The Editor's Wife

by Clare Chambers

  Patty lived on the edge of Middleton in a belt of council properties all faced in the same grey pebbledash, striped with moss-coloured stains from the leaky guttering. A group of pre-teenagers was sitting on a garden wall watching one of their mates kick a slack football against the side of a parked car. They had the slumped posture and bored expressions of those for whom the empty hours of youth are a heavy burden.

  ‘I wouldn’t be that age again,’ said Patty. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Not really. No.’

  A distant thumping, just recognisable as music, issued from a house on the end of the row.

  ‘Stop here a minute,’ said Patty. As we watched, a car sped down the street and slewed into the kerb. A window was wound down and an empty can was ejected, followed by a brown paper bag: the remains of a takeaway. The driver leant on the horn. Patty gave a hiss of annoyance. A moment later, in response to this summons, Patty’s front door opened and a young man emerged carrying a six-pack of lager under each arm. He was wearing jeans and a Leeds United shirt, and his skin had the sunless pallor of the computer addict. He pulled the door shut behind him with one foot and, crossing the front yard in two strides, vaulted the low garden wall and climbed into the passenger seat of the parked car. The driver revved furiously, holding the car on the handbrake until the tyres screamed, and then rocketed away in a miasma of exhaust and burnt-off tread.

  ‘Good, he’s gone out. We’ve got the place to ourselves,’ said Patty, a trifle presumptuously. I followed her up the path, skirting the wreckage of a black bin bag, shredded by cats and foxes and disgorging a swathe of rotting food.

  Inside, the hall was crowded with the cardboard and polystyrene packaging of a new computer, a pile of discarded trainers, and a mountain bike, minus its saddle. Patty kicked her way between the obstacles and through a doorway to silence the TV which was still ranting away to an empty room. There was an acrid smell coming from the kitchen. Patty ventured to investigate, swearing under her breath. The source was quickly identified: a frying pan had caught fire, its handle melted and now fused to the hob. The stainless steel splashback and cooker hood were scorched black. Some effort had been made to extinguish the blaze: the charred remains of several tea towels sat on the worktop in a pool of sooty water.

  A takeaway pizza box on the floor beside a brimming waste bin suggested that the would-be chef had managed to assuage his hunger.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe I left this place tidy before I went off to work,’ Patty said with a sigh. The tone of weary resignation suggested that she had returned to scenes of far greater devastation in the past. She handed me two wine glasses and a corkscrew, before leading the way upstairs. On the landing she stopped and rummaged in her handbag, producing a key with which she let herself into her own bedroom.

  ‘Christ, Patty, you shouldn’t have to live like this in your own house,’ I protested.

  ‘I have to. I don’t know who’s going to be traipsing in and out while I’m at work. Anything that’s not locked away walks, trust me.’

  The room was tidy and clean, uncontaminated by the disorder outside. The double bed was made up with pristine white covers and a pile of colourful cushions, artfully arranged. On a pine ottoman stood a portable TV set and a mini camping fridge, from which Patty brought out a bottle of cold Australian wine. ‘There’s red in the wardrobe if you prefer,’ she said. ‘I have to keep it up here or it’d be nicked.’ As I pulled the cork and poured out two glasses, she drew the curtains against the darkening windows and switched on the bedside lamp, filling the room with warm shadows. It was as neat and comforting as any hotel room, a haven from the chaos of real life which was all the time pressing at the door. She kicked off her slippers and curled up on the bed against the bank of cushions, gesturing to me to join her.

  ‘I’m happy now,’ she said.

  40

  UNPRACTISED IN THE art of sharing a bed, I slept badly and woke early, inadequately covered and beginning to shiver. Beside me, the duvet twisted and trapped beneath her, Patty slept on, purring gently, her face crumpled against the pillow. I had forgotten that experience of rolling over in the night and having a woman’s hair flick into my face, or feeling cold puffs of breath between my shoulder blades. I hadn’t forgotten sex, though. It was just as I remembered it, and although there was no passion between us, there were other things – affection, gratitude and mutual understanding – which were enough.

