A Perfect Husband

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped all this on you. It’s not your problem. It’s just none of my friends or family will even listen when I talk about him. They just lecture me on and on about what a bastard he is, how I should never speak to him again.’ She blew her nose, then added quietly, ‘I know he’s not a bastard, but I also know I can’t go on like this, in limbo, being his wife and not being his wife . . . having no life. Waiting.’

  ‘You have to make your own decisions, not do what other people want.’

  She raised her head to look at him. ‘You must think me a complete fool.’

  ‘Loving somebody doesn’t make you a fool, Lily.’ He gave her a smile and stood up. ‘Do you want to get a sandwich or something at the Anchor? I’m famished.’

  Chapter 38

  Freddy’s mood of optimism did not last. By the second week in the Gatwick hotel he was no nearer to finding a solution to his problems and was going stir crazy, alone in that dreary room. He had acquired a prepaid bankcard and loaded it with some of the cash he’d stashed from the casino visits. It was a start, but it wouldn’t get him a rental property, a job, or his wife back. And the more he read the lengthy business plan he’d bashed out on his laptop for a recording studio in Sheffield, the more ludicrous it sounded.

  For three whole days he didn’t leave the room, barely got out of bed, didn’t shave or wash, didn’t eat except KitKats and nuts from the minibar, didn’t even look at his phone or his computer. He shot the bolt, put the Do Not Disturb notice on the doorknob and rejected all pleas from the chambermaids to service the room, from the minibar staff to check the fridge. Images of his father kept intruding into his waking thoughts and into his dreams on an endless loop.

  The message from Vinnie Slater was crystal clear and always the same: You are worthless. No amount of name-changing, no amount of distancing himself from the Leicestershire pub and his father (even lying to Lily about him), no amount of accolades for his recording studio, no amount of hobnobbing with high society and frequenting the most fashionable watering holes in the world was enough to erase that powerful, lifelong message: You are worthless.

  Freddy had reached rock bottom. He had no energy left for another bout of invention now his previous incarnation had been exposed and dismantled. Medicating himself at the tables involved more money than he had. He was finished.

  He wished he could just fade into oblivion because he wasn’t brave enough to kill himself, he knew that. Too many of his friends had strung themselves up in hotel rooms – on the heated towel rail or the hook behind the door. One had even blown his brains out on Christmas morning while his family were downstairs opening presents. Freddy had been shocked and baffled by their desperation – they’d all seemed to have so much to live for. He understood better now, but still he didn’t have what it took to end his own life. So he lay there, nothing existing beyond the darkened, airless room except the sound of the planes’ muffled roaring overhead, his body so inert, so numb, that he might as well have been dead.

  *

  ‘Mr March? Mr March, are you all right?’

  Freddy, waking from another fitful sleep, heard the banging.

  ‘Mr March, please can you open the door? I need to come in.’ The male voice was insistent. Freddy threw back the covers. He felt dizzy as he staggered across the room in his sweaty T-shirt and boxers.

  There was more banging, this time heavy and threatening. ‘If you don’t open up, I’m going to have to call Security,’ the voice said.

  Freddy released the sprung-metal loop and the door flew open, surprising the overweight, middle-aged man in a cheap suit who stood in the corridor next to a slim blonde woman in her twenties – one of the chambermaids, he assumed.

  ‘Mr March?’ the man said, stepping back. ‘I’m Jason Crawford, the hotel manager.’ He attempted a smile, but was clearly dismayed by Freddy’s appearance, looking him up and down with barely disguised aversion. ‘My staff were worried. You haven’t been responding. Are you ill?’

  Freddy brushed back his hair, aware that his beard must look pretty ferocious by now. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, with his most polished accent. ‘I think it must be the flu. I literally haven’t been able to lift my head off the pillow. I don’t even know what day it is.’ He looked around, as if the featureless corridor might give him a clue.

  Mr Crawford’s face relaxed slightly. ‘Would you like me to call a doctor, Mr March? You really don’t look at all well.’

  Freddy smiled. ‘That’s very kind, but I think it’s passing. I feel a bit better this morning. Is it morning? I’ll attempt a shower and some breakfast and see how it goes.’

