by Sarah Duncan
'You wouldn't. Patrick, you wouldn't.' She felt as if her world were crumbling.
'A bit old, but definitely yours, I'd say.' He stuffed the knickers back in his jacket pocket.
'You have a choice. Either your husband knows by, let's say, next Tuesday evening. Or you're round at my place on Tuesday morning, just as before. Don't look so worried, darling. I'm making it easy for you. You get what you really want, and you needn't feel guilty about it. Just blame it all on beastly Patrick.' He kissed her softly on the mouth. 'And just in case you're thinking "I'll say they could belong to any one of a million women", I'm giving you something else.' He pushed the envelope into her frozen fingers, then leant close and whispered.
'Do you remember that little session we had with the camera, one rainy afternoon? That day when you loved me properly?' She could remember clearly, how she had felt gloriously sensual, and then giggling at the photographs with Patrick under the duvet together before making love, excited by her audacity.
His voice was very soft against her ear, his mouth nuzzling her neck.
'That's what I want back. It's what you want too. Don't throw all that away on a man who doesn't appreciate you. And don't think he's going to change; it's either in your nature or it's not. I know you. If I just run my hand down here...'
'No.' Isabel pushed his hand away and he stood back from her, his manner suddenly businesslike.
'I'm leaving a set of photographs here to remind you, and I've got another set for me which I really don't want to send to your husband. But if need be...' He tried to kiss her again, this time more forcefully, his tongue pushing against her clenched teeth. Isabel shoved him away.
'Why are you doing this?' she cried. 'You have Victoria -'
'But I don't want her, I want you.'
'You can't expect me to come back because you're blackmailing me.'
He stopped as if it hadn't occurred to him before to call it blackmail. 'I don't want you to leave me,' he said after a pause, his face lined and heavy.
'But I have, Patrick. I have left you.' There was a pause, both of them breathing heavily. Finally she spoke, amazed at her self-control.
'It never occurred to me that you could do this. That you could be like this.'
He looked shame-faced, like Michael when he'd done something wrong. 'I want you back,' he said, looking at the Welcome mat, not her.
'Isabel?' It was Justine's voice from inside the house. 'Hello? Are you there?'
'I'll be with you in a minute,' Isabel called back. She turned to Patrick. 'Tell me you won't do this.'
'Not if you come back to me.'
She shook her head. 'No. Never.'
'Then I have no choice. It's what we both want, darling.'
'Please go.' She pushed the front door open with a shaking hand.
'You'll be back,' she heard him say as she shut the door behind her. 'You'll be there for me on Tuesday.'
'Isabel? Are you okay?' Justine was leaning over the landing banisters.
'Yes, fine,' Isabel said on autopilot. 'I'll be with you in a minute.'
She took the envelope through into the kitchen and took a quick look at the first photograph. Her legs gave way and she sat down abruptly, her stomach heaving in response to the shock.
'Isabel? Can I come in?' Justine peered round the door. She'd got her coat over one arm and her bag on her shoulder as if she was on her way out. Isabel quickly shoved the photographs back into the envelope.
'Are you all right?' Justine's face was anxious.
'No. No, I'm not.' Isabel's lower lip quivered and she blinked rapidly, trying to stop herself from crying. 'I'm sorry. It's just - I've had a bit of a shock.' She opened the cupboard under the sink and buried the envelope in the rubbish bin, then turned round, hand over her mouth.
'Sit down, you're not well. Let me get you some tea.'
Isabel was hardly aware of Justine as she started to, bustle about, boiling the kettle, pulling out mugs from the cupboard. She could feel herself shaking and clung onto the edge of the table with both hands. Justine came and sat next to her, putting her hand tentatively on Isabel's shoulder.
'What's the matter? Was it someone at the door?'
'Yes.' Isabel opened her mouth, gave a hiccupping sort of gasp, and then began sobbing. She couldn't help herself, she cried and shook, the shock devastating her nervous system, while Justine patted her on the back, saying, there, there, never mind and other soothing noises.
Would you like to tell me about it? Would that help, mmm?'
'He says... he says...'
'What?' Justine's voice was soft but insistent.
'He says he's going to tell Neil unless...'
