‘Nothing,’ she said mildly. ‘If anything, she’s been very secretive about you.’
‘I doubt that.’ Clearly struggling to control himself, Rob now spoke in the low deliberate tone of someone who’d been trained in anger management: ‘I think you’d better tell me exactly what Caroline Sellers has been saying to you.’
‘Nothing,’ Christy insisted. ‘Really.’
He eyed her very intently, somehow creating the illusion that he’d moved physically closer, though she was fairly certain he had not. ‘But you just said she told you Pippa’s name?’
‘Yes, but what’s the harm in that? It’s just a name.’
‘Oh, believe me, there’s plenty of harm if she’s been spreading lies.’
Christy frowned. ‘Because she’s not your girlfriend? Is that what you mean?’ She felt about fourteen saying this, but there was nothing teenage about the way Rob glared at her, the stark animosity of it. He was a climate in himself, she thought; he could foster growth or cause shrinkage and there was nothing you could do about it.
‘Don’t believe what she tells you just because she believes it: that’s what I’m saying.’
‘Are we still talking about Pippa?’ Christy said. ‘I’m genuinely confused here.’
He gave a long sigh, long enough to become a groan, and she could tell he wished this little social call of hers had never taken place, was cursing himself for having caught her eye from his window. ‘No, we are not,’ he said.
‘Who then?’ And she recalled that snarled accusation in the park café, I saw you with her friend, his dismissal of her assumption that he was referring to Felicity. Not her friend then, but someone else’s. The young mother at the door, perhaps, Imogen. ‘Is this something to do with Amber Fraser?’ she said.
Rob became supremely still then, his expression closed, mouth taut, but the lack of rebuttal was a confirmation in itself.
‘Does Caroline … ?’ Christy faltered. She had been cautioned plenty of times, she knew she should not poke an animal like this with a stick, and, besides, why would someone repeat a falsehood about themselves when they were indisposed even to share the truth, but she had lost her mind that afternoon and in spite of all the warnings she went ahead: ‘Does Caroline think something was going on between you? You know … ?’
Rob exhaled very slowly, a smoker expelling a long plume of grey and watching it hang in the air. ‘I told you before, I don’t like to be the object of gossip, and if you want us to get on you’ll have to accept that. It’s non-negotiable.’
It surprised Christy how badly she wanted to be on better terms with him. Of course a part of it was simply to be rid once and for all of that fear she’d developed that he was in some form or another dangerous, but a different – newer – part of it was because he had a magnetism that drew her, just as it plainly had Steph, Felix and Joe before her. She wanted to be liked by him. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I accept it.’
‘That’s Amber’s bracelet you’re wearing, isn’t it?’ He changed the subject abruptly, causing her to flush guiltily.
‘Yes, at least I think it is. I found it behind the bath. I know I ought to return it, but I don’t have a new address for her.’ Another convenient fudging of the truth: not only did she have an established route to the Frasers via the couples’ respective solicitors, but she also had the option of posting the item to Jeremy Fraser’s office. (Even if it did not immediately reach his hands, at least it left hers.) She could not begin to explain to Rob that she kept the bangle – kept on wearing it – out of some growing sense of connection to Amber Fraser. It was almost an act of protection, though what it was she was protecting she did not know.
‘I worry it might have sentimental value,’ she added.
Rob’s expression grew grim. ‘Oh, there’s no fear of that. She’s not the sentimental type. You can take my word for it.’
At the sound of the doorbell, Christy rose gratefully to her feet. ‘Well, thank you for the coffee and the advice.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
On the landing she passed Pippa, a fragrant blonde blur, and caught the astonishment in the other woman’s face at the sight of her departing Rob’s flat.
‘Hi you,’ Rob said behind her, and Christy was staggered by the change in his voice when he spoke to someone he desired. Rough-grained and seductive, it raised the hairs on her arms.
‘Hi you,’ Pippa said, and then the door closed on the two of them.
Chapter 22
Amber, 2012
Christmas was approaching, that celebrator of the domestic status quo, savage separator of adulterous lovers, and Rob and I made the most of each other in the weeks that preceded the break.
