Adultery for Beginners

by Sarah Duncan

  'Where are you going?'

  'It doesn't matter.'

  'But what if there was an emergency? How would I reach you?'

  He paused, then took out his diary, scribbled on a page, tore it out and tossed the scrap to her.

  'My mobile phone number.'

  Isabel stared at the number, confused. 'I didn't know you had a mobile phone.'

  'The company gave me one.' He picked the case up and left the room. Isabel dropped the piece of paper and ran after him, stopping him on the landing.

  'Stop being so melodramatic,' she hissed at him, conscious of the children in the sitting room. 'First you throw me out, now you're leaving. People have affairs all the time and yes, it does break up some marriages. But it doesn't have to.'

  'So I'm supposed to pretend nothing's happened, that everything's fine -'

  'Of course not. I'm not asking you to do that, I'm asking you to stay until we can talk about it and decide what's best for the children. I know I've hurt you, and I am so, so sorry for that. But it's happened and we've got to deal with it. It's no good going because that won't make the situation vanish, it won't make the past any different. All it'll do is make it harder for the children.' She realised she was gripping his arms so she dropped her hands and stepped away from him. 'I'll move into the spare room, I won't get in your way, you could pretend I wasn't here. Please don't go.'

  I've made arrangements,' he said abruptly without looking at her.

  'Un-make them.' She watched his face intently as he paused, as if weighing up his options.

  'I can't.'

  'You mean you won't. Not even for your children,' she said, unable to keep the anger from her voice. He turned on her and pushed her against the wall.

  'Stop using the children as a weapon, you selfish cow,' he spat, his face looming large, so close to hers. 'You're the one who's wrecked everything. This is all your fault. I did everything for you and you've thrown it away. And now you're making me leave.'

  'That's not true,' she protested.

  'The truth is I despise you,' he said and picked up the case. Isabel watched him go down the stairs, then turned as the children came into the hall, presumably drawn by the raised voices. She fervently hoped they had not been able to hear any of the row. Moira stood behind them.

  'Where are you going?' Michael said.

  Isabel held her breath.

  'I'm going to stay with a friend for a while,' Neil said easily, despite having been hurling abuse at her a few moments before. 'Nothing to worry about.'

  'Can I come?' Katie asked.

  'Not right now.'

  'When?'

  'We'll see.' He bent and kissed Moira's powdery cheek. 'Sorry, Ma.'

  'I should think so,' Moira said tartly, but she clung onto his arm. 'I hope you've thought about what you're doing, Neil.'

  'Of course.' He picked Katie up and buried a kiss in her neck. 'I'll see you soon.'

  Katie had obviously decided this was an unexpected business trip. 'Will you bring me back a present from where you're going?'

  'What do you want?'

  'A cat.'

  'And what do you want?' He tousled Michael's hair.

  'A tank. Or a racing car.'

  'I can't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do.' He kissed Michael, who didn't duck away as usual. 'Bye.'

  He didn't look at Isabel as he left.

  Isabel, Moira, Michael and Katie stood in the doorway and watched him drive away.

  'He is coming back, isn't he?' Michael said, his voice uncertain and high-pitched.

  'Och, of course,' Moira said, giving him a hug. 'D'you know, when your daddy was a wee boy he packed his case and walked out. He was off to Australia, he said, to see if they were all standing upside-down.'

  Katie removed her finger from her mouth. 'Did he get there?'

  'He was back by teatime. Now, I expect it's time for your baths and bed.' She looked up at Isabel.

  Isabel felt unable to think. Her brain had seized up, leaving her incapable of thought. But she mustn't cry in front of the children.

  'Granny's right,' she said, her voice hoarse and cracked. 'Upstairs for your baths.'

  'It's not time yet,' Michael whined, scuffing his shoes. 'Only babies have baths this early.'

  'None of that, young man,' Moira said, taking his hand and marching him up the stairs. 'There's been quite enough temperament in this house.'

  Isabel watched them go up the stairs. 'Be a good boy.'

  'I'm a good girl, aren't I?' said Katie.

  Isabel hugged her. 'You are indeed. Una buona ragazza,' she added, remembering.

