by Joan Smith
‘It depends on the relationship. It’s not as though you’re together so much you get bored with each other. That’s often the problem with the people who come to me professionally. You go on these long trips —’
‘Tim hates it. The other day I heard him call it my Mother Teresa act.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s envious, of course.’
‘Envious? Of what?’
‘Come on, Aish.’ Iris’s eyes narrowed. ‘The fashion thing he didn’t have to take seriously. It’s not a real job — in his eyes, I mean. I always had the impression he was quite happy when you were at some show in Paris. It wasn’t a challenge to his masculinity, even if it paid the bills.’ She saw Aisha’s expression and exclaimed: ‘Sorry, sweetie, but I am a therapist. What I’m saying is he could rationalise it by telling himself he’s the one with the talent — a prophet isn’t recognised, blah blah blah.’
Aisha flinched.
‘But now you’re making a huge difference to people’s lives. Come on, you know you are. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds it unbearable.’
Aisha said incredulously: ‘So you think he’s getting back at me?’
‘Not consciously. But he wouldn’t be the first. Who’s the woman, by the way?’
Aisha turned to stare at the garden. On the path next to the pond Iris’s elderly dog had stretched out and gone to sleep, his feathery tail twitching gently as he dreamed. ‘How’s Ginger?’ she asked.
‘Very, very old. I’m trying to prepare Clara.’ Iris looked sad for a moment. ‘This is probably his last summer.’
‘Poor old lad. I wish we’d had a dog.’ Aisha drank from her mug and set it down on the floor. ‘I’ve been tormenting myself about who it could be. It might be Susie or more likely Sylvia, I can’t imagine him making a great effort — unless it’s someone he’s met through work.’ Her voice falling almost to a whisper, she added: ‘He was very cheerful when he came back from Edinburgh last weekend. He tipped his dirty clothes on the bedroom floor and when I picked them up, I could smell something. Cigarettes — and Obsession.’
‘But he hates smoking — oh, is that what Sylvia wears?’
Aisha nodded. ‘But what was she doing in Edinburgh? If she was there at all. What am I supposed to do, ring her and make some remark about Princes Street?’
‘Well —’
‘Someone’s hung up the phone a few times, I didn’t tell you that, did I? You see what it’s doing to me? I mean, for God’s sake, how many people wear Obsession? But even if it is someone else, someone I know nothing about, I can’t bear the waste. All those years we’ve spent together and it’s going to end like this?’
Iris blinked. ‘You’re thinking about a separation?’
‘I — how can we? What would happen to the boys?’
‘People do, with children younger than yours.’ Iris paused, then said gently: ‘Clara was eleven when I split up with Bob.’
Aisha flushed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You had an awful time.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t me who wanted a divorce.’
‘I didn’t say anything about a divorce!’
There was silence.
Iris said, ‘Sure?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that you’re obviously very upset, but I’m not sure if it’s about Tim or being betrayed — sorry, I don’t like that word, it’s too judgemental. I’m talking about the effect it’s having on you, all this suspicion. Are you sleeping?’
‘Not much, no.’
‘No wonder you look so tired. Aish, you have to admit you and Tim lead pretty separate lives. That’s been going on for ages. Try to put aside the hurt for a moment. I’m wondering what you really want.’
Aisha said nothing but she didn’t deny what Iris had just said. Choosing her words carefully, Iris carried on: ‘You’re still young, the boys are just about grown up. For me, the question isn’t so much whether Tim’s seeing someone else as whether you want to spend the rest of your life with him.’
‘I know you don’t like him.’
‘This isn’t about me. I’m not saying it’s easy, either. Do you ever see a single woman, a single mother, at all those dinner parties you and Tim get invited to?’
‘No, but it’s not as if I’d miss them. God, if I never had to stuff twelve green peppers again I’d be in heaven.’
Iris grinned. ‘OK, point taken.’
‘On the other hand, it’s not as if we fight all the time. It’s not — unbearable. I mean, when I think of all the people in the world who go to bed hungry every night —’
Iris threw back her head and laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I’ve never heard that before. The children, yes, but not staying together because of world poverty.’