  The manager nodded. ‘Right. Please call down if you need anything.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure how long you plan to stay with us?’

  ‘Nor me. It’s been a bit of a nightmare. I had a flood – the water tank in the attic burst, drenched the whole place. But things are moving, my builder tells me. I shouldn’t need to be here much longer.’ Implying he lived somewhere nearby, he prayed Jason Crawford hadn’t checked the register and noted the fraudulent Sussex Square address he’d used.

  But the man nodded sympathetically. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, sir. I’m so sorry about the flood, nothing worse. If you feel strong enough to sit in the lounge for half an hour, Tina here can freshen up your room for you.’

  By the time Freddy got rid of them and shut the door, he was feeling as if he might faint. He lay down again on the fetid, rumpled sheets and took stock. There was only one course of action open to him.

  *

  ‘Freddy?’ Max sounded delighted to hear his voice. ‘What the fuck? Why didn’t you return any of my calls, you lazy bastard?’

  Freddy laughed, a hysterical bubble of relief bursting through his chest.

  ‘You still in Malta?’

  ‘No, in a grisly Gatwick hotel.’

  ‘You just got in?’

  ‘Been here a few days, checking the lie of the land.’

  ‘And? What’s the plan?’

  Freddy sighed.

  ‘Did you get a job? Where are you going to live?’

  As if it were that easy, Freddy thought bitterly.

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘Well, it’s good to have you back. I must have called you a million times.’

  This was true, but Freddy had had nothing worthwhile to say to his friend. ‘Listen, Max—’

  ‘Come and stay. We need to talk,’ Max interrupted.

  Freddy swallowed hard. ‘Seriously? Can I? That would be so brilliant.’ He knew his voice sounded pathetic, almost childishly eager, but to know he could get out of this place, be among the living again, see his friend . . . It made him want to cry.

  ‘Hey, don’t be weird, man. Of course you can stay. See you tonight? Julie’ll be over the moon.’

  Chapter 39

  Dillon sat, long legs cramped, in the back seat of his sister’s rubbish-filled Peugeot on their way up to Oxford. There were long tailbacks going into the city on a Saturday morning and he was sick to death of watching Ted reach over to squeeze Sara’s thigh through her dress and her returning smile; Ted moving his hand along the driver’s seat to rest on Sara’s bare shoulders, rubbing his thumb up and down her neck as she nuzzled backwards to receive his caress; Ted leaning in to peck the tip of Sara’s ear, and her silly giggle in response.

  ‘Christ, guys,’ he objected, as they sat stationary in a jam that stretched ahead as far as the eye could see.

  But neither seemed fazed: they both just laughed and continued to eye each other lustfully.

  ‘Don’t be grumpy, Dillo.’

  Dillo? Where the hell did she get that from? he wondered, immediately suspecting Ted. ‘I’m not grumpy. I just don’t want to watch.’ And, in fact, he wasn’t feeling particularly grumpy today, for the first time in ages.
He’d actually been on a date last night – the first after a wasted summer feeling sorry for himself. But it was officially over with Gabriela and he told himself he didn’t give a fuck about her. Shallow bitch, first sign of trouble and she was off, he repeated silently whenever her face invaded his thoughts.

  The last time he’d spoken to her instead of her bloody machine – more than three weeks ago now – he had finally challenged her. He was sick to death of hearing her make feeble excuses for not being able to talk to him, not being able to come home. Sick of hearing the phoney ‘querido’ she slipped into the conversation whenever she heard him getting upset.

  So he’d taken a deep breath and asked her straight out, ‘Is it over, Gaby? Just tell me, for God’s sake. Tell me right now.’ And instead of pretending that he was being paranoid and ridiculous, as she had on every other occasion he’d put the same question, Gabriela had gone silent for what seemed like a year, then said coyly, ‘I think so.’ Not much of a response, but enough for Dillon, who had killed the call without even saying goodbye, his whole body vibrating with rage.

