by Sarah Duncan
Isabel frowned. 'I don't remember this. When was it?'
'When you were expecting Michael. They'd assumed we'd come home when we had children.'
'You didn't say anything to me.'
'No.' He looked sheepish. 'I was worried you might want to come back.'
'You decided not to tell me?'
'I had to make the decision on my own. Decide what I wanted.'
'You didn't tell me.' Isabel couldn't believe that he would have kept such a thing secret.
'I didn't want to worry you.'
'It's like you've got a secret life.'
'Don't be ridiculous.' He shoved the tin in the fridge and slammed the door shut. 'It's water under the bridge, now. Except Mum keeps on going on about Dad's health as if it's my fault.'
'Why would it be?'
'He could have sold up and retired years ago, he was only hanging on until I came back to the UK, and now his health is ruined. That sort of thing.'
Isabel thought back over the weekend. Moira certainly did talk a lot about Ian's health, but she'd never thought it was directed at Neil. If anything she had assumed it was directed at her for not looking after Neil properly, who worked so hard.
'I'm not sure coming back was a good idea,' he said abruptly. 'Life's more complicated here.'
And how, thought Isabel. Then she became wary. Did he know something about Patrick? She started to stack the glasses. 'In what way?' she said as casually as possible.
'Things. People. We seemed happier abroad. Things were settled.'
'Perhaps we were too settled.'
'Maybe.' Neil looked at the floor and jangled the change in his pocket.
'I know you don't like me working -' she started to say, picking her words carefully, but Neil cut across her.
'Someone said something about that man the other day. They said he has a dreadful reputation.'
'Which man?' She knew what he was going to say before he said it.
'Your boss. Patrick Sherwin.'
'Oh, him,' Isabel said as if she knew thousands of men with dreadful reputations. To her surprise she was completely calm and in control of herself. She felt like an actor who knew all the lines by heart, and all she had to do was say them for the play to carry on.
'Yes, I've heard that too. Who was it who said it to you?'
'It doesn't matter; it was just in passing. I shouldn't have said anything.' He looked, so guilty that she felt sorry for him. Poor Neil, always trying to do what was best.
'No, it's fine. Plenty of people have told me he has a dreadful reputation too.' I bet it was George, she thought. It's the sort of mean thing he'd do, telling Neil about Patrick. She could just see him, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, old boy, better watch the wife. But he didn't know anything. He couldn't. And no one knew anything about Patrick's plans, except her. She managed to squeeze a last mug into the top rack and closed the dishwasher. She still felt completely calm. 'It's not an issue. Patrick's going out with that girl, Victoria. You met her, remember? At Helen and George's last weekend.'
'I know.'
'Well. There you are then.' She looked around the tidy kitchen. 'That's about it here. I've got a slight headache; I think I'm going to have a lie down for ten minutes.' She left the kitchen and went upstairs, adrenaline starting to pump into her system so her hand trembled on the banister rail. She made the bedroom and fell onto the bed, hands over her face. It was true she had a headache, her brain bulged with information: Neil with secrets, Neil asking about Patrick, Patrick asking her to go to Rome with him. She closed her eyes tightly and rolled herself up in the duvet.
Rome.
She'd had fantasies about going off to Italy with Patrick, but she had never really thought he would ask her to leave Neil and go with him. The last week in the house she had thought he almost hated her. There was no tenderness in the way he took her. But did he love her? Last week she would have said not. But now? She remembered him that morning, sitting in the cafe with his hand trembling as he asked her to go with him.
She thought back to the kiss outside the pub, the first time during the thunderstorm on the kitchen table. She stretched out, feeling her toes spread out, her fingers extend. Her body felt strong, tight around the middle, muscles firm from swimming. Use it or lose it, she thought, forgiving herself for the smugness. She spread her hand out on her stomach and could feel the heat of her palm, the skin of her stomach not stretched flat between her hip bones admittedly, but still smooth and soft, with the fullness of a ripe nectarine. Not something flabby and bloated. She closed her eyes thinking of the moment, that first time, when she had wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in deeper. It had been good. No, more than that. Wonderful.
