupied at the moment.'
'Sorry. I don't mean to be.'
'No.' He smiled and took her hand. 'Never mind.'
Isabel felt like crying. Her hand in his felt useless as if, although it touched, it could not connect. There seemed a huge chasm between them, completely impossible to cross. So many things to say, which could not be said.
'I've had a lover, but I think we're breaking up,' she wanted to tell him, and have him comfort her. 'I'm confused, I don't know what to do. It was exciting at first, but now it's something else. I'm so unhappy.' And Neil would cuddle her and say 'There, there, never mind, I still love you'.
But that wasn't going to happen, was it? However tolerant Neil might be, he was hardly likely to tolerate that. How appropriate that the punishment for adultery under sharia law was stoning. She could imagine the weight of the stones, heavy as lies, crushing the spirit. So many deceits, pressing down like stones, the only possible release being confession. But why should Neil share the burden of her guilt?
'I'm sorry,' she repeated, shaking her head.
- ooo -
The evening was a disaster. Michael and Katie, oblivious to their grandparents' belief that children should be seen and not heard, refused to stay in bed. Isabel would gently return them to their rooms, read them stories, see eyelids droop, lips relax, breathing become softer. Then she would tiptoe out, at which point they would catapult up, wide awake. Katie was the worst, impossible to reason with. Michael at least was bribable, negotiating successfully for five pounds in exchange for staying in bed. Katie kept on appearing at the door wanting a drink, a biscuit, a story. Wanting a good smack, according to Moira.
'When Neil and Heather were little -' she started, but Isabel had already ushered Katie out and escaped upstairs. Pointless to even think of getting into a conversation about the rights and wrongs of smacking. Bad wife, now bad mother.
On Saturday the children were up bright and early despite the lack of sleep. They ran out of energy in the afternoon, halfway round a nearby stately home that Moira wanted to visit. They all squeezed into Isabel's car because Ian, having secured prime position right outside the front door, didn't want to move the car in case he missed the space on the return. Isabel surveyed a half-empty street and kept her mouth shut yet again.
It was the last day the stately home was open that year and the grounds had a dead look, a few shrivelled rosebuds forlornly clinging onto leafless bushes. Katie clung to Isabel's arm, weighing her down like a floppy anchor, while Michael became disobedient and surly, scuffing his shoes on the gravel drive. They squabbled over who was going to walk Buster around the grounds and their crossness transmitted down the lead to the dog, who became crotchety, finally nipping Katie on the ankle.
Back home, ankle kissed better and suitably covered in plasters, Katie decided to eat her tea in front of the television. Michael tripped her up - an accident or on purpose? Who knew? Certainly not Isabel, who had to try to maintain both the peace and a smile on her face. Katie had dropped her plate so Buster eagerly devoured the food to Katie's accompanying wails.
'He's on a special diet,' Moira said, as if Isabel had spilt Katie's food deliberately. 'You have to take on the responsibility when you look after a dog, you know. Being with people keeps them like puppies, stops them growing up and fending for themselves. You have to look after them, or they won't manage.'
Isabel privately thought that Buster was managing pretty well. At least he had enjoyed his supper, because she was sure no one at the table had. It seemed pointless having Ian and Moira there: they moaned on the phone that they were longing to see their grandchildren but once there, they either ignored or criticised them and, by default, Isabel. She wondered what her own parents would have been like as grandparents.
Sunday morning, and yet another meal. Neil was downstairs cooking bacon and eggs, judging by the aroma permeating the whole house, when she heard his voice.
'Bel? Can you get the phone?'
She stopped putting Katie's clean clothes away.
'Sure,' she called back, making for the hall phone and picking it up. 'Hello?'
'Isabel,' said a familiar deep voice. Patrick. She pressed the receiver close to her ear as if any stray words might escape into the house.
'What do you want?' she muttered.
'To see you.'
'Why?'
'To say sorry. I behaved like a complete shit on Thursday.'
'Yes, you did,' she whispered, turning around to face the wall and wrapping the phone cable around her body.
'Can you get away?'
'Now?' He'd never asked to meet up outside office hours before. 'I've got the in-laws staying.'
He laughed. 'All the more reason to come.' His voice changed, became serious. 'Please, just for a few minutes. I've got something I want to talk to you about.'
'I don't know...' She twisted the cable round between her fingers.
'Meet me at the Italian cafe in half an hour.'
Neil's voice. 'Who is it?'
'No one,' she called back to him. She waited but Neil made no reply. 'Okay, in half an hour,' she whispered to Patrick, and put the phone down.
She went into the kitchen. Neil was in an apron, pushing bacon around a frying pan while Ian and Moira read the Sunday papers.
'Who was that?' Neil said.
'No one,' she said. 'Someone selling double-glazing.'
'It's outrageous, badgering people in their homes,' Moira said. 'And on a Sunday too. You ought to go exdirectory.'