‘I didn’t mean —’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
Aisha said impatiently: ‘I’m not worried about Ricky, even assuming for a moment you’re right about... everything. He’ll be fine, whatever happens. But Max — you know how Tim gets on at him for the least thing. He already seems to have decided Max is going to make a mess of his life. It’s so unfair, when he’s fallen out with so many people himself. You know he won that prize years ago? I really thought he was going to revolutionise British architecture. I mean, he told me he was! But something always goes wrong.’
Iris inclined her head. ‘I’ve never been sure whether he’s a neglected genius or it’s all bullshit.’ She corrected herself: ‘Self-delusion, I should say.’
‘Well, he’s trying to do something original and that’s not easy. He takes criticism so badly —’ Aisha saw Iris’s face. ‘All right, I know he’s self-obsessed. I don’t want to be too hard on him, that’s all.’
‘Let’s get back to you. Have you ever been... attracted to someone else? You meet so many people, it would only be natural.’
Aisha flushed for the second time. ‘I haven’t been unfaithful, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Darling, I’m not here to judge —’
‘I haven’t,’ she said flatly.
‘I believe you, but would it be so wrong if you were? You’re human and we all have the same needs — sex, love, affection.’ She broke off and stared at Aisha, who had slipped her feet into her shoes and was getting up from the sofa. ‘What’re you doing?’
Aisha avoided her gaze. ‘I’m sorry, Iris, I didn’t realise the time. Max’ll be home —’
‘Aisha, wait. Have I said something that’s made you uncomfortable?’
‘No, but I promised to take him to that new computer shop in Minehead. He wants to buy a game or something.’
Iris got up, suspecting from Aisha’s voice that she was on the verge of tears. ‘You haven’t finished your tea. Call him. I’m sure it’s not urgent. You can do it tomorrow.’
Aisha reached for her bag and moved towards the door. When she turned, she had composed herself. ‘Thanks, Iris,’ she said, ‘but you know I always make a point of not letting him down.’
‘You never let anyone down, least of all Max.’
‘That’s nice of you, but —’ She hesitated, her cheeks still flushed. ‘I don’t find it easy, talking like this.’
‘No one does.’ Iris moved towards her and they embraced. ‘Listen, sweetheart, you know you can call me any time.’
‘I will. Why don’t we have lunch next week? My treat.’
When Aisha arrived home, she went upstairs to the first floor and let herself into a bedroom they had never used. The old hotel wallpaper, pink and mauve flowers on a brown background, was still intact and there was a lilac handbasin in one corner, but Aisha thought she could put up with that. Tim was away on yet another trip and she immediately began moving her clothes, clock radio and books from their bedroom to the little room at the end of the house, telling the boys she was suffering from insomnia and didn’t want to disturb Dad. When he returned, a couple of days later, the move was complete and
Aisha did not allow herself to dwell on the emotions that flitted across his face as she told him what she had done. Not long afterwards, Tim had gone through violent mood swings, arguing with Max and spending most evenings alone in his office — working on an urgent project, he said, though Aisha never found out what it was. Then he snapped out of it, suddenly flourishing newspaper articles about long weekends in Rome and Lisbon, and forcing Aisha to think quickly to avoid being on her own with him. ‘You and Dad OK?’ Ricky asked one evening as they walked arm in arm along the beach and Aisha was circumspect, careful not to burden him with too much adult knowledge.
That painful conversation with Iris must have taken place almost a year ago, Aisha thought, slowing as the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit which marked the approach to Cranbrook came into view. She braked, aware of the speed camera that had just been erected in the village — at night she could see it flashing from her bedroom window as unwary drivers were caught on film — and signalled right into the drive of Cranbrook Lawns. The window on the drivers side was still open and the Golf’s tyres crunched on the gravel.
‘Huh? Where are we?’ Tim sat up with a start. ‘Home already? That was quick.’
He stumbled as he got out of the car, righted himself and headed for the back of the house. Aisha locked up and followed.
