The Foster Husband

by Pippa Wright

  And yet even in the short time I’d been away there were changes. A long line of hipsters, all coloured jeans and oversized spectacle frames, waited outside a restaurant I’d never heard of. Further up the road a new bar was already turning people away. Soho was moving on.

  Just around the corner from Hitz, I caught sight of myself in the window of Nan’s Fish Bar, the greasy spoon caff where Sarah and I had often retreated for bacon sandwiches and builders’ tea after a heavy night. I hardly recognized myself out of my usual jeans and sweatshirt. When had I stopped making an effort with how I looked? It had happened almost without my noticing it. And now that I saw myself as I used to be, striding down a pavement in Soho, with a place to go and people to see, I suddenly missed that girl and the life she’d had. The sadness of it made me pause.

  What if Matt was right? What if I’d gone too far with trying to be the perfect wife, and forgotten about being the person Matt had first fallen in love with? The person I actually was.

  I stared at my reflection until it seemed to dissolve in front of my eyes, and found myself looking through the glass and into the cafe.

  It was nearly empty of customers, and a waitress was wiping down the tables purposefully, in a manner that suggested closing time was imminent. But there were two customers still there. At a formica table that was bolted to the wall, on red plastic moulded chairs, sat my best friend and a man. His back was towards me, his head bowed, but I didn’t need to see his face to know it was Matt. She held one of his hands in hers. There was an intimacy to the way they sat, an understanding that told me this wasn’t the first time they’d met like this.

  I thought my heart had stopped. I couldn’t breathe. And then my mouth started to water in the way that means you’re going to be sick. A tremor ran up my legs until my whole body was shaking. My husband and my best friend – what a fucking cliché! They still hadn’t seen me. I watched as Sarah rubbed her thumb across the back of Matt’s hand. His head was tilted towards her in that confiding gesture I knew so well.

  I opened my bag. There sat the empty package from the pregnancy test. With trembling hands I took it out. Here I was trying to hide my perfectly innocent attempts to have a baby with my husband, secreting the evidence in my bag as if I was guilty of something terrible, while all along he was the one with something to hide.

  The door of Nan’s Fish Bar opened and the waitress came out, carrying a heavy black bin bag that she dropped at the kerb.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said.

  The waitress turned around. Her stringy blonde hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail, and her entire body seemed to be slumping towards the ground, as if, at the end of her working day, gravity was too much for her to resist.

  ‘Yeah?’ She looked at me suspiciously, with narrowed eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Could you do me a favour?’ I asked. ‘Could you take this’ – I held out the empty pregnancy test – ‘and give it to those two in there?’

  She frowned. ‘Serious? What for?’

  ‘That man is my husband,’ I said.

  Her face lit up with interest and she spun around to look into the window. ‘No!’

  I started to shake again. ‘Just, please, give it to them and say it’s from Kate.’

  ‘That’s all, lovie? You don’t want to go in there and have it out with them? I’d cut his balls off, I would.’

  I handed her the packet. ‘What good would that do?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ said the waitress. ‘Give him this, I mean, I won’t cut his balls off. Not yet anyway. I’ll do it, just you watch me.’

  But I didn’t watch. Instead I did what I always do. I ran away. As fast as my heels would let me.

  41

  Granny Gilbert’s bungalow is finished at last. Or as finished as it needs to be. I resisted the temptation to spend my savings on the expensive wallpapers and cushions I indulged in at home in London. Here it’s all neutral and simple, renovated just enough for someone to see the potential, without feeling that it’s been stamped with someone else’s identity. The finishing touches must be left to the new owner.

  Just like Ben.

  He still puts the milk back in the fridge when it’s empty, I’ve noticed. That is something to be worked on. He seems to think the toilet brush is some sort of bathroom ornament that he need not trouble himself with. And he told me we were out of biscuits yesterday, as if it was my responsibility to do something about it. But these are small things. I can’t give him to Prue entirely knocked into shape. That would be wrong, even if it were possible.

