‘I suppose not, but even so –’
‘Bluff it out,’ I said airily. ‘Just say you haven’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about. Bye, Pipps, have a nice day.’
She still looked unconvinced so I gave her a little push and she set off hesitantly down the path, case in hand. Halfway down she turned back and walked towards me.
‘What now?’ I said, exasperated.
‘I was just going to tell you that Lottie phoned last night,’ she said huffily, ‘when you were out. She was worried about you.’
‘Oh, sorry, thanks, Pippa. I’ll ring her later. Sorry.’
I shut the door and bit my lip. I hadn’t spoken to Lottie since that night at Annabel’s and I felt guilty about it, but I knew how deeply disappointed she’d be in me. Lottie was one of my dearest friends but she was incurably sensible and ran her life in a very orderly fashion. If she knew how comprehensively I was lousing mine up, she’d be horrified. I’d ring her when I got back from my holiday, when hopefully things had settled down a little bit. I’d ring my parents then too, I decided. I hadn’t liked to worry them by telling them about Nick and me, and whenever I spoke to Mummy on the phone I just pretended everything was fine, but I’d come clean as soon as I got back from Lanzarote.
I sighed and picked up the photograph of Serena from the hall table. I stared at it for a moment. She really was jolly pretty. I popped it quickly in my bag, grabbed my car keys and slammed out of the house. Then I ran down the path, jumped into Rusty and set off for Chelsea.
Chapter Twenty-four
Oh, very nice, Sam, very nice indeed. I sat in the car, gazing up at the elegant white façade of a magnificent Chelsea town house. Five or six storeys of sartorial splendour in a quiet garden square just a stone’s throw from the bustling King’s Road, an estate agent would no doubt eulogize. Quite a lot to give up, one way and another, no wonder our Sam was clinging on by his fingernails. I sat there for a moment, biting my own and collecting my few remaining wits. I had a feeling I was going to need them. Except that the longer I sat there the more witless I felt, so in the end I told myself that if I stayed there for precisely one minute longer something unspecified but totally horrendous would happen to Nick or my parents. It always did the trick. I gazed at the second hand on my watch and, with ten seconds to spare, jumped out of the car, ran up the six or seven marble steps which led to the black front door and fell on the brass bell. It was shrill and feverish, which suited my mood.
Sally had clearly been sitting on the doormat waiting for me, because the door swung back before I could take my finger off the brass. She stood there, framed in the doorway, and I instinctively took a step backwards. Pippa had been right. The picture didn’t do her justice at all: she really was extraordinarily pretty in a slightly sixties flower-child kind of way.
She was tiny, with bottom-length blonde hair, which was rather tangled and a too-long fringe which fell into her eyes. She had a small, heart-shaped face and enormous slate-grey eyes that blinked nervously at me. Her pencil-slim figure was poured into a tight black Lycra dress which clung everywhere, emphasizing the fact that her hips and tummy were nonexistent. Her legs were long and brown and her feet were bare. I gulped. She looked rather like I look in my most outrageous fantasies. What the devil was Sam up to? Didn’t he know that girls like this with rich daddies to match don’t grow on trees?
She gave a hesitant smile. ‘You must be Polly, come in.’
‘Yes, that’s right, thanks,’ I muttered.
She wafted gracefully off down a bright-yellow hall smothered in prints and watercolours, a tiny black figure with a sheet of blonde hair shimmying in her wake, her bare feet padding silently in the deep blue carpet. Effortlessly elegant. I lumbered clumsily after her in my clogs and the extraordinary attire of smocked blouse and long peasant skirt which for some reason I’d deemed fit for the occasion. I felt like The Thing from the Swamp. I must have been about six inches taller than her and twice as wide. I tried to sag at the knees and lower my bottom a bit to decrease my height but there was damn all I could do about my width.
At the end of the hall she turned a corner and led me into a large, white, predominantly marble kitchen. At the far end were two enormous french windows which were flung wide on to a walled garden absolutely bursting with white roses.
‘Oh! What a beautiful garden!’ I exclaimed, in spite of my nerves.
