by Jane Fallon
‘Oh, Joshie’s a darling,’ she says. ‘I’m lucky that way. I don’t have to worry … sorry, that sounds awful, as if I’m saying you do. I don’t mean it like that.’
‘It’s fine. You’re lucky. I doubt there’re many couples who can say they never have any periods where one or other of them is unsure.’
‘We made a pact when we met,’ she says, looking me straight in the eye. She’s a better actress than I thought. ‘That we would always be honest with each other. If one of us did something that got on the other’s nerves or made them unhappy we could say so without any recriminations. It works.’
‘But what if one of you thought the other was cheating …?’
She gives a little laugh. ‘I’d cut his balls off, haha!’
So they clearly don’t have an open relationship.
‘How did he end up working on the show?’
‘Nothing to do with me! Well, not really. He’s freelance, you know, and he’d just come off another job for the BBC so he put himself in the frame. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt that he was my husband – actually, that sounds awful, don’t ever tell him I said that. He would have been in with a good shot anyway but the little word I put in with the execs might just have edged it for him.’
I can’t imagine why the executive producers would have listened to an actress they must all consider a pain in the arse when it came to hiring a new face to run the show. Most likely what Robert said to me at the time was true: they thought it wouldn’t hurt having someone on board who could try and keep her in line.
‘How did you meet?’
She gazes off into the distance, a Tennessee Williams heroine having a bitter-sweet reminiscence.
‘On Under the Blue Sky,’ she says, referencing another god-awful series she was a regular on before Farmer Giles. This one was about an ex-pat couple settling into life in Spain. I think she played the cantankerous but sexy neighbour on that too.
‘He was in the script department. I used to try to persuade him to write me all the juicy storylines, haha!’
I haha along with her, just to be nice.
‘Have you and Robert been together since college, or have I imagined that?’
I nod, and rearrange my face into a more rueful expression again. ‘Twenty years. It’s hard to believe sometimes.’
‘That’s amazing. What an achievement.’
I bite my tongue. ‘That’s why it’s so hard, you know, at the moment …’
‘It’s a big deal, isn’t it? All that history,’ she says, looking at me with what seems like genuine sympathy. That’s it, the moment she bites down on the hook.
I lower my eyes. Lady Di at a press call. ‘It’s everything.’
By the time we say goodbye I know I’ve got her. A pang of guilt has got through. Now I just need to work on making it take hold.
‘Don’t … Maybe don’t mention to Robert that we bumped into each other,’ I say as she hugs me goodbye, having agreed that we will meet up again soon. ‘Just because you work together and I would never want him to worry that I was talking to one of his co-stars about our personal life.’
The relief on her face is so palpable I almost laugh. I’m offering her a free pass. A front-row seat to the state of my marriage. ‘Of course not. Hey, you should come to Bikram next week. We could have lunch again after.’
‘I’d be in A & E. Maybe one day. Let’s just do the lunch part.’
‘Deal,’ she says, hugging me again. ‘I’ll call you.’
I’m still trying to make a list of all the things that Robert and I used to love to do together so that we can have a few good bonding sessions that might remind him why he ever thought I was his soulmate. (Myra’s advice: buy a mirror, hold it up and let him look at himself; that’ll make him happy.) It’s harder than you would think, pinning down exactly what shared interests you have with your spouse. Unless you still go ballroom dancing or dogging regularly, that is. And most of the activities that come to mind – dancing till four in the morning, taking ecstasy, going on anti-war demonstrations – are things neither of us have had any yearning to do, so far as I’m aware anyway, in the past eighteen-odd years. It’s funny how everything I can think of that was a shared interest is from before Georgia came along. After that we became a family, doing family things, and the rest of it felt a bit immature, a bit trivial.
So far on my list I have: watching sport, browsing vintage markets, weekends away, walking. I added walking even though both Georgia and I gave that one up years ago. She because she thought it was a lame way to spend a Sunday, me because I was too busy comfort eating. It’s one I think we could resurrect now, though.
