Weycombe

by G. M. Malliet

  What I got was an embroidered sweater, two sizes too large, in larvae green. I happened to know it had gone on sale at Frannie’s shop the week before. At the time I figured he’d changed his mind and returned the jewelry and got this thing instead; it was during the phase where he’d started talking about money all the time.

  I never did find out exactly what the receipt I’d found in his pocket was for. I only knew it wasn’t for me.

  I quickly learned I had bigger problems with Mr. Control Freak than his watching what I drank and when. Will’s purchase at Intime, the one I’d told Rashima about, was one of the more defining moments of my marriage. I’d told her because I didn’t want her head filled with any true-romance ideas about Will and Anna. I only wanted her to know the sordid bits, so she’d hate Will as much as I did.

  It happened like this: Will and I had been legal adults for years when we met and melded resources, so of course we had our own credit cards and histories. We were both too used to being single to instantly merge into a couple where money was concerned. Our groceries came out of a joint account, but Will made three times what I made, which made me less willing to hand over my entire paycheck to the mortgage lenders. Will was fine with this, at least while I was still employed, and I spent my job income on clothes and haircuts and helping to pay for the occasional fun vacation, like that Lake District hike. Anything left over I banked in savings.

  We each had our own Barclays credit cards. Will had a few other cards for whatever reasons, but I was a firm believer that the credit card companies needed me, I didn’t need them, and I tipped all those glittering offers from American Express and Mastercard straight into the bin. So when a bill turned up from Barclays, I tore it open, expecting to see nothing worse than a charge for my latest splurge on bath salts and eyeliner at Boots.

  And there was the little item that signaled the end of the world as I knew it. At the top of the bill was his name, clear as anything. As I stared at it, I could almost hear the tumblers click into place.

  I had suspected all along. Of course I had. Even so, there was a sort of tawdriness to this discovery that left me stunned. Reeling. Speechless. And somewhere in a very cold icy place beyond anger.

  I started to tear up the paper, with its assurances of how much Barclays cared about their customers’ financial security; my hands moved to do it, and then I stopped myself. I thought: Evidence. You will need this as evidence.

  Evidence for what? For divorce proceedings?

  Of course.

  Did I even want that?

  No.

  Did I have a choice?

  It didn’t feel like it.

  What I saw was a charge for £124.95 to Intime, a women’s lingerie shop on the hidden alleyway in Weycombe that was Weaver’s Lane. A place that sold everything from bustiers and garters to granny cat jammies. So by itself this purchase didn’t seem suspicious.

  My birthday was many weeks in the past. Maybe Will thought cat pajamas would cheer me up. Or that a balconette bra might cheer him up. But if so his dates were off by three weeks, when Barclay’s seemed to think this purchase was made.

  It would be dumb to assume this purchase had anything to do with me. And still, my mind reached for ways it could be so. It sure as hell had nothing to do with his mother or any other female relative. Will would, in normal circumstances, rather die than be caught shopping in a place like Intime.

  Round and round I went in a sort of fugue—that crack state of mind where you feel your head has exploded into bits and that shards of it appear to be missing. They might be stuck to the roof of the galaxy, for all you know; you’re so angry you might just have burst through into another dimension. I couldn’t see, I could hear nothing, and if you asked me later what I did in those long minutes I couldn’t have said.

  The odd thing is, I had suspected something. In that indefinable way when you don’t want to know, you can’t be bothered to know, you’re too busy to notice—you know already, you know just the same. The spouse is the first to know, really, but the spouse is too afraid to take a closer look.

  I had been uneasy around Anna for a long while without understanding why. Well before I found that credit card bill, I was subconsciously picking up clues. Like the flowery perfume I’d detected in the basement of my house. Like her attitude, that look on her face, superior and knowing, with a hint of pity—or was it scorn? And when I was with her, wasn’t I picking up on traces of Will’s soap, his aftershave, the cologne he’d suddenly started wearing? I was. And I got very busy telling myself I was imagining things.

  By the time their affair was in full swing, I was seeing less and less of her, however. And I remember being relieved that I didn’t have to deal with Anna, I didn’t have to see her at book club anymore; I no longer had to feel odd, inadequate, somehow less-than, around her.

  I didn’t feel jealousy, not then.

  The full flight of jealousy came later.

  35

  I spent much of that day of the Barclays discovery pacing about, staring at that piece of paper as if the ink would move around and form itself into something more bearable—a charge for sushi from Wasabi, or for a hammer and box of nails from the ironmonger’s.

  But, no, there it was. Nearly £125 worth of male-fantasy lingerie from Intime. For in the helpful way of computers, part of the description of the purchase appeared in truncated form on the statement. “Saucy Blk Kitten, Cami Set—L” came through clearly, along with the stock code.

  Eventually the blood stopped pounding in my ears, my breath settled into something like a normal rhythm, and, hands still shaking, I forced myself to think. What were the possible explanations for this—explanations I could live with, that is? That Will was a victim of credit card fraud—a possibility, except wouldn’t there be other and more extravagant purchases listed? There was only the one sexy kitten thing in a long list of mundane purchases, most of which I could verify had entered the house.