  'What's that?' Katie asked as they went up the stairs, Katie's hand hot in hers.

  'It's Italian for a good girl.'

  - ooo -

  Moira stayed until Sunday afternoon and although Isabel had flashes of exasperation with her they were less extreme than before, despite her lack of sleep the previous night. She had just dropped off when Michael had come through, scarlet with embarrassment and distress having wet the bed for the first time in years. Making reassuring noises, she changed the sheets and settled him back down. When Katie came through later Isabel was too tired to take her back to her own room even though she knew that the presence of Katie's hot little body would disturb whatever sleep was left to her. In the morning she changed the sheets on Katie's bed, but left her own untouched, unwilling to lose the familiarity of Neil's smell.

  Neither Isabel nor Moira mentioned Neil, as if chary of admitting his absence. With the children they both maintained the idea that he had gone on a nebulous business trip. In fact, Isabel couldn't quite believe that he had gone. She kept thinking she heard him around the house, and was surprised when the room was empty. Deprived of Ian and Neil, Moira fussed over Michael, who was torn between embarrassment and pleasure. Katie meanwhile clung to Isabel. She followed her round the house, one finger firmly in her mouth, a babyish gesture that Isabel thought she had abandoned months before.

  - ooo -

  Isabel didn't think about the bookshop until she was putting out the children's coats, bags and PE kits for Monday and came across her bag with the book on divorce. She had said she was interested in working there as an automatic response, but now she was unsure. On Sunday evening, however, she read the divorce book, making notes as she went. One thing was quite clear: however it was divided, Neil's income plus the rental from her father's house was not enough to support two households in the way they had been living. Working was no longer an optional extra.

  So much else had happened over the weekend that the photographs had almost slipped from her mind. Not so the other parents at the school. Parents normally dropped their children and left promptly, especially on a chilly late-November day, but that Monday morning there were small knots of mothers talking and a hum of conversation and quickly suppressed shrieks. Complete strangers felt free to stare and there were whispers and snickers of laughter as she passed by. She gripped Katie's heavy PE bag tightly and tried to look as if she couldn't hear, her eyes fixed on a point just above people's heads. For once Katie was reluctant to leave Isabel. Isabel had to prise her clutching hands off and push her into the classroom, terrified in case Katie registered any of the whispers.

  She hung Katie's bag up in the cloakroom, trying to remember who had been there when Neil had opened the envelope. George was one, she could remember that, along with him saying clearly, 'If it's that bitch, tell her she's not welcome.' She hoped Helen wasn't the source of the gossip, buying a few moments centre stage with juicy morsels of scandal.

  Not that she blamed the other mothers for passing the gossip on. She knew so few of them that the gossip would have distance, like hearing of some tragic accident halfway round the world. But if you were the one whose house had been swallowed up in a mudslide then the accident had a nearly unbearable reality. She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and curled them into fists. Don't let them know you mind, she told herself. Don't let them see you ca
re.

  Isabel left the cloakroom and headed for her car, trying to make an unobtrusive escape through the entrance hall full of gossipers. She knew logically that not every mother at the school could have heard about the photographs, and that some were probably talking about their own weekend activities, but the knowledge didn't stop her feeling exposed and friendless. She tried not to look at anyone directly, to avoid the sliding glances and raised eyebrows. Then, in front of her stood one unavoidable figure.

  'Isabel, the very person.' Mary's voice dominated the hall, and Isabel was conscious of a hush of anticipation. She raised her chin ready to respond, but to Isabel's surprise Mary linked arms and walked with her to the car, talking loudly. 'I was sending out the invitations to our Christmas party, and I couldn't find your address. So stupid of me to mislay it. I do hope you and Neil will be able to attend.'

  Isabel could see that Mary's friendliness to her was noticed, that it was silencing the whisperers. She knew she should be grateful for the support. She was grateful, but she was also angry with herself for needing rescuing.

  They reached Isabel's car, Mary having talked pleasantly about nothing all the while, acting as a protective shield from the gossip. Isabel tried to work it out; Mary was Patrick's sister, so why was she siding with her? Especially when she'd warned Isabel about Patrick, and Isabel had lied to her face. Justine's assessment of Isabel was horribly accurate: how could she have been so stupid?