Tell Neil what?'
Isabel felt constricted as if her skin had suddenly become one size too small, stretching taut over her cheekbones, making her chest feel as if it could explode outwards if too much strain was put on it. She didn't think she could bear it. She had to share it with someone.
'Tell Neil what?' Justine repeated.
'I've been having an affair with Patrick,' Isabel cried, 'and he says he's going to tell Neil unless I go back to him and I don't know what to do.'
'I see.' Justine's face seemed rigid, as if she was controlling herself with great effort. But her voice was calm as she said, 'You need some tissues.'
Isabel waved her hand. 'Kitchen paper. Over there.'
'Right.' Justine got the kitchen paper and handed the roll to Isabel. Isabel started to mop herself up, talking in-between sniffs.
'I haven't told anyone about it, no one knows, and now he says he's going to tell everybody.'
Justine sat down. 'When did it start?'
'Beginning of term,' Isabel began, slumping down onto another chair. 'Not long really.' Oh, God. She pressed her hand to her mouth, biting her knuckle to stop herself from crying again. 'I finished it over half term. But now Patrick says that unless I go back to him, he'll tell Neil.'
'Do you love him?'
'Neil? Of course.'
'No. Patrick.'
'I could have done, but he wouldn't let me. He said we weren't to fall in love so I tried very hard not to. I don't know. It was so exciting, I couldn't think.'
'And now?'
Isabel sighed. 'I wish it had never happened. No, I don't, it was wonderful, but now...'
'Now it's not so simple.'
'No. You know Patrick.' She remembered all at once exactly how well Justine knew Patrick. She wanted to ask Justine how it had ended, once Caro had found them, how Patrick had reacted. Instead she said simply, 'Do you think he'll tell?'
'Even if he does, Neil might not believe him.'
Isabel went scarlet, and looked down at the table. Neil probably wouldn't believe Patrick if she insisted he was lying. Neil, who believed his wife would tell the truth, had always told him the truth. 'It's not that simple. He's got -' Isabel swallowed, and traced a pattern with her finger on the wooden table. 'He's got evidence. Photographs.'
'Oh, Isabel. No. How could you?' Justine's face was a mixture of horror and glee.
'It seemed a good idea at the time.' She raised her shoulders in a gesture of apology. Justine laughed at that, a short bark of a laugh. Then she became serious.
'What a stupid thing to do. How could you be so -' Justine stopped before she said the word, but Isabel knew what she'd been going to say.
'I know.' Isabel put her head in her hands. 'I don't know what to do.'
Justine stood up and walked round the kitchen. She seemed to be working something out, turning over the options in her head. Or at least, Isabel hoped she was. At last Justine said, 'I think you should tell Neil.'
'I can't.' Isabel shook her head. 'You don't know him; he'd never forgive me.'
'What about going back to Patrick?'
'Never.'
There was silence. Isabel felt so angry that tears came, hot and desperate. 'I hate him for doing this,' she cried. 'He's ruined everything. How could I go back?'
'Then the on
ly option left is to call his bluff and hope he won't tell Neil.'
Justine's voice sounded distant. Isabel snuffled, trying to stop crying. After all, she hardly knew Justine. 'I'm sorry. All this stuff. It's so embarrassing. I haven't even offered you a coffee or a tea.'
'No, thanks, I'm fine.' Justine looked at her watch. 'I ought to be getting back. We've finished With the wardrobe sorting.'
'Oh, yes, that,' Isabel said vaguely. Clearing out her wardrobe seemed to have taken place a very long time ago.
'Could I have a cheque now? I know it's a bad time but...'
'I'm sorry. Of course you can have a cheque.' Isabel looked around her. 'I must have left my bag in the hall. Hang on a second, I'll just go and get it.' At the door she stopped. 'Justine. Thanks for being here. I'm sure it must have been very embarrassing. You will -' she paused, searching for the words. 'I'm sure you will be, but obviously I'd rather no one knew about this. You will be discreet, won't you?'
'Of course,' Justine said. 'Don't worry.'