  In the weeks that followed, as boredom and loneliness threatened to overwhelm him, he had eventually uploaded his profile on to Tinder. Marilynne was almost as pretty as the photo online, taller than Gabriela – although that wouldn’t have been hard – slim, blonde hair to her shoulders and dark-eyed, wearing a short red dress with a narrow belt at the waist. He’d been so nervous as he entered the bar that he’d been about to bail, bike home as fast as his feet could pedal, when he’d recognized her perched on a bar stool and knew she’d clocked him. Too late, he’d thought. Here I am, and here is Marilynne. I must make an effort.

  The evening wasn’t a disaster. They’d both got drunk enough to relax. She was talkative and flirty, as her photo had suggested, but there was no spark, and when she suggested, round about nine o’clock, that they get something to eat, the prospect of sitting opposite the girl and listening to her bang on about herself – which was all she seemed interested in – made Dillon lose the will to live. Still, it was a start and he knew that a chink of optimism had pierced his previously murderous mood.

  This was the first time Dillon had been allowed to meet his sister’s boyfriend properly – the other time just a glimpse through a café window when Ted had picked up Sara after a coffee he’d had with his sister. The man was pretty much as he had expected: long-limbed, laidback, thick-haired, tanned, charming and perpetually – irritatingly – good-natured.

  Now, glancing round at him, Sara said, ‘This is going to be weird, you know. Mum marooned in Helen and David’s house. Sort of embarrassing, under the circs. I feel bad we haven’t been up all summer.’

  Dillon felt bad too. ‘I’m sure she’s fine.’

  ‘Really? I’m sure she’s not at all fine. Why would she be?’

  ‘Okay, but we’ve both been angry with her and there wasn’t anything we could have done to help.’ He was actually dreading the birthday lunch Lily had arranged for him and Sara.

  Ted was silent, as if his only function were to grope Dillon’s sister.

  ‘Except visit. Show support.’ Sara paused, then added, ‘Well, we can’t be angry with her any more. And remember, you two, don’t mention the war.’

  ‘You mean Kit.’

  ‘I mean Kit and Freddy.’

  *

  His mother looked different. Not as thin as before, tanned, no makeup, her hair – always so fashionably cut by that Mayfair hairdresser friend of his stepfather – now flopping and tinged with a few grey strands. She was dressed in dark cargo shorts, a sleeveless white T-shirt and leather sandals. An outfit she would never have worn in her sophisticated Freddy March days. But she looked healthy and . . . younger, he thought.

  Dillon hugged her tight, suddenly very pleased to see his mum, despite his previous reluctance.

  ‘Hey, happy birthday,’ she said, looking at him with so much love he felt almost embarrassed. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  His aunt gave him an awkward peck on the cheek, then David shook his hand, mumbled something he didn’t catch. There was silence as they all stood about the kitchen smiling at each other, no one knowing quite what to say. Sara was right, he thought. None of this was ‘fine’.

  ‘This is a really cute home you have here, Helen.’ Ted came to the rescue. ‘You’ve done a great job.’

  It wasn’t a ‘cute’ house, not even remotely, and Dillon had no idea what Ted was talking about, but his aunt responded to the American’s flattery with an uncharacteristic softening of her customary grump. ‘Come outside. I’ll show you the garden,’ she said, tactfully beckoning her husband to follow and leaving Dillon with his mother and sister.

  They all seemed to breathe a sigh of relief to be alone together. Sara moved to stand next to their mum and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got a job, as you know, and Helen and David haven’t chucked me out yet.’ She spoke with a laugh, but Dillon could see it wasn’t very funny.

  He and Sara nodded. ‘That’s great,’ he said, wincing at his false cheer.

  Another silence descended. He thought his mum looked suddenly bewildered and he felt a moment of panic. ‘And the typing?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Good. I’m getting there . . . Lots of mistakes still.’ She gave another small laugh.

  ‘What’s the shrink like?’ Sara asked, also looking tense.

  ‘He’s nice. Very easy-going. I like him a lot.’