‘Hi Mum, Dad, you’re back early.’ Ricky was waiting for them at the back door. He was wearing a collarless white shirt and jeans, and his feet were bare.
‘Shit!’ Tim kicked a mud-caked trainer out of the way and headed for the kitchen.
‘Finished?’ Aisha asked Ricky, closing the door quietly behind her. Ricky had arrived home for the weekend with a holdall stuffed with dirty washing, which he was feeding into the washing machine when they left.
‘It’s drying. You have a good time?’
Tim appeared in the corridor, whisky bottle in hand. ‘At the Kerrs’ place? You must be joking. I was just saying to your mother, I don’t know why we bother. Nightcap?’ Aisha shook her head and he returned to the kitchen.
She unwound her shawl, caught sight of Ricky’s face and had to stop herself laughing. ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded.
‘Why do you put up with it?’ He hugged her, and for a moment she leaned against his chest. ‘Fab outfit, by the way.’
‘Is Max home?’ She looked up at him.
‘He got in half an hour ago. They were going to a club but he had a row with Vicki.’
‘Vicki?’
‘Isn’t that her name? Girl with the stud.’ Ricky pointed to his nose. ‘He said he was going to bed, but he looked pretty cut up.’
Aisha frowned. ‘I’ll talk to him. Any phone calls?’
‘One for Dad, something about a contract that hasn’t arrived.’
‘On a Saturday night?’
Ricky rolled his eyes. ‘Bloke said he’d been leaving messages all week.’
They exchanged a silent glance.
‘Oh, and some guy for you. Posh voice.’
‘Did he leave a name?’
‘Yeah, Stephen something. He said you’d know who he was. Mum, you’re blushing! Is he one of your admirers? Wow, it’s so cool, having a mother who’s a cultural icon.’
She flashed him an embarrassed grin. ‘I wish. He didn’t say — oh, never mind.’
Ricky waited, then said, ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow? I thought we could go for a walk and have lunch at the Queen of Sheba.’
‘Is Dad coming?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ricky shrugged. ‘Cool,’ he said again.
Aisha moved nearer to the kitchen. Raising her voice, she called to her husband: ‘Night, Tim, I’m going to have a word with Max.’
There was no answer. Aisha turned to Ricky and put a hand up to his face. ‘You’re looking thin. Are you eating properly?’
‘Like a horse. Do you know how much they eat? Sometimes they get this disease —’
Aisha stepped back, laughing: ‘Too much information.’ She blew him a kiss, turned into the hall and made her way upstairs to commiserate with her younger son.
The Shadow Foreign Secretary was sitting two tables away in the dining room, absorbed in conversation with a dark, wiry man and a woman with long hair. Aisha recognised other faces, including a backbench MP who often popped up on Newsnight and a former MP who now hosted game shows. Behind Stephen’s chair, tall windows overlooked the Thames and the sun’s fading light, veiled by clouds, created a metallic glint on the surface of the water. On the far side, St Thomas’ hospital had faded to a silhouette, softening the brutal South Bank skyline.
‘What are you looking at?’ Stephen asked.
‘The river,’ said Aisha, sliding her fork to the side of her empty plate. She had chosen the lightest things on the menu, salad followed by risotto, but Stephen was a hearty eater and had not yet finished his calves’ liver. ‘It must run north-south here, is that right?’
As though his thoughts were elsewhere, Stephen grunted assent and went back to his food; there were gravy splashes on the napkin he had tucked into his shirt and Aisha lowered her head to hide a smile. Around her, voices rose and fell in a confident male chorus, reminding her that she was among powerful men — there were very few women in the dining room — who didn’t care what other people thought. Across the table, Stephen pushed aside his own knife and fork and cleaned his plate with a piece of bread. Finally, he lifted his head.
‘When do —’
‘Who are —’
They broke off, and Stephen gestured with his hand for Aisha to continue.
‘Who are all these people?’ She gazed around the dining room. ‘How on earth do you remember their names?’
