The Wife Who Ran Away

by Tess Stimson

  Take charge, Agness said. I think this could be said to fit under that heading.

  Now all I have to sort out is Kate.

  Kate

  I miss the children so much it hurts. I’m happy with my new life here in Rome, and with Keir, of course, but the visceral ache to see Guy and Agness never goes away.

  Keir rolls over in bed and pushes himself up on one elbow, his russet hair flopping into his eyes. ‘Hey. Why’re you up so early?’

  I turn back from the window. ‘It’s not every day you turn forty.’

  Keir pushes back his hair and sits up against the pillows. I can’t imagine how I ever thought he was bloodless or unattractive. He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met. Long, firmly muscled legs, broad shoulders, flat, well-defined abs covered in a smattering of golden hair that disappears in a V beneath the sheet. His jaw is square and well-defined, and he has a Cary Grant dimple in his chin. Whenever he kisses me with that full, sexy mouth, I feel like a Hollywood screen siren in a black-and-white movie.

  Maybe all the amazing sex we’ve had over the past three weeks has something to do with my change of heart.

  ‘You’re missing the kids,’ Keir says.

  Or maybe it’s that. His ability to read my mind. It’s not that difficult; yet after fifteen years of marriage, Ned still doesn’t know my favourite colour, never mind what I’m thinking.

  ‘Agness made me breakfast in bed last year,’ I say wistfully. ‘I think it was the last time she was nice to me. Although,’ I add, ‘given the fact that the toast was burnt, the eggs were raw, and she put salt in my coffee instead of sugar, perhaps nice isn’t quite the right word.’

  ‘I was going to make you breakfast in bed,’ Keir smiles.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m not really a breakfast person.’

  Not entirely true. I’m very much a breakfast person when on holiday in, say, the Maldives and the breakfast in question is a delicious buffet of fresh pineapple and mangoes, complemented by warm croissants and rich, freshly brewed coffee. On skiing holidays, I’ve been known to devour a full skillet of hash browns and bacon and sausages and cheese. But most days, I don’t have time for more than a hot cup of Nescafé as I dash out of the door. And though lack of time isn’t my problem these days, breakfast – actually, cooking in general – isn’t really Keir’s strong suit.

  The morning after our first night together (or rather the afternoon after, if we’re being strictly accurate) Keir made lunch. I watched him rush from the sink to the ancient electric stove and back to the sink again in something of a panic, and realized that cooking wasn’t an activity he did on a regular basis. The pasta boiled over, the sauce curdled – no easy feat, given that it was just tinned tomatoes and fresh basil – and he managed to set fire to a tea-towel. Twice. Clearly the culinary arts don’t come as naturally to him as those of the bedroom. Which made it all the more touching that he was trying so hard to impress me.

  Normally I’d have watched him fail for five minutes and then taken over. It was what I did, I remembered suddenly, when Ned tried to cook for me the first time, a month or so after we’d started dating. Pasta again (clearly a bachelor staple): spaghetti Bolognese this time. But unlike Ned, and despite his evident lack of practice, Keir didn’t have the desperate look in his eye of a man just waiting to be rescued. And more to the point, and for reasons I haven’t yet fathomed, my desire to rescue him – to rescue anyone – has been left behind at home, along with my sense of responsibility.

  Nonetheless, despite Keir’s willingness to channel his inner Jamie Oliver for my sake, I have no desire to be poisoned. We eat out a lot.

  Keir climbs out of bed, not troubling to wrap a sheet around his nakedness. I find it hard to take my eyes off his morning semi-erection.

  ‘D’you want to call the kids?’ he says, wrapping his arms around me from behind.

  His erection digs into the small of my back, and I can’t help but tense. I’ve never liked morning sex. Even at weekends, I always feel there’s so much I should be doing. I hate the starkness of daylight, the way it shows up every flaw, turning soft hollows and shadowed curves into something harsh and pornographic. My mouth feels cottony, and without a shower, I feel sweaty and unclean.

  I pull away. ‘They know it’s my birthday. They don’t need me to remind them.’

  ‘So just call and tell them you’re missing them.’

