‘No, I don’t want to come in. It’s not appropriate. I only want to talk to you about what’s going on, that’s all.’
Arrogant man that he is, Ben is still thinking I’ve come here for an entirely different purpose. I can’t help that, and I don’t care. He’ll find out soon enough. Now he’s here in front of me, though, my doubts about coming here have fled and I do need to talk to him. I need to know if he is aware of Tessa’s threat, for one thing.
‘Okay.’ He stretches the word out. ‘How about I meet you in The Pot and Kettle, where we had coffee before? In, say, half an hour?’
‘God no. My daughter works there.’
‘Well, if we’re going under the radar…’ He grins and widens his eyes a little. ‘High Heaven?’
I almost shriek a ‘No’. Ben’s enjoying this, I can tell. I’m glad somebody’s finding amusement in my misery.
Eventually, we settle on a small pub called The Black Sheep. It’s in Lower Hovington, along one of the back roads. It has no garden, so doesn’t attract families with children, and doesn’t sell food other than crisps. It’s a scruffy little place, the décor untouched for decades, the star attraction a dart board that is more hole than board. We arrange to meet in forty minutes.
Ben is there before me. I almost turn round and go back home when I see his car, wedged half on the strip of road and half on the pavement – there is no car park – but instead I pull in in front of it, and take a moment to gather myself after all the rushing around.
I join Ben on a squashed leather L-shaped banquette in the corner and accept a half of cider. I need something to steady my nerves. Ben has a pint of one of the only three keg beers they serve. There are two elderly men nursing pints at a table on the far side of the small bar, nobody else apart from the lugubrious landlord polishing glasses in slow motion.
‘I wonder how this place keeps going,’ Ben muses. ‘Maybe it’s a front for some sort of dodgy dealings.’ He looks at me, expecting me to smile. I don’t.
‘I didn’t want to do this,’ I begin, ‘but I’m in a quandary and you might be able to shed some light.’
‘Quandary? What kind?’
‘The kind that involves your wife holding me to ransom. She’s threatened to tell Hector about us if I don’t tell him first.’
‘That’s it?’
‘In a nutshell. What do you mean “That’s it”? Isn’t that enough? When did she find out about us? How long has she known?’
‘Some while, I imagine. You know Tessa. Nothing stays secret from her for long.’
I see red. I’m surprised my glass doesn’t break, I bang it down so forcefully. ‘You imagine? Does your marriage mean so little to you that you don’t know when your wife discovered you were unfaithful? It must have been a memorable event, surely! If you knew she’d found out, did you not think to warn me?’
‘Does Hector not know already, then?’ Ben says, turning the tables on me. ‘Well, well, for a man of his intelligence I’d have thought he’d have worked it out long ago.’
‘Right, so you think Hector would have blithely gone along to your house for dinner, knowing you and I had… well, you know? That he’d have associated with you at all? That my family would still be in one piece, for that matter?’
I can’t believe this man. How ironic is that?
‘Well, Tessa invited him, all of you, to ours, didn’t she?’ Ben shrugs. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
At this moment I’m hard pressed to think of anything stranger. Tessa obviously knew about me and Ben when she invited us to dinner, and had known for some time beforehand, hence the chilli-laced cake and the fake phone call – and the dead badger, aided and abetted by Mirabelle Hayward. My mind rewinds as I begin to view the past months through different eyes.
‘Ben, has she always known about us, right from the start?’
‘I don’t know about always. We never had that conversation, not about you, anyway.’
Not about me. But about somebody else. Maria?
‘No accusations, no scene, no drama? Is that even normal?’
‘All marriages are different, Fran. I’m a man with needs; Tessa’s always understood that. Don’t make this into something it’s not. Something it doesn’t need to be.’
I drink some cider, put the glass down again, and bite my lower lip. I bite it so hard I feel the sting of pain. A maelstrom of emotion swirls inside me. How could Ben care so little about Tessa, let alone about me? And we haven’t even got to the main purpose of this meeting yet.