He gave a rueful grin. ‘When you’ve been here as long as I have...’
‘How long? When were you elected?’
‘1983’
‘It’s a safe seat?’
‘As safe as they come. See that woman over there with the dark hair? Carla Gordon, you’ve probably never heard of her.’
Aisha turned to look at a woman who reminded her a little of Iris, although her features were sharper. She shook her head. ‘I don’t even recognise her.’
‘She’s an economist and unquestionably one of the best speakers in the House. She should be a minister by now. But her seat’s one of the most marginal in the country and she’ll lose it at the next election. It won’t be her loss; she’ll go back to her day job and make pots of money consulting here, there and everywhere. The constituency association will replace her with a man, and we’ll go on losing votes by the shed-load. Did you know the average age of our members is sixty-five? Sixty-five. You’re looking at an endangered species, Aisha.’
It sounded like a speech, one he’d made before, and Aisha sat back in her chair. ‘So what’s the answer? I don’t suppose you’re a fan of positive discrimination.’
He snorted. ‘You don’t cure one injustice by creating another. And it’s not just women we have a problem with, it’s the modern world — I’m writing a pamphlet about it. Do you vote?’
‘Me? Yes, of course.’ Tim made a point of not voting, claiming that it never changed anything, and on more than one occasion he had demanded to know why Aisha bothered when she knew so little about politics. He said much the same when she started talking about setting up her trust but in the last year or so, since she had begun to be invited to meetings at the Foreign Office, he had avoided the subject.
‘But you’ve never voted for us, have you?’ Stephen saw her expression and added in an impatient voice: ‘Come on, I won’t be offended.’
‘OK, then, I voted Green in the local elections —’
‘Oh God, Aisha.’
‘Well, you did ask.’
‘Yes, but single issue politics...’ He leaned forward and said earnestly: ‘It’s the death of democracy. If we can’t win over people like you, intelligent women who care about more than flower arranging and shopping —’
‘Are
there still women like that?’ Aisha thought about some of her neighbours in Somerset, and then a picture of Carolina Massinger came unbidden to her mind. She steered the conversation on to safer ground: ‘At least you’ve had a woman leader.’
‘Oh, but Thatcher was one of the worst. I mean, I admire other things she did but do you know how many women she put in her Cabinet?’
‘Not the exact number. Not many.’
‘Two. In all those years.’
‘Did you like her?’
‘Like her? She was just there. I don’t think I even thought of her as a woman. I know MPs who say she flirted with them but I was way below her pay grade.’ Stephen frowned. ‘OK, there was something sexual about her on a good day at the despatch box but then power is sexy, isn’t it? Look at Bill Clinton.’
Aisha laughed. ‘Henry Kissinger’s a better example.’
Stephen pretended to be alarmed. ‘You mean you don’t fancy Bill Clinton?’
‘He’s all right, as politicians go.’ Aisha realised what she’d said, and felt her cheeks turning red.
Stephen glanced at his plate, picked up his fork and put it down with a clatter.
‘Can I —’
‘Did you —’
Stephen filled Aisha’s wine glass, busying himself with emptying the bottle. ‘Should I get another one?’
‘Not for me.’
‘You don’t drink much.’
‘I’m used to doing the driving. Don’t let me stop you.’
‘I’m going to get a glass of red as I may be stuck here for hours. More water?’
‘Please.’
‘OK, let me grab our — Jack.’ His hand shot out to grip the arm of a distinguished-looking grey-haired man who was passing their table. ‘Did you get my note?’
The man rolled his eyes. ‘Not Gibraltar again, Stephen.’
‘I thought you lot were all for self-determination. Or doesn’t it apply to people who want to stay British? Aisha, this is Jack Porter, he’s on the Foreign Affairs Committee with me. Aisha Lincoln.’
They shook hands.
‘Aisha does a lot of work with women and kids in the Third World. The two of you should get together.’
‘Is that right?’ Porter’s eyes focused on her for the first time. ‘Girls’ education is one of my main concerns, as it happens. You have to be culturally sensitive, of course —’