  Isabel unlinked her arm. 'Thank you for the invitation but I doubt we'll be able to come to your party. You were quite right to warn me about Patrick breaking up marriages. At least, he has been very successful at breaking up mine.'

  Mary lowered her voice. 'I've heard. That toad George Weedon-Smith was full of it, Richard said. Yakking on for hours at the Golf Club.'

  Isabel felt sick and put out a hand to steady herself. 'No wonder everybody seems to know.'

  'Never mind. It'll be a nine-day wonder, you'll see. People will forget.'

  'Neil won't.'

  Mary patted her arm. 'My dear, in my experience, what men say in the heat of the moment and what they actually do are two quite different things.'

  'Oh, but that was exactly where I went wrong,' Isabel said, her voice shaking with suppressed fury. 'Patrick said he'd use the photographs and I didn't think he would.'

  Mary shook her head. 'Patrick has behaved very badly, as usual, but he says he didn't send them.'

  Isabel flung open the car door. 'Then he's a liar as well as a shit,' she said, 'because who else could it have been?'

  - ooo -

  Her hands were still trembling as she knocked on the bookshop door and she had to take deep breaths to try and steady herself. The door had a closed sign on it, but there were lights on inside. The tall, thin man she'd seen on Saturday appeared behind the counter and saw her waiting outside. He unlocked the door and let her into the warmth.

  I've just made tea. D'you want some?'

  'Please,' Isabel said, thinking she would need some caffeine to get her through the interview. Behind the counter was a stairway that led down to a narrow corridor, made even narrower by stacks of books. She'd expected the office to be untidy and shabby, with more books and a good layer of dust, but to her surprise it was functional and modem with a stunning glass-and-steel desk.

  'Sit down,' he said, indicating the black leather armchair opposite the desk. 'I realise I don't know your name.'

  'Isabel,' she said. 'Isabel Freeman.'

  'Adam Rockcliffe. I'm the owner.' She was surprised; he seemed too young to own a bookshop. He must be about her own age. She'd imagined bookshop owners to be older - it was the sort of thing people did when they retired. But then she'd also thought the office would be untidy and cluttered, yet here it was, gleaming and new.

  Adam handed her a clipboard. 'Now, while I get you some tea, perhaps you can fill in this form.' He left the room.

  Isabel's heart sank as she tried to fill in the form. Adam Rockcliffe came back in with a mug of tea, put it down beside her then perched on the edge of the desk, long legs stretched out in front of him. Silently she handed the clipboard back and he quickly scanned it.

  'You've not filled in much,' he commented, rolling up the sleeves of his thick, ribbed jumper.

  Isabel felt anger rise in her, anger at everything and everybody. 'You've not asked the right questions,' she said, standing up. 'I've done lots of things but none of them fit your boxes. No, I haven't worked in a shop before, but it can't be that difficult, even though my only qualification is irrelevant and out of date. And the last job I had went wrong. I can't give you a P45 or a proper reference, and all my friends who would act as personal referees live on the other side of the world. So what am I to do? Lie? Or what?' Her body was shaking but she carried on. 'And you might as well know, because everybody else in town seems to, that my lover wanted me to leave my husband and go with him to Rome but I wouldn't so he blackmailed me, and my husband first of all threw me out but I wouldn't go so now he's left me, and all I wanted was a job where I could earn some money and support myself, and I don't think that's much to ask, is it?'

  She stopped, horrified that she could have blurted all that out.

  Adam blinked, but that was the only sign that anything untoward had happened.

  'Seems reasonable,' he said mildly.

  'I'm sorry,' Isabel said, picking up her bag. 'I've wasted your time.'

  'No, don't go. Please, sit down.'

  Isabel sat back down on the edge of the chair and stared at the floor in embarrassment.

  'Look, I have two full-time assistants and a Saturday girl. Maria's had a threatened miscarriage and has been told to take things easy, so she's not here and Angela's father had a stroke on Friday so she's had to go back home. My Saturday girl would come in, but she's still at school. It's the busiest time of the year for me and frankly, I'm desperate. I don't care how many boxes you can tick so long as you're willing to work.'