She stretched out again, luxuriating in her body. The physical side of her affair with Patrick would be hard to give up if she stayed behind. But if she went with him, the physical side might dwindle, as it had with Neil. She and Neil had been happy when they first married, apparently well matched in their needs and desires. And if the physical side diminished with Patrick, what was left? I hardly know him, she thought. I know a bit about his background with all those sisters - but I don't know what films he likes, or which books. She imagined each room in his house, trying to remember if there were bookcases or, more likely, cardboard boxes full of books. She couldn't visualise any. Perhaps Caro had taken them all after the divorce, although Caro didn't sound like much of a reader either.
All we have in common is sex. Sex, with no expectations, no demands, that's all we've offered each other. What we agreed to offer each other - his terms too. That was the deal. Until now. Now he wants me to leave Neil and go to Rome with him. She shut her eyes remembering his face, lined with anxiety, as he asked. It had cost him a lot to ask. Perhaps he did love her.
And then there was Neil. Steady, reliable Neil who had kept a secret from her for nearly ten years. Except that he didn't think it a secret. It was a decision he'd had to make on his own, he'd said. She could see the logic, but that didn't stop it hurting. He should have told her; they were supposed to be partners, equals within the marriage. She should at least have known, at least been consulted. A bubble of resentment floated into her brain, jostling for space with all the other thoughts and emotions.
She struggled out of the duvet, pushing it away, and sat on the edge of the bed. If she went now she could catch one of the swimming-pool lane sessions, she saw, glancing at the little alarm clock. She changed into a T-shirt and tracksuit, and slipped down the stairs. She met Neil coming up, with a cup of tea.
'I'm going swimming,' she said. 'Is that all right?'
Neil looked surprised. 'What about your tea?' he said.
'I'll have it when I come back.' She kissed his cheek. 'If I don't go now I'll miss the session.'
The pool was not busy, each lane occupied with one or two swimmers. As she swam she turned the arguments over in her mind. You're safe. Neil doesn't know. Finish it now and it'll be as if it never happened. But I can't, she wanted to cry. I can't give him up. But was it Patrick or the sex that she couldn't give up? She thought about this as her arms and legs worked. Perhaps she could find what she wanted in Neil. Take the initiative, show him what she liked. Stay with Neil, stay with the children. If I stay with Neil I know what I'll be doing every day from here to the grave. Then make more of a life for yourself outside the house. Forget Patrick. I can't forget him, a small voice wailed in her head. I want him. But what about the children? You can't leave the children. They can come with me. It'll be fun. A new country, yes, but a European one. A new father, one who says he doesn't want children. A man of whom you know nothing except for the way he makes you feel.
She swam until the last possible moment. Everybody else had gone, and the new session had yet to start. She could hear voices echoing around the pool, drifting in from the changing rooms. But for a few minutes she had the pool to herself. She swam trying to disturb the water as little as possible. Her movements became slower and slower. The only sounds were
the gentle slap, slap of water on the tiled sides. Treading water she reached up and released her hair from where it was piled up on top of her head. She rolled onto her back and floated, feeling her hair streaming out. She moved her head gently, and the mass of hair slowly moved and swirled around. She closed her eyes and lay suspended, arms and legs outstretched, mind clear of all thought.
- ooo -
Over half term Isabel arranged to walk with Helen and the children in a nearby privately owned arboretum which allowed anyone to walk around and look at the trees. Most of the leaves had fallen, making a scarlet and orange carpet of the ground. The women sat shivering on a bench made out a tree trunk while the scarlet-cheeked children whooped and played in and out of the trees.
'They'll be too old for this, soon,' Isabel said suddenly, watching Michael sprint and catch his sister, then dart off again in a swoosh of fallen leaves.
