by Sarah Duncan
She was very sweet to Neil that evening, aware that it was possibly the last one when he still believed in her. Unconsciously she treated him as though he were an invalid who would be told terrible and terminal news the next day. While Neil slept, Isabel stayed awake in the darkness, staring at the invisible crack in the ceiling.
On Tuesday morning she drove the children into school as usual. At the exit to the drive she hesitated. Left to Patrick, right to home. She hesitated. The woman behind her tooted her horn and Isabel decided which way to turn.
Chapter 17
Isabel sat in the kitchen waiting for Neil to come home. When the woman behind had sounded her horn she had let her unconscious mind make the decision and the car had swung to the right, towards home. The house was quiet, just the faint hum of the fridge. Around midday she heard a car pull up, then footsteps. Hands hammered on the door. She could hear Patrick shouting.
'Let me in, you bitch. Let me in.'
She let him shout, while she stared at bland kitchen units. I think I'll paint them, she thought, paint them in cheerful colours that make me smile. She felt drained, beyond anger, beyond hatred, curiously detached. She didn't care what the neighbours thought. Eventually she got up and went to the front door.
'Why aren't you at work?' Some of the aggression had gone now she had opened the door and he sounded plaintive, a small boy who has been thwarted. She used the voice she used sometimes with Michael and Katie: ultra-reasonable but firm.
'I'm not coming.'
'I'll ruin you.'
She nodded. 'Maybe.'
'I will.'
'Oh, Patrick.' She looked up at the overcast sky, trying to find the right words. She looked at him directly. 'Why won't you let me go? You don't love me.'
He flinched at that. 'I want you back. Now.'
'No.'
He turned his face away from her. 'Why did you leave?'
'You told me not to fall in love with you,' she said softly. 'I can't separate out bits of myself, and you don't want the children.'
'And if...?'
'It's too late for that,' she said quickly.
'I want you back.'
'I'm sorry.'
'For Chrissakes, why do you have to complicate things?'
'Goodbye Patrick.' She started to close the door, but he stopped her.
'Isabel, you will come back.' She shook her head and closed the door. She heard him shouting at her. He threw something at the house, gravel or soil judging by the angry pattering against the windows. Then he drove off, his tyres squealing in protest. She sat still in the kitchen while the silence closed in around her again.
- ooo -
She was still sitting when she realised that it was time to collect the children. On autopilot she drove to the school, thinking about Patrick and Neil, about what might happen. Her brain felt heavy, lopsided with worry. She felt she was driving too fast and slowed down, but she had only been doing thirty to start with. She crawled all the way into school, other cars overtaking, other mothers on the rat run. Her bones ached as if she was going down with flu. She had called Patrick's bluff, and now she felt sick, sick at heart, sick with worry.
But going back would have been intolerable. What had Patrick imagined? That she could pretend nothing had happened? Or that she would lie back and passively accept him, until he tired of the game? For a second she thought of Neil rummaging under her nightdress in the dark while she let her mind wander elsewhere. But that was different. She loved Neil. Didn't she?
She tried to park the car, seesawing backwards and forwards to manoeuvre it into a large space. Her ability to judge distances seemed to have vanished. In the end she gave up and left it eighteen inches from the kerb. Her legs felt uneven, and she had to lean against a wall to stay upright. When Katie came out she hugged her tight, as if she wanted to absorb her back into her body, swinging her up off the ground, and smelling the elusive sweet scent of her warm, living neck. Katie allowed herself to be hugged, too young to reject such displays. Then she tired and pushed herself back. Isabel set her down, but kept hold of her hand. Someone tugged her other arm, and she looked down. She saw, almost as if at the end of a microscope, another child. She found it hard to focus, then realised it was Rachel, Justine's daughter. Rachel had to repeat herself before Isabel could take in what she was saying.
'Please, Mrs Freeman, could Katie come to tea at my house today?' Her face with its neat small features was pleading. Isabel looked past her and saw Justine. It was the first time they had met since Patrick's visit. Isabel suddenly remembered herself confessing, and the blush rose. Justine's face was avid.
'How did you get on?' she whispered. 'What did you decide?'
'I'm sorry?' Isabel stammered, suddenly conscious of all the other mothers standing about, waiting for their children.
'About Patrick? Did you go back?'
'Please Mummy, I want to go to Rachel's house.'
'Please Mrs Freeman, can Katie come?'
'What did you do? Did you tell Neil?' Justine seemed excited, her sleek hair swinging forwards. Isabel was horrified at her eagerness, the implied intimacy of shared secrets.
'I...'
Faces loomed up at her, everyone was looking at her. She felt naked, exposed, and twisted round looking for escape, looking for someone to rescue her. But Rachel held her arm. She shook her off.
'No,' she gasped. 'She can't come. We've got to get home.' She registered the child's face crumpling, Justine's becoming hard and angry. Isabel turned and ran, not caring who saw her, Katie held tightly by the hand. Safe inside the car, Isabel let Katie's complaints wash over her: how her hand hurt, how unfair it was and why couldn't she go to Rachel's house for tea.
