Adultery for Beginners

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Adultery for Beginners Page 28

by Sarah Duncan


  It was a beautiful day, so what was she doing, loitering up on the Downs when her children were waiting for her? Neil wouldn't know the routine, getting Katie to her ballet class, Michael to football practice. She was part of the fabric of their lives; Neil couldn't throw her out or banish her to the furthest corners of the kingdom like a king in a fairy story. Anna Karenina and Emma Bovary had no option but to kill themselves because they were created by nineteenth-century men. They had to pay the price for their adultery regardless. But she didn't.

  Suddenly it struck her how easily she had accepted Neil's demand that she left. Throughout their life together she had always deferred to his decisions. She might make requests and state her opinions, but in the end it was Neil who would decide, Neil who would weigh the evidence and pronounce his verdict. They had married quickly because of another country's rule and it seemed as if that rule had stuck: she had become his property to dispose of as he wished. And she had complied. She thought back to that time, the excitement of a new country followed by her father's death. Neil had dealt with the arrangements and she had been grateful, a habit that had continued. It had seemed a fair deal at the time: he looked after their external lives, earning a living and so on, and she looked after the domestic side. For ex-pats that was often the only possible arrangement but now, for the first time, she wondered if she had exchanged her independence because it was easier.

  Easier to let Neil handle the money, organise their lives.

  Easier, maybe, to surrender autonomy, but look where it had got her. No more, she thought, staring out at the wide valley sprawling below her. No more. It's time to go home.

  - ooo -

  The children were pleased to see her, clinging tight as she knelt to greet them.

  'Daddy said he didn't know when you'd be coming back,' Katie said, nuzzling into her shoulder.

  'Did he?' Isabel said lightly, her eyes meeting Neil's as he stood in the hall open-mouthed. 'Silly Daddy. He must have misunderstood me. Now, run and get your ballet things.' She eased Katie away. 'Quick, or we'll be late. Michael, hurry up and get dressed. Your kit should be ready for you by the back door.'

  Michael looked confused. 'But Dad said Granny was coming to look after us.'

  'Don't you worry about that. You just get dressed as quickly as you can.'

  She went up the stairs after him. No time for a shower, but she quickly washed her face and changed, grimacing as she peeled off the dirty clothes. Newly spruced up, she went back into the hall where Neil was still waiting, hands on hips, mouth tight under his moustache.

  Checking the children were out of earshot she faced Neil. 'I'm not going. I'm sorry for what's happened, but I can't just walk away and let you pretend I don't exist.'

  'I don't want you here.'

  'I am here, and I intend to stay. I'm not going to be separated from my children.' She heard Katie skipping down the stairs and spoke in a more normal voice. 'We'll be out for the morning and back at lunchtime. We'll talk this evening.'

  'My mother's coming.'

  'I didn't marry your mother, I married you. You'll have to deal with her.' Isabel gave Katie a hug. 'Ready sweetheart? Good girl. Is Michael ready?

  'Dunno.'

  Isabel called up the stairs. 'Michael, hurry up.'

  Michael's voice wailed,

  'Can't find my trainers.'

  'They should be by the back door.'

  She managed to get the children out of the house and off to their respective classes, all the time her heart thumping. As she dropped Katie off at ballet there were a few sidelong glances, animated conversations that stopped suddenly, but none of the other mothers said anything except Justine.

  'I'm surprised to see you here,' she said, raising carefully plucked eyebrows.

  'Oh, really? Why?' Isabel said, as casually as she could, as she fiddled with Katie's ballet slippers.

  Justine flushed slightly. 'I heard -' She stopped as Isabel looked up with the blandest expression she could muster.

  'You shouldn't believe everything you hear,' Isabel said. 'I think you need some new elastic on those, Katie. I'll get some in town while you do your class.' She flashed a smile at Justine. 'Must dash,' she said, and ran to the car and the waiting Michael.