  But though the improvements to my foster husband may not be as immediately obvious as those to the bungalow, it’s hard to know which makes me prouder. When the estate agent brings the first people round for a viewing on Saturday morning – a middle-aged man and his mother – it is Ben who shows them round and offers to make them tea before I can even suggest it. The mother is visibly impressed, to the point of suggesting, with an acid look at her own son, that if the young man comes with the bungalow she’ll take them both.

  The estate agent leaves us, promising he’ll be back for more viewings in a couple of hours. It seems there is an entire list of potential buyers who have been easily seduced by a few coats of paint and a new bathroom. He has barely left before the front door opens and Prue lets herself in.

  ‘Since when did you have a key?’ I ask, as she strolls into the living room with the assurance of one who belongs there.

  She shrugs. ‘Since I made one. It’s my place, too, don’t forget. I can come in any time I want. Just checking on my investment.’

  Prue kisses Ben on the cheek and settles herself next to him on the sofa. It is not immediately clear from her words whether the investment is the bungalow or her future husband. Either way, I am helping her realize the full potential of both, and either way, she doesn’t seem particularly grateful.

  When the doorbell rings, she turns to me in surprise.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘What am I, psychic?’ I say, getting up and trying not to trip over Minnie. ‘Maybe the estate agent forgot something.’

  But when I go to the door, Mrs Curtis is stood there, beaming with expectation.

  ‘Oh my dear, I didn’t want to interrupt, only I can’t help having an interest in who buys Barbara’s house since they’ll be my new neighbours. Who was that sour-looking woman?’

  As she speaks, Mrs Curtis edges past me into the house and goes straight to the living room, where Prue and Ben are in the middle of a disagreement about what shoes he will wear with his wedding suit. Ben doesn’t see the need to buy new ones, but Prue very much does.

  ‘Prue! What a delightful surprise!’ says Mrs Curtis, as if she is welcoming Prue into her own home instead of inviting herself into mine.

  ‘Hi, Mrs C,’ says Prue, not getting up from the sofa. ‘Come to cadge a cup of tea off us, have you?’

  ‘What a lovely idea, thank you. Strong, two sugars.’ Mrs Curtis wilfully ignores Prue’s tone and instead fixes her with a stare that suggests she should get off the sofa and into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  But Prue is not easily moved. Instead, Ben rises and says he’d be happy to do it. He ambles into the kitchen and we can hear him humming happily to himself as he puts on the kettle. Prue doesn’t seem to question Ben’s domestic transformation, but Mrs Curtis settles herself in his vacated seat on the sofa and smiles at me approvingly.

  ‘Well, dear, you certainly do have him well trained. I can only admire it.’

  I shake my head at her, but she is too busy leaning over to poke a bony finger into Prue’s thigh.

  ‘Yes, dear, aren’t you lucky that your sister has worked so hard on your husband-to-be?’

  ‘What?’ says Prue, flinching from Mrs Curtis’s hand. She rubs at the seam of her white jeans in case Mrs Curtis’s red nails have left a mark.

  ‘You are funny, Mrs Curtis,’ I say quickly. ‘We’ve been talking about Minnie’s training and I think Mrs Curtis
has somehow got it into her head that it’s Ben I’ve been training. Imagine!’

  ‘Yes! Imagine!’ says Mrs Curtis, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

  ‘As if Ben could learn anything from Kate,’ says Prue. She looks around the newly decorated room, and I can see from her searching expression that she’s just trying to find fault with it.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ I say, suddenly overcome with annoyance. I have worked so hard on the bungalow, and on Ben, and it’s obvious to everyone but her, the direct beneficiary.

  ‘I would,’ she agrees, before turning to shout into the kitchen. ‘Ben, can you bring biscuits?’

  She kicks off her shoes and leaves them in the middle of the floor. With a sigh I pick them up and move them next to the sofa, out of the way.