  Scooping up yesterday’s clothes, I slipped out of the room without a sound. Sleep was Patty’s only respite from the daily aggravations of living: let her enjoy it a little longer.

  On the landing all was quiet. I didn’t anticipate bumping into Denny. Something told me he wouldn’t be an early riser, even if he had made it home, but all the same I didn’t hang about.

  In the bathroom, a toilet, shower cubicle and sink competed for space with a tower of cardboard boxes of loo paper and washing powder from the Cash & Carry. The door only opened about ten inches before coming to rest against one of these giant cartons, and I had to squeeze through the gap one limb at a time.

  As I stood under the shower, mortifying my flesh, in the absence of any soap, with Patty’s ‘body scrub’, which seemed to be little more than perfumed builder’s sand, I wondered how I could help her. When my half of Gleneldon Road was sold or let it would be nice to give her some money, if only I could be sure it wouldn’t end up servicing one son’s drug habit or the other’s poker debts.

  It’s funny how potential generosity warms the heart every bit as much as the real thing. By the time I had finished my ordeal by grit, I was on such tremendous terms with the world I was half convinced I’d already written the cheque.

  There was no towel, so I had to shake myself like a dog, and blot up the remains with the towelling robe that was hanging on the back of the door.

  In her boudoir, Patty was sitting up in bed, enjoying the first cigarette of the day, and watching breakfast TV. The duvet was tucked around her waist, exposing her small, conical breasts.

  ‘I’ll be off,’ I said, kissing her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you want breakfast? I could do you bacon and egg. Oh no I can’t,’ she said, remembering the fate of her frying pan.

  ‘Don’t come down,’ I said, as she swung her legs out of bed and probed for her slippers. ‘You look so comfortable.’ I had a feeling that the ground floor would be even more discouraging by daylight.

  ‘I probably won’t see you again before the off,’ Patty said in a matter-of-fact way. She was not fishing for denials: I was already in the past.

  ‘No. Well, good luck with your move to Spain. I hope it all works out for you.’

  Patty blew smoke through her teeth. ‘I don’t believe in luck. I sat around for fifteen years waiting for my luck to change and it never did. The only way something good is going to happen is if you make it happen.’

  She made such an unlikely oracle in her leopard-print thong and towelling slippers that it was only later I realised that her last remark had been aimed at me, not her.

  41

  ON MY RETURN to Hartslip I found a package had been left in the conservatory, propped against the front door. It was a small Jiffy bag containing my mobile phone and a note.

  Dear Chris

  You left this behind yesterday at Alex’s so I’m dropping it off on the way back to London. Not strictly on the way, but I know how indispensable these devices are and how inconvenient it is to be without them. I hope you haven’t been hunting for it – I couldn’t call you to let you know it was safe as your mobile number is the only one I have. Ha ha.

  Sorry I missed you this morning. Your cottage looked so charming and rustic from the outside, and the dogs gave me a very exuberant reception. I can see why you are seldom tempted to leave it for London, but if you ever do, please look me up.

  Best wishes

  Diana

  The mood of cheerful optimism that had come over me in Patty’s shower was swept away by a wave of frustration and
regret. Diana here, on my doorstep, on the one occasion in recent memory when I’d spent the night with a woman. On any other morning I would have been here, alone, to greet her. I felt utterly furious and defeated. What chance did a man have against a fate that was so vengeful and cunning? How could I possibly have foreseen that Diana would call, when I hadn’t even missed my phone?

  My memories of what had, after all, been an enjoyable night with Patty were poisoned beyond saving. I now regarded the whole experience as wasted, and Patty as somehow to blame for my present disappointment. I threw myself into an armchair, propelled by the energy of a tremendous teenage sulk.

  I couldn’t sustain it. After about five minutes of brooding I felt quite resigned and calm. This perhaps was one of the much-vaunted benefits of age. I was still holding my phone, so I switched it on. A rising scale of beeps indicated that I had an old message. It had been sent the previous day from a number I didn’t know.

