by Caro Fraser
Jennifer came down with Oliver, clean and powdered and in his pyjamas, the tendrils of his hair still damp and fragrant with baby shampoo, and murmured hello to Leo. She did not look at him. When Leo was around she behaved as though somehow faintly embarrassed, and this irritated Leo even more.
He did not respond to her greeting, but merely snapped at her, ‘I wish you could make sure his toys and things were cleared up before we came home, Jennifer. It’s rather annoying to find the place cluttered up with them.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Rachel usually asks me to leave them put so that she can play with him.’ She moved around the room, quickly picking things up and putting them in the toy box. Then she bent and kissed Oliver, and left the room without another word. Leo stood nursing his Scotch and staring down at Oliver, who sat slapping his rattle with a fat fist. Then Oliver looked up at Leo and smiled, and Leo sighed and smiled back, realising that this was probably the first time today that he had done so. He set down his drink, and was about to squat down and pick Oliver up when he heard Rachel come in.
She appeared in the doorway, her face drawn and tired. ‘You’re late,’ he observed. ‘I thought you were making a point of leaving the office on time these days.’
She was instantly stung by this remark. Because of the discussion she had had last week with Rothwell and Parr, she had been trying since then to convince herself, and them, of her equal worth to male partners in the firm. This evening she had stayed behind an extra forty minutes trying to sort out a tanker problem in Sri Lanka, anxious not to be open to accusations of putting her domestic life ahead of her clients.
‘Has it not occurred to you, Leo, that Oliver is as much your responsibility as mine?’ Rachel ran tired fingers through her hair. ‘Why can’t you get home by six-thirty every night? Why should I be the one who always has to rush back?’
Leo picked up Oliver and cradled him against his shoulder, feeling a warm patch of dribble soak through his shirt. ‘Because you’re not the one pulling in half a million a year. That’s why.’
I can’t get away from it, thought Rachel. Not at the office, not here. You are what you earn. And you earn what you earn because of what you are, apparently, not what you do. ‘Thank you,’ she said coldly, ‘for putting it in such clear terms.’
They said nothing for a moment, then Leo turned and sat down in an armchair, stroking Oliver’s head. Rachel watched him, oddly aware that Leo was holding the baby tenderly, yet like a weapon. Then he said, ‘Sit down. You look very tired. I want us to have a talk.’
The words filled her with a slow, dissolving panic. What was he going to say? That it was all at an end, that she must leave, that he would keep Oliver? In her tired and abject emotional state, each one of these seemed neither unlikely nor unreasonable. Another stronger part of her knew that that was nonsense. But she wished, as she went to pour herself a drink to fill in the interminable seconds until he spoke again, that it was she who was holding Oliver, and not Leo. It was as though that made her vulnerable, and him dangerous.
She poured herself a glass of sherry and sat down on the sofa opposite him, sipping at her drink, her other hand toying idly with a Winnie the Pooh cloth book. She waited, not meeting his eyes.
‘I want to make a suggestion,’ said Leo. ‘I want us to try and reach an understanding. The way we are – the way we behave to one another – is not a good thing. For us or for Oliver. I think we should try to clarify the situation.’
‘Is this your way of saying that you want a divorce?’ asked Rachel. Her heart was hammering, and she fought to keep her voice and expression neutral. It was what she had feared for weeks. She had been schooling herself in the ways of not loving Leo, but at a moment such as this one the strength of her feeling for him rushed to the surface. She did not want to lose him, awful as things were between them. She had told herself that it was hopeless, yet she still hoped.
