Other People's Husbands

by Judy Astley

  Sara laughed. ‘Well forgive me for being boring here, but is an honest woman supposed to have extra-marital? And is it ever harmless?’

  ‘Oh Sara, you just wait! If you really think it couldn’t ever happen to you then you’re tragically lacking in imagination!’

  Jasper was a very quiet boy, Cassandra thought, but he was comfortable in his silence and easy enough to be with. She could see him now, lying on the lawn under the willow tree way down the garden. His toe was twitching in time to something on his iPod and he didn’t look as if he planned to move from this spot for some time to come. Cass needed to read some more of the Hardy, and had things to look up on the Internet. Charlie was awake and wanting to be entertained. He would only take so long of batting around the dangling duck that hung from his play centre. Pandora had gone out to try to find a local part-time job in a bar, and wouldn’t be back for ages, especially if she started looking round the shops.

  Lizzie had gone to visit some old friends in Chelsea and hinted that if things worked out, she might not even be back at all that night. Old people who’d been hippies seemed to have no second thoughts about sleeping with all and sundry, Cass reflected. Lizzie made no secret of what she called her running total. If anything, she boasted about it. Even at her age, she seemed to expect to add a few more victims to the list. Over supper the night before, she’d congratulated Cass on leaving Paul, but said she hoped it wasn’t just because he slept around a bit. ‘Young people should put it about. When else can they? You should do the same, darling,’ was her advice. ‘Get it out of your system while you’re young, otherwise you’ll be for-ever wondering what it was you missed out on.’

  ‘You’re still checking up on that, are you? Making sure you aren’t missing out? God, it’s sure taking a while!’ Conrad had teased her. Poor Jasper, Cassandra thought now, as she looked at the long skinny boy-figure stretched out on the grass, no wonder he was silent. How many times must he have heard his own mum airily dismissing sexual fidelity as bourgeois, heard her declaring that the world was so much the brighter for a little light sexual adventure. No pressure then, Jas. The only way he could possibly rebel would be to stay stubbornly celibate.

  ‘Jasper?’ she called down the garden. No response. She picked up Charlie from his rug on the grass, where he was doing his best to learn how to crawl, and carried him down to the oblivious teenager.

  ‘Jas?’ She prodded his shoulder gently with her toe. Jasper jumped as if she’d clouted him with a hammer.

  ‘Wha’? Ouch!’ he grumbled, shading his eyes from the sun as he looked up at her.

  ‘Sorry. I surprised you, OK, but I didn’t hurt you. Don’t overreact! I just need a small favour, Jas.’

  He sat up and took the earplugs out. This, she thought, looked promising.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, suspicious.

  ‘Nothing too tricky. Just, would you mind taking care of Charlie for me for an hour? I’ve got uni work to do and I really need a bit of space to concentrate. Charlie likes going to the park . . . and there’s swings and stuff. I know he’s too young for them . . .’

  ‘But you think I’m not?’ Jasper grinned suddenly. Cass wondered if he looked like his father – she couldn’t remember Lizzie’s current husband, Jack, very well. He didn’t much like leaving Cornwall. Lizzie said he considered the rest of England to be enemy territory. Then another thought crossed her mind: that’s if Jack was Jasper’s father. Old people – soo like irresponsible. She cuddled Charlie tighter to her.

  ‘No! Charlie loves to look at other children and there’ll be plenty of them there. They do this thing, babies, they give each other the evil eye when they pass in their prams. Checking each other out, you know?’

  ‘Cool. Early infant warfare!’ Jasper stood up and brushed grass off his jeans. ‘Yeah OK. I’ll take him out for you. Will he get, like, hungry or . . . ugh I don’t have to do the nappy-change thing, do I?’

  Cassandra laughed. ‘No he’s just been fed, changed, all that. He’ll be no problem as long as he’s got stuff to look at. No worries. Come on, I’ll load him into the buggy for you.’

