Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  Michael said later that they hadn’t shown enough respect: that my father should have mentioned his parents in his speech, which was too much about me. I was flabbergasted. We had a furious row, on our wedding night. I wasn’t to know it was to be the first of many.

  Imogen was born in September, and then, rather swiftly, Ned followed. After that, I said, no more. And made sure of it, quietly. Michael wasn’t always very nice to them. He shouted at them. Not when they were babies, but certainly as small children, a lot. And at me, a lot. We grew to fear him. Imogen once told me she hated him. She was about fourteen at the time. She burst into noisy floods of tears and said her most fervent wish was never to see him again in her life. The jokes were all reserved for his friends now and his temper had become terrifying. Much worse than the clipped irritation I’d previously witnessed, which had no doubt masked the real thing. In those early days of our marriage, it was loud and voluble. The hissing came later, after a concerned neighbour knocked on the door. A couple of times, actually. Asked if everything was OK.

  And to be fair, his rages were often sparked by not knowing where we were. It panicked him. He needed to know at all times where we were going, and who we were seeing. Once or twice, he tried to drive a few friends away, but he never succeeded. Indeed, it was his friends that seemed to dwindle, rather than ours, although we never mentioned it. Never said – what’s happened to so-and-so? He was extremely sensitive and we’d prick his pride at our peril. And naturally, we found our way through all this, as families do. Melissa, living across the road by now, was very helpful. She worked for a big IT firm, and she helped us set up private email accounts to the friends he wasn’t mad about, something I had no idea was even possible, and the children stood their ground on social media and their own phones. I knew he looked at mine, but I had an old pay-as-you-go one, too, locked in a jewellery box in the cellar. Luckily I wasn’t interested in social media and I resisted any suggestion of setting up an account for my books.

  By then I’d written a novel, while Michael was in the pub. When he learned of its existence, he’d derided it, but then it was published and he was astonished. He would never sanction me going back to work – we’d had a furious row when I’d said I wanted to cook again, maybe even try and start a catering business – but this was different. This kept me at home, and brought in money, too. We were very short by now. The trust fund, which had seemed so substantial years ago, was now barely enough for two people, let alone four. So although he scoffed at my oeuvre, in a way it played into his hands.

  I’d managed to get an agent, Tom, through a friend who wrote, and Michael insisted on coming with me to our meetings. Then Tom left the agency, and Sonia took his place. After that, I was allowed to go alone, although if Ron, the CEO, was present, Michael came too. My publishers were wide-eyed at this and initially, Frankie, my editor, poked fun. But then, when one or two of my plot lines necessitated Miss Sharpe investigating problems of a patriarchal nature, she didn’t joke about it any more. Sonia tried to broach the subject with me once over lunch, but when I clammed up, she stopped. By now Michael had stopped reading my books, dismissing them as nonsense, so I was safe. But whenever I drew a character just a bit too close to my husband, I’d wake up in the night, drenched in sweat. And I’d be at my desk early the next morning, re-jigging it.

  Money went into a joint account, which he controlled, in that he monitored every transaction I made. But he wasn’t particularly mean. Plus, there are other ways. Melissa, again. On her suggestion, I opened a separate account for my foreign rights, and thus siphoned off some money for the children when they were at university. He was less generous with them. And if you’re wondering why I was brave enough to do these things, but too scared to leave, it was because I knew he’d find us. And it would be worse. He’d told me it would be. And showed me how. Once, when he was in New York and I said I’d take the children to my parents’ for half-term, he forbade it. We went, nevertheless. When we got home, a day after him, he was all smiles and hugs; he’d even made us a cake. That night the three of us were very sick. I’d thought it was the fish pie Mum had given us the night before, but when I rang her from the kitchen to see how she and Dad were, Michael took the cake from the side and, never taking his eyes off me, scraped it slowly into the bin. I stuttered a goodbye to Mum, chilled to my bones.

  So no, I never left. But I encouraged the children to go, and Imo did. She went to Princeton University in New Jersey, which she adored. I’d urge her to stay with her friends in Connecticut too, when she was invited in the holidays. She was a popular girl. And even though she worried she was away too much, from me and Ned, she did, she stayed away.