The next sunny Sunday I start making a picnic before Robert has even surfaced. I’ve bought all his favourite things from the deli up the road – tiny red peppers stuffed with goat’s cheese, taramasalata and pitta bread, mini quiches. I wrap them up, along with smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches (full fat for him, ‘lightest’ for me) and a half-bottle of Prosecco. I’ve planned out a route, just like we used to. Only about five or six kilometres (as opposed to the fifteen we used to happily tackle, but I thought Robert wouldn’t be too happy if he had to carry me the last ten) across the Heath to the pergola in Golders Hill Park. We used to go and sit there for hours when Robert was between jobs and I was a stay-at-home mum, watching Georgia run up and down the steps, chuckling away to herself. I used to worry then about her being an only child. I still do. This whole thing would be much easier for her if she had a sibling to share it with. Somehow, it just never happened, even though we tried.
I hear him stirring in the bedroom. Brace myself. Rehearse my lines in my head. ‘Don’t just say them, live them,’ I hear one of our old tutors say. I always thought he was a bit of a pretentious idiot but at the moment that feels like the exact advice I need.
The toilet flushes, then pad, pad, pad down the corridor and he’s here.
I paste on a bright smile. ‘Morning!’
‘Huh,’ Robert says. He’s never been a morning person. He pushes his hair back from his face, a habit he’s had ever since I’ve known him. The only difference being that he used to have thick dark brown hair and now I can see his scalp peeking through at the crown. I know how much he hates this. Loathes the fact that, whatever he does, he can’t seem to stop the strands leaping from his head like rats from a sinking ship. He’s considering a transplant. The make-up people on Farmer Giles do something miraculous with some kind of dark powder that means his impending baldness does not show up on camera, but it’s only a matter of time. To compensate, he’s grown a beard, like every other man in the country at the moment. He thinks it gives him hipsterish qualities. I think: young Santa.
Robert’s otherwise handsome, chiselled face is a bit let down by his eyes. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but they’re unremarkable. They don’t have that piercing quality that marks out the leading men from the character actors. They’re a muddy grey-blue. I’ve seen him in the mirror many times, practising his arresting stare when he thinks I’m not looking. He can’t quite pull it off, though. In middle age he’s in danger of looking ordinary. Shame.
I place a mug of coffee in front of him. He reaches for it, bleary-eyed, and slugs it back greedily.
‘It’s a gorgeous day.’ I beam at him. ‘So I’ve hatched a plan.’
He looks at me warily. ‘Oh God.’
‘No, you’ll like it. We’re going to park the car up the top of Hampstead and walk up to the pergola. We haven’t done it for years. I’ve already made a picnic.’
I wait for him to object, wondering if I should have held off for him to wake up a bit more before I pounced.
‘Since when did you want to go walking?’
‘Since now. It’ll be fun.’
‘Last time I suggested going for a walk I think your exact words were ‘Why would I want to do that?’ He raises an eyebrow at me. A challenge, but a jokey one. I laugh.
‘Yes, well, let’s just
say I’ve seen the error of my ways.’
He looks out of the window. ‘It is a lovely day.’
I know he must be wanting to make some kind of comment about the fact that I’ll want to cop out halfway through. I try to distract him.
I wave the picnic bag at him. ‘I have goat’s-cheese-stuffed peppers.’
He gives me a slightly forced smile. ‘Well, in that case …’
Bingo.
An hour later we’re striding out past Whitestone Pond at the top of the hill. Robert always walks at a pace that suggests he’s being followed by something big and scary but doesn’t want to alert it to the fact he’s trying to get away by actually breaking into a run. Consequently, I’m breathless already, which is affecting my sparkling attempts at conversation. (Among other things, I have researched the progress of the preparations for the Rio Olympics, what new shows are opening in theatres around the country and what’s happening in The Archers, all topics that are close to his heart). I slow my pace, hoping he’ll match it, but he just keeps moving. If we carry on like this, I’ll have to sit down in a minute.