Appetites rekindled since our night in the tree house, we had, it seemed, entered a new phase sexually. I wasn’t sure if it was conscious or not, but I knew now to use his taste for risk to keep him interested. All at once it was clear that the idea of exposure to either of our partners aroused him. He began to make direct comparisons between Pippa and me – or maybe it was I who made them; I’d grown crass, desperate (that word again), no longer content to pretend she did not exist but determined to cast her in a poorer light than my own.
‘Does she let you do this?’ I’d ask, where once I’d been satisfied with simply doing it.
‘“Let”?’ Rob questioned. ‘You make it sound as if I’m harassing her, wearing her down with my depraved demands.’
Now that I knew his history I was able to notice his sensitivity to the language of sex.
‘All right, I’ll rephrase: is she as bad as me?’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose I’ve scratched the surface of you yet,’ he said with that trademark air of challenge, and it delighted me to hear the inference that we had a further stretch of intimacy ahead of us.
Deceiving Jeremy appeared to be at the heart of his enjoyment (though, please believe me, not mine): he was obsessed with my telling – and retelling – of the incident involving the mistaken texts, encouraging me to wear the same clothing I’d worn that evening, the same dress and make-up. I created other fantasies for him too, talked of us meeting at night in the park, letting ourselves in and out through my garden gate, making love in the long grass. It was far too risky to execute (not to mention too damp), but he was excited by my descriptions of it.
Then, one afternoon just before Christmas, with my holiday with Jeremy imminent, I was insane enough to act on a risk that could be undertaken.
Jeremy had been feeling run-down, partly from overworking and partly from his stewardship of our fertility quest. We were by then almost three months into our six-month extension and, a born problem-solver, he had forged a path through it by following to the letter the clinic’s programme for optimizing fertility (since when were words like ‘programme’ and ‘optimize’ supposed to be applied to sex?). Trying had been honed; now we made love only during the fertile window (‘fertile window’?).
No further attempts had been made to surprise me.
He was told by the GP he had flu; he needed to stay in bed for at least a week and allow himself to be looked after by me. Mindful of the forthcoming holiday, he monitored his email from his pillows and even croaked his way through a few conference calls, summoning me frequently to bring the things he was too weak to fetch.
By the end of the first week, I was suffering from cabin fever. Being in the house was not the problem; not being able to slip next door was. Not usually in my own bedroom during the day, I was aware for the first time of Rob’s voice as he spoke on the phone in his living room next door, the disembodied laughter in the evening that signalled a visit by her. For she was resilient, Pippa, just like the rest of us, just as I had been with boyfriends of old, ignoring the signs, hoping her instincts were wrong, convincing herself a leopard could change its spots if it only fell into the hands of the right zookeeper. I imagined her discussing the situation with her girlfriends, asking her Imogen and her Helena if they thought she was wasting her tim
e with him. I wouldn’t have known myself how to counsel her. Run for your life or play the long game? Neither struck me as being less effective strategies than the other. Or less doomed.
But she’d get no advice from me.
‘Do you mind if I go for a quick run?’ I said to Jeremy one afternoon. ‘I won’t leave you on your own for long.’
‘Of course not, you don’t have to watch over me every moment of the day, darling, I’m not in intensive care. I’m going to sleep now, anyway.’
I brought up some soup for him and set up the podcast he wanted, before changing into my running gear. Then I texted Rob.
‘Are you in?’
‘Yes. Still playing Florence Nightingale?’
‘She’s on her lunch break. Can I come?’
‘You tell me.’
I slipped through the gap in the hedge and made the briefest of contacts with his doorbell before being buzzed in. Felicity was at home; I could hear her footsteps behind her door as she pottered from room to room.
Upstairs, I held a finger to his lips and explained in an undertone that Jeremy was resting next door.
Rob whistled softly. ‘He’s actually in the house? I thought he must have gone out. You are unbelievable.’
