Good Husband Material

by Trisha Ashley

  We were silent until halfway home, when I remembered something. ‘There was a peculiar blonde girl there tonight, James – staring at me.’

  The car wavered. ‘What? Blonde girl? Staring at you?’ parroted James. ‘When? Where? What do you mean?’

  ‘At the party. I’d fallen asleep – that awful cake I expect – and when I opened my eyes there was this girl glaring at me.’

  ‘You dreamed it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Tish! You’re imagining it. Or – I know – maybe it was Alice’s sister trying to find her in the dark. She’s blonde, though I didn’t think she was there tonight.’

  ‘Alice’s sister?’

  ‘Her younger sister, Wendy. She’s a fashion student, so she lives with them during the week. I expect she’s been helping Alice with the new baby.’

  ‘I suppose you could be right,’ I conceded slowly. After that cake it was a bit hard dividing the real from the imagined. ‘Do you think you could slow down a bit?’

  His driving had become even more erratic than when we started out, if that was possible, and I felt queasy again.

  ‘I’m not driving fast!’ he protested, but ten miles an hour would be too fast when you’ve drunk that much.

  This is it: I’m never going to be a passenger in the car when James has had a drink again. If I can’t persuade him not to drink and drive, I can at least not be a party to it.

  The Bourgeois Bitch had left a great steaming Welcome Home gift in the hall from sheer pique at being left behind. James stepped straight over it and carried on upstairs, saying he had to go to work in the morning and it was very late.

  Dealing with that didn’t make me feel any better, but afterwards, when I’d cleared up and let the silly bitch into the garden, propitiated Toby with a biscuit, and disinfected my hands – then I sat for a while in my lovely clean kitchen, drinking coffee out of a clean porcelain mug, feeling better at last.

  But I’m never going to one of Howard’s parties again!

  Fergal: July 1999

  ‘BAND ON THE RUN:

  Goneril take the plunge with naked Nordic blondes’

  Exposé magazine

  I absolve Hywel from this one. We all wanted to try the sauna/jumping in the icy lake bit after our gig in Stockholm, and someone set the girls on to us.

  As they streamed naked into the sauna we all bolted for the lake and jumped in, and they followed us.

  I have this affinity for water …

  ‘What the hell do we do now?’ Carlo yelled, surfacing next to me like a wet seal.

  ‘Try and rise to the occasion?’ I suggested, treading water.

  The boys have got some explaining to do to their wives/girlfriends. The camera doesn’t exactly lie, but it can certainly be manipulated to show a parallel universe.

  Nordic Blondes – what every swimmer is wearing this year.

  Chapter 22: Bugged

  I think I’m managing to shake off the tummy bug at last. My diet should certainly be healthy enough, with all this stuff Bob produces in the garden. He seems to have gone overboard with lettuce: we’ve had lettuce soup, braised lettuce, and salad, salad, salad. I wonder if you can make lettuce wine?

  James hates salad (and anything else remotely good for him), and I’ve sent Margaret so much lettuce via Ray that she is probably sick of it too.

  (Ray and James have had T-shirts printed with the slogan: ‘NUTTHILL HAMS.’ How can they be seen like that?)

  Then I had a brain wave and sent Bob with a note asking Mrs Peach if she’d like the excess lettuce for her rabbits, and she returned it with ‘many thanks – will reciprocate in kind later’ written on the bottom.

  Does this mean she’s going to give me her excess vegetables? I didn’t think she grew much.

  Bob was quite amenable to all this trotting to and fro with messages. Bob, in fact, is amenable to most things, although he has very stubborn notions about what he’s going to grow in my garden. We have an unspoken agreement about produce: he divides everything ripe into two portions and takes one lot home after presenting me with the other.

  So as not to hurt his feelings I frequently have to sneak down and feed excess vegetables to the cows at dusk over the garden fence, which is what I was doing this evening when my Lurid Past came striding out of the small spinney in the park towards me.

  He was wearing a dull green chambray shirt and black jeans, and for once his long black hair was not pulled tightly back into a ponytail, but loose and blowing about his angular face. He looked like an updated Red Indian Brave, and from his scowl when he caught sight of me I wasn’t sure if he was going to take my scalp or just sheer off.