She smiled shyly. ‘Roses are my passion. I spend most of the day out there, pruning them, feeding them and generally fussing over them. I practically go to bed with them!’ She laughed and then gasped, pulling herself up short. It wasn’t perhaps the most innocuous of opening gambits, bearing in mind the nature of my visit.
I flushed and she turned away, also blushing hotly, but somehow prettily pink as opposed to my own retired-general purple. She grabbed the kettle and hid her face in the sink as she filled it.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please, if you’re having one.’
Damn. Why had I said that? Why hadn’t I just slammed the photo down on the breakfast bar and taken to my heels? It would take a good three minutes for the kettle to boil, another five for the coffee to cool down and a good seven or so to drink it without scalding the roof of my mouth. Why couldn’t I ever think before I spoke?
‘We’ll, um, sit down and chat when I’ve made the coffee, shall we?’ she said nervously.
‘Fine, fine!’
And thus she unwittingly condemned us to an embarrassing silence. We’d made a pact, you see, no talking till coffee time, and boy had she filled the kettle full. She twiddled her hair and gazed fixedly at it, willing it to boil. I cast around for an equally fascinating diversion, eventually plumping in desperation for the spice rack on the wall. I stared at it as if I’d never seen one before, gazing with rapt absorption at the rows of little labelled bottles. If roses were her passion, herbs and spices were clearly mine. Rosemary, sage, oregano – gosh, how I marvelled.
At last the bloody thing boiled and she shakily poured out two mugs of coffee and splashed some milk in. We sat down on either side of the breakfast bar and, out of relief, both spoke at once.
‘You’re not quite –’
‘How long have you –’
We laughed. It broke the tension.
‘Go on,’ I said, ‘what were you …?’
‘No, you first.’
‘Oh, I was just going to ask you how long you’d lived here; it’s such a beautiful house.’
‘Three years. Since we got married.’ She blushed again, perhaps thinking this wasn’t quite the moment to shove her marriage down my throat. ‘And – and I was just going to say,’ she hurried on, ‘that you weren’t quite what I’d expected.’
‘Oh! Really?’ What on earth had she expected? I wondered. I abruptly brought the boiling coffee nervously to my mouth, predictably scalding myself.
‘Um, what did you expect?’ I asked, licking my sore lips.
‘Oh, I don’t know, someone … more obvious, I suppose, you know, short skirt, loads of make-up, that kind of thing.’ She eyed me nervously.
I grinned. ‘Tarty, you mean?’
She giggled. ‘I suppose so.’ Suddenly she looked anxious. ‘Not that I thought you’d be a tart, of course, just the clothes, I – oh, I don’t know …’ She trailed off miserably.
‘I put this lot on on purpose, actually,’ I said, gazing down at the strange ethnic gear I’d raided from Pippa’s wardrobe. ‘I wanted to look – well, homely, I suppose, a bread-baker. Didn’t want to seem like a threat. I think I was trying to say – don’t worry, I’ve got a husband of my own at home, I don’t want yours.’ I grinned.
Her eyes widened. ‘No! D’you know, before you came round I was wearing almost exactly what you’ve got on now, but I changed into this spray-on number so you wouldn’t think I was the down-trodden wife who couldn’t keep a husband!’
‘You’re not serious! What, you like this kind of hippy gear?’
She nodded. ‘
I love it.’
‘It’s yours, pending my flatmate’s permission of course. I can’t wait to get out of it, but I’d die for your little black dress – not that I’d have a hope of getting into it!’
We giggled, laughed really, and it was such a release. All at once a cosier, more comradely atmosphere prevailed. We sipped our coffee and grinned across at each other. I’d been waiting for her to ask for the photograph but suddenly I reached into my bag and slipped it over the counter to her.
‘Here. It’s a very good photo, she’s not that pretty,’ I lied.
She smiled. ‘Course she is, I’ve seen her in films, but thanks anyway.’
She picked it up and stared at it for a moment. ‘This is good …’ she said slowly, ‘this is … sort of working.’
‘What d’you mean?’