I have a thought. ‘You didn’t tell her about us, did you?’
‘Of course I didn’t.’ Ben dismisses this with a wave of his hand.
‘So how did she find out?’
‘No idea.’
‘Don’t you care how she found out?’
He looks at me as if he’s genuinely puzzled, and a little irritated with me for pursuing this. ‘No, why should I? It doesn’t matter now, does it?’
I blow out air. ‘No, I don’t suppose it does. That ship has well and truly sailed. Look, Ben, I don’t know how you and Tessa operate, but my marriage is conventional – or it was until I met you, and how I wish I hadn’t. Hector must never know, never, and I’d be grateful if you’d take this seriously.’
‘You don’t mean that. You don’t wish we hadn’t met.’ Ben ignores my plea and latches onto the few words that are directly about him. ‘Don’t say you regret it. Remember how we were together, how wonderful it was? I would never have ended it if you hadn’t insisted. I wish we were together now. I wish I could love you, like before.’
‘It was lust, Ben, not love, you know that. Okay there was a time when… look, I’m not going to analyse our relationship. That’s not why we’re here. I made a massive mistake, I jeopardised my marriage, and I take full responsibility for that. I could have said no, walked away, but I didn’t. And now it’s payback time, and it’s my fault as much as yours. So, tell me what to do, tell me what happens next, because I’m damned if I know.’
‘I still care about you, Fran. I’ve made it plain enough recently.’
I let out a big sigh. This conversation is so disjointed I wonder if Ben’s taken in anything I’ve said at all.
‘I hoped I’d imagined that,’ I say.
He smiles, aiming it at my eyes. I quickly avert them. ‘Remember, Fran?’ he says softly. ‘How lovely it was when we were together? How romantic, and exciting?’
And I do. I do remember, soured though the memory is. He doesn’t have to keep reminding me.
We fall silent for a minute. Then Ben says, ‘Did you like the flowers?’
Flowers? The basket of roses that came to the surgery, with no card?
‘Oh my God, Ben. They were from you?’
He gives a little laugh. ‘Of course they were. Who did you think sent them? I didn’t think I needed to spell it out. They were my way of telling you I still had feelings for you, still have feelings, and I think you do, too.’
‘No. No, Ben.’ My voice is stuck in my throat. Nothing else comes out.
‘You came to me today.’
I swallow, shake my head to clear it. ‘I came to you, not because I wanted to but because I had nobody else to turn to. Tessa’s your wife, I thought you might understand. I need to find a way out of this mess.’ My voice sounds needy to my own ears. It shouldn’t have to be like this. I shouldn’t have to plead for help, not if I ever meant anything to him at all.
Ben moves along the seat, closing much of the space between us. If I could lean my head on his shoulder, take comfort from him, I would. He has no idea how strongly I’m fighting the urge to do that. I win the fight, shuffle away, fix him with as cold a look as I can summon.
‘Well, what do you think I should do? Go on. You’re the one with all the answers, apparently.’
‘That’s easy. Do nothing. Tessa won’t tell Hector. Call her bluff and carry on as normal. It’ll go away of its own accord.’
This, now, is exactly what
I want to hear. If only I could be sure.
‘Do you really, truly think that, or are you just saying it to placate me?’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Fran. Believe me.’
Somehow, this time, I do believe him. I don’t know why, given how the rest of this off-the-wall conversation has played out, but I do.
‘Think about it,’ he continues. ‘If Tessa went to Hector and spilled it all out, the first thing he’d do would be to confront me, have it out, man-to-man, Tessa and I would have to talk about it, bring it all out into the open, and there you have it. One fan. One shedload of shit. Not gonna happen.’
‘I had thought about that,’ I say. ‘If Tessa was going to split with you over me, she’d have done it long ago.’
And over Maria, too.
‘Precisely. Tessa needs me. She’s playing you, Fran. Don’t let her have the upper hand.’
I fall silent, thinking. Ben is right about one thing; all marriages are different. The dynamics that work for some don’t work for others.
