Other People's Husbands

by Judy Astley

  It was hard, Marie told her, to keep a cleaner if you were going to be in the house for much of the day. Hers had left a week after Mike took early retirement. ‘They don’t want you hanging around,’ she’d told Sara. ‘They like the place to themselves so they can sit on the sofa and call their mates on your phone and watch daytime TV while having a crafty shot of your vodka. We pay them for the three hours and they scratch the surface in just under two, and everyone’s happy enough with that.’

  What would Ben be doing now? Back in the kitchen, Sara idly wondered about this while the croissants warmed. She collected the newspaper from the mailbox by the front door and went back to the kitchen to read it with her breakfast. Would he be out in his little terrace garden checking the progress of the nasturtium seedlings? Working, maybe, writing against a deadline? Or still asleep? She had an odd moment of wondering what he looked like sleeping. Some people, she thought, look almost childlike and sweet. Conrad looked his age when he slept. Still beautiful, but all the lines and crinkles settled into place, furrowing themselves that bit deeper when they weren’t supported by his smile or conversation. Close up, lovely as he was, he looked like cloth that someone had crumpled while damp and left lying around so the creases dried in. Probably her own skin did, too. She would never get a L’Oréal Age Perfect contract, that was for sure. But what, she wondered, would it be like to wake up next to an unfamiliar sleeping man after so many years with Conrad? How odd would that be? What an act of trust it was to be asleep with someone. Almost more intimate than sex.

  ‘Hey you’re up early; why didn’t you wake me?’ Conrad startled her, sliding his hands round her and kissing the back of her neck. She felt guilty, nervous in case he could read her thoughts. And what about the night before? The guilt was surely even worse about that. Wasn’t it horribly sinful that she’d been thinking about Ben while making love with Conrad, or was off-the-premises fantasizing a perfectly normal sex aid? She would have to discuss that with Stuart, next time they went to the pub at lunchtime. He was delightfully uninhibited when talking of sexual matters, even if it did tend to lead to him eyeing her up from behind and checking out the whippiness of twigs fallen from the trees around the Green. And maybe it wasn’t really disloyal, merely a bit of highly effective fantasy. After all, she (and presumably Ben) had absolutely no plans to indulge in the reality. It counted as no different from having lascivious thoughts about George Clooney. If that was a sin, more than half the women of the developed world were on the fast track to eternal damnation. The recording angel would get RSI trying to keep up with the crime lists.

  ‘I just wanted a bit of time to myself, before the hordes descended and trashed the kitchen all over again,’ she told him. ‘They’re like locusts; no, worse – they’re like wildebeest stampeding. Have you seen the state of the place? Is it only me who can load the dishwasher? I could spend all day chasing round after this lot. Between them and the Charlie care – which I don’t at all mind – I don’t even get a moment to think.’

  ‘Why do you want a moment to think about anything?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Thinking’s overrated. I’m giving it up.’

  ‘Oh are you?’ she laughed. ‘How’s that going to work then?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Haven’t thought about it . . . get it?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, hilarious!’ she conceded.

  ‘OK – but today . . . why don’t we just go out somewhere? Just walk out on it all. We’ll tell whoever’s here to sort it before Xavier throws a wobbler and we’ll just leave the rest of the buggers to it.’ Conrad poured boiling water over a camomile tea bag in a mug. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing someone from the Telegraph or Observer or whatever, to answer some inane questions Gerry’s fixed up for them to ask me. I can’t be arsed so I’m going to cancel, pleading a subsequent, more entertaining engagement. So let’s think of one, then it won’t be a lie.’

  ‘I suppose an exhibition’s out of the question?’ Sara teased. Conrad hated going to see other painters’ work, unless it was of those who’d been dead several hundred years. Sculptors he didn’t mind too much, but contemporary painters only made him growl. ‘I can’t see what they’re saying any more, only the childishly simple techniques they’re using to say it,’ he would mutter.

  Sara saw the sleep years drop away as he talked to her. Enthusiasm, life light, that was what gave you youth, she thought. He used to be able to catch that in his painting. If he really couldn’t do that any more, maybe he was right not to take on so much work. He already knew he was over the cusp of fashionable now, these things going in cycles as they did. Gerry might be determined – for profit reasons of his own – that there was one more upward curve in the wheel of Conrad’s fortunes, but how much worse would it be to work on something with only half his heart in it?