  Guiltily I hid the lettuce behind my back. Stupid, really – the cows all had stalks dangling from their mouths, which was a dead giveaway.

  ‘So that’s why they nearly had that old fence over!’ he remarked coolly, coming to a stop before me with his hands thrust into his jeans pockets.

  ‘I’ve only just started doing it,’ I said, thrown on to the defensive. ‘Bob produces so much stuff that I don’t know what else to do with it.’

  Black brows twitched together in a frown: ‘Who’s Bob? The husband?’

  ‘No, that’s James. Bob does some gardening for me.’

  ‘Why doesn’t James do it?’

  ‘He’s too – too busy. And I don’t know what business it is of yours, anyway.’

  ‘I’m told he’s a radio ham. That where his stuff is?’ He nodded over to the Shack.

  ‘You’re very well informed!’

  ‘I’ve furthered my acquaintance with the excellent Mrs Deakin, Proprietoress of the Nutthill Home Stores.’

  All was revealed, then – or if it wasn’t, it very soon would be.

  ‘Poor Mrs D. was getting terribly frustrated at not being able to find out anything about you,’ I told him.

  A smile softened his mouth and radiated little lines around his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. He was older, of course … we were both older. But he had rather more years of hard living under his (admittedly narrow) belt than I did.

  ‘The vicar told me she was the local Enquire Within Upon Everything, so I asked her about cleaning ladies. I now know large amounts of information about all sorts of local people – including you.’

  ‘Oh – us!’ I said brightly. ‘There’s not a lot to tell about us.’ Surely even Mrs Deakin can’t know what is happening under the skin of my Idyllic Marriage? ‘We planned to move to the country ever since we got married, so living here is just a dream come true.’

  ‘Really?’

  I met those cool, clever, jade-green eyes and looked hastily away.

  ‘Strange then, that I got the feeling in London that you weren’t entirely happy. A little – desperate, even. But then, we didn’t really have a chance to talk, did we, Angel?’

  I went so hot my skin sizzled. ‘No, I don’t think we talked at all, because it must have been obvious that I’d had so much to drink I didn’t know what I was doing!’

  ‘On the contrary, you seemed to know exactly what you were doing. And I didn’t think you’d had that much to drink. I only intended killing an hour or two before my flight by having a little chat with you about old times, I wasn’t expecting to have to re-enact them.’

  I clenched my fists and glared at him in impotent, red-faced fury.

  ‘And you did speak to me, you know – mostly short sentences like, “Yes, oh yes, Fergal,” that kind of thing.’

  ‘I didn’t! And if you were a gentleman, you’d never mention a sordid episode that I deeply regret.’

  ‘How Victorian of you,’ he mocked. ‘Do I take it you haven’t confessed all to James yet?’

  ‘There’s no reason why I should risk harming my very happy marriage by confessing to doing something so stupid as getting drunk and letting myself be seduced by you!’ I snarled.

  ‘Ah, yes, your blissfully happy rural idyll. And as a bonus to all that, you’re a romantic
novelist, I hear.’

  ‘A very successful one.’

  ‘Everything in the garden is lovely, then,’ the husky voice said lightly.

  ‘Yes, perfect.’ Ungraciously I added, ‘And thank you for the fence – it’s much nicer than the old one.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Well, I’d better get back.’

  ‘To Nerissa, wasn’t it?’ (Unless he’d traded her in for a new model.)

  ‘Yes, Nerissa …’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And you’d better get back to your James.’

  ‘Oh, he won’t be home yet.’

  ‘Well, someone’s glaring at me from the window. Or is that his normal expression?’

  My heart sank as I turned. James was indeed home and, instead of coming out to be introduced, was glowering like a schoolboy through the casement.

  ‘He – didn’t like that picture of us at the fête in the local paper,’ I explained lamely.

  ‘Funny, Nerissa wasn’t too keen either. But the photographer deserves a prize for producing something out of nothing, don’t you think?’

  ‘Let’s hope it hasn’t been syndicated for worldwide publication!’ I snapped.