  ‘No biscuits in the living room!’ I say, loud enough for Ben to hear in the kitchen. ‘There are more people coming round in an hour, I don’t want crumbs on the sofa.’

  Prue lifts her chin, challenging. She keeps her eyes on me, but directs her voice at Ben.

  ‘Biscuits!’

  ‘I said, no biscuits in the living room. You can eat them in the kitchen if you want to.’

  Ben appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on his trousers, looking flustered. His cheeks have gone the mottled red that indicates a rare show of emotion. That or alcohol, but I doubt he’s had time to neck a bottle of wine in the five minutes he’s been in the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, Prue, no eating in the living room. It’s a house rule, actually.’ He looks anxiously from me to Prue.

  ‘Whose rule? This is my house, too, you know. You mean it’s Kate’s rule. If I want to eat biscuits in here I will. Bring them in.’

  ‘Ben,’ I say warningly, putting my hands on my hips.

  Mrs Curtis’s head follows each of us in turn with great interest. Her feet don’t reach the floor and she swings them contentedly, like a child, watching us as if we are putting on a show purely for her benefit.

  Ben shuffles his feet, kicking at the skirting board. He mutters something.

  ‘Speak up, dear!’ says Mrs Curtis. ‘I missed that.’

  Ben looks up, resentful from under his knitted brows. With his curled blond hair and pale eyelashes he is more like an obstinate bullock than ever. An obstinate bullock that’s been goaded beyond endurance.

  ‘I said, I’m sick of being bossed around! That’s what I said, Mrs Curtis. Sick of being bossed around by everyone – by you women! All the time!’

  Prue turns to me accusingly. ‘This is all your fault! Ben said you’d been nagging at him ever since he moved in.’

  ‘Nagging! I have not!’

  ‘You have,’ mutters Ben.

  It’s outrageous. I have put time and effort into making Ben a better husband and this is the thanks I get? Accusations of bossiness from the bossiest Bailey of all?

  ‘Not nagging, dear. Training,’ pipes up Mrs Curtis from the sofa.

  ‘Mrs Curtis,’ I say, willing her into silence.

  But Prue has caught something this time, and turns to her sofa companion. ‘Training. You’ve said it twice now. You’re not as daft as you look, are you?’

  Mrs Curtis bridles. ‘Daft? I should think not, dear. And nor is your sister. She’s been—’

  ‘I haven’t been doing anything!’

  But there is no stopping her now. She holds up an admonishing finger to silence me. Prue and Ben are agog.

  ‘Kate, dear, it’s time you got some credit for all your hard work. Prue, your sister has been very thoughtful. Very thoughtful indeed. She has put a lot of effort into training your fiancé to be a better husband. Domestically, that is – don’t make that face, dear. Not bossing – training.’

  ‘Has she?’ says Prue, turning towards me, her eyes narrow dangerously.

  ‘Yes, dear, he’s her foster husband, you see.’

  ‘I’m her what?’ gulps Ben. ‘Crikey.’

  There’s a long silence while I try to think of what to say. Mrs Curtis swings her legs, satisfied with her defence of my methods.

  ‘I just wanted to help,’ I stammer at last. ‘There were things I wish Matt had known before we got married – just little things, a bit of guidance about stuff. I didn’t want you to have the problems we had. I thought I was helping. I did help!’

  Ben scowls at me from the doorway, his face a picture of wounded betrayal. It sounds so wrong when I say it out loud. I was so sure I was doing the right thing.

  When Prue answers her voice is dangerously low. ‘And what would you know, Kate, about what makes a good marriage? Who are you to lecture my fiancé on how he should behave? You didn’t even make it to your second anniversary.’

  ‘I know about mistakes,’ I say, stung. ‘I wanted to save you from them. I thought I was doing a good thing.’

  Prue rises from the sofa and steps towards me, squaring up as if we are going to have a physical fight. ‘You were interfering. Trying to get everyone to behave how you want them to. Just like you always do.’

  ‘I–I wasn’t!’