'Oh, no, don't say that,' Helen said. 'I hate the way children have to grow up so quickly nowadays.' Isabel said nothing. She knew Helen was quick to give way to her own children, that they had televisions in their bedrooms and CD Walkmans. Michael had told her that Rufus was going to get a DVD player for Christmas. No way, Isabel had told him, ignoring eyes as full of pleading as a hungry spaniel. You're not getting one. But, Mum, he had whined. Don't set your heart on it, she had said, because it's just not going to happen.
'Guess what?' Helen looked excited. 'George has agreed to us having a swimming pool.'
'That'll be nice. When do you start building?'
'We have to wait until his Christmas bonus comes through, and there's planning permission of course, so I think round about Easter. Then it'll be ready for the summer.'
'That'll be nice,' Isabel repeated, unable to get much enthusiasm up at the prospect of their swimming pool.
'You'll have to come and swim. Anytime you like,' Helen added graciously. 'It will save you having to use the local pool.'
'Thanks.' Isabel smiled tightly. I like the local pool, she thought, with the ladies on the OAP's lunchtime special - a swim, a cup of tea and a hot meal for £1.50. It was anonymous, but friendly. Women stripped bare and past caring what others thought of them. Not like the competitive people-watching of private pools, eyes swivelling under the latest Dior or Chloe sunglasses. Or worse, George eyeing you up. She hated the way he only spoke to her chest; it'd be even worse in a swimming costume. She pulled her coat more tightly around her.
'That's kind of you to offer, but I like doing lengths,' she said, in what she hoped was a diplomatic voice. 'And you can't really do them except in a big pool.'
'Whatever.' Helen sounded cross.
Isabel stood up. 'Shall we make a move? It gets dark so early now, and I'm freezing. Let's have tea at my house.' They called to the children and started to make their way to the car park, feet scrunching on the path. Isabel kicked at the leaves with each step, making little puffs and flurries of action. If yesterday had been a normal day, not half term, she would have been in the house with Patrick and today she might have been unable to walk without feeling sore, swollen from making mad passionate love on the hearthrug in front of a flickering fire. She smiled at the clichè and felt a stirring of excitement. If she gave Patrick up she would never experience that particular clichè. She couldn't imagine Neil in front of the fire, Neil with his conventional attitude to sex, his clumsy touching that sometimes made her want to scream.
All week she had been thinking about life with Neil and Patrick. There was something so exciting, so alive, about being with Patrick. Dangerous. But a comfortable danger, contained within the walls of Patrick's house. Since the dinner party it threatened to spill out into her life. Victoria, Neil, the deceit like stones, crushing the life out of her. And now Rome. It was impossible, of course. She couldn't leave Neil. Or could she? Swish, swish, went the leaves on the path. Helen started to talk about schools, the usual refrain. Isabel had heard this monologue before. She wanted to talk, to say I'm at a crossroads. Which way should I go? She wished she could have a proper face-to-face talk to Frances, like they used to, not a brittle exchange of banalities over the internet.
She turned her attention to Helen, who was agitating over whether Rufus would pass Common Entrance.
'But that's not for another four years, isn't it?'
'You have to be prepared,' and Helen was off, bemoaning how the stupid league tables meant that schools were taking entrance exams much more seriously, and not caring if the parents were Old Boys or not. Isabel hardly bothered to listen, but watched Michael dashing about, head back, laughing at the other children. He ran fast, twisting and turning to escape outstretched arms, with an agility that was surprising in a child who often seemed quiet and sedentary. Stolid even, like his father. He ran towards her, dancing on the path in front of her, teasing her to join in the game but she shooed him away, laughing. He clasped his hands around her waist and for a second leaned into her, woolly head on her chest. Isabel hugged him, bending down to kiss the top of his head, awash with maternal feelings. And then he was off, detaching himself with a shout. 'Race you round the lake!' and the two boys hared off, splitting up and running in different directions on the encircling path.
'Boys! I don't know where they get all that energy from,' Helen said.