'Thanks. For everything.' Isabel smiled at her, then went out to find her bag, which she had dropped by the front door. She opened it and searched through the jumble to find her chequebook. The everyday action caught her unawares, and with a pang she realised that everything she took for granted might disappear if Patrick carried out his threat. Neil, the children, down to her usual surroundings: the chest, the plates, the fraying rug. She didn't know if she could carry on pretending everything was all right, waiting for the bombshell to hit. Then she remembered Justine, waiting in the kitchen for her cheque. Isabel wrote the cheque out, hoping that the bank would pass her signature although it was all over the place, and went back into the kitchen.
'Here you are.'
'Thanks.' Justine took the cheque and left.
Isabel watched her climb into her trim little car. 'I shouldn't have told her,' she thought. Anxiety, as sticky and unpleasant as cold rice pudding, came over her slowly. She felt completely alone. 'Too late now to worry about her when there's Patrick to deal with,' she thought.
- ooo -
Isabel spent the rest of the day going through the options. She thought about ringing Patrick up and pleading with him, but decided against it. She knew what would happen; he would suggest she came round and discussed it. Which was impossible. The children, sensing her preoccupation, became demanding. They fought all the way home, bickering at best, thumping each other at worst.
'For Pete's sake,' she screeched. 'Can't you just stop it for once? You'll have enough of it when you're married, so why do it now when you're children?'
'I'm not going to get married,' Katie said. 'Boys are disgusting.'
'Girls are aliens,' Michael replied. 'They're not human at all.'
And they were off again, squabbling and niggling, until Isabel thought her head would implode from the constant barrage.
'Stop it. You're driving me mad.'
'But, Mum . . .'
'Stop it. Or you can walk the rest of the way home.' Never threaten what you won't carry out, all the childcare books said. She would never let them walk home from this point; they were too young and unused to heavy traffic. Fortunately the children subsided into small grumbles. She drove on, wondering if Patrick had read any childcare books. Would he carry out his threat?
Back at home she wandered aimlessly round the kitchen, burning the first batch of fish fingers, while the children squabbled over the television remote control. She longed for Neil to come home, yet dreaded his appearance. If she told him, would he be kind and understanding? Or stern and unforgiving? It occurred to her that she had never seen him really angry. Tired, pissed-off, annoyed, yes. But not filled with rage. The thought made her feel sick.
How would she feel if he told her he had a mistress? She tried it out, but the only emotion was complete disbelief. She simply couldn't imagine Neil doing such a thing.
Would that be how he would feel about her? She hadn't felt like a faithless wife before, because somehow, in her mind, the sexual side had been paramount with Patrick; the rest of her had continued to be a dutiful wife and mother. More so, in fact, as the affair had given her more energy and direction than before. And although their sex life had dwindled, Neil being too tired from commuting during the week, she felt she was a better wife and mother because of the affair.
She sighed. She didn't think that that argument was going to appeal to Neil. The loss of trust would hit him badly, as it would do her if she had been in his position. While she thought about faith and trust a sneaky sliver of a thought crept into her mind. Perhaps there was a chance that she might bluff her way through, use Neil's faith and trust, say that Patrick was a fantasist, that of course she hadn't had an affair. But then there were the photographs. She blushed to think of the photographs. They had shocked her. She had looked so naked. Stripped of shame, of inhibition, of reserve. She could remember posing, feeling free and empowered, the old uncertain Isabel left behind. Empowered. Liberated. She could weep at her naivety.
The children had their baths, taking advantage of her absentmindedness to have a splashing fight, which left more water outside the bath than in it, then went to bed. Isabel read them their bedtime stories, all the time her mind churning over whether she should tell Neil. It dawned on her that Neil might forgive the affair - a moment of madness, ended almost before it had started - but he would never, ever forgive the photographs. The Isabel they showed was an Isabel he had never seen, never would see.
Neil came back late, after the children had settled for the night, grumbling about the trains, and stomped off upstairs to change. She heard him shouting and rushed up to their room.
'What the hell is this?' He pointed to the mounds of clothes heaped up over the bed. One of the mounds had tumbled onto the floor, spreading over discarded shoes in a colourful lavaflow.
'Sorry, Justine came over and did her colours and wardrobe thingy. I had forgotten all about it.' It seemed like years ago. 'I meant to put them into bin liners.'