  She dropped him off at football practice. Where would we be without the weather? Isabel thought, having called 'Isn't it a beautiful morning' with a forced cheeriness to several parents. She tried not to register who had raised their eyebrows or who had been startled. Her luck held and she found a parking space immediately in the town centre.

  Elastic for Katie's ballet slippers bought, she wondered what to do next. She had been surprised at how easy it was to breeze back into the house and tell Neil she wasn't going, to take control of the situation. What would happen next was less predictable, depending on Neil's reaction. Guilt overwhelmed her for a moment. But remorse wouldn't help her now. She needed to know her legal position. The papers were full of aggrieved men complaining how the courts favoured the mothers, even when the fathers were blameless innocents and the mothers wicked women, but she didn't know if that was a true reflection of the current situation. Any lawyer could tell her but she wanted to know now, before seeing Neil again. She went to the library and quickly looked through their legal section but the books she wanted were out on loan. Obviously she wasn't the only person with marital problems.

  So she went to the bookshop, trying to creep in without attracting any attention in case Patrick was sitting in the Italian cafe opposite. To her surprise the shop was busy, and although the Legal section was quiet she kept bumping backs with people browsing in Cookery. The subjects were serious: criminal law, contract law, company law, constitutional law. There seemed a lot of Cs. She scanned faster. Tort, equity, property, business. There wasn't book on matrimonial or even family law. She thought about asking an assistant, but the shop was full and she didn't want to risk anyone overhearing her. Besides, what should she ask for? An Uncertain Woman's Guide to the Implications of Separation was what she wanted, but she doubted such a book existed. She moved round the corner into the Self-help section. She picked up a book on helping children cope with divorce and as she held it in her hands she felt the rush of tears, as if the mere fact of the book's existence meant that yes, this was happening to her, yes, this was real. But only if I let it, she thought, putting the book back on the shelf.

  She found another book that seemed to favour a dry, factual approach, rather than an emotional one. She flicked through, looking at the chapter titles. Mediation and reconciliation. 'Many couples who attend mediation sessions decide against divorce', she read. She didn't like the idea of mediation sessions. Too many opportunities for humiliation, although at least Neil had burned the photographs so he couldn't produce them. Blame. Guilt. Adultery. The book had it all. She moved onto the section about children. It seemed the aggrieved fathers were right: the courts were generally reluctant to assign primary responsibility for the children away from the mother, even if she was the motivator, as they called it, in the divorce. She sighed. It did seem unfair that a man should lose his house, wife and children just because he was out at work all day making the money to pay for it all. On the other hand, the needs of the children had to come first.

  She decided to buy the book, but had to wait to be served.

  'You're busy today,' she said when she got to the end of the line.

  'Christmas,' the man said. 'That'll be ten pounds ninety-nine.'

  Isabel handed him the money. 'I'd forgotten about Christmas.'

  'Busiest time of the year,' he said, counting out her change. 'Next four weeks we'll be heaving. If you know someone who wants a job...' He tapped the top of the counter.

  Isabel took her change and looked where he was pointing. A notice taped to the counter read:

  Temporary Sales Assistant required from now until Christmas.

  Apply to the manager.

  'Me,' she said, to her own surprise as much as his. 'I need a job.'

/>   'Seriously?' He handed her a plastic bag containing the book.

  'Yes.' She realised that she was serious, that she did need a job, now more than ever before, and nodded. 'Seriously.'

  The woman behind her cleared her throat and Isabel saw that the queue had grown.

  'Look,' the man said, scratching his head. 'Come in on Monday morning, first thing. It won't be so busy then.'

  'That'll be great. Monday morning, then. Thanks.'

  Outside, she ran to her car. A traffic warden stood by it, peering in at the windscreen.

  'I can't have run out of time, can I? The queue was enormous.'

  'You have run out of time, but you're in luck,' he said. 'I haven't started to write the ticket.'

  She was so relieved she could have kissed him. 'Thanks,' she said, and got in. She drove off to pick up first Katie, then Michael, scarlet-cheeked from running about in the fresh morning air. Moira's car was on the drive when they got back.