  ‘If they wanted to talk to me, they’d have called. I don’t want to push them and drive them even further away, if that’s possible. I can’t abandon them and then expect to speak to them whenever I feel like it.’

  He doesn’t tell me I didn’t abandon them. I like that he doesn’t try to placate me; that he allows me my feelings without trying to correct them or corral them into something more manageable, easier to live with.

  He pulls on a pair of faded jeans without bothering to seek out underwear. I resist the maternal urge to question his hygiene.

  ‘Kate, you’re their mother,’ he says, rearranging himself and buttoning his fly. ‘OK, maybe they’re mad at you, but they’ll be missing you too. Sooner or later you’ll have to give it another try, so why not suck it up and pick up the phone now?’

  ‘You sound like an American high-school teenager.’

  ‘I was an American high-school teenager,’ Keir says.

  ‘Were you?’ I say, surprised. ‘I didn’t know that. I know nothing about you, really, do I?’

  ‘Two years in Boston, from when I was fourteen. My father worked for an Irish bank, and we all went with him. What else d’you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t even know you well enough to know what to ask.’

  ‘You know I love you,’ Keir says easily.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms. It’s the first time he’s told me this, other than in bed. I have a sense that we’re getting into dangerous territory. He knows that I’m married, that I plan to stay married. This is just a hiatus, I told him the first time we slept together, not permitting myself to look any deeper; a holiday fling. I’ve made it clear it can’t be otherwise, just as Keir has made it clear that he won’t be constrained by my restraint. If he wants to love me, he says, he will.

  I tell myself he’s just a boy; that he doesn’t know what love means.

  ‘Anyway, I can’t call the children now,’ I say sensibly, steering the conversation back into safer waters. ‘It’s six o’clock in the morning in England.’

  He pulls me towards him, his hand sliding between the folds of my satin dressing gown. I’m instantly wet for him, my foolish hang-ups about morning sex already fading like dew in the sun.

  ‘How will we fill the time?’ he says.

  Later, as I watch Keir pull his jeans back on and tug a soft grey college sweatshirt over his head, I marvel that I can have reached the age of forty – forty! – and still know myself so little. It’s as if I’ve been living with a stranger all these years, and it’s taken this boy to show me who I am.

  I like morning sex: it’s more erotic, hungrier, than sex at night. I find men in jeans sexier than the expensive suits I thought I preferred. I like Keir’s modern, minimalist furniture and bare hardwood floors, when I’ve always chosen soft, thick carpeting and antiques. I like leaving the house without planning where I’m going. I like the real, redwood colour of my hair. I also like not having to make all the decisions. I don’t want to be the boss all the time, even if that means living with someone else’s mistakes.

  Now that I’ve had time to stop and think, I’ve come to realize something I’ve quietly known for a few months: that I don’t want to run Forde’s or take over from Paul. Let his protégé do it. I don’t want to keep climbing the greasy pole, pulling knives out of my back to plunge into someone else’s. I don’t want, have never wanted, success: it’s just that I’ve always been so terrified of the consequences of failure.

  I’ve also been able to admit to myself that I wish I’d spent more time at home when the children were young and not been qui
te so afraid of motherhood. I wish I’d followed my dream and taught art. I wish I hadn’t taken charge of Ned quite so completely and turned him into a third child.

  Keir pockets his keys and tosses me my phone, making me jump. ‘I’m going to pick up a couple of cappuccinos. Call the kids. I’ll be back in ten.’

  I stare at the phone in my hand as the door slams behind him. They’re better off without you. You couldn’t even keep your own baby alive.

  It wasn’t my fault!

  If it wasn’t your fault, why do you still feel so guilty?

  Guy, I decide. He’ll understand if either of them will.

  I pull up his number, my hand shaking. This is ridiculous. How can I be afraid to call my own children? I’ve already left them both dozens of messages, all unreturned. But sooner or later, surely one of them will pick up? If Guy doesn’t answer now, I’ll try again and again until he agrees to talk to me.

