The Editor's Wife

by Clare Chambers

  ‘Well, I’ll have to come and see them sometime,’ I said, joining in the fraud. I opened the fridge door and slammed it again, recoiling from the sour smell. We could do without cream, I decided. Diana was still hovering in the doorway, wanting to be helpful.

  ‘By the way, I had lunch with Leila a while ago. Did she tell you?’

  For a fraction of a second a shadow passed over Diana’s face before her smile was back in position. ‘Oh, did you? That’s nice. I didn’t know you two were in touch.’ Her voice was bright with unconcern. ‘I haven’t seen her for ages. Since that meal with Ravi.’

  ‘We aren’t “in touch”,’ I said. ‘I just bumped into her up in London one day when I’d gone to see Owen, so we went for lunch.’

  ‘What a nice coincidence,’ said Diana, beaming. Something deliberate in her cheerfulness made me suspicious.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  She almost flinched at this breach of good taste. ‘Mind? Of course not. Why should I mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought . . . she’s your friend. It might seem like poaching. I wouldn’t want you to think . . .’

  ‘I don’t think anything. Anyway, next time you see her . . .’

  ‘There isn’t going to be a next time,’ I interrupted. ‘I told you. It was just an accidental meeting.’ Why was she wilfully inferring some sort of ongoing relationship?

  ‘Oh, you never know,’ said Diana. ‘She’s very attractive, don’t you think?’ She seemed to determined to promote Leila, if only to prompt further denials. I decided the only way to put a stop to this bizarre manifestation of proprietorial jealousy was to flatter her into submission.

  ‘No, I don’t. I think she’s totally unattractive. But then that’s because I hold you up as a standard of beauty, Diana, and mortal women can’t compete.’

  ‘Oh fuck off,’ she said, happily.

  Back at the table Owen – his face frozen in an expression of polite interest – seemed to revive at the prospect of an imminent interruption to Gerald’s maunderings.

  ‘Here we are,’ I announced, but Gerald was not so easily derailed.

  ‘. . . quite a good athlete at school . . . didn’t have the support . . . pity . . . ironic . . . chess . . . Christopher . . .’

  I wasn’t concentrating on what Gerald was saying, in fact I was consciously tuning him out as I whacked the pudding into four, prompting cries of ‘Whoa!’ from Owen and Diana. But as I handed out the overfilled bowls, certain words and phrases reached their target.

  ‘What were you saying about not having support?’ I asked, unable to let it pass. ‘You don’t mean Mum and Dad?’

  Gerald stoked his mouth with soufflé before replying indistinctly. ‘I was just saying that Mum and Dad only came to watch me race once because they were too busy taking you to chess tournaments. That’s why I quit, really. I think I might have become a successful runner if I’d had more encouragement.’

  I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Gerald, that is complete horseshit and you know it. Mum and Dad stopped coming to watch you because you told them to keep away.’

  ‘I seem to remember it was because they were taking you around the London chess circuit.’

  ‘Well you remember wrong. You said they couldn’t come because they put you off. They were gutted actually, but you’ve conveniently forgotten that.’

  It was beyond embarrassing to have this petty childhood conflict paraded before Owen and Diana, but Gerald’s brazen fact-bending couldn’t go unchallenged. It wasn’t a case of defending our parents’ honour – generally I was the first in the queue to criticise their infuriating habits and barmy values – but a reflex response to hearing lies offered up as truth.

  ‘I expect they found chess more exciting to watch than athletics,’ Gerald went on, as though he hadn’t heard me.

  ‘The reason you quit was you don’t like losing,’ I reminded him. ‘Nothing to do with Mum and Dad.’

  ‘You always got preferential treatment,’ he said, broadening the focus of his resentment. It was my experience that once the words ‘always’ or ‘never’ had been uttered in an argument, the chances of rational resolution were slim.

  ‘Look, Gerald,’ I said, as civilly as possible. ‘Mum and Dad may have had their faults, but I don’t think favouritism is one of them.’