  ‘It wouldn’t do me any harm, but your husband might not feel the same.’

  ‘Oh, James quite understands, now I’ve explained it all.’

  ‘Not quite all, I take it.’

  ‘I’ve told him any interest I ever had in you vanished permanently a long time ago. What did you tell your girlfriend?’

  ‘Much the same.’

  I became very conscious of James’s eyes on my back and wished he wouldn’t behave like such a prat.

  ‘It’s unfortunate that we should end up as neighbours again,’ I said, ‘but these coincidences do happen, and we’ll just have to behave in a civilised manner.’

  ‘Never mind, Tish, I don’t suppose our paths will cross much.’

  ‘No … Are your family well?’

  ‘Fine. Mother had little Bianca after we moved, and Dad has now got six restaurants and is busier than ever. Lucia is married – three children – and it would take for ever to tell you what the rest are up to. Carlo, of course, is still in the band, but he’s more interested now in the production side.’

  I remembered Lucia and Carlo, of course, but Bianca was a surprise. His voice had softened when he said the little girl’s name: he’d always shown a very Italian love of babies and small children, which might have astonished his fans.

  ‘Your mother is well?’ he enquired politely, though I’m sure he didn’t give a damn.

  ‘Much the same. My grandmother lives with her now.’

  His smile was genuine this time. ‘Wonderful old lady! You used to be a bit like her – until you let your mother stamp you out in the same prissy mould as herself.’

  ‘Prissy! I am not—’

  With resolution I pulled myself up. ‘Well, it’s been nice catching up with you, Fergal, but I think I hear my husband calling me. Good night!’

  He detained me by laying his long, strong fingers over mine on the fence.

  ‘Are you well? You didn’t look so thin in London … or so tired.’

  ‘Quite well,’ I snapped, wishing I didn’t have dishevelled hair and eyes ringed like a marmoset’s from sleeplessness, and he let go my hand and stepped back, his face becoming a remote mask.

  ‘Good night!’ And off I marched. Even with my back to him I knew the very moment when he turned and walked away.

  ‘I suppose you weren’t expecting me this early?’ James greeted me. ‘Do you often have these little tête-à-têtes with your ex-boyfriends when I’m not about?’

  ‘I was feeding leftover vegetables to the cows, and Fergal just happened to walk that way.’

  ‘You seemed to have a lot to say to each other.’

  ‘He was asking after Mother,’ I said lamely.

  ‘How kind!’ he sneered. ‘I suppose you’ve both got a lot of catching up to do? Or did you do that in London?’

  ‘I’ve already told you I didn’t speak to him in London. Why didn’t you come out and be introduced, instead of lurking in here in that silly way?’

  ‘I might have felt a bit superfluous. Of course,’ he added, rocking backwards on the kitchen chair in a way that would weaken its legs, ‘you wouldn’t have known he’d bought the Hall, when you insisted on living here?’

  ‘Of course not. You’re being totally ridiculous. I didn’t even know Greatness Hall existed until we’d moved here, let alone that it was for sale. And I’m sure Fergal hasn’t given me a thought for years.’

  ‘He’s a few years older than you – it can’t have been the boy-and-girl affair you try to make it seem.’

  ‘Not much older,’ I said wearily. (And he’s worn pretty well … as slim-hipped and lithe as ever.)

  Hasn’t it ever occurred to James that he could drive me into feeling that I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb? (Baa!) I think I’m feeling less guilty by the minute, though still angry with myself for becoming one more easy conquest for Fergal Rocco.

  ‘What does it matter anyway?’ I said drearily, turning away. ‘It’s all long finished. Now, I’ve made a tasty lentil casserole for supper, and there’s a fresh fruit salad and cream to follow—’

  ‘Lentil casserole!’ howled James as though it were the final straw, and staggered up, sending his chair skidding over on the quarry tiles. ‘Damn your lentil casserole! A man wants more than a few lentils when he gets home.’

  He swayed and focused blearily. ‘I’m off to the Dog and Duck for something a bit more substantial!’ And off he went.