  That he had bought this for my birthday and then, changing his mind, had returned it. Yes, that was it. Surely that was it. Yes, sure … surely.

  Size large. “L” for large. Not in a million years would my sexy kitten lingerie be in a size large.

  Was Will a secret cross-dresser? That would almost have come as a relief. My mind played awhile with a picture of him as saucy kitten and as angry as I was, a ragged, hysterical laugh at the absurdity of the image escaped me. No way. As gullible and naïve and just plain stupid as apparently I was, that much about him I would know.

  I sat there holding the shreds of envelope with the distinctive blue Barclay’s logo, and I wished I could just hit reverse and see the envelope glue itself back together. I would undo having this knowledge if I could. Which tells you right there I already knew this purchase had nothing to do with my birthday, or with Halloween, Christmas, or New Year’s.

  The fact that I was still considering going straight upstairs to shred both the bill and the envelope also should tell you I was a coward. No way could I confront him with this.

  It is evidence, I kept thinking. Keep it.

  My heart thudded with anxiety and anger—and a real, shuddering fear for the future. But—there were other explanations, I reminded myself repeatedly. And maybe he had returned the items for whatever reason. I would worry later about why he would return such a gift. He thought it would offend me? He realized it was the wrong size?

  So why did I find the whole idea of just showing him the bill and demanding an answer so repugnant, so impossible to do? I will leave that for a shrink to decide. I will only tell you that to buy some time, I hid the underwear bill in my underwear drawer, under my fucking Jockey for Women guaranteed-no-panty-line bikini briefs.

  At least they didn’t have the days of the week on them.

  After that I steamed open his mail routinely, with particular attention to the Barclay’s bill, but I found only routine
purchases or innocuous items like notices of the card company’s change to its privacy laws. Fool that I was, I also looked for a refund from Intime, in case he had returned saucy kitten after all. No luck.

  That day I opened the envelope, the bad, very bad day, I even played with the idea that I had deserved this somehow. I had simply not been good enough, so this betrayal was due me. My mind chased that thought for a while. I wondered if a simple saucy kitten purchase, if I had been the one to make it, could have saved us.

  I thought about that for all of two minutes. And I decided I was not taking that trip.

  Instead I walked to the cupboard, grabbed the ugly soup tureen Will had inherited from someone, raised it over my head, and smashed it to the floor as hard as I could. It was priceless. I hated it.

  A shard made a gouge in one of the cupboards that is probably still there. I suppose I was lucky not to have lost an eye.

  I was out of control—just for a moment. Then I got it back.

  I got out the broom and dustbin and went to work.

  I decided to have a look at Will’s new favorite shop. Salt/wound. I wanted to remember this pain, in case I was ever tempted to change course and forgive him.

  Ostensibly, I was there to inquire about the kitten line: “I want a set in a size small for a bachelorette party gift. You know. Fairytale wedding.” Like mine. Our wedding ceremony had been held in the chapel where all Will’s ancestors had exchanged their vows. It had been the most perfect day of my life. Now I showed the woman behind the counter the statement, using my thumb to hide the name of the purchaser. I wasn’t sure I was fooling anyone, but I didn’t suppose it really mattered.

  I waited, drowning in a foamy sea of Fleur of England camis and knickers. She came back holding an example of the offending item in size small, black lace. It also came in other colors, if I was interested. White was popular for bachelorette parties.

  It was about what I’d expected. The sort of bordello number a besotted lover would buy. I couldn’t really reconcile this thing with the urbane man I knew Will to be. And yet, there it was.

  Squinting again at the statement, the woman told me the purchase had included a free pair of stockings of the kind that needed a garter to hold them up. Garter stockings, they were called, she explained. They’d been having a special promotion that week. Sadly, that promotion had ended.

  I assumed from the woman’s appearance and demeanor she was the owner, for she gave off a Long Branch Saloon sort of vibe: kindly, war-torn, seen it all from behind her heavily kohl-lined eyes. She was dressed like Miss Kitty, too, with a low-cut frilly bodice above a full patterned skirt. Her breasts were, needless to say, up and out to the wall, a walking advertisement for the robust, suspension-bridge construction of her inventory. You could have wrapped her bra around my torso twice and there would have been fabric left over.

  “Item number 496BZ,” she read, pronouncing that Z as “Zed,” one of those Britishisms I never got the point of. “They’re very popular in red with black lace trim, also.” Classy. “An old-fashioned look that never goes out of style.”

  “Nothing else? Just the camisole and … and bottoms? And garter stockings?”

  Why was I even asking? What did it matter exactly what he’d bought?

  It mattered. It just did.

  Miss Kitty shook her head, peering at me, and seeing—what? Was I one in a long line of wretched women who came creeping into her shop clutching evidence of their husband’s foul betrayals?

  “So, no bra or anything more with this sale?”

  “Not on this statement. I think I remember the gentleman who made the purchase, though. He’d been in before.”

  Really. Wonderful news.

  This was all before Anna died, of course, or I would have asked about white knickers like the ones she’d been wearing on her last and final run.

  I told the woman I’d think about the kitten thing for my bride-to-be friend and I walked out, clinging to the few scraps of dignity I had left.