When her breathing had calmed, Isabel turned to Katie and asked her to go back and collect Michael.
'Why should I? It's not fair, why do I -'
'Just do it,' Isabel shouted at her and then felt terrible as Katie burst into tears.
Isabel rang later to apologise to Justine and Rachel, not very successfully as she was unable to keep the stiffness out of her voice. Justine sounded polite but distant as if she had been mortally offended but wasn't going to say anything. Isabel hated to think that she could have upset a child and kept saying how sorry she was, but didn't have the strength to try and win Justine round.
She wished with all her heart that she had confessed to someone else. Even better, kept it to herself. Every time she saw or thought of Justine she remembered that dreadful Friday, and Patrick with the photographs.
Wednesday improved, Thursday got better. She didn't hear anything from Patrick, and neither, presumably, had Neil. She allowed herself to relax a little, the tightness in her jaw eased and the persistent pounding of a headache subsided. She had been right about Patrick; he might threaten, but he wasn't going to follow through.
One week after Patrick's visit, life was almost back to normal. Neil off first thing, school run, another trip to the supermarket. This time, in an attempt to reassert normal life, she'd devised a menu plan for the coming week, and written out a complete shopping list so she would only need the one trip. Isabel got back from the supermarket, tired but flushed with efficiency, to see Neil's car parked outside the house. She hoicked the shopping bags out of the boot, one eye on the house in case he came out. It was unusual for him to forget something, although it did happen from time to time. She let herself in, laden with bags.
'Neil?' No reply. She went into the kitchen and started to put the shopping away. It was satisfying: full cupboards, food squirrelled away for winter. All the time she was stacking tins of baked beans and cartons of cereal, she expected Neil to come through. When she had finished she went to look for him in his study, but he wasn't there.
'Neil?' she called again. It felt peculiar to be in an empty house when you thought it wasn't empty. Rooms waited to be filled like empty stage sets. She went up the stairs and looked down the landing. If this was a horror film, she thought, we'd be yelling at the heroine
to switch the lights on. But it was the middle of the day. Instinct drew her to their bedroom.
'Neil?' He was lying on the bed fully dressed, eyes closed, hands resting on his chest. He didn't answer so she leaned over the bed and reached out for his hand. 'Are you all right, darling? I saw the car.'
In answer he handed her the envelope he had been holding to his chest. Redundancy, was her immediate reaction. She took the envelope, uncertain what to do with it.
'Look inside.' His voice was croaky, and she wondered if he might have a throat infection. She pulled out the contents of the envelope. It only needed an inch for her to see what they were, and she pushed them back as if hiding them could make it better. Her heart was beating fast and the air seemed thin, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of it. Her legs gave way and she sat down abruptly on the bed, hand to her mouth.
'Don't be shy, let's have them out.' Neil took the envelope from her and sprinkled the contents on the space separating them. 'After all, you weren't shy then.'
He spread them out on the bed. 'At first I thought it was a mistake. Someone had sent me dirty pictures by mistake, I thought. I almost didn't bother to look and see who it was.' He pushed them so they made two neat lines of three. 'A little note came with them. I've torn it up so I can't show it to you unfortunately, but I can tell you what it said. "Your wife is having an affair." That's all.' His voice was controlled. Too controlled.
'I'm sorry,' Isabel whispered.
'I expect you are.' The photographs lay between them, as effective as a mile-high wall. She glanced down and saw herself, legs and arms splayed out in abandonment. Mouth willing, fingers nimble. She looked away.
'It's over. The affair, I mean. It didn't last very long, only a few weeks. I realised I'd made a mistake.' Her voice trailed off as Neil didn't seem to be listening to her. He was looking at one of the photographs, turning his head to one side.
'It's funny, I haven't looked at this sort of thing for years. I suppose by today's standards in pornography this is pretty tame.'
'Neil, I know you're angry, but you must listen to me, please.'
'Why should I want to listen to anything you say ever again?'
'Because I'm your wife. I love you.'
He recoiled from her outstretched hand and went to stand by the window. She followed him.
'Neil? Please, I'm so, so sorry.'
'Go away.'
'Please. I love you.' She touched his shoulder and he spun round, anger flaring.
'Get out, you whore. Go on, get out. Don't come near me again.'
'But Neil -'
'None of that. I want you out of the house.' He advanced on her, pushing her away from him with hard, sharp jabs to her chest. 'How do you think it feels? To see your wife like that. Your wife, who you trusted. The mother of your children. Huh, some mother. How do you think I feel? Did you think of me at all while you were prancing around, of the children? You were the one who insisted on coming to live here and look what happens.'
'That's not fair.'
'Fair? Fair?' His voice rose alarmingly and Isabel stepped back. 'None of it's fair. Was it fair when you spread your legs for him, you bitch? Was it fair when you fucked him? Look at them.' He grabbed her hair and forced her down on the bed. 'Look at them. Look at you. Is that fair?'