  'Granny's here,' she said to the children. 'Be good.' She wondered what Neil had said to Moira. It flickered through her mind that if she and Neil got divorced she would never have to speak to Moira again. 'Be good,' she repeated, even though the children had got out of the car.

  Moira was in the hall, being accosted by the children.

  'And this is the mermaid position,' Katie was saying as Isabel came in. She was sitting on the floor like the little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen, legs to one side, arms outstretched.

  'Very nice, dear,' Moira said, 'but do get up or you'll get dust all over your pretty clothes.'

  'Katie, darling, go and change,' Isabel said. 'You too, Michael. And put your tracksuit in the dirty linen bin, not under the bed, this time,' she called after him as he scampered upstairs, closely followed by Katie.

  At the sound of her voice Moira turned, hands on hips.

  'Good journey down?' Isabel said cheerily, determined not to be thrown by her mother-in-law.

  'Yes, thank you,' Moira replied tersely. 'Though rather an unexpected visit.'

  'Couldn't agree more,' Isabel said. 'Very unexpected.' She looked Moira straight in the eye, challenging her to say more. But to her surprise, Moira hesitated, then looked away. Her hair was messy and Isabel could see a bare patch on her skin where she had failed to blend in her foundation. The exposed skin looked waxy white, deadened by age. In comparison Isabel felt young and strong, and she was ashamed.

  'Moira. You've driven a long way. Why don't you go and sit down, and I'll bring you a coffee.'

  'Will it be real or the instant?' Moira said, straightening up into her usual belligerent posture. But her messy hair and slapdash make-up spoilt the invincible effect. She looked more like a tired old turkey hen, scrawny-necked and flightless, but defending her chicks to the last.

  Isabel laughed. 'Instant, and if you don't want instant, you can have tea. Take it or leave it, it's all I have.'

  'Instant then, if you haven't real. And cream?'

  'I don't know, but I doubt it.' She spoke quietly but firmly, too tired herself to play games of one-upmanship.

  Moira looked uncertain, as if puzzled by an Isabel who didn't respond. Perhaps that's the secret, Isabel thought. All these years I've been striving to be the good daughter-in-law, when the careless one would have served better. Not that careless was the right word. More, unconcerned, unruffled by the little digs and niggles. Looking back it seemed ridiculous, two grown women squabbling over dust.

  She wondered again what Neil had told his mother, both on the phone the day before and this morning, when she'd arrived. Even if he'd left the details out she must be aware that something had happened. So pointless to quarrel over trivia when there were real battles to be fought.

  She smiled and said gently, 'You look tired. Go on, sit down. I'll bring the coffee to you.'

  'You're very kind,' Moira said stiffly.

  'It's no trouble.' Isabel went into the kitchen. Neil wasn't there, and she wondered where he had gone. On the side was a large dish covered in foil. She lifted a corner. A pie of some sort, all the way from Moira's freezer she guessed. Moira had written something on a label in quavery writing but it had smudged and become unreadable. An image of Moira diligently stocking her freezer with family-sized pies, slaving on an eternal domestic treadmill even though her children had grown up and left twenty years ago, came to Isabel's mind.

  Isabel remembered that yesterday she had come back from the supermarket with her shopping, all bought according to a weekly meal planner, the start of her new, organised life. She'd planned pizza for lunch. Instead she turned the oven on and put Moira's pie inside.

  She went back into the sitting room. 'Here's your coffee,' she said.

  Moira sat up, as if startled from sleep, and took the cup from Isabel. Her hands on the cup were frail, knotted dark-blue veins on the backs of her hands, wedding ring embedded in her finger.

  Isabel cleared her throat. 'Moira, do you know where Neil is?'

  'He said he had to go out and make some arrangements.'

  Arrangements. It sounded a horribly cold word. Isabel sat down beside Moira. 'I don't know what Neil's said to you but -'

  'He said you'd gone, and he needed my help with the children.'