‘Could we … um … I need to slow down a bit …’
He turns and then stops. ‘Oh, sure. Sorry.’
So at least now we’re ambling along next to each other. To an outsider it must look quite companionable. I decide to try out one of my topics.
‘Oh! I was reading there’s a new production of Noises Off,’ I say, my breathing still coming out in deep rasps. ‘It starts doing the regional rounds next month.’
‘Right’ he says. I can tell he’s like a Jack Russell who thinks he might have seen a mouse; he’s dying to be able to speed up and yomp off into the woods. Robert has always thought walking should be exercise, not just pleasure.
‘We should go and see it. It’s coming to Windsor, that’s probably the closest.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘Shall I look into tickets? We could stay the night down there somewhere …’
‘Not if it’s while we’re still filming. You know I like to try and avoid too many commitments at the weekends.’
‘Sure,’ I say, deflated. Noises Off was one of my best weapons. It’s a play Robert loves, coming to a town he adores. ‘Well, maybe it’ll still be going somewhere when you break.’
‘Great.’
I try again. ‘Oh! I was reading a thing about the Stone Roses! They’re going back on tour, can you imagine? That might be a laugh.’
Robert pulls a face that basically says ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’ ‘Sounds tragic to me.’
We walk on in silence for a few minutes and his phone starts to ring in his pocket. I wait for him to look to see who it is, but he just strides on, staring into the distance.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’
‘No. It’ll just be someone asking if I want to claim for an accident I never had.’
‘It might be important. What if it’s work?’
The ringing has stopped. He whips it out of his pocket and glances at the screen, holding it in a way that means I can’t see it without making it obvious that he’s doing so.
‘Unknown,’ he says. ‘Told you. I’ll put it on silent.’
We pass the muddy track that leads directly to the pergola and head for the main gates to Golders Hill Park. We don’t discuss going this way, it’s just the way we always used to go, and I feel a little jolt of sadness that our relationship still has muscle memory.
It’s busy today because it’s a weekend and the sun is out. Families chase each other around on the grass. Some are already having picnics, even though it’s not yet twelve. There’s a queue snaking out from the café but I want to stick to our old rituals as much as I can.
‘Shall I get coffees?’
He looks at the line of people. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. You wait here, it won’t take long.’
He leans against a wall outside as I join the back of the line and edge my way forward slowly. I watch as he takes his mobile out of his pocket and examines it. Dashes off a text and sends it. Let me guess. ‘Don’t call again! Am with Paula. Walking!!!!’ Something like that anyway. I imagine Saskia all fresh and shiny after yeaterday’s Bikram session (and brunch with me after), smiling as she reads it. Flicking back her highlighted hair as unsuspecting Josh lovingly brings her a coffee.
When I look again Robert is posing for a selfie with an eager fan. The rule seems to be that once one person gets up the courage to waylay him and doesn’t get punched in the face for their efforts, then everyone else within walking distance decides to have a go too. I know he’ll be getting antsy. Cursing the fact that he’s a sitting target and he can’t get away because I won’t know where he is.
I take a moment’s comfort from his displeasure and then I do what any good, devoted wife would do. I send him a text telling him to head on up to the pergola and I’ll find him there once I’m coffee’d up. Of course, he assumes it’s Saskia texting him – I know he’ll want to read her message as soon as humanly possible – and I watch as he holds up a hand to silence the fan at the front of the queue, who is almost certainly halfway through her life story by now, and dives a hand into his pocket, looking around guiltily to check I’m not about to surprise him any time soon. When he sees my name he looks over to the café and catches me watching him. I wave encouragingly.
He reads the text and smiles gratefully. I watch as he shakes off the rest of the autograph hunters, I assume by telling them that some emergency has arisen, and strides off.