'No.' Her nose was squashed against her open-mouthed image, she could feel the hard glossy surface sticking to her cheek. His fingers were laced in her hair, his weight pressed down on her, squeezing the breath out of her. 'You're hurting me,' she managed, her voice a thin squeak. He pressed down harder. Her mouth filled with bedspread, tongue smothered by cloth, blocking her airways. She gasped for breath, her inhalation a ragged, rasping jerk. She struggled, arms waving feebly against his strength. She couldn't breathe. This might be the end, she thought in surprise, trying unsuccessfully to get free. Then he released her, and she slid down off the bed, hand to her chest, sucking the air in. He sat on the armchair, shoulders hunched.
'I want to kill you,' he said, his voice thick with defeat.
He put his head in his hands to hide his face, pressing his palms tight over his eyes. She could see his body shake with the effort of controlling himself. Tears came from her own eyes, hot salty trails that brimmed over and slid down her face. She crawled over to him, tried to put her head on his knees but he pushed her off, twisting away from her.
'Leave me alone.'
She slumped against the side of the chair, longing to comfort him, to put her arms around him. Her face crumpled with the effort of repressing her sobbing. Why had Patrick done it? She had become so sure he would do nothing, that he would accept her leaving, and let her go.
The only thing he gained was revenge. Tears seeped out of her swollen eyes. She had come so close to loving him, and for what? For it to end like this, her and Neil crying together, alone in an empty house. She shuffled round, and put her hand on his knee.
'Neil?'
He twitched his leg, though not enough to shake her off. He sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes with his hands. She reached out and grabbed the box of tissues from her bedside cupboard. 'Here.'
He took the tissues from her and blew his nose, still keeping his face turned away from her. Then he got up and went into the shower room. She heard the taps being turned on full, water splashing everywhere. Then silence. She wondered if he was looking at his face in the mirror, seeing a new self, a man whose wife had betrayed him. Slowly she got up, her body shaking and uncertain. She mopped her face with a tissue, wincing as she touched her sore eyes. She gathered up the photographs, trying not to look, and put them back in the envelope. Then she slumped down on the bed and waited for Neil to come back.
At last he emerged from the bathroom, and went back to the window, avoiding her eyes by looking out at the view. Finally he spoke.
'Who was the man?'
No more lying. 'Patrick.'
'So when I asked you about it...' he stopped, then started again. 'When I was warned about him...they were telling the truth.'
'Yes.'
She could see this came as a shock, as if he hadn't been able to believe it was true, despite the photographs.
He had needed her to tell him. There was a pause while he digested the information.
'Will you go to him?'
'No!' She was horrified. 'I told you, it's over. I finished it ages ago, at half term. That's why he's sent the photographs to you.'
'I see. I hadn't taken that in.' He sighed, still looking out at the hills beyond the town, which were shrouded in rain clouds, and ran one hand through his hair. 'It doesn't change anything. The photographs exist, whether you are still...still with him or not. I can't pretend I haven't seen them.' He rubbed his hands, feeling the knuckle joints as if they were sore with arthritis. 'I can't bear to be with you. I want you to go.'
'What do you mean?'
'Leave. Go.'
'I can't.'
'I don't want you here anymore.'
'But...the children...' Isabel shook her head in bewilderment.
'I've been lying here, thinking about it. At first I thought that I would go. That's what usually happens. The husband moves out. The wife gets everything, the house, the children. Whatever she's done, she still ends up with everything. Then I thought, why should I go? I haven't done anything wrong. It's not me who's wrecked this marriage. So it has to be you.'
'But why does anyone have to go? Can't we talk about it?'
'What is there to say? You disgust me.'
'Neil, no.'
'I want you to go. Now.'
Isabel stared at him. 'But what about the children?'
'I rang my mother before you got back. She's willing to help for the time being until I can make other arrangements.'
'What do you mean, other arrangements? You can't throw me out and pretend I don't exist.'
'Just go,' he said, clenching his fists. 'I can't be with you. Take what you like and go. The lawyers can argue about it later.'
&nb
sp; His eyes had filled with tears and a nerve jumped in his jaw. Isabel realised he was very close to breaking down and she felt overwhelmed with guilt that she should have brought him to this.
'How can I go? You can't expect me to.'
He shrugged, refusing to look at her.
'I haven't got anywhere else to go. The children, you, this house. You're everything.' She felt the tears start again, and tried to stop them, feeling her mouth shake with the effort.
'You should have thought of that before.' His voice was hard, his body turned away from her.
'Neil, please. Think of the children.'
He looked at her then, his eyes as stony as pebbles.
'I have thought of the children, which is more than you seem to have. Why should they have to suffer because of your...your...antics?' He spat the word out. 'If you go now there's a chance the scandal will die down.'
'But there needn't be any scandal. No one knows about it; they couldn't.' She guiltily thought of Justine. Thank God she had thrown the photographs away and not shown her. She wiped her face with her hand, but the tears kept coming. She tried to control her breathing but could only gasp jagged breaths. 'Millions of people have affairs and they don't split up. Why should we be any different?'
His voice was very cold. 'Because I expect the whole area is already buzzing with the news. There's no way we can keep it quiet.'