  'I see.' Isabel ran her hands through her hair. 'I don't know how much detail he went into -'

  'Enough.' Moira sipped her coffee, mouth pursed like a cat's bottom.

  Isabel counted to three, then ten. 'Neil's very angry with me,' she said. 'And he has every right to be. But he can't just chuck away all those years together because of one mistake.'

  'Some mistake.'

  'Yes,' Isabel said simply and the two women sat in silence. One mistake. But it was more a series of mistakes. Neil hadn't wanted her to work for Patrick from the beginning. He'd been suspicious about the lack of a proper office address. If only she hadn't gone to the interview, if only she hadn't worn the purple suede shoes, if only Patrick hadn't kissed her. If only she hadn't been so stupidly naive. From now on, Isabel thought, I shall only work for people with proper business addresses. Then the guilt rushed in again. She had been more than naive, she had been willfully oblivious to the hurt she might cause.

  Moira broke the silence first. 'I suppose you think I'm on Neil's side.'

  Isabel thought of Michael. 'Of course.'

  'I may love my son, but that doesn't blind me to his faults.' Moira sniffed. 'Not that he says much to me. He always was a secretive little boy. Keeps it all bottled up. I can see that might be hard to live with.'

  Isabel opened her mouth in surprise.

  'Not that I'm condoning your actions,' Moira continued briskly. 'A fine way to carry on. But I can see you're a good mother, even if we don't see eye to eye. And we don't go in for divorce in our family.' She made it sound as if divorce was a minor social solecism on a par with putting ketchup bottles on the table.

  Moira lay back in the armchair and closed her eyes. 'All this rushing around isn't good for me at my age,' she said. 'And don't those children need their lunch? I brought one of my specials down with me.'

  'I've put it in the oven.'

  The eyes snapped open. 'At what temperature?'

  'One hundred and eighty.'

  'It'll be ready in half an hour then.' The eyes closed.

  Isabel stood and waited but it was obvious her interview with Moira was over. She went back into the kitchen to begin organising lunch, counting out knives and forks. Strange that Moira, who she had assumed would be a fearsome enemy, might turn out to be an ally.

  But where was Neil? He hadn't come back for lunch.

  'Did Neil take anything with him when he went out?' Isabel asked. Her throat was tight with anxiety.

  But Moira thought not.

  They played Monopoly in the afternoon. Moira amassed a fortune quickly, built an empire and beadily collected her rent. Isabel kept on being sent to jail. She drove Michael mad by forgetting which properties were hers. He, like Moira, was playing seriously and was obsessed with get
ting Mayfair and Park Lane. Katie didn't mind: she had the Scottie dog - just like Buster - to push around the board, making a little yapping bark as she counted out each square.

  Neil came back at teatime, his presence indicated by a resounding crash of the front door and heavy footsteps up the stairs. Isabel followed and found him packing. 'What are you doing?' she said.

  'If you won't go I must,' he said, stripping shirts off their hangers and flinging them into the case.

  'Where are you going?'

  He didn't answer.

  'Neil, we need to talk.'

  He looked at her then. 'You might want to talk, but I don't.' He went to close the case but she put her hand out and stopped him.

  'You can't just walk out.'

  'Watch me.'

  'What about your mother? She's driven all this way.'

  He shrugged. 'You've come back; you deal with her.'

  Isabel was astounded at his callous attitude. This was not the Neil she knew. Or thought she knew. 'Neil, please stay. Stay until you've calmed down and we can talk.'

  'If I stay, it could be construed that I condone what you've done.'

  'What? Have you been speaking to a lawyer?'

  He turned his back on her and zipped up the case.

  She thought of the book that she'd bought, that must be still in the hall. She'd bought it to find out her rights, discover ammunition that could be used. Why should she assume that Neil would do any less? She felt tired, the disturbed night catching up on her. Her skin felt heavy, dragged down by fear.

 

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