  It doesn’t occur to me until the number is ringing that I have no idea what I will say. I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when his phone goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘Did you leave a message?’ Keir asks, when I tell him.

  ‘There didn’t seem much point. He’ll see the missed call.’

  ‘He will,’ Keir says as I feel tears threaten. ‘Come on. It’s your birthday. Get your glad rags on.’

  I push the children to the back of my mind, absurdly grateful that Keir is here. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I told you I had it covered, didn’t I?’ he says. ‘Trust me.’

  When I see Keir collect his worn canvas messenger bag and helmet from the hall closet, I take the hint and change out of my skimpy sundress and put on a T-shirt and sensible pair of navy capris, along with my fake Converses. I don’t intend to make the short-skirt-on-a-Vespa mistake again.

  I climb onto the scooter behind Keir and slip my arms around his waist. Despite the early hour, the sun is already hot on my back as he picks out a route that takes us north of the city, deep into the Umbrian countryside. The views are spectacular as we wind our way high up into the hills, the Tyrrhenian Sea a hazy, sparkling blue in the distance. I tighten my thighs around Keir’s, my body aching pleasantly from our lovemaking. Just two months ago, I could never have imagined I might be spending my fortieth birthday like this.

  Ninety minutes later, the road starts to climb steeply up a hill covered in olive trees and gorse, and I crane my head over Keir’s shoulder, trying to work out where we’re going. To our right, a deep, narrow gorge falls away to a river, and above us, a medieval fortress town dominates the landscape. Moments later, I spot a pock-marked metal signpost. I hug Keir with delight. I’ve wanted to visit Narni, the town that inspired C.S. Lewis’s Narnia stories, for as long as I can remember.

  We cross the ravine via an unnervingly crumbling aqueduct and enter the town through an immense and very weathered stone gate. Instantly we’re transported into a different world. It’s like a film set, with its cobbled streets and winding alleys, brooding medieval buildings and impressive churches. I half expect Gandalf and a couple of hobbits to materialize.

  Keir parks the Vespa in the main square, and I dismount stiffly, rolling my shoulders so that my spine pops. Taking off my helmet, I run my hands through my damp hair, which is plastered unflatteringly to my head. Beads of sweat trickle between my breasts, and I have to pluck my T-shirt away from my skin. I can’t believe how hot it is. I expected it to be cooler up here in the mountains, but there’s absolutely no breeze.

  I perch on the edge of a stone fountain in the centre of the square and dip my hands in the cool water, wishing I could just climb in. If I don’t get something to drink soon, I’m going to start feeling dizzy.

  As if by magic, a bottle of chilled water appears in front of my eyes. ‘Thought you could use this,’ Keir says, handing it to me.

  I unscrew the cap and take a grateful sip. Keir does the same with his own, shading his eyes as he gazes around the square.

  ‘We might want to start with the cathedral,’ he says, putting the sweating bottle into his backpack. ‘It should be much cooler in there.’

  We make our way up the long flight of shallow stone steps, indented with the tread of countless thousands of feet. Keir’s right: the air inside the church is at least fifteen degrees cooler, and suffused with the musty scent of incense, candles and age. As we make our way slowly down the shadowy main nave, I start to revive, glancing at the magnificent frescoes and mosaics with interest. Beautiful in themselves, they are even more extraordinary when you think how many centuries – how many wars – they have endured.

  In a small side chapel, we stop in front of a glass coffin containing the three-hundred-year-old remains of a mummified nun. The pristine white wimple framing her desiccated face is fresh and crisp; her withered hands are folded peacefully on her chest.

  ‘There’s no way she’s worn that outfit for three centuries,’ Keir whispers. ‘Who d’you reckon gets the short straw and has to change it?’

  I shush him, laughing. That’s just the kind of thing Agness would say. Guy, like me, would find it all a little macabre.

  We spend the next couple of hours exploring the town, dipping in and out of palazzos and chapels, doubling and then trebling back on ourselves in the maze of tightly knit streets, at one point going underground to visit the ancient church of San Domenico, which is also home to a prison from the time of the Inquisition. The narrow, cramped room is covered with graffiti inscribed over past centuries by doomed souls. I shiver as we leave. It’s impossible to visit anywhere in Italy and not be impressed, and a little unsettled, by the enduring power of the Catholic Church.