  Sara looked at the used wine glasses beside the sink – there hadn’t been enough room for them in the dishwasher the night before. The sink contained a plate and knife from Pandora’s late-night sandwich, a saucepan of congealed cheesy stuff, a sludge of greasy cold water. There were mugs on the worktop with half-inches of tea in them and probably several more scattered around the house. What was there to stay home for? She and Conrad would go out and then when they came home, well, who knew? Maybe the tidy fairies would have visited. By magic.

  ‘Yes – let’s escape. I think that would be fun. But first, as soon as I’ve eaten this croissant I’m going to walk Floss in the park for half an hour, just to clear my head.’

  Sara didn’t keep to any kind of regular timetable when it came to walking the dog. She took Floss out at any old time, morning or afternoon, and besides, very often it was Conrad who took her. All the same, seeing Mike on the same bench as before, with the poodle and another carton of Starbucks coffee, it was almost as if he hadn’t moved. He’d had his hair cut and didn’t look quite as wild and mad-professorish, but otherwise was his usual unkempt self. He slightly reminded her of Pigpen in the Snoopy cartoons, shedding clouds of dust everywhere he went. Having thought this, she tried hard not to laugh and somehow ended up giving him a far broader smile than she’d intended.

  ‘Morning, Sara; what a lovely smile!’ he said, getting up. She glanced at the ground, half expecting a shower of sawdust and plaster from whatever DIY project he was currently on. She recalled Marie saying something about him replacing the banister rails. The poodle yapped and pulled at its lead, then growled at Floss, who scuttled behind Sara.

  ‘Hi Mike,’ she said. ‘Gorgeous day, isn’t it?’ She was, for politeness’ sake, going to have to do the park circuit with him now. Knowing what she knew about Marie, this felt hazardous.

  ‘It is indeed somewhere in the vicinity of glorious,’ Mike said, walking along beside her, nudging into her. She moved slightly sideways – the path was not a wide one but there was plenty of space for two to walk without bashing into each other; did he need to be that close?

  ‘And the day is all the better for seeing you.’

  Sara sensed that something wasn’t quite right here. She’d moved across the path, but as they walked he was still slightly touching her. Distraction was needed – this wasn’t accidental. It was too early for the café to be open, which would have been useful. She could have pleaded the need for a cup of tea and possibly lost him that way. Shame it was closed, she’d often thought the early dog-walkers were a missed business opportunity. In Bushy Park there was a van serving hot dogs and bacon rolls – just the thing if you’d been striding energetically through the bracken throwing a ball for a bounding pet. No such luck here.

  ‘So how’s your old man?’ Mike suddenly said, then laughed. ‘And of course he is old, isn’t he? Sorry! I shouldn’t have said that, should I? I just meant that compared with the sweet young thing that you are . . .’

  ‘Conrad’s fine. Couldn’t be better,’ Sara said abruptly, moving off the path and on to the grass. She let Floss off the lead, picked up a stick, and hurled it as far as she could. What was Mike playing at? />
  ‘Really? Glad to hear it. Though of course, a girl like you . . . and I hope you don’t mind me saying but compared with him you are a girl . . .’ He coughed and looked uncomfortable. ‘Oh God, I’m terribly out of practice at this.’

  ‘Practice? At what?’ She considered whether it might be a good idea to turn back for home now. They were coming to the woodsy part of the park, where there were fallen trees, tangles of elder, hawthorn. She loved it because the scents of the undergrowth were so strong, so rank and fetid. It was repulsive (moist overtones of rot and death) and yet attractive (new growth, ripening). It was also quite dark, secluded, full of wild flowers hidden between crumbling branches, sticky with fungus. She didn’t feel unsafe alone, but with someone whose intentions were a bit unpredictable . . . But this was Mike. Overweight, puffing, somehow gender-neutral because he was her friend’s husband. How could she even think he was remotely a threat? All the same . . .

  ‘I’m out of practice at women.’ He sighed, stopping in the middle of the path. ‘At how to be complimentary. I’m doing it wrong, aren’t I? I sound like a sleazebag.’

  ‘You do, a bit,’ she admitted. ‘Sorry, but to be honest you were getting a bit alarming there. What’s going on?’