There was a pause, which seemed to Rachel interminable. ‘No,’ said Leo. He had thought long about this. In many ways it was the obvious solution to their predicament, but something held him back from such a step. Each time he thought of the house without Rachel and Oliver, he felt something approximate to fear. It was hardly that, but it was enough not to want to push them away altogether. He still felt affection for Rachel, was aware that, when things had been less complicated between them, he had enjoyed her company more than that of most people. If they could reach an understanding about their lives, maybe they could recover something of that. Above all, there was Oliver. Leo did not perfectly comprehend his feelings for his son, but he knew that he did not want Oliver to grow up without a father, as he himself had. And he had seen enough of divorce and its sad trappings to know that his relationship with Oliver would be irrevocably damaged if he and Rachel were to divorce now.
Rachel said nothing for a moment. ‘I don’t understand you, then. How do you intend that we should – clarify the situation?’
Leo sat Oliver on the end of his knee, jogging him idly. ‘You must have known ever since you married me that our relationship wasn’t going to subsist on a conventional level.’ He spoke so calmly, not even looking at her, that Rachel was filled with a sudden anger.
‘Must I?’ she retorted. ‘Don’t you realise that, right from the very beginning, I have known nothing, Leo, absolutely nothing?’ She heard him sigh slightly, but for the moment she cared nothing for his distaste for rows, for scenes. ‘You seem to have forgotten, but when you asked me to marry you, you said that you loved me, that you were finished with – with … boys, young men – whatever …’ Her angry outburst faltered as she groped for words, and Leo cut in.
‘What’s the label you’re trying to find for it? Homosexuality, bisexuality, asexuality? So that you can compartmentalise it, treat it as something separate from me? Well, I’m afraid that it is me, it’s part of my personality, and I can do no more about it than I can about the shape of my nose.’
Rachel sat back in despair, trying to fight back the tears she could feel rising up. Was it worse trying not to love someone than loving them? she wondered. She drew a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Then why – why did you ever tell me that you would change? Why have we been going through this whole charade?’
Leo was silent for a moment. He couldn’t tell her the truth, couldn’t admit to her that it had all been a convenient device. He spoke slowly, carefully. ‘Perhaps … perhaps then I thought that being married, leading a different life, would bring about some kind of change in me.’ He bobbed Oliver on his knee, and Oliver gurgled with delight. Leo waited for her to say something, but she said nothing, and he could sense her anger fading away into weariness and incomprehension. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to her, ‘I told you once that I don’t go the distance. I thought I could be the kind of person that you want, but it’s obvious to both of us that I can’t. I can only be myself, and all that is very complicated.’
‘By which you mean that you don’t want me any more. Not physically. But why am I stating the obvious? That all finished months ago.’ She took a sip of her drink and looked away from him.
‘That’s part of it. I don’t know what I want. But that could change. I can’t say. But what I want is for us to try to lead independent lives for the time being, not to maintain a pretence. To understand one another. I want us both to bring up Oliver. But we can’t do that if we’re both pretending that there is a – a certain kind of relationship between us, when there isn’t.’
Rachel laughed. ‘What? Let’s just be good friends?’
‘If you like. Yes.’
Rachel contemplated her sherry glass. As usual, Leo, she thought, you want it all ways. You want Oliver, so you must keep me. But you don’t want me. You want other people, the kind of life you used to lead. Yet if you have to try to live up to expectations as a husband, you can’t do that. You still believe that I love you so much that I’ll stay with you whatever – but you’d like the atmosphere at home to improve. So you’re cuttin
g a deal. And what’s in it for me? I still have you – but only on certain terms … She felt suddenly weary and confused, and very close to tears.
‘Do you mean’ – she could hear her own voice shaking – ‘do you mean that if I need you, if I need comfort, as I needed it that night last week, that I can come to you? That you will be kind to me, without my expecting anything more?’