I stand up. ‘I’m going now. I would appreciate it if you would stay behind for ten minutes. I don’t want to see you on the road behind me. If I had my way, I wouldn’t clap eyes on you ever again. And while we’re about it, don’t even think about playing any more games. No loaded remarks, no looks, and definitely no gifts. Got that?’
‘Got that.’ Ben drops his gaze to the table. His penitence is plainly fake, in fact I can sense a smile behind it, but I have done my best.
I sit in the car for a few minutes, hoping Ben will do what I ask and hang back. I think about what just happened, and I’m already wondering if I wasn’t too harsh with him. After all, it is true what I said. I could have said no. I could have let myself out of his car when he dropped us home after the ballet class and refused to accept his mobile number, adding a few stern words to allay any future misunderstandings. I could have exercised self-restraint. But I didn’t, and that is my fault, not his. He had strayed before, with Maria, and heaven knows who else. Ben was a past master at infidelity; I was the rookie.
I got what I came for today – Ben’s advice on the ultimatum, which seems genuine enough. And rightly or wrongly, I have to run with that. I have nothing else. I take out my phone and scroll to Tessa’s last text message. No time like the present.
Twenty-Nine
TESSA
Italy was wonderful, as I knew it would be. We have been before – to Rome and Florence, before Zoe was born – but never stayed on the Amalfi coast, and Positano was poster-perfect. It’s a small price to pay that my calf muscles are still aching from climbing all those hills; it isn’t called the vertical town for nothing.
We had thought about Italy for our holiday last year, and I think the year before – I can’t remember whose idea it was originally, Ben’s or mine – but somehow it didn’t happen so I’m glad we made it this year. Zoe adored the hotel with its roof-top pool, and has come home golden-brown; she has darkish blonde hair, not so fair as mine, and her skin is fortunately less delicate. She made friends with a girl her age and a boy a year older, both French, and had fun hanging out with them, which was good to see.
I loved our holiday, but I loved coming home as much. The house welcomed me in, and my first job was to check on the garden to make sure the gardener has watered sufficiently. He’s usually reliable, but I trust him only as much as I trust anyone. The weather in our part of England has been almost as sunny and hot as it was in the Med. I was pleased to find the lawn and borders had been taken good care of, the flower-heads ripe and full, and giving off a heady sweetness. The charm of Rose Cottage goes some way towards making up for the shortfalls in my life.
By some miracle, Zoe has holiday money left, and is keen to pick up some new clothes to show off her tan – money to be topped up by her parents, of course, but that’s fine. We decide to go all out for our shopping trip and go to London, the day after our return from Italy. Ben, I sense, is keen for us to go and leave him in peace for a day. That’s fine by me; there is a limit to the amount of togetherness one couple can accommodate. At least, I have always found it so.
Zoe is on her fourth circuit of Top Shop in Oxford Street while I stand dutifully near the changing rooms, holding a bundle of items she’s already chosen, when I hear my phone beep. I can’t help smiling when I see her name come up. It’s about time.
You can go on waiting. I will not tell Hector. I won’t dance to your tune.
I guess I’m not that surprised at her reply. It’s not as if she hasn’t taken risks before, is it? Well, okay, Fran. You take your chances if you want to.
I do wonder, though, why she has replied after all this time. I’d decided she wasn’t going to – when I’d thought about her at all. Francesca Oliver is a first-class bitch, not the sort of person I want haunting my mind for long, wrecking a perfectly lovely holiday. Anyway, I’m bored with it now, bored with her, fed up with the whole thing.
Which doesn’t mean I’m giving up, letting go. Oh no, she will get what she deserves. I will pursue her until she breaks.
Zoe’s back, snipping off the thread of my thoughts. She joins the queue for the changing rooms and tries on an armful of garments, of which we buy around a quarter before we head off for a late lunch.
It is not until we’re on the train home that I allow that woman more space inside my head. But soon I find myself thinking about Maria Capelli instead.