  ‘You were!’ she snaps. ‘You’re always like this, always think your way is the right way and everyone else is wrong. A foster husband! For fuck’s sake! Is it any wonder your actual husband got sick of it and went off with someone else? Is it?’

  Mrs Curtis gasps from the sofa, her legs stuck out mid-swing in shock.

  I feel as if the breath has been sucked from my body by a punch to the stomach. ‘That is not what happened,’ I say.

  ‘Well, who could blame him?’ sneers Prue.

  I feel the trembling sensation start in the middle of my chest, fine tremors radiating outwards so that my arms hang uselessly by my sides. My words are stuck in my throat.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘None of you understands. It’s not what you think. It never was.’

  42

  London

  I was too shocked to cry as I stumbled through the streets, unsure where I was heading. I just wanted to get away from the cafe before Matt and Sarah had time to react. Instead of glamorous, I suddenly felt foolish in my too-short dress and fuck-me shoes. I pulled at the hem, trying to drag it down my thighs and cover up the fact that I was nothing but a silly housewife whose husband preferred to fuck someone else.

  Of course it explained everything. The late nights. How he’d stopped talking to me. How Sarah knew what Matt was up to when I didn’t. That bastard had even got me to cook lunch for her – her and her cuckolded boyfriend – in my own home. I had thought I was furious before, but it was nothing compared to the trembling, nauseating emotion now gnawing at the very core of my being.

  I had given up everything for what? It wasn’t an investment at all. It was as if I’d entrusted my life savings to a bank that had just gone bust.

  I hardly registered where I was going as I pushed past people on the pavement, powering forwards as if I could walk away from this sick feeling of betrayal. But a crowd blocked my way ahead and I realized, to my horror, that my angry strides had led me straight to the Crown, which was as busy as ever on a Thursday night. Before anyone from Hitz might notice me, I stepped into the road to cross over to the opposite side.

  A taxi blared its horn and, unaccustomed to high heels, I lost my footing as I lurched back onto the kerb. My hands flailed, preparing to fall, and when I felt someone grab my elbow I clutched gratefully onto their arm to regain my balance.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, and went to cross the street again.

  ‘Kate, wait, it’s me,’ said a voice. The hand on my elbow didn’t let go.

  I looked up into Chris’s ice-blue eyes; his intense stare was made even more so by the concern written all over his face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing, I was just – I was on my way home.’ I struggled for composure. I didn’t need to have my business discussed by everyone at the Crown. I wasn’t some show for everyone’s entertainment.

  ‘
Thanks for helping me,’ I said stiffly, pulling my arm away. ‘It was nice to see you.’

  Chris smiled. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said again.

  ‘Hey, come on, let me buy you a drink. You can’t be in that much of a rush. Some of the guys are in the Crown, everyone would love to see you.’

  Everyone. I felt the bile rise in my throat again. How many of them knew about Sarah and Matt already? Was it common knowledge? Was I the last to know? I had thought I’d make a triumphant entrance tonight, the long-lost colleague out on the town, fronting it out about being unemployed, telling everyone how great life was without a job. But now that I was a sadder figure, I couldn’t face them.

  ‘Um, look, I just don’t feel like hanging out with a big crowd. Sorry, Chris. It’s sweet of you to ask. I’m,’ I pointed up the street to where double-decker buses shuddered past in a slow-moving line, ‘I’m going to head off.’

  Chris took hold of my arm again, gently but firmly, as if he was restraining a skittish animal.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? Because we don’t have to go in there if you don’t want to. If you need someone to talk to we could just go somewhere the two of us. If you’d rather.’

  I thought of my house, emptily awaiting my return. Of going back alone, sober, sitting and waiting. Like I did every night. For what? For Matt to arrive and tell me what I already knew? For my husband to come back from fucking my best friend?

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I could do with a drink. Let’s do it.’

  Chris grinned and linked his arm with mine. ‘Hold on tight. Easier this way, isn’t it? In case you get the wobbles again.’