  ‘Well I hoped you might tell me, but I know you won’t. You girls all confide and keep your secrets, and a mere mortal man doesn’t get a chance. I know Marie’s up to something. I can’t compete with whatever it is she’s getting somewhere else that’s making her smile like a crazy woman, because we stopped all that lovey-dovey stuff years ago. You do stop, don’t you? I mean you can’t keep it up year after year. And you’d look silly, holding hands in the street like kids.’

  Sara thought about Conrad stroking her leg under the table in restaurants, about how he never walked past her without leaving a light touch on her body somewhere. It was like a cat, leaving a gentle scent, a hint of territory-claiming. On some occasions, such as when she was in the middle of a good party conversation, it had distracted and annoyed her a little; now she just thought how lucky she was; no wonder Marie was delighted to have so much attention. It was obviously sadly lacking at home.

  ‘What’s so silly about holding someone’s hand? Most women like that sort of thing. You could just start it up again, give it a go,’ Sara suggested, heading down the shaded route. Mike wasn’t going to pounce on her. She wouldn’t have to fight it out with him in the nettles, knee him somewhere painful and go home covered in scratches and an itchy rash. How could the thought have ever crossed her mind?

  ‘She’d wonder what I was up to.’ Mike sounded very pessimistic. He was annoying her, anticipating defeat before the fight began.

  ‘Mike – if you really think there’s something wrong, then just make the effort. There’s honestly nothing I can tell you.’ (This was true, because what, exactly, could she tell him that didn’t add up to a heap of hurt? Of course she wouldn’t. And one day it would be over and all would be well.) ‘But I really think that you shouldn’t just give up. That’s defeatist. The more you act like a sad doormat, the more Marie will walk all over you.’

  ‘Sara, you know last time in this park, you said you might come out for lunch with me?’ Mike brightened up suddenly, taking hold of her wrist. The path was narrow here, and muddy. She was surefooted, used to the parts where it went slidey. She wriggled her arm out of his grip. Maybe this path hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

  ‘Actually, I didn’t say I would, Mike. I just thanked you for the thought, that’s all,’ she told him, trying to keep her voice soft and calm. ‘What I did say was why don’t you take Marie out somewhere lovely? Woo her, for heaven’s sake! Make her feel loved! Give her the benefit of your wildest fantasies!’ The end of the undergrowth was in sight, where the path opened up into broad grassland again. There were plenty of people around and Sara felt slightly foolish to have even considered Mike a mauling menace. Poor guy, she thought, he just wanted to be loved. Didn’t everyone?

  Conrad’s journalist must have been warned that he was elusive and slippery and arrived at least half an hour early. As Sara got back to the house with Floss, a pink VW Beetle pulled up outside the front door and out clambered a small, harassed-looking girl clutching a white iBook, a notebook and a handbag, all of which she dropped on the ground while she was trying to manipulate her key to operate her car lock.

  ‘Ohhhhh! I keep doing that!’ she squealed as Sara opened the front door. ‘And it’s not my computer! Oh God, if it’s broken . . .’ She scrabbled about on the ground, trying to pick everything up. A wallet, two Tampax and a lipstick fell out of her bag. She leaned under the car to retrieve her pen, showing far too much exposed bum at the top of her low-cut jeans.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Sara said, pushing Floss into the house before the dog could add to the chaos by trying to eat the scattered possessions. The girl looked as if she was going to cry. Sara handed her her wallet and a couple of crumpled receipts and wondered why Conrad hadn’t phoned to cancel her visit. So much for going out.

  ‘And I’m late!’ the girl wailed. ‘I hate being late! I’m always late!’

  ‘No you’re not. Actually, you’re half an hour early.’ Conrad would be furious, having hoped to do a runner. Possibly not phoning her was yet another aspect of him being flaky: had he simply forgotten? He had never been one of those people who could barely get out of bed without looking in his diary to see what time he was scheduled to clean his teeth. And to be fair, although her scheduled visit had been written on the kitchen blackboard, someone had half-rubbed it out and overwritten it with a shopping list that requested beer and chocolate. Who, exactly, were they asking? Three guesses, she thought. There were sounds overhead: footsteps, water running. The house was gradually coming to life. Lizzie hadn’t come home the night before and Cassandra’s car had gone. She must have left while Sara had been in the park and taken Charlie to college with her, so it must be Jasper upstairs. Had he moved in for good? Perhaps she could suggest he job-share the cleaning with Xavier.