'You're right,' Isabel said, sidling up to stand next to Neil. 'I've forgotten to get anything for pudding,' she said to him in an undertone. 'I'm just going to pop out to the supermarket, okay?'
'I thought you'd done apple crumble.'
'It went wrong,' she whispered, hoping he wouldn't think to look at the back of the fridge. 'And I haven't got enough apples to make another.'
'I'm sure they won't mind not having pudding.'
'No, no. You know how your father loves apple crumble,' she said, hating herself for the lies.
'What's the problem, Neil?' Moira said.
'Nothing,' he said, automatically covering for her. 'Isabel just needs to go out for a bit.' He tilted his head at her, telling her to go. Feeling horribly guilty Isabel ran upstairs, grabbed her make-up bag, and then escaped from the house. Once round the corner she stopped the car and did her face, obliterating the dark shadows under her eyes with foundation.
It had started to rain by the time she had parked, the sort of fine rain that deceives you into thinking it isn't wet, until you're drenched to the skin. Patrick was sitting with an espresso inside the Italian cafe opposite the bookshop.
He loo
ked up and smiled at her.
'You came.'
'You said you wanted to talk to me about something.'
'Can I get you a coffee? No,' he stopped himself, 'you'll want a tea. You see, I do notice.' He went up to the counter and ordered. 'Would you like something to eat? A palmiere? Or a bombalone - that's an Italian sort of doughnut; they're very good.'
'No thanks,' Isabel shook her head, and a scatter of raindrops fell from her hair. She took off her mac and draped it over the back of her chair. She'd not been here before, although she knew it was one of Patrick's regular places. The only decent espresso in town, according to him. It was surprisingly busy for a rainy Sunday morning, the tables half-full, tinny music blaring out with the man operating the espresso machine singing along. Condensation was dribbling down the plate glass window at the front. The walls were covered with bright posters of crumbling ancient monuments against cobalt blue skies. Sicilia - Roma - Napoli. Patrick brought over her tea and she had a moment of dèjà vu. Of course, she remembered, Patrick bringing over the drinks that first time in the pub, when he'd kissed her. That had been the beginning of everything. It came to her then that this might be the end of everything, that this might be what he wanted to talk to her about.
What had he said? 'No regrets, no falling in love, no tears when we part.' Well, she could manage the last part. She sat up straight in her chair, shoulders back.
Patrick settled next to her. 'There's a pasticceria round the corner from Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome that makes marvellous bombalone. I used to go with my mother on Sunday mornings, the first year I was with her. I'd grown about a foot in two months and was always hungry so she filled me up with bombalone and suppli.'
'Suppli?'
'They're fried rice balls, with a lump of mozzarella inside. When you bite into them you find runny mozzarella. Delicious, but they must be fresh.'
'I can't stay long,' she said.
'No.' He reached out and took her hand, his thumb stroking hers.
They sat in silence, while the staff greeted other customers and took orders with a clatter of cutlery. The music moved on to grand opera, and the man sitting on the next table turned the pages of the weekend papers in a flurry of newsprint. He seemed vaguely familiar to Isabel, but he disappeared from her mind as she stared at Patrick's hand holding hers. She felt she could have stayed like that forever. His hand was warm, still tanned. Immediately she thought of the photograph at the office of Patrick and Victoria, set against cobalt blue skies.
She disengaged her hand. Patrick hardly seemed to notice, he was looking at the window. 'Patrick? I can't stay for long. What do you want to tell me?' she said.
'When I was a child, it always seemed to be raining, just like this,' he said, still looking at the window where the condensation had made rivulets down the inside.
'That's so sad,' she said, thinking of the little boy, abandoned by his mother. 'I think that's one of the saddest things I've ever heard.'
'I don't mean it to be. It's just a fact. It is wetter in the North West than in the South East.' He gave himself a little shake. 'Still, I didn't want to see you just to talk about the weather, although that does play its part.'
'What do you mean?'
'I hate the English weather. Here we are, end of October, it's pissing down, and there's probably another six months of it to come.' He sipped his coffee. 'I'm thinking of moving back to Italy.'
Isabel was so surprised she could have fallen off her chair. 'When?'
I don't know. Soon, possibly. It depends.'
'On Victoria?'
'Partly.' He swirled the black coffee round the cup, watching it as if hypnotised. When he spoke his voice was so soft Isabel had to lean forward to hear him. 'I was so angry with you at that stupid dinner party. I still am angry.'
'Why? What did I do?'
'Nothing. Everything. You were beautiful and desirable and married to someone else. It's funny, but I've never minded before, never felt bothered by sharing. That side of it is usually dead anyway within the first few years of marriage.' He looked at her directly. 'But you seemed to be very much a couple.'
'You know that... We've already talked about this,' she said.
Patrick drained his coffee cup then gestured with it to the man behind the counter. 'Senta,' he called, 'encore, per favore.' He turned back to Isabel and spoke briskly. 'I could stay here and marry Victoria. She's good-looking, rich and for some strange reason, keen to marry me. I think she thinks that she can change me.'