  HELLO CHRIS AVRIL IS TEACHING ME TO TEXT YOU CAN CONTACT ME ON THIS NUMBER TEXT DON’T PHONE GERALD

  I started to laugh to myself at this interesting development. Using the landline I immediately rang the number. A woman’s voice answered: a wary, suspicious ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello. Would that be Avril by any chance?’

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Christopher – Gerald’s brother. Is he there?’

  ‘Oh hello Christopher.’ Her voice was warm with recognition. ‘No, he’s gone to the barbers. Shall I get him to ring you when he gets back?’

  ‘No, no. I was just checking that everything’s OK. With the house.’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, the builders have started work, so I told Gerald he could stay with me till it’s done. In my spare room.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Avril.’ My voice was grave with the effort of not laughing.

  ‘I just popped round one day to say thank you for the flowers and the place was in such a state. And I’m all on my own with all this space . . .’

  ‘I hope you aren’t taking on too much,’ I said, wondering how long it would be until she changed the locks. ‘The building work could take months.’

  ‘Oh no. We’re getting on famously. It’s nice to have a bit of company in the evenings.’

  ‘Good, good. Sorry, did you just say Gerald was at the barbers?’

  ‘Yes. He’s getting rid of that awful beard. I told him it makes him look like an Old Testament prophet. Horrible scratchy thing.’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘You’re obviously a very good influence,’ I said, smoothing over this gaffe.

  ‘He’s just coming through the door now. Oh, that’s better. Shall I put him on?’

  ‘No. No need. If he could just text me updates now and then.’

  ‘All right. Good idea.’

  I rang off, feeling inordinately pleased with my matchmaking skills. Lonely eccentrics the pair of them. Ideally suited. If Avril had managed to persuade Gerald to lose the beard and spend money on a mobile phone, of all things, then he must be smitten indeed.

  Lucky Gerald, I thought, successfully launched on a new relationship, with all the excitement of infatuation and mutual discovery. And then I remembered Patty and her stern dismissal of Luck, and her call to decisive action, which I now saw was meant for me. I sat for a moment or two, quite at a loss, wondering what action could possibly be taken to halt a woman who was even now belting down the motorway towards London, the airport, and a romantic weekend of magnetic interference with her special friend.

  A thought struck me: Diana had made what amounted to a twenty-mile detour to return my phone in person, when a Jiffy bag and a first-class stamp would have done the job perfectly well. Surely that was just the sort of encouraging signal I had been waiting for?

  I looked at my watch. It was still early. I might only have missed Diana by a few minutes, and if she drove like a sensible woman and I set off now and drove like a crazy man I would inevitably catch her up. And then what? Force her off the road? In any case the idea of a high-speed pursuit had at least two serious flaws: I didn’t know what sort of car she had, or what route she was taking. I could end up driving all the way to London – a mere two hundred miles – without ever intercepting her. But the alternative was to do nothing but rattle around at Hartslip, consumed with frustration and regret. And all the while I was dithering and debating with myself she was putting more and more distance between us.

  In five minutes I was on the road, impelled by a tremendous sense of urgency, but with no actual plan. I’d brought nothing with me from home apart from my phone, Diana’s address in Wimbledon, and a small green velvet box which I’d retrieved from the loft.

  Once on my way, and heading towards York, I decided to try Diana’s mobile number. It was almost a relief when the clipped tones of the answering service cut in and told me to try again later: I didn’t have a clue what I would have said.

  I passed the road I’d taken to get to Alex’s, and then a few minutes later the Open Arms hotel, and soon I was heading south on the A1 and chewing up the miles.

  This is ridiculous, I kept telling myself. A complete fool’s errand. At the next junction I’ll turn round and go home. But the thought of returning defeated to the empty house was too depressing – far worse than any imagined humiliations that might lie ahead – and so I kept on, with versions of this internal battle played out at the approach to every turn-off, until Grantham, when I was past the halfway mark, and it was too far to go back.