She looked up. ‘I had a feeling if I saw some hard proof, some tangible evidence of his infidelity, I might be able to love him less, and d’you know, I was right. I can almost feel the last cloying traces of my love slipping away.’ She gulped. ‘I can almost begin to realize what a complete bastard he is.’
‘Well, that’s a start,’ I mumbled uncertainly. I wasn’t quite sure what sort of a line I should take on this; he was after all her husband and I wasn’t convinced I should be too swift to denounce him as an out-and-out villain. ‘I mean,’ I stumbled on, ‘he has – well, misbehaved rather, hasn’t he?’
She reached up and shoved the photo between the pages of a cookery book on the shelf above her. She grinned.
‘Just a bit. D’you know, I’ve fallen for his lies for two whole years now? That’s how long I’ve known about his affairs. And for all I know he might well have started dabbling the moment he took his marriage vows.’
‘Blimey.’ I was silenced for a moment. ‘So, there’ve been, um, quite a lot then, have there?’ I asked tentatively. I wasn’t exactly sure how deeply I should delve, but she had, after all, brought it up. ‘I mean, not just one or two?’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Hardly. There’ve been loads, hundreds probably. Let’s put it this way, it hasn’t just been you and Serena by a long shot.’
I rather baulked at being put in the same category as Serena, but I let it pass.
‘Let me see.’ She held up her elegant fingers and ticked them off one by one. ‘First there was Samantha in accounts, a tacky little office affair, under the desk and behind the photocopier probably; then there was Rosy who lives round the corner, lots of frantic coupling in Battersea Park, according to one of my neighbours; then there was Charlotte, the wife of one of his best friends – I think they mostly got it together in the afternoons in a hotel in Westbourne Grove; oh, and let’s not forget Trisha who works in the pub down the road – God knows where they did it, in the cellar with the beer barrels probably.’ She shrugged. ‘There’ve been plenty more – I’ve lost count actually – but those are the ones I’ve known about for certain.’
‘Crikey, he must have been rushed off his feet!’
She gave a bitter little smile. ‘Oh, our Sam likes a hectic social life.’
‘But haven’t you ever confronted him?’ I was stunned. How could anyone live like this?
‘Loads of times, but up until now I’ve never had any proof, and whenever I’ve accused him he’s just categorically denied it. He’s very careful, you see, never slips up. Oh, I’ve had lots of weird telephone calls late at night where the person at the other end just slams the phone down when they get me answering instead of him, but I’ve never actually seen him with anyone, never found any letters, any photos – until now, of course.’
She took the cookery book down from the shelf and studied the photo again.
‘And he’s always maintained that I’m just a bored, paranoid housewife, with nothing better to do than imagine him in a compromising clinch with a floozy.’ I blanched again at this indirect allusion but obviously imperceptibly because she carried on. ‘But it’s funny,’ she mused, ‘I went on loving him all the same.’
She stared beyond my head out into the garden for a second, then turned back to me.
‘Can you believe that? Throughout all the lies, the deceit, I loved him and pretended to myself that it wasn’t happening, forced it out of my mind.’
‘And now?’ I asked. I could tell she wanted to talk, get it all out of her system. ‘D’you still love him now?’
She sighed and looked down at the photograph again. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and her lips compressed. She shrugged.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said softly. ‘No … yes … a bit … nothing like as much as I did. I’m getting better anyway, I’m definitely on the mend. This helps.’
She took one last look, then tossed the photo defiantly into the book and slammed it shut.
‘Thanks for bringing it, I know you didn’t want to, but it might just give me the impetus I need to kick him out this time.’
‘Well, in that case I’m glad I did.’
We smiled at each other. I drained my coffee and suddenly there didn’t seem to be a lot more to say. I started to slip off my stool and reach for my bag on the floor.
‘Well, I’ll –’
‘More coffee?’ she asked abruptly, picking up both our mugs and raising her eyebrows, rather hopefully I thought. I hesitated. She wanted me to stay, wanted to talk. I put my bag down.
‘Please,’ I nodded, ‘that would be nice.’
Why not? The worst was over and it was actually rather pleasant sitting here in her sunny kitchen bitching about her errant husband. She looked pleased and began spooning out the Nescafé with alacrity.