'And can she?'
'No.' It was a bald statement, spoken so flatly that Isabel knew it was true. He paused, cleared his throat. 'Someone else could though.'
He paused and she wondered if he meant her. But after the dinner party that seemed unlikely.
'Ah, grazie,' he said to the waiter who replaced his espresso cup. 'Anyway, she wants to move to the Midlands, which is where her family come from. I want to give up the business: it's not making any money and I hate dealing with clients, they're all so stupid, and the paperwork bores me to tears, as you know. Victoria will support me while I look around for something else to do. Rather a modem arrangement, don't you think?' His voice was harsh.
'And the alternative?' Isabel whispered.
'The alternative is to move to Rome. My mother's current husband wants to start exporting into the US; he could use an English-speaking partner. I could try it out, see if I liked it. If not, there'd be other opportunities.'
'It sounds a bit uncertain.'
'Life's more fun without a safety net.' He grinned at her, his eyes teasing her. He looked like Michael looked when he was planning some adventure. Then he shrugged. 'But if you insist on being practical I have a flat in Rome that I've had for years. It's let out at the moment, but I could move there, sell up here and live off the capital for a while. What do you think?'
'Me?'
'Yes, you. What do you think?'
'I think...' Isabel said slowly. 'I think I'd hate to be Victoria.'
'D'you think she'd be unhappy with me? Mmm. Possibly.'
'You really are a shit sometimes. Don't you think of anyone else's feelings?' She felt on the edge of tears. 'Look, I must go. I've got to get back.' She started to stand up but he held her arm.
'Don't go yet.'
'Why not?'
'I haven't said... I haven't told you... Sit down, just for a minute. Please.' Isabel perched on the edge of her seat, hardly able to breathe, wanting to go, wanting to stay, wanting him, hating him. Loving him.
'I said I was angry with you that night. I still am angry. Angry because... I don't find this sort of thing easy, Isabel. Talking about things. You know that.' He looked up at the travel bureau posters, all bright and sunny, while the rain fell outside. 'I've been very happy these last months with you. Happier than I can remember.' His hand shook as he picked up his coffee cup. 'I'm good at taking. Take what's offered, that's what I've done. Take and you don't get hurt.' He smiled at her, and she felt as if her heart had melted. 'It's asking that's hard.'
She clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from touching him. 'What do you want to ask me?'
'I want you to leave Neil. I want you to leave Neil and come to Rome with me.' He sat very still. 'Will you? Will you come with me?'
Chapter 13
Isabel and Neil stood in the doorway, waving goodbye to Moira and Ian. Through the car window Isabel could see Moira waving maps about, her lips moving as she gave instructions to Ian. They were going to see Neil's sister, Heather, breaking the long journey back North. Isabel waved her arm mechanically, a fixed smile on her face like a mask. Neil had one arm around her as they stood in the doorway of their suburban house, with their two children - one boy one girl, neatly separated by two years - in front of them. The perfect family. Except instead of stormy skies and sodden leaves in the street, the mother was seeing blue skies and grape vines.
'Well, that's that,' Neil said, as they finally left. 'I think they enjoyed themselves.'<
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Isabel was jolted back to raining reality. 'Do you think so? All your mother does is complain.'
'She likes complaining,' he said. 'Gives her something to think about apart from Dad's health.' They went inside and Neil offered to give Isabel a hand clearing up.
'There's no rugby on this afternoon then,' Isabel said, not quite succeeding in keeping her voice neutral. If Neil heard the touch of acidity he didn't notice.
'It's been cancelled. Flooding on the pitch.'
The detritus of Sunday lunch was stacked in the kitchen. Isabel started to fill the dishwasher, scraping plates into the bin, sorting cutlery. She worked quickly, wanting to get upstairs and be on her own so she could think. What was she to do about Patrick? Rome sounded glamorous and exciting, but terribly hand-to-mouth. If she took the children it would mean giving them the same sort of childhood she'd had. Neil stripped the remaining meat off the roast chicken and put it in a dish.
'I find them difficult too, you know,' he said as he covered the dish with foil and put it in the fridge. 'It's not just you.'
Isabel looked up, amazed. She had never heard Neil utter a word of criticism about his parents before. 'But they're always saying how wonderful you are.'
'All those digs about the business.' He picked up the tin containing the remainder of the vegetables.
'Your father's business? I didn't think you had anything to do with it.'
'Exactly. But I was supposed to take it over. Fourth generation and all that. Founded by my great-grandfather, got to keep it in the family.' He leant back against the counter. 'All my life I've done what they wanted, been responsible. I don't think it occurred to them that I wouldn't come back and take over. So when I said no... The irony is that Heather would have jumped at the chance, but it didn't cross the old man's mind to ask his daughter. So he sold up instead.'