  ‘You don’t notice favouritism when you’re the favourite,’ Gerald said, stirring his soufflé slowly until he’d knocked the air out, to create a viscous brown slop. This sounded suspiciously off-pat, and I wondered who’d got him started on this psychotherapeutic parent-bashing in the first place.

  ‘I think a younger brother or sister often has things a little easier, Gerald,’ Diana said, in her peacemaker’s voice. ‘The oldest child has to be the trailblazer.’ She and Owen had not so far contributed to the argument. Even their social skills and gifts of empathy were being severely tested by this ridiculous display of ancient grudge-harbouring.

  ‘I remember my younger sister getting away with murder,’ Owen agreed. ‘It’s the natural way of things. The oldest one has to batter down every obstacle, while the younger one breezes along behind enjoying the benefits.’

  ‘I wonder how it will work with twins,’ said Diana, skilfully reclaiming the conversation.

  ‘Diana and Owen have got identical twin girls. Four years old,’ I explained to Gerald.

  ‘Oh, really?’ He looked suddenly mournful. ‘Peggy’s got a four-year-old daughter. Daisy. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to see her any more.’

  All routes seemed to lead us back to the subject of Gerald and his abandonment.

  To my relief, Owen and Diana didn’t linger long after the meal, using their teenage babysitter as an excuse. I remembered my manuscript only as they were at the door; in Gerald’s company I ceased to think of myself as a writer, but reverted to an earlier incarnation: truculent younger brother.

  Owen was incredulous. ‘Why didn’t you say so earlier? This is fantastic. Can I take it with me now?’

  ‘Only if you’re sure you’ve got time,’ I said, modest after the various humiliations of the evening.

  ‘Of course. Do you want me to read it as a friend, informally, or are you submitting it to me as an editor?’

  ‘I don’t know. Read it as a friend, I suppose, and then if you like it . . .’

  ‘OK. I’ll let you know how I get on with it and we’ll take it from there.’ He seemed genuinely pleased.

  ‘It’s my only copy,’ I said, suddenly anxious about letting it go. ‘Perhaps I should get it copied first.’

  ‘I’ll do it for you tomorrow at work,’ Owen promised. ‘First thing. And I’ll read it as quickly as I can.’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ I lied. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Put it out of your mind,’ he advised. ‘Better still, get on with the next book.’ He was only half joking.

  ‘There isn’t going to be a next book,’ I retorted. ‘I’m done.’

  I waved Owen and Diana off at the front door, while Gerald obligingly cleared the table. On returning to my room the first thing I noticed was Diana’s silver scarf draped over the back of her chair. I snatched it up and ran down the stairs, trailing yards of her velvety perfume, and nearly collided with Diana on her way up. The changeover was as smooth as a baton pass in a relay, but then halfway down the next flight she stopped.

  ‘You will come, won’t you?’ she called up, and then, as if she couldn’t stomach too much pleading, ran on, and my answering ‘Yes’ was lost in a clatter of heels.

  In the kitchen Gerald was washing up with a limp green scourer. ‘Sorry if I spoilt your evening,’ he said, all contrition now that we were alone. Not half an hour ago I would cheerfully have decked him, but Diana’s parting remark had redeemed all the indignities that had gone before, and now I just felt sorry for him, sorrier still that I hadn’t shown him any sympathy earlier, when there were witnesses.

  ‘It’s OK, you didn’t spoil it,’ I said. ‘Dinner par
ties are crap anyway, aren’t they?’ I went back into my room to see if I could muster some bedding, knowing that I didn’t have any ‘spare’ anything.

  The front doorbell let out a low growl. My heart leapt as I picked up the entryphone.

  ‘It’s me,’ said a crackly female voice.

  ‘Who’s me?’

  ‘Zoe,’ said the voice, with an edge of impatience.

  ‘Zoe!’ I cried. ‘You came back!’ I went bounding down the stairs with dog-like enthusiasm to meet her. Sex after all!

  She endured my eager embrace without responding. ‘Look, change of plan,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to go to your place tonight. Gerald turned up halfway through dinner. His woman’s just kicked him out and he’s got nowhere to stay. Sabotaged the whole evening, talking about his cross-country running and his depression. Owen and Diana didn’t know where to look. Nightmare. Anyway, he can have my bed. I’ll just go and grab some stuff . . .’