Once I finally have my prize in my hands, I know exactly where I’ll find him. We always used to camp out in the same spot, up some stairs and around a corner where there is just a single bench. Of course, if it was already taken when he got there, then I have no idea where he’ll have gone to hide, but when I round the corner there he is. For once, his nose isn’t buried in his phone. He’s leaning back with his face turned towards the sun and his eyes closed. He’s even made an effort to lay out the picnic in the middle of the seat. I stop myself from pointing out that the perishables would have been much happier staying in the cold bag for a bit longer. New Paula would never find fault.
‘God, sorry,’ I say as I approach. ‘I had no idea it would take so long.’
‘It’s fine. It’s nice sitting here, actually. Peaceful.’
I hand him his coffee and plonk myself down at the other end. Tip my head back, close my eyes. He’s right. It’s nice.
Later, when I’m soaking in the bath, trying to calm my protesting muscles, I congratulate myself on a successful day. Not that I think sparks were flying between Robert and myself – far from it – but we passed a pleasant afternoon in each other’s company. By the end of the walk back to the car I was wheezing like a pug with a smoking habit, but I did it. I didn’t sit down on a bench and refuse to move until he went and fetched the car to pick me up. (I did consider it at one point but I managed to keep the thought to myself.)
When we got home I knew from the way he described to Georgia where we walked, how beautiful the woods were looking, the baby rabbits we saw, that he enjoyed himself. Round one to me.
8
How do you break it to someone that their wife is having an affair with your husband? It’s hardly dinner-party conversation.
I may be playing with fire but I have decided I need something seismic to happen. Sitting around losing two pounds a week and waiting for either Saskia or Robert to feel remorse and break it off is not enough. I need to take control.
I wonder if either of them has considered what will happen to Josh once they come clean. He can hardly stay on the show. I can’t imagine the humiliation. Are they expecting he’ll just be a gentleman and step aside, losing his job in the process? I feel indignant on his behalf.
I can hardly just pick up the phone and tell him that his marriage appears to be over.
But I do know where he lives and when there’s a good chance he might be home alone.
I just hav
e to get up the courage to do it.
Meanwhile, I’ve decided to invite Robert’s sister, Alice, over for dinner. I don’t know how I can get across what a selfless gesture this is on my part. Let’s just say that Robert adores his little sis. I, on the other hand, would rather be locked in a giant Bikram studio, doused in Saskia’s sweat, and forced to perform yoga moves in forty-degree heat continuously for a week than spend time with her.
I know that sounds awful. She’s my husband’s flesh and blood, his only sibling. I would hate it if he felt about any of my family the way I feel about Alice. It’s not as if I didn’t try. When Robert and I first met I was excited to hear that Alice was only a couple of years younger. I imagined us as best friends, allies, confidantes. And then she came up for a visit.
I was intimidated by her right away. She oozed cool. Somehow, on her, faded jeans, ballet flats, a stripy T-shirt and an artfully placed scarf gave off Audrey Hepburn, and not onion-seller as it would have if I’d attempted it. She had long blonde hair that was just the right side of unbrushed, perfectly smudged kohl-rimmed eyes and a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. And she didn’t only ooze cool, she oozed confidence. Something I was already severely lacking in. My fantasies of her looking up to me in awe as I introduced her to the big city crashed and burned.
To say that Alice was spoilt would be like saying Hitler had a bit of a vindictive side. It was clear very quickly that whatever Alice wanted, Alice got. I’d organized tickets for us all to go to see something or other at the National – money I couldn’t afford, but I wanted to make a good impression. Alice made it obvious right away that she wanted Robert to herself. An aspiring actress (his whole family were actors; I always imagined their house was like the capital city of luvvydom), she was desperate to see the play but when she found out the tickets were for three and not just the two of them she stamped her foot like Violet Elizabeth Bott and actually said the words ‘I’ve come up to see you. I don’t want to have to spend all evening with her’ in front of me. I waited for Robert to tell her not to be so stupid but actually what he did was take me aside and say that maybe she had a point. So they went on their own. Didn’t even try to sell my now spare ticket to pay me back.