God, I am a shit, thought Leo suddenly. How lonely she must be. He set Oliver on the floor, where he began to whimper, and went over to her. She had begun to weep, and he raised her to her feet and, for the first time in weeks, put his arms around her. He remembered the last time he had made love to her, after their conversation in the restaurant about Francis. He had wanted to know then whether he still commanded her unconditional love, and his curiosity had been satisfied. It would be the simplest of things now to take her to bed, to use sex as a means of helping this along. God knows, ever since he had first met her he had slept with her as a means to an end, in one way or another. Why not now? But he knew at this moment that he could not even manufacture the desire, not while he felt as he did about Charles, who seemed to consume all his waking fantasies. To make love to her now would only create new hopes in her, hopes which he had no wish or intention to fulfil. So, in answer to her question, he merely replied gently, ‘Yes, that is what I mean. I don’t want there to be any unkindness, but—’
Her tears subsided, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But you want to lead your own life without being accountable to anyone.’
‘I’m afraid so. Yes.’
There was a long pause, and then she nodded. ‘It’s what you’ll do, anyway,’ she murmured. She was filled with a sudden disgust and anger with herself for being so weak as to cry. What was the point of all this, anyway? It was just Leo salving his wretched conscience. She pushed herself away from him. ‘Then you might as well go and get on with it.’ And she stooped and picked up Oliver from the floor, then went to the kitchen to make supper. Life had to go on.
Domestic trauma of another variety was erupting in Felicity’s flat in Clapham. She had arrived home from the office, earrings still flashing, to find Vince in drunken ill-humour, pacing round the kitchen with a glass in his hand, still in his working overalls.
‘Bloody fucking bastards!’ he said, by way of greeting. Felicity pondered this for a moment.
‘Who is?’
‘Those bloody bastards I work for! Worked for, I should say. They’ve only fucking gone and made me fucking redundant, haven’t they?’
Felicity sat down. ‘Oh, Vince. Oh, God, I’m sorry.’
‘Fucking British Telecom. What a fucking Christmas present.’
Felicity glanced at the table and saw that Vince had drunk the best part of a bottle of vodka. ‘That’s not the answer, you know. Getting pissed.’
‘Oh, and you know the answer do you? Get out of here.’ He gave her an angry shove and she backed off.
‘Don’t you bloody well take it out on me!’ shouted Felicity, eyes blazing as she pushed him back. ‘Just ’cos you lost your sodding job, don’t go getting at me!’
He raised an unsteady warning finger. ‘Don’t you fucking start, Fliss! I’m warning you! I’m not in the mood!’
‘You don’t raise your finger to me, mate! This is my flat, and you don’t warn me about nothing, see?’ She gave him another push. Generally when they argued, much pushing and shoving went on, but it never came to anything more. Usually Vince became sullen, and eventually apologetic. But this evening he was too drunk for any of that. He suddenly raised his fist and clipped Felicity neatly on the side of the jaw, and she fell backwards against a chair, slipping to the floor.
‘Just get off my case, Fliss!’ He stood over her, and she sat dazed, realising that he was quite prepared to hit her again.
‘Get out!’ she yelled, rage and tears quivering in her voice. ‘You bastard! Get out!’
He made another threatening move, then turned, grabbed his jacket, and went out, slamming the door violently. Felicity sat nursing her jaw, feeling the bone tenderly, listening to his footsteps thumping down the stairs. Shaking, she got to her feet, crying and still holding her jaw.
When she awoke the next morning, Felicity realised that Vince was not there, that he hadn’t come back all night. She examined the reddish patch on her jaw in the bathroom mirror. She could easily cover that with make-up. It would be at its worst in a couple of days, just in time for Christmas. She thought of the brief argument with Vince and felt unbearably miserable. She had just decided to ring chambers and say that she was sick and wouldn’t be coming in, when she remembered the party. She was largely responsible for organising it. Cameron and Henry weren’t capable of getting it together without her. She would have to go in. The last thing she felt like, she reflected moodily, as she searched through her wardrobe for something suitable to wear, was a party. Still, maybe Vince would be back when she got home, and they could make up. She should probably have been more sympathetic. But he still shouldn’t have hit her.