He began pulling me towards the living room. I resisted, motioning instead to the bedroom, but he was stronger and manhandled me with ease in the direction he preferred.
‘He’s in bed, Rob, right there!’ I whispered, pointing at the dividing wall. How many layers of bricks between us? One? Two? Rob’s desk stood against the wall that had the headboard of our bed on the other side. I could hear very faintly the podcast playing by Jeremy’s pillow. ‘Are you mad?’
‘I’m mad?’ Even as he moved to the windows to lower the blinds, he did not release me, and I bowed my head for fear of idle eyes across the road. ‘It’s here or nowhere, Amber Baby.’ How I regretted telling him that nickname; he used it so habitually, I feared he might let it slip in a group situation. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he added.
But it was not possible for me to leave it, as he clearly appreciated. ‘All right, but complete silence,’ I hissed, allowing him to lower me onto the rug and lay me next to him.
‘Trappist sex? There’s no way in a million years you’ll manage that …’ And, tormentor that he was, he set about trying to make me squeal, restraining my hands so I could neither touch him nor prevent him from touching me, my body at his mercy as he removed my clothes with agonizing slowness, groping and stroking and grazing my body with his touch before drawing away for seconds at a time to enjoy the frustration in my face, causing me to beg in whispers that got more and more urgent. Only when I made some animal noise of distress did he put me out of my misery, his hand over my mouth to stop my moans from escaping. My newly freed hands scratched at the skin of his back to punish him (explain that to Pippa, I thought) and through half-closed eyes I watched the muscles in his neck strain violently under the skin, his teeth bite his lower lip to keep himself from crying out.
Ten minutes later I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, sweaty and hot-faced. ‘Jeremy, you haven’t touched your soup!’
His smile was weak and guilty. ‘I dozed off, sorry. I’m not hungry, anyway. I feel sick and my throat hurts.’
‘You poor bear.’ I approached him, trying not to be repelled by the stale odour of the flu patient and yet grateful for it since it masked my own altered smell. ‘Just keep sipping your water so you don’t get dehydrated. I’m hopping in the shower and then I’ll come and lie in bed with you for a bit.’
‘That would be nice.’
I know it was cruel. I want to be clear that I didn’t feel good about this; kicking a man when he’s down gave me no thrill. But it had pleased Rob, and such were my skewed priorities by then that pleasing Rob mattered more than protecting Jeremy.
As hot water rained down on me, blinding my eyes and clogging my nose and ears, I shivered at the memory of the glimmer in his gaze as I’d left his flat, the glimmer that spoke of satisfaction in another boundary broken, a new experience gained.
Something dark and daring he could not get from Pippa.
Both parties left town for New Year, Jeremy and I to Jamaica, Rob to Morocco with a group of friends. By sheer and necessary bloody-mindedness, I succeeded in – mostly – devoting my thoughts to the man I was with, only once allowing myself to think of Rob when my husband was making love to me. I have to admit, it was hardly a challenge to feel happy in that beachside hotel: sworn enemies could have lost their hearts in our little horseshoe cove, the sand sugar soft and sheltered by tropical palms, the air salty-sweet and gentle as baby’s breath. Jeremy called it a second honeymoon, and there were sun-drenched pockets of each day when I could delude myself into agreeing. I even convinced him to relax the rules about alcohol (‘I bet Mr Atherton was drunk when he conceived his children’), which helped the time sail when it might otherwise have run aground.
We both made a disciplined effort not to talk about our troubles conceiving, doing so only in the most general terms.
‘You know, I wouldn’t mind if it was just us,’ he said, as we rocked together in a hammock on our veranda at the edge of the sand, bodies as relaxed as could be without losing consciousness. Just feet away, the sea murmured its consolations.
I smiled. ‘Nor would I if it were like this all the time, together on holiday, but back home I’m on my own all day long.’
‘I didn’t realize you felt lonely. What about your chums? Caroline and Rob?’
We were not normally in such close proximity when my lover’s name was spoken between us and I prayed there’d be no detectable drumming of pulse or flushing of skin.