  Ben must have forgotten. Or maybe saying he’d come in today and check out Sara’s class had been just a casual, polite remark. It didn’t matter, really it didn’t. She wasn’t really looking at the door every two minutes, she wasn’t really uncomfortably conscious that her blood pressure was nowhere near its normal low level. He’d said he’d come and see how the students interacted for this piece he was writing, ask them what they got out of their time here. He hadn’t had time last week when she’d seen him in the staffroom, said he had someone to meet at the station but would come back. Today. This afternoon. She’d been waiting for him and the class was well under way. Not that it mattered, really, though hadn’t she chosen what she was going to wear with a lot more than the usual casual hurry? She had decided on a silky pink Toast dress with a deeper pink soft tulle lining, and a mink-coloured wrap top, loosely tied at the front. She was also wearing a delicate necklace of purple and tawny glass that Conrad had given her. She’d washed her hair that morning which meant it was a bit all-over-the-place, but it felt soft and silky against her neck. But otherwise, no extra effort. Definitely not.

  She must, she thought, have a face far more discreet than Marie’s, otherwise Marie, in the staffroom, would have seen something in her that would have given her plenty of cause for comment. I’m two-faced today, she thought to herself, completely two people. She thought fondly of Conrad, picturing him now seeking refuge from Lizzie and her endless reminiscing about her glory days in the late sixties. He’d be out on Petersham Meadows with Floss, listening to birdsong and trying not to let hay fever spoil the moment. Years ago, he’d predicted this time would come.’One day you’ll meet someone your own age, and you’ll fall for him so thoroughly, so catastrophically, you’ll wonder why you were ever with me,’ he’d said. They’d been at the top of the Empire State Building at the time. She’d kissed him and laughed, dismissing his statement as mere attention-seeking, fishing for reassurance. It must have been ten years ago, when he was approaching sixty. Perhaps there was a ten-year age-wobbler thing that he got. That time it was the dread of another man, this time a flirtation with the notion of death.

  ‘You see, I don’t think fruit can be fire. Fruit has a chill to it. You don’t get hot fruit. Fruit’s mostly water. Or you could say air. And it grows out of the earth. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not fire.’ Pedantic Pete was finding fault with Melissa’s still life. The class were working on the theme of Elements – any interpretation of this that they chose. Today’s element was Fire, and several had brought a selection of items they wanted to paint; others were taking a more abstract approach. Cherry, who had her own determined agenda in this group, was ignoring the topic – as usual – and was steadily working on a large acrylic painting of her cousin’s wedding from photos she’d pinned up all over her easel. The rest of them were keeping clear of her – too close an approach and she’d start on the story of how the pregnant chief bridesmaid had had to run outside halfway through the service for a wee in the graveyard.

  Pamela Mottram was flamboyantly painting something in shades of vibrant pink while humming a tune that sounded vaguely operatic, and Melissa had assembled a still life of fruit but had spent most of the class time rearranging it on a plate, unable to make a decision about composition. She had eaten several of the strawberries and the rest were becoming squashy, juice flowing off the plate and on to the floor. She’d piled slices of peach on top, with blueberries over those, interspersed with mint leaves.

  ‘I’m making it look like a real fire. The way the colours of the flames go, dark at the bottom, then paler and flickery with blue and green?’ Melissa argued with Pete. ‘Only I’m using fruit. It’s . . . it’s . . . representational,’ she claimed triumphantly, looking to Sara for backup and pleased with herself for having thought of an end-of-argument term.

  ‘Looks like half a friggin’ trifle to me
,’ Pete grumbled, well beaten on syllable count, but otherwise unconvinced. ‘You wanna pour some cream and custard on it and we can all have a bit.’

  Sara stepped in to keep the peace. ‘Hey, look, there’s no need to argue over it! Melissa’s had a really good, original idea. I love the way the colours are bleeding together, the way flames do, constantly changing . . .’

  Lively debate was one thing, and to be encouraged, but downright personal criticism would thoroughly shake the confidence of someone as flaky as Melissa. Sara wondered how she’d managed to get out of the greengrocer’s shop with a selection of fruit that pleased her. She must have been in there hours, dithering between blueberries and blackcurrants. Expensive selection, too . . . though now she came to think of it, Melissa had brought them in all jammed loosely into one carrier bag. Given her previous track record, possibly the goods had not actually been paid for. Or was that harsh?

  Just as Sara was turning her attention to Pamela’s efforts, the door behind her creaked open. Ben. At last! So . . . now what?

  ‘Oh Ben! Hi – I’d forgotten you were coming!’