‘So what about you?’ she asked, pouring in the hot water. ‘Have you ever been in love with a bastard? What about your husband, is he the reason you looked further afield? Were you getting your own back or something?’
‘Oh no,’ I said quickly, ‘quite the opposite. He hates that sort of thing – you know, philandering, playing around.’
‘Oh.’
Her face fell. I could tell she felt alone. The only betrayed wife in the world. I quickly rallied.
‘But – but I’ve been involved with loads of other bastards in my time, oh gosh, yes, plenty, men who’d make Sam look like an absolute beginner, in fact.’
I wasn’t lying either, I thought, shuddering as I recalled Harry Lloyd-Roberts, my boyfriend before Nick. He fitted the bill perfectly, and how.
‘Oh yes!’ I nodded vigorously, warming to my theme. ‘I’ve been betrayed quite comprehensively in my time, and I refused to believe it was happening. My friends had to literally rub my nose in it to make me face facts. I only knew about one of his flings but he probably had countless others behind my back. God, I was such a fool.’ I stared into space, remembering the bad old days.
‘Not half as much of a fool as I’ve been, I bet,’ she whispered.
I looked back at her quickly and was aghast to see a tear trickling down her face.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped, ‘that was so tactless, thoughtless. I didn’t mean you were a fool, I just meant –’
‘It’s OK.’ She gave a watery smile and wiped away the tear. ‘I know what you meant. But I am a fool, there’s no two ways about it.’
‘Oh, now come on, where’s that fighting spirit of just a second ago? That’s all in the past! Like you said, you’ve got hard proof now; you can shove the photo under his nose, kick him where it hurts and then kick him out of the house. Tell him to bugger off and to conduct his sordid little affairs under someone else’s roof!’
‘Oh yes, I fully intend to do that, but that’s not what I meant about being a fool. You see, I haven’t just let him walk all over me, I’ve let him trample me. Body and soul.’ She looked up, her eyes full of tears. ‘I’m not actually sure I’ll ever recover.’ Her chin wobbled dangerously.
‘Course you will!’ I said staunchly. ‘It’s just a matter of time. You’re bound to feel hurt and vulnerable at the moment, that’s only natural, but you’ll see, before long some gorge
ous hunk will come along and sweep you off your –’
‘No, Polly.’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘I’m not just talking about Sam being unfaithful, it’s more than that. It’s –’ She gulped and bit her lip. Then she brushed another tear roughly off her cheek and looked at me defiantly.
‘You see, I wanted children,’ she said in a rather demanding tone.
I jumped. ‘Well, yes, of course, who doesn’t, me too, although funnily enough now that I am pre–’ I nearly gagged on my tongue, ‘preparing to ride at Badminton, I’ve rather gone off the idea!’ I gabbled, my heart thumping madly.
I flushed. Christ, you idiot, Polly, what the hell d’you think you’re doing? Luckily she didn’t seem to have registered that I was either big with her husband’s child or the next Lucinda Prior-Palmer. She was miles away with her own problems.
‘As soon as we got married I wanted them. Thought I’d get pregnant straight away, and when nothing happened after a year or so I began to panic.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I muttered, ‘been there, done that.’
‘Sam said I was being ridiculous, said I was too impatient and it was bound to happen sooner or later if I just stopped worrying about it.’
‘So did Nick,’ I said quickly, pleased I could join her on at least one agony trip, ‘that’s exactly what he said.’
‘Of course, Sam had two children from his first marriage, so he wasn’t nearly as fussed as I was. I think he only said he wanted more because I did. And I really did. I got quite hysterical about it, in fact. I think I secretly knew that our marriage was a sham and I thought a baby would help, bring us closer together, or perhaps give me a focus for my love.’ She shook her head. ‘Crazy.’
‘But understandable,’ I ventured.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe. Anyway, after a while I started to go for tests. Minor ones at first, blood tests, that kind of thing, then I started to take my temperature every morning to see if I was ovulating. It’s supposed to rise, you know –’
I nodded. ‘Only too well.’
Going Too Far Page 35