  But Ned dealt better with Michael. He didn’t shout and scream as Imo did; he blanked him. Ignored him. I think he was clever enough to find a place in his mind to retreat to, when necessary. I’m not even sure he listened: just mentally tuned him out. He certainly never answered back, which of course infuriated his father. And as I say, Ned didn’t go far. Away from home at eighteen, yes, but only to Oxford, where he read Geography. Then to Clapham, sharing with friends, while he worked in the City. Which just left me. And Michael. And increasingly, his women.

  But no more. I watched, now, in the study, all these years later, still in my nightie, but with a coat over the top, as the ambulance crew picked up the stretcher. A blanket covered his face. The police and forensic teams had gone. They’d taken a while. All the blood samples and prints had been taken, the crime scene thoroughly trawled. It was getting light outside. The two women in high-vis jackets who’d been the first to get here walked the stretcher down the hall and through the front door to the road. I followed as far as the door. Saw them slide him into the back of the ambulance and shut the door firmly behind him. I watched as they drove off down the street. Disappeared around the corner. Yes, he was gone. Michael no more.

  6

  It was one of the things Melissa asked me, after the funeral. Why, when she knew I’d grown to hate him, did I mind about the women? Surely it had been better when he was with someone, his attitude more relaxed, slightly less angry. And a break from him, too. Why didn’t I just turn a blind eye, as she had with her husband? Until she’d cracked, of course, and told the whole street. Helena was with us at the time. We were in the pub, down the road from the church in Twickenham where we’d just buried Michael with his parents. When I’d paused, she didn’t butt in to answer for me as she normally would, because she knew the answer. Helena knew everything about me, irritatingly.

  ‘I think,’ I said, choosing my words carefully because I didn’t want them to impinge on my friend, ‘the crucial difference was you loved Dominic. Hoped it would all go away. Which is understandable. A lot of women do it. But I was very unhappy with Michael. So yes, you’d naturally assume I wouldn’t care.’ I felt my fists clench on the table. ‘But that felt like I was surrendering my entire life to him. All dignity. All semblance of a marriage. It would be like wearing a label saying – I don’t mind who he shags, because our marriage is over. And I had too much pride for that. I wasn’t going to sacrifice everything for him. Not when I’d given up so much else.’

  Melissa looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I get that,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Plus,’ I went on quietly, ‘I felt responsible for the mess I’d made. I felt I’d brought Michael into my family, that it was my fault. I felt shame, I suppose, that I’d let everyone down. So I did the one thing I could do. I got rid of his women. To make the whole thing less shabby.’

  ‘Shame is the last thing you should have felt,’ observed Melissa, squeezing my hand.

  Helena made a how-many-times-have-I-told her face to my friend as we sank into our gin and tonics at our corner table. We were all dressed in black, but no one felt under any compunction not to speak ill of the dead – that would feel like blatant hypocrisy. A monumental sham. Although we would, of course, change our tune when the children approached, which they were doing now. The door to the pub garden ha
d flown open, and on a blast of fresh air, Helena’s daughters tumbled through in their school uniforms, followed by my own, more elegant, daughter in black silk. We sat up straight and adjusted our faces into bright smiles.

  ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ breathed Tess as Imo peeled off to the Ladies. She hastened to perch on the arm of my chair, glancing back at my daughter over her shoulder. Maudie, her identical twin, settled on my other chair arm, auburn curls windswept, eyes shining.

  ‘We’ve had a whole twenty minutes with her outside,’ Maudie told us confidentially. ‘Look at her dress when she comes out – even at a funeral she’s glam.’

  ‘Marc Jacobs,’ Tess informed her and I realized they both smelled of cigarettes and Polos. ‘And the shoes are Jimmy Choo. She bought them in Paris with Ben, before she dumped him.’

  ‘Oh – you two! There you are!’ Ant appeared through the same garden door, looking pink and flustered. ‘You were supposed to be going to the car. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  ‘Darlings, do go with Daddy,’ urged their mother. ‘I thought you’d gone ages ago. Ant, what are you doing? They should be back by now.’

  ‘Gave me the slip!’ he said, exasperated.