  Now why had she said that? Such a lie! How stupid. How flustery, silly and girlish, and why had her heart rate rocketed?

  ‘Good to see you again, Sara.’ Ben came over. He was looking at her intently, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Just in a meeting-a-friend sort of way, but all the same . . . Sara was aware of sudden silence in the room and a dozen pairs of curious eyes of the collected members of Beginners Art staring at the two of them. She could see Pamela Mottram squinting across, shamelessly inquisitive. She had stopped painting to watch them, and, noting Pamela’s keen-eared stillness, the others followed suit, making Sara feel as if she was on some kind of stage. Why were they staring? She’d told them he’d be coming and would want to talk to some of them. They hadn’t taken this kind of keen interest at the time.

  ‘You didn’t come to visit me,’ Ben said, as if Sara had seriously disappointed him. He was talking quietly – Pamela Mottram and Pedantic Pete glanced at each other and, suspicious of such intimacy, stepped closer, pretending to be appraising Melissa’s work, yet again.

  ‘I didn’t know I was really expected to. I assumed the invitation was just a neighbourly throwaway remark!’ she told him.

  ‘I don’t do throwaway,’ he said. ‘Have you got a car with you or can I drive you home after this? You could come and see what I’ve done to your friend Alma’s cottage, tell me if you think I’ve improved it or wrecked it. I make very good tea and I can promise you Jaffa cakes.’

  ‘Ah . . . well there’s an offer I can’t refuse. OK then, I’d love to, though I have got my car and a bit of clearing up to do here after the class, so shall I just turn up as soon as I get finished? I’ve got a house full of people to go home to . . . it would be good to have a breathing space between this and them.’

  This was not a date. Not that she wanted one – she was married and old(ish), not a teenager. Nor was she as sex-crazed as her sister. All the same, she felt skittish and happy. Then she remembered why he was here. It wasn’t about her, not at all.

  ‘You must come and meet Pamela Mottram.’ She led him across the classroom to where Pamela was smirking with a disturbing knowingness. ‘Pamela is very much a fixture of this college. Just what you need for your Guardian article, I should think. The class is working on a series about the elements . . . today’s is fire.’

  ‘Pamela, this is Ben, Ben Stretton. He’d like to talk to you about the social aspect of this place, how the students interact, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Hello Pamela,’ he said, smiling at her and looking at her energetic rendition of pink spikes on the paper. ‘Oh, and I like that. It’s . . . er . . .’ He hesitated, looking at Sara rather desperately, and she could see he felt like Prince Charles faced during a gallery visit with some incomprehensible exhibit. In this case, though, she couldn’t rescue him. Pamela’s interpretations of themes could take any form. One could only take a wild guess. ‘It looks like arrows? Or, er . . .’ He was evidently struggling.

  ‘Penises!’ Pamela boomed. ‘They’re penises. The fire of passion! They’re Aflame with Desire!’

  ‘Right . . . er . . . great!’

  *

  ‘No. No she doesn’t want to speak to you, she’s doing some work. She said if you phoned the house to tell you to get lost.’ Pandora lay on the purple sofa, flicking between TV channels while very much enjoying giving her sister’s boyfriend a hard time. There was something so deeply satisfying about passing on someone else’s fury. It saved you having to work up plenty of your own, but at the same time maddened the other person to a delightful degree. She could hear the desperation in Paul’s voice. It was a good voice, lazy, articulate and, what was that line in The Great Gatsby that she’d recently read? Yes that was it: his voice was full of money.

  She’d met Paul a few times, and had hung out with him the day Charlie had been born when they were all up at the hospital when Cass was in labour and alternating between shrieking that no, of course she didn’t want drugs she was having Natural Childbirth, wasn’t she – and then minutes later squealing for an epidural. Paul had been pretty calm, quite capable and unflapping until Charlie was actually born, then he’d gone sweetly tearful and delighted and the way he’d been hugging Cass when all the parents and Pandora went in to see them had made them all feel very aaaaaah, lovely. Perhaps she was being unfair to him now, because she hadn’t actually got any kind of problem with him. This was Cass’s gig. Panda was only doing what she’d been asked to do.