  When I picked up the chair, Bess oozed out from the narrow gap beside the Aga like ectoplasm and reformed into a Borzoi.

  I poured myself a stiff glass of cooking sherry and opened a box of chocolates, a habit I probably inherited from Granny.

  Who needs men when they can have chocolate?

  Who needs sex when they can have chocolate, come to that …

  Fergal: August 1999

  ‘LOCAL HEIRESS IN PUB BRAWL’

  Nutthill District Advertiser

  I walked on after seeing Tish, feeling angry, but with myself rather than her. Why does she have to be the one to turn my knees to water? She can’t be unique – can she? And I may still fancy her, but she was the most irritating girl I ever went out with and she doesn’t seem to have changed a bit.

  Except that she doesn’t look too well – verging on the thin, instead of the slender. I hope that boor of a husband is behaving himself.

  Finding myself outside the pub, I went in, which was a mistake, as it turned out, because Nerissa was in there with some bunch of Hooray Henrys, all pretty well oiled.

  ‘Honey!’ she shrieked. ‘Where have you been? We all drove over to visit you and you weren’t there.’

  She turned to her crowd and added, with an unpleasant laugh, ‘He’s got an old girlfriend tucked away in Nutthill, you know.’

  ‘How old?’ said the beardless youth on her right, and sniggered. Since I couldn’t hit Nerissa, I socked him one instead, then walked out.

  From the rumpus behind me you’d think a small massacre had taken place.

  I carried on down to Mrs Deakin, who insisted on putting a Mickey Mouse sticking plaster on my bleeding knuckles at no extra charge, then told me lots of interesting things about Tish and her husband without any prompting at all, before pumping me mercilessly about Nerissa the Nubile.

  Chapter 23: Love Goes West

  The Museum says my ring is late eighteenth century!

  It certainly looks better now it’s been straightened a little and the worst of the encrusted filth cleaned off. The stone is a heart-shaped, faceted sapphire, and there’s an inscription enamelled inside saying ‘Fidelité Mérite Amour’, which I dare say it may, but it doesn’t often get it.

  Who does it legally belong to? Since it was in the cellar of what was once the Dower House, it was likely to have been lost by one of the family from the Hall, so does that make Fer
gal, as the new owner of Greatness, the owner of my ring too?

  By the time I got off the bus and went into Mrs Deakin’s I was totally confused and asked her opinion. She said she thought Finders was Keepers, but I don’t want to be underhand, especially with Fergal, so I thought the best thing would be to send the ring to him and let him sort it out … only then Nerissa will probably pounce on it, and it’s the dearest little ring, really.

  Perhaps I muttered something, for Mrs Deakin suddenly remarked: ‘That Nerissa Bright don’t live up at the Hall.’

  ‘Doesn’t she?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘No, though I think she’d like to. Her car keeps going up to the Hall, but most of the time it comes right on back!’ She laughed wheezily.

  ‘Perhaps it’s when he’s away.’

  ‘No, it’s not then.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that, Mrs Deakin?’

  ‘He’s had the lodge done up for the gardener: my cousin Rose’s husband’s stepbrother.’

  All was explained.

  I was not, of course, in the least interested in Fergal’s affairs, so it was with some surprise that I heard my voice saying, ‘I did wonder if perhaps she might be going to be Mrs Rocco …?’

  Mrs Deakin gave this her serious consideration. ‘Well, it’s obvious she’s got her designs on him, like, and I seen pictures of them together in magazines, but it seems to me she’s doing all the running. But he would have told you if they were engaged, surely – you being such old friends?’

  ‘I really know nothing about Mr Rocco these days. I’m hardly likely to move in the same circles.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed regretfully. ‘I expect there’ll be some rare goings-on at the Hall soon as he starts entertaining!’ And then she added that nothing this exciting had happened since the previous vicar had fallen down a disused well in the rectory garden and had to be pulled out by his feet, half asphyxiated.

  ‘I suppose one of them rich pop stars can have his pick of girls, can’t he? Though he seems nice enough, and comes in regular. He’s been in the Dog and Duck a few times too, though he don’t stay long. He took that Nerissa in there once, though they left separate, like in their own cars.’