  ‘Don’t you think our parents are misguided, Lucy?’ asked Maudie quietly, picking up her mother’s drink and taking a sip. ‘There’s more education in a day like this than any old maths lesson. It’s surely a lesson in life. Why can’t they see that?’

  ‘Did you know that in Catholic countries the dead are laid out for days before the funeral?’ Tess informed us. ‘Annabel Rossi’s grandmother was on the kitchen table for five days. She told us in hockey.’

  ‘How unhygienic,’ observed her father. ‘Come on, in the car.’

  ‘In a coffin, obviously,’ Maudie said, giving him a withering look.

  ‘Go on, you two,’ Helena said absently. ‘If you go now you’ll still be back in time for afternoon lessons.’

  ‘Double physics for me,’ Tess complained bitterly, ignoring her mother and helping herself to some peanuts. ‘Only very pushy parents would make their children go back for that. By the way, I hope you don’t mind, Lucy, but I’ve told Ned there’s never been a better time to pull in a dog collar. Fleabag, obviously.’

  ‘Don’t mind at all,’ I smiled.

  ‘In our day it was Richard Chamberlain,’ their mother observed, unwittingly succumbing to her daughters’ distraction techniques. ‘There’s nothing new about that.’

  ‘Oh yes, The Thorn Birds,’ Melissa said, remembering. ‘Wasn’t he gorgeous? And then there was that priest in Jamaica Inn before that.’

  ‘Really?’ Maudie contrived to look completely fascinated. ‘Any more you can think of? Are those your cigarettes, Melissa? I didn’t know you smoked.’

  ‘Only occasionally.’

  ‘Helena smokes occasionally, but she doesn’t think we know.’

  Helena looked at Ant, exasperated. ‘Take them away!’

  ‘I’m trying!’ He wrung his hands hopelessly.

  The twins got up with weary sighs. ‘We’ll go. For your sake, Lucy. We don’t want Ant and Helena’s woeful lack of parenting skills to add to what has already been a very difficult day for you. It’s embarrassing enough for us to witness it, let alone you and Melissa. How long is Imo staying for, do you know?’

  ‘Not long, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Shall we quickly go and ask her?’

  ‘No!’ squealed their parents in despair.

  More eye-rolling from my nieces but out they trudged, with much mock staggering and weakness at the knees, blowing us kisses as they went. As Ant hustled them off to the car, telling them that of course they didn’t need to say goodbye to everyone again, they’d done that twenty minutes ago, Helena suddenly got up and darted after them, fussing over Tess’s trailing skirt hem.

  Melissa and I exchanged amused smiles. Helena’s lack of parental control was a joy for the rest of us to behold. So strident, so successful in every other sphere of her life, yet so utterly subjugated by her frisky, mercurial, fourteen-year-old daughters. Ant was always going to be a pushover as a parent, no surprise there, but the fact that Helena was too had been a glorious revelation. Had the twins been anything other than sweet-natured and joyous, it could have been a disaster, but they weren’t, so it wasn’t. They’d inherited Ant’s easy-going temperament, together with Helena’s high spirits.

  They were replaced by my own children, who came across to join us. ‘All right, Mum?’ asked Ned, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Yes thanks, darling.’ I patted his hand. Looked up into his kind blue eyes. ‘All the better for a stiff gin, though.’ Then I made a face. ‘Well, it’s a single actually, what your grandfather would call a dirty glass. I’m driving.’

  ‘I think Granny and Grandpa are wondering if it’s OK to go?’ asked Imo, perching on the chair arm Tess had vacated. I looked at her slim, delicate face, her pale blue eyes, so like her brother’s, etched with worry. She hadn’t seen her grandparents for a while and had been shocked at the change in them.

  ‘Of course, they’ve had such a long day. Are you sure you’re happy to drive them, darling?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to. It’s just Amanda …’

  We glanced across to where my parents, exhausted and spent, slumped on a leather sofa by the fire, were being monopolized by Michael’s sister. Some long, drunken monologue had been unfolding, I learned later, about the idyllic childhood she and her brother had enjoyed, and what a golden boy he’d been. Such a talented writer and a wonderful husband and father. A marvellous brother too, always there for her, and she was going to miss him so much. All of which was bollocks, of course, because Michael and Amanda rarely saw one another, and when they did, fought ferociously. My father, seeing us look, rolled mildly despairing eyes. My mother’s were shut.