  I need the money,' Isabel said.

  At that he looked sharply at her, but merely said, 'I pay twenty percent above the minimum wage, which isn't great, but better than most shops. Hours are nine thirty to five thirty although I'll probably stay open later a few nights closer to Christmas. You get an hour off for lunch and two tea breaks of twenty minutes each. Can you do Saturdays?'

  Isabel shook her head, reeling from the quickfire information.

  'Pity. Well, do you want the job?'

  'Yes,' she said instinctively.

  'Then you're hired. Could you start today?'

  'What, now?'

  'Yup. The shop opens in half an hour so there'd be time to run through some of the procedures before we open.'

  'I suppose I could start today. I couldn't stay as late as five thirty, though. I'd have to go at three.' She could book the children into the After-school Club for the rest of term, but it would be unfair to sign them up without warning.

  Adam quickly showed her round the basement of the shop, most of which was used for stock, and then gave her a crash course in using the till. His instructions were clear and logical. There was also a file full of neatly typed procedures, and Isabel had a pang remembering Patrick's chaos. No need for her so-called organisational skills here. Adam was obviously far more organised than she could ever hope to be.

  The first customer came in ten minutes after opening and from then on she was busy all day, muddling change, checking customer orders, taking deliveries down to the stock room and unpacking them. She found the day exhausting and was thankful to be finishing early. She wasn't sure if she - or her feet - could cope with standing all day. She collected the children from school and drove back. It would have been wonderful to have been greeted by a smiling face and a large drink, and have nothing else to do except put her feet up in front of the television. But there was no one to do the things she had once done for Neil. She made the children supper, supervised their baths and dozed off while reading to Katie. She left the kitchen untidied and went strai
ght to bed herself, having her first undisturbed night's sleep for the past four days.

  The next two days were worse, the physical tiredness dragging at her body. The shop was busier too, which meant more pressure to get the till right and not to mislay any vital documents such as delivery notes and invoices. But it was a blessing to be so tired that she couldn't think.

  By the end of the week her body had started to adapt to the rhythm of the job and she'd found a pair of shoes that didn't pinch. She had thought that the work would be boring, hours spent standing with nothing to do except wipe down the counter top. But there were few opportunities for standing around. When not working at the till there were piles of books to be straightened and queries to be answered. These usually meant having to ask Adam, but she was beginning to learn the answers to some of the more straightforward questions. Overall she realised she enjoyed working there. The bookshop had a warm, comfortable glow to it, a safe haven from the darkness outside.

  Neil rang each evening to speak to the children. The first evening she was so tired from work that she couldn't think straight and forgot to ask him where he was staying and what his plans were. Over several stilted conversations she discovered that he had moved out of his friend's house and into a B&B.

  'I needed the space to think,' he said, and then stopped as if he had revealed something too personal.

  'You can come back here,' she whispered.

  'Don't let's go there,' he said, and asked to speak to the children. Later she thought that that was a very un-Neil-like thing to say and wondered where he'd picked the expression up from.

  On Friday, as she was going, Adam put a brown envelope into her hand.

  'What's this?' she asked, and he gave her a surprised look.

  'Wages, of course. If there's any way you can work the next two Saturdays let me know. Even a couple of hours over lunchtime or an afternoon would help.'

  I'll let you know,' she said, holding the envelope. It felt solid and she could feel the edges of two coins. Once outside the shop she couldn't resist looking, her fingers trembling as she carefully tore across the top of the envelope. A small wad of notes with a larger piece of folded paper. She took it out and unfolded it. A payslip with her name on it, hours worked, National Insurance number, tax deductions, everything exactly as it should be. There was even an extra amount in lieu of holiday pay, something she'd never thought to ask about. She thought of Neil demanding she get a payslip from Patrick. How angry she'd been with him, and yet she should have been given a proper payslip, just like this one. She hadn't thought of Patrick for days. He occupied an angry, sore place in her mind that she didn't want to explore in case it exploded in a deluge of accusations.