  I already knew I wouldn’t confront Will. I didn’t want a confession, or even an apology, and anticipating what his lies or excuses might be made me start to spiral. He’d say he’d bought that stuff for me and then had thrown it away, feeling foolish and realizing it wasn’t my style. Right. Oh, and he’d accidently bought the wrong size: he was no good with sizes for women’s clothing. He’d say he’d been too embarrassed to return it to the store. He’d be mumbling, his face red. Like maybe he was a cross-dresser, caught in the act. He would say, “That shop is, well … ”

  Yes, I knew. I’d seen that shop.

  That day I went through every hiding place in Will’s drawers and closets but the Saucy Black Kitten cami set was nowhere to be found. I didn’t expect it would be. I did find the garter stockings, however. Will must have been keeping them back as a surprise gift for someone special.

  Had Will come to feel he had chosen wrong? At one time my Americanness—my folksiness, if you like; my down-to-earthiness—had been an attraction. I guess the novelty wore off and he began to long for his own kind.

  Perhaps Will felt that with me he’d been slumming the whole time. Maybe he’d come round to thinking that mother knew best after all.

  Or maybe he was just born a faithless shit. The simple theory, in life as in quantum physics, is always the most likely.

  I struggled with forgiveness. And went to the mat with that concept, and I lost.

  What Will had done was a betrayal, not just of our marriage vows—who cares about vows anymore—but of my trust. Finding out about this sordid secret life of his, I knew I should pack and be gone before he got home from work. That’s the kind of advice I’d get from women’s magazines. Actually, the magazine hacks would whinge on about marriage counseling. Stuff that.

  To leave would mean I’d end up alone in some grotty London bedsit while he continued living the life, with her. Unemployed and lonely, just me and the cat living a worse than Anita Brookner existence. If I could even afford to take Kookie with me. If I’d be able to afford cat food while the divorce ground on and the solicitors got paid. There was, in fact, no way I could afford decent representation. Which would mean I would get screwed in the courts. I’d seen that happen too often to let it happen to me.

  It was so goddamned unfair.

  We hadn’t been married long enough for me to claim extra privileges, according to the prenup—yes, that mother of his had talked him into a prenup. While a sympathetic divorce court might have given me more, I wasn’t going to chance it. Those of us who have gone without know what without feels like and we can never go back to it. Will might have played poor when he vagabonded around Europe in his gap year, but he’d always known mummy and her lawyers would be there to catch him if he fell. It was what made him a child, no matter his age, and it had kept him a child. A greedy, uncontrollable child, as it turned out.

  I looked at the palm of one hand where I’d dug the nails in deep enough to cut the skin in four perfect, bloody half moons.

  I told myself then: He could not know that I knew. I had to be calm and pretend all was well. The same way he had done with me for how long—weeks or months? Years? Surely not years. We had been happy together, especially when we’d first been married. We’d been happy together before we got married. But then, we’d been happy together last week, or so I’d thought. Off and on happy, but still. I began to wish I’d never opened that Pandora’s box of an envelope.

  I poured wine into a glass big enough for a goldfish to swim in. Then I turned on the fire, sank into one of the chintz chairs, and sat staring into the flames. I turned my focus inward, remembering. It was a trick I had practiced forever: I could will myself into stillness as everyone else was raging, as my parents fought and sobbed over my brother—focusing on my breathing, the rise and fall of my chest, until there was only the now, the right now. And the past would come into view more clea
rly; I could recall every moment, with no emotion to cloud it.

  I started to remember all the little things that did not add up. If I inserted one and only one name into the equation, those things did add up.

  Anna.

  Case in point, that phone call.

  What was memorable about Anna was not just her zaftig physical presence, imposing as it was, but her voice. Glossy and sultry and compelling as a voiceover announcer. “Just sign here. You’re so lucky. You’re doing the right thing; you won’t regret it.” A saleswoman’s voice.

  I thought back to the last time I’d heard Anna purring over the phone. She used to call the house pretty regularly, to chat about this or that or to discuss arrangements for some get-together or other, but she hadn’t called in a long while.

  I had picked up the landline receiver and heard the stuttering dial tone that told me there was a new message in the mailbox. I’d punched in 1571, put the phone on speaker, and started unloading groceries into the refrigerator.

  “Hi,” I heard. “It’s Anna.” I assumed it was something to do with the book club. “Look, love, I need to talk to you. I—” Click. She’d somehow been cut off and apparently had not called back, as BT had no further messages on our answerphone service. I used the feature that allowed me to press “3” to return the call. There was no answer at the other end and I didn’t leave a message.

  I finished putting away the groceries before I put my coat back on and went next door to her house, but she didn’t respond to my knock. I thought no more about it, and when I saw her in the village the next day she told me she’d been interrupted by someone at the door as she’d been leaving a message. So she’d rung off. “It was nothing important,” she assured me. “Just that I wanted to borrow that recipe of yours for—was it candied yams, you called them?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Glad to oblige. I’ll email it to you.” But you know, even then, I didn’t believe her. Her voice on the answerphone had sounded urgent, and it did not suggest to me an emergency yam situation. It suggested something quite different.