  ‘Rescue them, darling, and I’ll go down later in the week. I’ll cope with Amanda.’

  ‘Well, she certainly can’t drive,’ muttered Helena.

  ‘Oh, she hasn’t done that for years. I think she got a lift here …’ I glanced around the pub, but everyone had gone apart from us, not that terribly many people had come to the funeral and still fewer to the pub. ‘Didn’t she come with some of his Soho buddies? I can’t see them …’

  ‘They’ve all sugared off,’ said Melissa. ‘Stayed for the free drinks but then went. Don’t worry, I’ll take her.’

  ‘Oh Melissa, that’s above and beyond.’ It was. Half an hour of Amanda’s views on the universe was half an hour too long.

  ‘She’ll be asleep in moments and I’ll put the radio on. Somewhere in Chelsea?’

  ‘Tregunter Road, off Redcliffe Gardens. Thanks, hon.’

  She got up, slim and elegant, her dark hair in a neat chignon, my greatest friend and ally, who sadly, I saw too little of these days. Her work mostly took her away to Silicon Valley, where they were desperate for her skills, and where she spent most of her life in hotels. She’d sworn she hadn’t flown across specially, but I couldn’t be sure. She drained her drink and I watched her cross the room and neatly extricate Amanda, bidding my parents, who brightened immediately, goodbye. They were very fond of her. Dad managed to haul himself up from the deep sofa, reaching for his stick and thanking her with his eyes. He received a huge wink from Melissa. She frogmarched her mildly protesting charge across the room to us for the swiftest of goodbyes.

  ‘But I thought maybe I’d stay a bit …’ Amanda was mumbling. Her streaky blonde hair was all over her face, which, once very attractive, was now rather puffy. Her heavy make-up was smeared. She was wearing a smart black suit but it was very creased. She frowned petulantly. ‘Lucy, surely you could take me—’

  ‘No, no, Lucy’s very tired,’ Melissa told her. She turned her charge around smartly, barely allowing her to say goodbye, and then with one hand under her elbow, marched her through the garden door and outside. Melissa had once been in the Territorials.

  My father staggered theatrically
across when they’d gone. ‘Refreshing to meet someone who lives life even more precariously than we do,’ he said weakly.

  Imo giggled. ‘Made you feel saintly, Grandpa?’

  ‘For five minutes, but your grandmother was up to the competition and wasn’t going down without a fight. Give us a hand, Ned, dear boy, and we’ll heave-ho her upright. Pour her into the motor vehicle. Oh, and don’t forget her teeth, I think she’s sitting on them.’

  ‘She took them out?’ asked Imo, horrified. She hurried to help her brother retrieve them.

  ‘She’s got an ulcer. They were giving her gyp.’

  ‘Ah.’

  I watched as Imo and Ned, with as much dignity as possible, gently helped my mother to her feet. She seemed to have a beer mat stuck to her cardigan and her skirt was all rucked up at the back, but Imo sorted her out with humour and kindness, whereas Helena and I might have been more exasperated. Ned retrieved her glasses from the floor and polished them before he gave them back to her. Helena and I watched grimly. How dare they get so old?

  ‘You know her latest thing,’ Helena muttered in my ear. ‘She’s decided to give Wednesdays a miss.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently her great-aunt did the same thing, the legendary Fanny. Took to her bed on a Wednesday. Declared there were too many days in a week, and that no one needed more than six.’

  ‘Helena, I’ve made a decision,’ I said, as we watched Ned and Imo begin the search for coats and handbags. ‘I’m going to go down and look after them. Live with them.’

  Helena’s head swivelled round sharply. She stared at me, astonished. But then, as the answer to all her prayers suddenly became more than a distant light shining on the horizon, she wasn’t able to disguise her relief, even though she tried to.

  ‘Oh no, Luce. You don’t want to do that. I mean—’

  ‘I do, actually,’ I interrupted. ‘I’ve thought about it.’ I hadn’t really. The epiphany had just come to me now. ‘I can’t possibly stay in the house any more. Not after …’