By the end of the afternoon Felicity had recovered her spirits. No one had noticed the mark on her jaw beneath a good dollop of No. 7 panstick, and she had convinced herself that Vince would be there, full of contrition, when she got home. He was always ready to make up. His temper was like that. Up one minute, and gone the next. At six o’clock she was just about to close the switchboard and get things ready for the party, when the phone rang. Her hand hovered in indecision. She could easily just flick on the answering machine. Instead, she picked it up. ‘Five Caper Court,’ she sang in her phone-answering voice.
‘Fliss? It’s me, Vince.’
Her heart rose. ‘Oh, hello,’ she replied, trying to keep her voice stiff and unfriendly.
‘Listen, I’m sorry for all that stuff last night. I was well out of order.’
‘Too right you were,’ agreed Felicity, but ready to forgive and forget.
‘I just wanted to tell you, though, that I’ll be stopping by to pick up my gear tomorrow. I’m moving out.’
‘You what?’
‘Well, like you said, it’s your flat. And I’ve just had enough, Fliss. I mean, it’s been getting to me for months that you earn more than I do, and now I’m earning nothing. I’m sorry I hit you, and all, but I’ve made my mind up. I just want us to cool it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I dunno. I just want to give it a rest for a while. You and me. Stuff like last night, it’s doing my head in.’ She said nothing, could think of nothing. ‘I’ll be round tomorrow evening, anyway.’ And he hung up.
She had sunk onto her chair as they talked. Now she replaced the receiver slowly, and sat looking stupefied. Vince, her Vince, had dumped her. She was filled with a cold, dead emptiness such as she had never known. They’d been together over a year now, they’d had such a laugh together, really good times. They had ups and downs like everyone, but nothing serious. And now he was telling her it was finished.
‘Coming upstairs for an early snifter?’ Cameron Renshaw, the tall and portly head of chambers, had rolled into the clerks’ room and stood twanging his braces jovially. She stared at him for a second or two, then forced a smile.
‘Yeah – yeah, I’ll be up in a minute. Just got to fix my face.’
He went out, and Felicity sat perfectly still for a moment, listening to the voices and laughter as people made their way to the party upstairs. She would think about it later. What she needed right now was a drink. More than one.
An hour later, as Felicity was downing her ninth glass of champagne, Rachel was busy sorting through Oliver’s clothing drawers and flinging items into an overnight bag. Her own suitcase was already packed and standing in the hallway downstairs. She had decided earlier today that she could not spend Christmas with Leo. The more she thought about what he had said the night before, the angrier she became, and she realised that she badly needed to get away from him, to try to think clearly and objectively about it all. She glanced
at her watch, anxious to get away before he came back. She didn’t want to have to talk to him, or to tell him where they were going. She wanted, for a few days, to be as free from him as possible. Only that way could she face things, make decisions.
She closed Oliver’s bag, picked him up from where he sat chewing a brick on his playmat, and took him downstairs. She zipped him into his snowsuit, buckled him into his seat and carried him to the car. It was bitterly cold, and she huddled her coat around her as she hurried round to the driver’s door and got in. She had tried to ring her mother to tell her she was coming, but there had been no answer. Still, it would be after nine by the time they reached Bath, and she was bound to be in by then. Rachel turned the key in the ignition and pushed the heater switch, shivering slightly. The dashboard glowed as she turned on the headlights, and she drove away from the house with a sharp sense of release.
Henry stood with Anthony, watching Felicity’s behaviour growing louder and sillier. Several members of chambers were becoming rather embarrassed, not good at handling this kind of thing. She was their clerk, after all.
‘Henry,’ said Anthony, ‘hadn’t you better do something?’
‘Me? Why me?’ Henry watched Felicity uncomfortably as she poured herself another glass of champagne with a whooping noise, splashing the carpet. A sprig of holly stuck askew from her curly hair.
‘Oh, you know, because … Well, you live near her, don’t you?’ said Anthony with sudden inspiration. ‘Look, the best thing is if I ring for a cab, and you see her home.’