  I stopped at a service station near Peterborough to buy petrol and unclench my knotted leg muscles. Hobbling into the café to get a sandwich I caught sight of a blonde woman in a blue coat disappearing into the Ladies, and had to waste valuable minutes lurking outside to satisfy myself that this phantom Diana wasn’t my quarry.

  I still had no plan, but instead, as I approached the M25, a gathering sense of foreboding that I would be spending the night in the empty shell of Gleneldon Road, while Gerald cosied up to Avril next door.

  One thing I noticed, as I came off the motorway and negotiated my way through the north London suburbs to Richmond Park, was that spring had come earlier to the south. There were daffodils blowing sturdily in the breeze along the riverbank by Kew Bridge, and the cherry blossom was already in bud. It’s not so bad really, London, I found myself thinking. It seemed to have improved a lot since my last visit, to the abandoned and flooded house, which was – incredibly – only a little over a month ago.

  The last leg of the journey, through an area of the city that was unfamiliar to me, was slow, as I had to keep pulling over to consult the A to Z that I’d bought at a garage in Kingston, but I’d still made good time, thanks to reckless speeding on the motorway. It was only mid-afternoon when I pulled up a discreet four doors away from Diana’s house, a large Victorian villa of sand-coloured brick, partly covered by a lush creeper. There was a black Volkswagen Golf parked in the driveway with the boot open. My God, I thought. She’s just leaving. Any later and I’d have missed her.

  I snatched up the small green box from the passenger seat and sprang out of the car. If she looked really dismayed to see me I would invent some Gerald-related emergency which had brought me to London, and never trouble her again.

  As I reached the end of the drive the front door opened and Diana emerged with an armful of old newspapers and flyers, which she flung into the recycling box on the porch. Then she straightened up and started violently as she saw me. Her expression was one of pure surprise, and for a moment or two it was hard to read whether the surprise was a pleasant one or not, but then she smiled and I was no longer in any doubt.

  ‘Chris!’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were in Yorkshire. I called on you this morning to drop off your phone.’

  ‘I know.’ I produced it from my pocket in evidence. ‘I couldn’t believe I’d just missed you. I practically threw a tantrum.’

  ‘You never said you were coming to London. I could have
given you a lift.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was. It was a spur of the moment decision. I just had to see you. Oh, and give you this.’ I passed her the green box, which bore the name of a Hatton Garden jewellers. ‘It’s a Christmas present,’ I added.

  Diana looked at me, mystified. ‘You’ve driven all this way to give me a Christmas present?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘But it’s February.’

  ‘Christmas 1985,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get a chance to give it to you before . . .’ Before you died, I was going to say.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  There is something uncomfortable about unwrapping a gift in the presence of the giver, so I looked away to spare Diana any self-consciousness as she opened the box. ‘This is lovely,’ I heard her say. ‘Did you really buy this in 1985?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She held it up by the chain, so that the cut face of the aquamarine caught the afternoon light. ‘And you’ve kept it all this time?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You could have given it to someone else.’

  ‘I couldn’t bring myself to do that. It was bought for you.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ said Diana.

  ‘There’s no such thing as luck,’ I said, quoting Patty.

  ‘I meant it was a good choice,’ said Diana. ‘Not every gift would have lasted so well. Perfume for instance.’

  ‘Or chocolates.’

  ‘No. Keeping a necklace for twenty years is romantic, but keeping a box of chocolates twenty years would be just plain morbid.’

  We both laughed at that. ‘Anyway,’ said Diana, sobering up, ‘I don’t know why we’re having this conversation on the doorstep. Why don’t you come in? You must be gasping for a drink after that drive. I certainly am.’ She pushed the door open and I followed her into a wide, high-ceilinged hallway, with a turned staircase and galleried landing. There was a painting on the wall which looked familiar, but before I could identify it my attention was claimed by the suitcase and leather holdall parked at the bottom of the stairs in readiness.