I had no idea Maria had moved to Oakheart, until one day Ben and I were in the car, Ben driving, and we passed her coming out of a shop in the high street. We were heading for a place on the outskirts of the village to look at wood-burning stoves, as I remember. Ben didn’t seem to notice her, or if he did, he didn’t say, but my heart thumped as I instantly recognised her.
I said nothing to Ben – I needed to find out more first. Was she just visiting the village, passing through, with no thought as to who lived there? Unlikely. Or had she come looking for Ben, hoping to bump into him? That would have meant her risking bumping into me, of course. As it turned out, Maria apparently had no compunctions about seeing me again, since she’d actually moved to our village. It didn’t take me long to establish that; I sometimes think I’d have made a good detective.
The shop I’d seen her come out of is half deli, half greengrocer’s, selling organic fruit and vegetables, speciality meats and cheeses, artisan breads, pots of olives, that kind of thing. Select, expensive. I would have thought the supermarket was more in Maria’s line. I’m quite a regular and I called into the shop the day after. As I paid for my purchases, I asked Marcus, the owner, if he remembered a petite Italian woman coming in the day before. I’d seen her as I drove past, I said, and recognised her as a friend from way back.
He did, as it happened. She had asked for a particular Italian cheese, one they didn’t stock. He’d promised to try and get some in for her.
I smiled. ‘That sounds like her. She liked to have things that reminded her of home.’
I don’t even know if Maria was born in Italy or was second generation, but it prompted Marcus to say more.
‘Did you want me to pass on a message when she comes in again? Mind you, knowing what Oakheart’s like, you’re bound to run into your friend before long.’
‘She’s local then?’ I said.
‘Not long moved here, so I gathered. Taken one of those housing association places, down by Tesco’s.’
‘Well then, that’s where I shall find her,’ I’d said. ‘I’d like to surprise her, so don’t tell her I was asking if she comes in.’
Marcus tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word.’
Armed with my new information, I tackled Ben that evening, after Zoe had gone to bed. Not my usual style, no, but I needed to find out how much he knew, and what I could expect in the future.
‘What? Maria Capelli is in Oakheart?’ His face didn’t match what came out of his mouth. I waited. He let out a big sigh and rubbed the top of his head. ‘Okay, okay, I knew she’d moved
here. I hold my hands up to that.’
‘You didn’t think to mention it.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I didn’t want to upset you. I know how you felt about her and what you decided went on between the two of us. Which, by the way, was all in your head. And in hers, as it goes.’
That was a new twist. Ben acting the victim, making out his fling with Maria was conjured out of her vivid imagination and misplaced lustful longing. Ben was playing me for a fool, but I decided to ignore it; the history wasn’t relevant. It was the future I was interested in. Maria’s in particular.
‘Has she contacted you?’
‘What?’
‘It’s a simple enough question.’
Ben had begun to pace the room. He had his back to me when eventually he answered.
‘Yes, once, and I told her I wanted nothing to do with her. End of story.’
It could have been true, that Maria was obsessed with Ben and was, in effect, stalking him. Could have been. But my gut instinct told me it wasn’t.
‘You haven’t been seeing her, since she moved to the village?’
He spun round on his heel. ‘Tessa, I told you. No. Why would I, since I was never “seeing her”, as you put it, in the first place? Yes, she wanted to meet up with me, but she’ll get over it. It’s not all about me, you know. She could have many reasons for moving to the village. The environment, the schools, the… God, Tessa, stop this or you’ll make me angry.’
His face had coloured up – with guilt, frustration, and, yes, anger, directed at me for daring to doubt him; almost causing him to lose control, which for Ben was never an option.
‘I think it’s a little late for that,’ I said coolly.
I walked away, leaving Ben to calm down, which he very soon did. Nothing is allowed to ruffle him for long.
We were quiet that evening, not speaking much, but the near-silence became charged with the unmistakable frisson of sexual tension. We made love that night by the soft, rosy light of the Tiffany bedside lamp. And, as usual, Ben was present, yet not present.
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