  ‘Um, Christopher . . .’ Her tone was apologetic, her smile embarrassed. ‘I’m not actually staying. I’ve got a cab waiting.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, I just came back to get my things.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt the raising and dashing of sexual hope as a real physical pain, so that I was hardly listening to her next remark, which was, ‘Nigel’s asked me to move in with him.’

  ‘Oh? Has he? And what did you say?’

  ‘I said yes. So I wanted to come and tell you that that’s what I’m going to do. Before I do it. Because obviously I won’t be able to keep coming over here, and . . .’

  ‘No, no, I suppose not. That’s a pity.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if I’m going to give this a go I want to do it properly.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Good plan.’

  ‘It’s not been ideal, really, seeing both of you, and him not knowing. I suppose I’ve been waiting for something to push me into a decision.’

  Put like that it sounded as though if I and not Nigel had asked first, her decision would have gone the other way.

  ‘I thought you were all right with it. I thought you liked your independence.’

  ‘Yes I did. Up to a point. But it’ll be nice to be a proper couple.’

  For a moment I felt a twinge of, not jealousy, exactly, since I didn’t want Zoe to move in with me, but rivalry, that this shadowy Nigel had outperformed me without even knowing of my existence. A grey vista of celibacy stretched before me, and I allowed a little of my dismay at Zoe’s defection to show on my face.

  ‘Oh don’t look all tragic,’ she said, with her old impatience. ‘You can’t pretend you’re heartbroken. It’s not me you want.’

  ‘But I’ll miss seeing you.’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘And there’s absolutely no chance of a last, quick . . .?’

  ‘No.’ We gave each other rueful smiles. Outside the cab driver leant on the horn. She sped upstairs and came down a moment later with a bag of clothes and tapes that she’d left behind her on previous visits.

  ‘Do you want your casserole dish?’ I asked. ‘Gerald’s just washing it up.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. You keep it.’ She opened the door and made grovelling gestures to the cab driver. ‘Keep any other stuff you find. I don’t need it,’ and she tripped lightly down the steps to the rainy street with a last wave.

  ‘Everyone loved the beef, by the way,’ I called after her, as she was swallowed up by the cab and borne away.

  Upstairs I found Gerald had finished the washing up and bedded down for the night in a polar-survival sleeping bag with integral hood. He lay on the floor, taking up most of the space between my desk and the wardrobe, like a large green grub. It was the first time we had slept in the same room for at least fifteen years, and as I twitched the curtains shut against the black night sky I half expected to see the hungry jaws of that wicked old moon, from which Gerald had once been my only protector.

  20

  GERALD LEFT EARLY the next morning, taking his belongings with him and giving no hint as to his destination.

  ‘Right, I’ll be on my way,’ he said briskly, in the manner of someone setting off on the next leg of a well-planned journey. I wondered if he already had a new victim in mind. ‘Thanks for the . . . floor.’

  ‘Oh, no problem. Let us know when you find somewhere,’ I said, watching his struggle to shrug his rucksack straps over the shoulders of his still-wet parka.

  ‘Can I borrow this?’ he asked, picking up a copy of Loot. ‘Might be something in the Lettings section.’

  ‘Of course. You can always come back here tonight if you’re stuck,’ I added, pierced by guilt.

  ‘I’ll be OK. You’ve got my work number if you need me.’ I’d momentarily forgotten that Gerald had a job, the role of vagrant suited him so well.

  I managed to hold out for two full days before going to call on Diana. The fact that she had asked, and was expecting me, somehow made it easier to be patient, and if it hadn’t been for the vacuum created by Zoe’s departure, and the fact that with my novel finished I had nothing to do, I might have been more patient still.

  The delay was exciting for its own sake: I didn’t think of it as strategic. Even at this stage, as I walked up Aysgarth Terrace carrying a large bouquet of flowers, I still thought of our friendship as harmless, made special by mutual attraction, but made safe by our separate, solid loyalties to Owen. To cross a line would be unthinkable; so I didn’t think.