'What, all of them? Seems a bit of a waste.'
'I haven't worn most of them for years.' She found a space on the bed and sat down, sending more clothes tumbling to the floor. She felt as if she were a hundred and thirty-six, shrivelled skin and fragile bones. 'Apparently these are the wrong sort of colours for me.'
'What should you be wearing?'
'Light, clear colours. I've got a little book of swatches.' She flopped backwards ignoring the clothes and stared at the ceiling. There was a thin diagonal crack running to the edge of the cornice that she had not noticed before. Or perhaps she had noticed it before, staring at the ceiling while Neil made love to her, but each time she had closed her eyes and forgotten about it. It's all very well having your husband as your best friend, she thought, but what happens when you want your best friend's advice on whether to confess to your husband that you've been having an affair? She closed her eyes.
'Isabel. How the hell are we going to sleep here tonight?'
'I'll sort it out,' she said, not moving.
'I see.' She could hear him moving around as he changed out of his suit, showing his irritation by wrenching drawers open and muttering under his breath. She heard the familiar creak of the wardrobe door. 'The wardrobe looks better at least. Perhaps I might get some of my things in there.' He paused. 'Do you want me to help put all this stuff away?'
His words were willing but she could tell from the tone it was an empty offer.
'No, no, I'll do it. Honestly.' She opened her eyes and levered herself off the bed. 'You go down and have a drink. Supper'll be ready in about ten minutes.' She started to shovel clothes into bin liners - charity, jumble, second-hand shop. This morning I felt as if I was getting rid of my old life, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, she thought. And now, just half a day later, here I am, trying desperately to think of a way to save it. She went downstairs, dragging two of the bags behind her, letting them thump their way over the treads, then left them in the hall while she went to ser
ve Neil his supper.
- ooo -
The weekend passed. Isabel did the things she usually did: cook, clear, tidy up, take the children for a walk, chauffeur Katie to her ballet class and sit on the canal next to Michael fishing, the dreary water suiting her mood. She began writing an email to Frances, then stopped when she realised that it could become yet another thing to incriminate her. Even supposedly deleted material could hang around on hard drives and Neil was so much better at computers than she was. It would be ironic if Patrick didn't carry out his threat, only for her to be caught by an explanatory email to Frances.
On Saturday night Neil and Isabel drove into Fordingbury to see a film. Billed as a romantic comedy it struck Isabel as neither romantic nor funny, but Neil seemed to enjoy it. Isabel sat in the darkness holding Neil's hand while twenty-foot-high heads talked and kissed and laughed, and things went wrong, but it all worked out in the end. The weather was appalling as they drove back, wet and cold. Isabel sat in the car, windscreen wipers swishing back and forth efficiently, and thought that, if this were a film, she would tell Neil now, while the light from the instrument panels made strange dark shadows over their white faces. The closing shot would be of the windscreen wipers, back and forth, back and forth. She said nothing.
On Monday morning she knew she had to decide, and soon. Would Patrick really go through with his threat? Perhaps it would be better to go back to him and wait for him to get bored with her. She couldn't imagine wanting to have sex with someone who didn't want you. But then Patrick didn't believe that she didn't want him. He thought that he was helping her to make the decision she really wanted to make, but was prevented by conventional morals from doing so. Or so he said. Did she want him? She had, but not now. Not just because of losing Neil and the children, but how could she want a man who would blackmail her?
She swam up and down the pool at lunchtime, trying to work Patrick out. Funny, willful, spoilt? Yes. Spiteful? Possibly. He had been furious when he came to the house and shouted at her, although he had quickly regained control over himself. Control. Perhaps that was it. He didn't like the fact that he couldn't control her. Blackmail was the only way. But would he go through with it? If he went to Neil he would lose the only power he had over her. By length twenty-four she was starting to feel that he might not go through with his threat; by length thirty-three she had convinced herself that he wouldn't do anything. She usually got out at this point, but anxiety drove her on. By length forty she was thinking about being in the house with Patrick, the good times, the first time, that first kiss. She swam, tears flowing, the salt mixing invisibly with the chlorine, until she was thrown out to make way for the school swimming lessons.