'We feed them too much, I expect,' Isabel murmured absently. She wanted to be left alone with her thoughts, trying to work out what to do. It was confusing being different people, reconciling the woman she was with Patrick to the mother she was to her children. To the wife she was, or wasn't, to Neil, even. By sleeping with Patrick she had added another dimension to her life. An exciting, dangerous dimension for sure, but her life was the same. She was still playing the same roles, still walking down the same rutted pathway. Still talking about schools and domestic trivia as if that was all there was to life. Perhaps the time had come to move on, do something mad.
What would she do in Rome? Apart from learning to like espresso. Patrick had talked of the vibrant market in the Campo dei Fiori and she could imagine herself shopping, a huge straw hat shading her face from the strength of the Roman sun, sniffing honey-scented pomegranates and tucking her purchases into a raffia bag. It sounded romantic, but perhaps it would pall and become as ordinary as going to the supermarket. It would probably be easy to find work as a TEFL teacher as she had previous experience and was a native English-speaker. She could teach privately and also help Patrick with whatever he was doing. The trouble was that all this sounded ordinary, and she had no experience of Patrick and ordinary. They had never gone window-shopping together or shared a takeaway in front of a video. Could Patrick change a tyre or mend a fuse? Perhaps Patrick didn't do 'ordinary'. Once she had made the leap, given up the safety net of Neil, there would be no going back.
So, a very different life in yet another new country, and possibly - no, probably - insecure financially. A life like her childhood, always moving, never knowing what would happen next. But she had survived that. It hadn't been ideal, but then whose childhood was? A stable and secure home for my children, she had promised herself then. But it was silly to let yourself be swayed by a childish vow.
'I couldn't leave the children,' she'd said in the cafè and Patrick had said she could bring them. Patrick, the man who had made it very clear that he didn't want children, had no interest in children. Had he hesitated before saying they could come too? It was hard to remember, she was so agitated at the time. And all too easy to think you remembered what you wanted to remember. But why would he want to take on another man's children? Come to that, would Neil let her take the children away? She couldn't leave them. She thought about Patrick's mother. She imagined her to be dark-haired and elegant, small hands and feet. She'd left her tweedy husband to his comfy leather armchair and run off with her glamorous lover. She'd left her little boy. Could Isabel do the same?
She stamped her feet, but the fallen leaves, quietly decaying down into sludge, muffled the noise. Katie and Millie trotted ahead of her on the path
, lifting their knees in unison, and holding their hands up in front as if holding reins. Katie carried a long leafstalk that she flicked against her thigh from time to time. Giddyup, giddyup. Every now and then she tossed her head and gave a little whinny. Fantasy worlds. Isabel smiled.
'The Bonfire Party's coming up, which will be nice. And soon it'll be Christmas,' Helen offered.
'Christmas!' The thought appalled her. She felt life was being doled out in a series of school holidays and events: Christmas, Easter, half term. On and on, until suddenly the children would be gone, and then... Then there would be nothing, just her and Neil stuck in their box of a house. No, not nothing. Then there were lectures from the Decorative and Fine Arts Society, bridge parties and art courses, dabbling in watercolours or messing around in oils for the Summer Exhibition at the local library. She felt like Katie's hamster, running for its life on a tiny treadmill that was getting smaller every year. Was this the price of a stable childhood?
'Are you all right?' Helen was looking anxious.
Isabel clenched her fists inside her pockets, squeezing them so tight she could feel her nails making tiny crescents of pain on her palms through her leather gloves. The lake was still, its surface rippled by a few ducks paddling half-heartedly towards them in search of bread. The trees on the far side were reflected with luminous clarity. She searched her mind for something to say, something that would show she was 'all right'.
'Do you ski?'
If Helen heard the wobble in her voice, she chose to ignore it. 'Mmm,' she nodded. 'We're taking a chalet in Meribel with George's sister and her family.'
'That'll be nice.' Isabel, Queen of the Platitudes. 'Have you been there before?'