  The shadows are lengthening by the time we return to the secular twenty-first century world and sit down at a table in a tiny secluded square surrounded on all sides by ancient stone buildings covered with wisteria and jasmine. A waitress appears through a small archway in the building behind us and takes our order. As she leaves, Keir digs around in his backpack and then hands me a small wrapped gift.

  I open it: it’s a smoky, faceted stone heart on a black silk cord. ‘Oh, Keir! It’s beautiful!’

  ‘It’s a Labradorite,’ Keir says. ‘The colour changes depending on the light. It made me think of you.’

  I lift my hair and turn, so that he can fasten it around my neck. ‘I love it,’ I say.

  I love you. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. This is just a fling, I remind myself. Feelings aren’t part of the deal. Even if he wasn’t far too young for me, my life is too complicated. It wouldn’t be fair to him.

  The waitress returns with our starters: a caprese salad for me, and terrine of squid and potato for Keir. ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’ she asks, indicating the building behind her.

  ‘It’s a hotel?’ Keir asks. ‘Kate, what d’you think? We could stay over instead of going back tonight.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I tell Keir. ‘I have work in the morning.’

  Maurizio has come to rely on me. I can’t let him down. For the past few weeks, he’s been going home early for lunch and an extended siesta, leaving me in charge. I’ve rewritten the menus to focus more on the house specials, and organized the rest of the bar staff on to a more efficient roster, so that we all get a fair share of the busy periods and good tips. I’ve also spent some time working out a way to increase our evening covers, which is where we’re losing the most money. I don’t want to ruin my reputation by simply not turning up.

  ‘Kate, relax. You’re not the CEO of a multinational here. The whole point about this kind of job is that you don’t have to take it seriously.’

  ‘I can’t leave Maurizio in the lurch. It wouldn’t be fair, not after all he’s done for me.’

  ‘Kate,’ he says lightly, ‘it doesn’t all depend on you.’

  I’m doing it again, I realize wearily. I abandoned my husband, my family and my job because it was all too much, and here I am, taking responsibility for everything all o
ver again. I’ve replaced one man with another; swapped one job for a different one. If I want so much to be free, why am I already weighing myself down with the same burdens?

  Keir reaches across the table, his expression softening. ‘It’s OK. Enough spontaneity for one day. We’ll go back after dinner.’

  ‘No, you’re right. We don’t have to—’

  ‘Kate. It’s cool.’ He raises his glass. ‘Happy birthday.’

  I touch my glass to his, shaking the cold hand from my heart. It has been a happy birthday; perhaps my happiest since I was twenty-one. It’s the first time someone has taken charge of the day and made plans for me, made me feel special. Ned always left it to me to pick the restaurant, book the weekend away. Last Christmas, he even told me to choose and buy my own present – and then left me to wrap it, too, because he forgot to get any paper.

  But when did you give him a chance to plan anything? If he tried to be spontaneous with you, you cut him off at the knees.

  He never tried! It was always down to me! Always!

  Really? Or is that your selective memory speaking?

  I suddenly remember our first Christmas together. Ned surprised me with tickets to Paris on Eurostar; I was heavily pregnant with Agness and couldn’t fly. He’d arranged for Guy, not yet two, to spend the weekend with Liesl, and had even spoken to my secretary to make sure it was OK for me to take the Friday off.

  I told him I couldn’t go. I had an important presentation I was working on; I couldn’t afford to let my concentration slip, especially now, when I was pregnant.

  I touch the crystal heart at my neck, swamped by an ineffable sadness. Perhaps Ned behaves like a child because I treat him like one. I took charge the very first day we met, as Ned struggled to cope with Guy in the supermarket, because Ned clearly needed me to. But that was a long time ago. Sixteen years. Looking back at our marriage now, did I ever give him a chance to prove himself? Or did I go on taking charge, never giving him space to breathe?

  I know the answer already. Ned let me down because it’s the only thing I leave him room for.