‘They’re great,’ I said, sighing. ‘I’d see them every day if they’d let me, but they’ve both got work. Rob with his writing and Caroline with the kids.’
‘What about Liz and the other stay-at-homes?’
‘That’s just it, it turns out they never are at home, at least not during the day. They’re all too busy chauffeuring the younger kids to activities or doing volunteer stuff. Sophie helps out at the school and Joanne walks the dog for hours on end. Liz is talking about going back to work next year when Rupert starts school. Seriously, I’m the only layabout on the street.’
‘Oh dear, that’s no fun.’ Only Jeremy could console me for being bone idle. With his free hand he stroked my hair from my forehead, bringing his arm to rest on my chest; the muscle on the back of his hand was slack, I saw, the skin aged and paper-dry after a few days in the sun. ‘Then what about starting a business? Interiors, maybe? You did a great job with the house.’
‘Hetty did,’ I corrected him. ‘All I did was encourage her to spend our money.’
‘Well, I suppose that could be considered a valuable skill in a recession.’
‘Are we still in a recession? I would have thought that had ended by now.’
Jeremy kissed my pretty little head. ‘Have you thought about some sort of voluntary job? Just short term, while you’re at a loose end? One or two afternoons a week?’
Noting with shame that this was my standard weekly commitment to infidelity, I had to agree there was an urgent need for the broadening of my horizons. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, closing my eyes for another snooze.
But no sooner had the plane touched down at Gatwick than such thoughts had evaporated – all thoughts, in fact, but those of Rob and when I would next see him. As our taxi turned into the street, my eyes were as keen to find his window as they were my own front door. Perversely, I now associated my new home not with the man I shared it with but with the one who lived next door. I was frantic to see him again, terrified to find I’d been shut out as I had in that hellish period in the autumn. Try as I might to deny those words I had thought that night in the tree house, they had been thought, and I was fooling myself if I believed I had the strength to end our affair now.
To my satisfaction, Rob responded eagerly to my text and a liaison was arranged fo
r the first day that Jeremy was back in the office.
‘I missed you,’ I told him. ‘Did you miss me?’ Where once such words had had purely sexual import, now I could not deny that they meant something deeper. I needed you, I might have said. Did you need me?
‘Of course I did.’ Rob watched, riveted, as I peeled away my winter layers to reveal the indulgently costly underwear I’d bought that morning for our reunion. His fingers were on the lacy bra, cut low at the nipple, the fabric straining. ‘Have you put on weight?’
‘A couple of pounds, yes. I’m on an overeating regime, doctor’s orders. He said I shouldn’t get too thin in case it starts to affect fertility levels. I ate like a pig in Jamaica, it was bliss.’
‘You look incredible. Keep it on.’
‘The weight or the bra?’
‘Both.’
Later, he surprised me. ‘I know we said no gifts, but I saw this in Marrakech.’ He passed me a small paper bag, the kind that might contain lollipops from the newsagent. ‘I thought it would be easy enough to assimilate into your vast collection without the silver fox noticing.’
It was beautiful, his gift: a fine silver bangle with a clasp made of two interlocking pieces of amber. You and me, I thought, admiring their precise alignment.
‘You have a good eye,’ I told him as he fastened it for me. I was utterly elated. Here, finally, was proof that he thought of me when we were apart, that there were moments other than those directly preceding ejaculation when he was willing to admit that he’d missed me.
‘I wonder if it’s a bit delicate now I see it on?’ He kissed the heel of my hand. ‘A cuff would suit you better …’ And his lips moved to the inside of my wrist, breaking contact only when he felt my pulse start to quicken.
As I say, utterly elated.
But using his bathroom before departure I saw an increased number of items belonging to Pippa, and that displeased me enough to make my goodbyes sulkier than they should have been, even drawing a sigh of irritation from Rob. It was clear now that there was a version of me I could not control, and who appeared to be operating as if she were in a monogamous relationship with him and not an adulterous one; a woman for whom a silver bangle was no appeasement.
The Sudden Departure of the Frasers Page 27