  Would anyone ever again be like this with her, she now wondered. It was a while since she’d had someone being one hundred per cent loving towards her, desperate to see her. Months, a year nearly, had passed since Ollie had gone travelling, saying he’d only be a couple of months, and leaving the words ‘and then when I get back . . .’ hanging in the air with the rest of the future not quite promised. He was never coming back now. The blonde girl in Toronto had a fabulous flat, fabulous body. Panda had seen the Facebook pics, read the comment tags and the between-the-lines messages in the way they looked together, all partied out and cuddly and loving: Ollie had new friends, a new life, a new woman. ‘Over’ was the big word that hadn’t yet been said, but Pandora was no idiot. She and Ollie were, no question, an ex-relationship.

  ‘Well if she won’t talk to me, how can I sort it out with her? She’s blocked me from her mobile and her emails; what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Paul. Can’t you just write an old-fashioned letter and say, “Hey Charlie is my baby too and I’ve got rights” or something?’

  ‘I’ve got responsibilities as much as rights,’ Paul said. ‘More than, even.’ Pandora was surprised and impressed by this. Did Cass have the first clue how lucky she was? What an idiot of a sister. Work it out with him, girl, why don’t you.

  ‘Can I talk to you about it? And about how to get through to her mad brain?’ Paul asked. He sounded so sad, poor boy. Well, boy, Pandora thought, he was her own age. But boys mature so much more slowly, which meant that in real terms, a bit like dog years or something, he was way younger, surely, barely mid-teens.

  ‘You are talking to me,’ she said, feeling a bit more sympathetic. ‘I really don’t know what to say to you, though. All I know is what I’ve just told you. She hasn’t got anything to say to you, and if you called I was to tell you to go away. She’s doing some college work.’

  ‘No, I mean talk to you properly. Like, face to face? Just about Cass and Charlie and what to do. You’re her sister; you know her best of anyone. Please? I could come and meet you in a bar somewhere?’

  There was a long silence while Pandora worked out what was the best thing to do. If she said no, that would be yet more rejection. He’d give up eventually, feel there was no chance. Cass was only being moody and idiotic. She shouldn’t slam the door shut on him permanently, not when there was a child involved.

  ‘OK,’ Pand
ora heard herself agreeing. ‘Tomorrow? Maybe the day after? I’ll meet you at All Bar One. But if you ever tell Cass . . .’

  ‘I won’t tell Cass. This is just between you and me, promise. And . . . Pandora?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just, you know . . . like, cheers for this?’

  Desire is the very essence of man.

  (Benedict de Spinoza)

  Sara hadn’t had the best afternoon’s teaching; or rather, it could be argued that her class hadn’t had the top value in terms of an afternoon’s learning. Luckily she hadn’t needed to say much, because the class members, for once, seemed to be thoroughly focused and had a pretty clear idea of what they were doing. The room was peaceful, with them all quietly absorbed. All she’d had to do was a lot of vague wandering about in a daze, passing the odd unhelpful comment to students who looked more than a little surprised to be interrupted. Ben was still on the premises, and had taken Melissa and Pamela out to the students’ canteen to talk to them about what they’d gained in terms of friends from the college. Sara pictured him buying them tea and macaroons, while the rest of the class members painted themselves into a near stupor. The students could tell that Sara was mentally elsewhere. Every now and then she’d catch one of them staring at her with a wondering look. She felt bad about her lack of concentration, at one point absent-mindedly telling Pete the Pedant that she thought his rather ambitious semi-abstract rendition of the Great Fire of London really did capture the essence of an erupting volcano.

  ‘It was me doing the volcano, not him,’ grouched Evelyn, a disgruntled woman with a look of the late Thora Hird, who smelled slightly of Scotch and rarely came out from behind her easel to make any comment in the class at all.

  ‘Sorry . . . of course it is. Sorry.’ Well, it was an easy mistake – it was tricky, keeping up with the class members’ varying styles. To their credit, they all had their own arty quirks and preferences, but sometimes, especially with the more bizarrely abstract among them, it was like being in an infant class where you had to smile and say, ‘Ooh lovely . . . and that is . . . ?’ with the risk that they’d be horribly affronted that you couldn’t immediately identify, say, Windsor Castle painted from directly overhead, or the rocks off Land’s End. Sara looked at her watch, looked at the door, willed the time away. At last, close to the end of session time, Melissa and Pamela returned.