  The journalist, realizing she hadn’t completely screwed up, immediately became so still and calm, apparently stunned by this statement, that Sara was reminded of a squawking parrot that suddenly has a cloth thrown over its cage. Then she perked up again.

  ‘I’m not late? The bastards! They did that on purpose so I’d get here on time! I’m Nicky, by the way. So Conrad’s expecting me. That’s good, good. I haven’t got the day wrong, then!’

  ‘Er . . . no.’ Though Sara suspected from her tone that she had got a day wrong before. ‘Tea? Coffee? Do excuse the mess in here.’ Sara led her into the kitchen and cursed her idle family for leaving the entire house unfit for public view. How lucky that this wasn’t also a photo shoot. She could see Conrad on the pool terrace and managed to steer the girl out through the glass door. ‘Conrad?’ She called. ‘Your interviewer. Nicky.’ She gave him a be-nice-to-her look.

  ‘Shit! I was intending to go out and avoid you!’ he told her bluntly. ‘I wanted to cancel. In fact I still do. Why don’t you go home and just make something up?’

  ‘Oh!’ The girl looked stricken. ‘But . . . I . . . it wouldn’t be honest!’

  ‘Honest? Honest?’ Are you sure you’re a journalist? Haven’t you heard of Google?’

  Sara left them to it, went back into the kitchen, quickly made coffee and took it out to them, then went upstairs to the little office room, stepping over Jasper’s big wet footprints on the carpet. Music blared from his room . . . some rap thing. She switched on the computer, quickly looked through a few emails, then slotted in the CD-ROM which had photos of her paintings. She looked through them carefully, copying the ones she liked best into a new folder, all the ones she thought made up a good cross-section of colour and style. Then she burned them on to a new disk and closed down the computer. Conrad would be occupied for a while. This was as good a chance as any to drop the photos in to Ben. Stupidly, she didn’t have a phone number for him, or he for her, so she’d have to take a
chance, though whether the chance was on him being home or not she couldn’t quite decide. In a way, it would be a good thing if he was out, then she could just slide them through the letter box and not look as if she’d been hoping to see him. Because that, she thought as she glissed on a bit of eyeliner and brushed her hair, really wasn’t the plan at all.

  She was perfect for the job, this journalist. Natalie? Nicola? Nicky. She knew nothing about him, was as ignorant of the art world as you could get. Conrad ran a few names past her, trying her out. Dinos and Jake Chapman, Sarah Lucas, Gilbert and George. Blank. Nothing registered but increasing panic in those big green eyes. Mention of Tracey Emin raised a tiny glint of recognition but nothing more.

  He made a decision. ‘Thing is, Nicky,’ he told her, ‘I’m not actually going to do the being-seventy thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ She slumped over the table, looking defeated, and closed her notebook. ‘I’ve got the wrong person, haven’t I? You’re not the artist with the big birthday, the one who paints famous people looking all odd. You’re the one who’s given that big tree picture thing to the Tate, aren’t you? God, I’m so hopeless!’

  ‘No, no – that’s David Hockney. Big blond bloke. Glasses? Yorkshire?’ Nicky’s eyes flickered a bit, brain cogs were almost visibly creaking.

  ‘It’s OK, I am the one with the birthday. It’s just that . . .’ ‘Oh! Oh God you’re ill! I’m like, so sorry!’ Her eyes filled with easy tears. Conrad felt rather touched, but then realized she’d probably be just as tear-struck if a stray cat walked through the garden clutching a slaughtered rat. She was very pretty, very sweet. In the days pre-Sara he might well have bedded this girl before the interview was half over. He considered the idea in a purely intellectual, distant way. Lovely slender legs, slightly gangly. Her feet were arranged untidily beneath the table, shoes off and her toes pointing inwards. She, of course, would be horrified that he was picturing the feel of her smooth pale skin, imagining her making a lot of ecstatic noise while wrapped round him on a bed. If she had any clue about what was in his mind, he could picture her back home later with her flatmates (there were sure to be flatmates – she was the type to share. All shoes and handbags and a jumble of make-up and diet books) telling them, ‘There this like old man, like seriously old? And he was like coming on to me?’ He hadn’t thought like this for a long, long while, and it crossed his mind that she was probably Pandora’s age, if that. Wrong.