  ‘Good, that’s really good, Mum,’ he said, knowing he sounded like a total dick with his condescending tone. This was a nightmare. He didn’t know what to say to his own mother. He hadn’t wanted Ted to come, he’d wanted it to be just family and had sulked for the first twenty miles of the journey when Sara had pitched up with him. But now, as the American strode back into the kitchen followed by Helen and David, all animatedly talking their heads off about when to prune the roses and which sorts of pears stewed best, he was incredibly grateful that he had.

  *

  The lunch his mum had laid out on the patio table looked fresh and delicious. It included a platter of jointed cold chicken, avocado and tomato salad, sliced beetroot, romaine lettuce – both of the latter from the neighbour’s garden apparently – a bowl of buttery new potatoes, a small jar of dressing, a cut-glass jug filled with iced water, and the wine cooler containing a bottle of chilled rosé. She had placed a bouquet of pale pink roses in the centre of the table.

  After the salads had been cleared away, Lily brought out a blue china plate holding a magnificent pyramid of cupcakes. Each was decorated with soft swirls of red and white buttercream icing, a red cherry and a candle. It looked great. Dillon leaned in to his sister and they blew on his ‘One, two, three’, just as they always had. He tried to enjoy the moment, but nothing was right about the day and he was transported back to happier times when they had been in this house for Kit’s birthday and sat at this very table in the sunshine. He remembered his cousin’s face with its strawberry-blond curls, so alive in the glow from the candle flames. He glanced at his aunt and their eyes met, as if she knew what he was thinking. But no one had mentioned Kit all day.

  Things would have jogged along in this vein, Dillon thought afterwards, each of them making a gargantuan effort to create a jolly birthday mood, but Sara had ruined it. It wasn’t her fault, it was the sort of remark anyone could have made after a glass or two, and should have been able to make, if his mother weren’t being so stubborn. But his sister didn’t remember her own advice and mentioned the war.

  ‘Did Freddy know Miles Fanning, Mum? I had his wife as a patient the other day and I was sure Freddy mentioned him recording something at his studio.’ Miles Fanning was a revered jazz trumpeter, now in his seventies but still going strong.

  His mum frowned and didn’t reply immediately, and there was an awkward pause as they ate their cupcakes and
drank their tea. Dillon glared at Sara, who mouthed, ‘What?’ Ted pulled a face and nudged her; his mother saw it; David got up and grabbed the teapot; Helen raised an eyebrow; a child squealed in a nearby garden. Nobody spoke.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ his mother’s voice exploded into the silence. ‘Why are you all looking at each other like that? Did somebody die? Or is it Freddy? Are we not allowed to mention my dreaded husband’s name any more?’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Don’t “Mum” me, Dillon. You’re talking to me as if I’m a recalcitrant child and I’m sick of it. You’d think Freddy had taken a chain-saw to half of London . . .’ Dillon watched her mouth purse, her eyes dart from him to Sara and back again ‘. . . instead of having a breakdown.’

  ‘Is that what you think he had?’ Sara, always braver than Dillon, asked.

  Lily glared at her. ‘Does it matter? Does it honestly matter what happened? I mean, do you see Freddy here? Do you see me texting him, hear me talking to him on the phone? Have I implied we’re getting back together?’ A pause. ‘Have I?’

  Helen grunted. ‘Come on, Lily, calm down. Sara didn’t mean anything by it.’

  But Lily wasn’t going to calm down. Dillon watched his mum push her chair back, the metal feet screeching violently across the patio stone, and stand, arms crossed tight across her body. Sweeping a furious look across all of them, she went on, ‘I’m doing my best here, in a situation I’m sure you’ll agree is not easy. But none of you seems to believe I can cope. Look at today. It’s been like a bloody wake, not a birthday. Helen thinks I’m a spoilt brat. Dillon does nothing but blame me for his miserable life. Sara has avoided me all summer as if I’ve got the plague.’ He saw angry tears in her eyes. ‘In fact, neither of you have been near me since the spring.’

  Dillon was just about to say something when his mum went on, ‘What do you all expect me to do? I can’t change the past. I can’t click my fingers and make everything okay again.’ She swallowed, ‘But please, please, can you start treating me as if I’m a normal human being again, and not some God-awful pariah you have to tiptoe around? Give me some credit for being in charge of my own life.’