  It was just after breakfast and she was working at the table by the window, correcting proofs, as I approached the house. At the clang of the gate she looked up, and it seemed to take her a moment or two to realise that it was me behind the flowers and not a delivery boy, and she shook her head – the hypocrite – as if to say, ‘Not you again!’

  By the time she’d opened the front door she had whipped off her glasses: there were shiny pinch marks on her nose. Her hair was down – unbrushed and rumpled. It made her look different, younger, but I could tell she felt caught out.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Hello.’

  There was a moment of awkwardness as the memory of our last exchange on the stairs hovered between us, but it was diffused by the flowers, too vast a presence to pass unremarked.

  ‘These will take some explaining,’ she murmured, standing aside to let me in. ‘But thanks.’

  ‘You could say they were an apology for the ordeal of Saturday night,’ I suggested, it not having occurred to me that excessive floral tributes might cause raised eyebrows indoors. ‘Or wait until I’ve gone and bin them.’

  She smiled at this, as if she had already thought of it. ‘Saturday wasn’t an ordeal. Why do you say that?’

  ‘It was for me. The food. And that mad Polish lady. Then Gerald. And then to top it all off, after you left, Zoe came back and dumped me.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Diana laid a sympathetic hand on my arm. I could feel its warmth through my sleeve. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Why?’

  ‘She’s moved in with Nigel.’

  ‘No! I can’t believe it. I thought she looked really devoted to you. Well, so much for womanly intuition.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I wasn’t going to tell her what Zoe had picked up by way of womanly intuition.

  ‘Didn’t you put up any sort of fight?’

  ‘You mean beat up Nigel?’

  ‘No, nothing that physical. I mean a bit of counter-persuasion.’

  ‘No. It’s probably for the best anyway. We weren’t right for each other.’

  This answer seemed to satisfy her. ‘I’d like to know what this Nigel’s got that you haven’t.’

  ‘Wealth and talent probably,’ I replied, to let her know that I remembered all our conversations, word for word. We had moved into the kitchen by now and Diana was hunting for a vase big enough to take the bouquet in one piece. Having failed in this quest she propped it in the sink, and ran the water for a few seconds before turning to face me.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said, not meeting my e
ye.

  ‘I’m glad you’re glad.’ In the silence came the drip drip of water in the sink, impatient as a tapping foot. I could feel storm clouds of tension gathering. Before they could break over our heads Diana spoke. ‘I must go and brush my hair. Then I’ll make us some coffee.’

  ‘I can’t stay,’ I said dismissively. I don’t know what prompted this piece of cruelty; desperation I suppose.

  ‘You can’t go already.’ Diana’s look of dismay made my heart heave and all the self-control, on which I’d congratulated myself so smugly, fell away. I crossed the room in two strides and pulled her against me. She didn’t put up any resistance, in fact she swayed towards me and our mouths collided much less gently than I’d intended. There would never be anything to equal that moment of revelation. The kiss went on and on. It was easier to keep going than to face the next decision, but at last we had to pull apart. ‘Shall I stop?’ I asked her. ‘I won’t stop unless you tell me to.’ She shook her head, so I took her hand and led her towards the stairs.

  To say we got carried away is true and not true. We could have changed our minds. There were chances. We had to climb over that bloody rocking horse, for a start. That could have been an opportunity for second thoughts, but we kept going. Up the stairs, past their bedroom, past the twins’ room – did I imagine her falter slightly – into the spare room, the bed piled with clean laundry, which had to be swept out of the way. It wasn’t just the momentum of passion that kept us going, it was fear. Fear that if we paused for a second one of us would lose courage. The horror of pulling back from the brink, apologetic, shamefaced, would have been worse than a thousand betrayals. And then the layers and layers of clothes she had on, which had to be unbuttoned and dragged up or dragged down. Beneath my thumbs were seven different shoulder straps. Even at that extremity of desire the odd number troubled me.

  Afterwards we stayed holding each other for what seemed like a long time. Diana was the first to speak.

  ‘I didn’t plan this,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know.’ A planner wouldn’t have worn so many fiddly layers. ‘I didn’t either. But I did think about it. Most of the time, actually.’