Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  Our sex life is undoubtedly good, getting better, if anything. Oliver is a generous and imaginative lover, and I have absolutely no complaints in that direction. We can still hardly keep our hands off each other and he only has to look at me for my limbs to turn to liquid fire and my heart to race. I find making love in the early morning particularly sweet and fulfilling when we’re both warm and relaxed. He has a lovely habit of waking me before the alarm goes off, so that we have time before the day begins.

  Apart from the sex, married life seems far less interesting and exciting than I’d expected. Little has changed for Oliver except that he’s moved house and has someone other than his mother to cook his meals and do his washing for him, while I’m feeling run down and deprived of fun. Bored, I suppose, like Jo-Jo. I’m equally tired of the domestic goddess routine and desperate for more fun.

  ‘Even married women still need romancing,’ I gently remind him one evening, slipping into a peach négligée to entice him. He laughs and takes me up to bed, but doesn’t seem to think we need do any of that social stuff now that we’re married. Much more fun at home, he insists, where the bed’s handy.

  Chapter Five

  We haven’t seen much of our old friends since the wedding and I begin to wonder why. One couple, Tony and Jane, with whom we used to be really friendly, still live close to Mum and Dad. I’ve known them both most of my life, but Tony and Oliver soon became firm friends too. Oliver even helped Tony get a job as a clerk in the same office, once he was transferred to Kendal. Yet we seem to have lost touch lately. Maybe the fault is mine and I should make more of an effort.

  One Saturday afternoon in early September, with no urgent calls or cottages to clean, and Oliver happily ensconced on the golf course, I decide to call in and say hello to Jane. She was one of my bridesmaids after all, and Tony was best man.

  Jane looks surprised to find me on her doorstep but invites me in for coffee. I chat about inconsequential gossip, and about mutual friends as she boils the kettle and fills the cafetière but I notice that her manner is odd, rather stiff and awkward. She’s certainly at pains to explain how busy she and Tony have been these last few months. ‘Anyway, I expect you’ve got new friends now you’ve moved into a big detached house on a smart estate,’ she says, as she carries the tray through into the lounge.

  I follow her with a frown, puzzled by her attitude as much as by the remark. Does she imagine that we’ve gone all posh and toffee nosed? ‘We’re slowly getting to know people, although it isn’t easy. The place feels a bit like Stepford at times,’ I laugh. ‘Or as if everyone has died, it’s so quiet. People seem to work late, and they all drive cars. You never see anyone walk anywhere so there’s precious little opportunity to chat over the garden wall. I’ve missed you, and all the old gang in town. I do hope we’re still friends.’

  She plunges the coffee and pours it into two earthenware mugs. ‘Course we are, only I’m just saying . . . well, actually I think Oliver sees Tony as a bit dull and boring these days, now he’s moving onward and upward. I don’t think they’re as friendly as they used to be.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I’m sure they’re still good mates. They work in the same office, after all.’

  Jane seems about to say something more but then evidently reconsiders, thinks better of it and sips her coffee instead. I wonder if the two have fallen out over something, and Oliver has forgotten to mention it to me. ‘I thought you might pop over to see us,’ I say. ‘View the new house.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s very grand,’ she comments, her voice flat and uninterested, and I’m even more puzzled, wondering what I’ve done to deserve this cool treatment. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve neglected you a bit recently, only Em and I have been run off our feet all summer, as you can imagine. It’s been hectic. And of course Oliver makes huge demands upon my time these days.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ she says tartly. ‘Tony says he’s a real gadabout. Never at home in that beautiful house of yours.’

  I feel a burst of resentment over this comment. It’s true that Oliver is out quite a lot, but it’s not like Jane to be so bitchy. I’ve obviously upset her badly through my neglect. ‘Look, you’re welcome to pop in any time for a coffee, or come over for a meal some time. Work isn’t so all consuming now the season is largely over. I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘I think you’d best ask your darling husband first. The last time Tony suggested we got together, Oliver seemed to be saying that we no longer had anything common.’

  I’m shocked to the core by this remark, and say as much. ‘I don’t believe you. Oliver would never say such a thing.’

  ‘Not in so many words perhaps, but it’s clear that’s what he thinks. You don’t need to feel obliged to keep in touch, Carly, now that you’re married and living on that posh estate.’

  ‘Why do you say that? You and I, and Tone, have been friends all our lives. My marriage doesn’t change that, does it?’

  Her cheeks grow quite pink. ‘Of course not. I’m just saying . . .’

  ‘What are you saying, Jane?’

  She looks at me, takes a breath, and then launches into what sounds very like a well-practised speech. ‘Well, to be honest, we’ve been a bit worried about you, Tone and I. I mean, it was a surprise when you married Oliver Sheldon. It was a bit sudden, wasn’t it? I never thought you’d actually go through with it, hoped you’d eventually see sense. You’d only known him for a few months after all, and hadn’t lived with him or anything.’

  I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing, that one of my oldest friends is saying these things to me. One of my bridesmaids, for heavens sake! ‘What does that matter whether we lived together or not? You’ve seen us together. You know how much in love we are. What on earth has got into you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well then, where is all this nonsense coming from?’

  ‘We’re just concerned, that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason. Like you say, we’re friends, right? I just hope your coming round here doesn’t mean things have gone pear shaped already, although it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. If I’m honest, I never thought Oliver was good enough for you, Carly. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him and I’m surprised you do.’ Her face is flame red by this time and I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

  I set down the coffee mug very carefully and stand up. ‘I think I’d best be getting back. Since my choice of husband doesn’t seem to meet with your approval, I’ll say goodbye. No need to show me out, I can find my own way.’

  As I stalk to the door, Jane leaps to her feet and rushes after me. ‘Don’t take offence. I didn’t mean anything by it, not really. Look, Carly, it’s not me saying this, it’s Tony. He can’t stand Oliver, that’s all it is. They’ve had a bit of scrap over something, but it needn’t affect you and me.’

  ‘Obviously it has affected us. It’s affected you by the sound of it.’

  ‘We can still be friends though, can’t we?’

  I look at her, eyebrows raised. ‘I don’t think so, do you?’

  There’s a small silence, then she pulls open the door and says with a false brightness, ‘I’ll pop in some time . . . for coffee . . . as you suggest.’

  We both know that she won’t.

  ‘Have you and Tony had a falling out?’ I ask Oliver that evening as I flit about the kitchen cooking pasta, chopping onions, mixing a cheese sauce, trying to appear cool, calm and collected, while frantically attempting to catch up after my couple of hours out by making something quick and easy. I feel even more depressed after an afternoon with my old friend, not less. Oliver pours us a glass of red wine each while I relate to him my strange conversation with Jane. He shrugs and says he has no recollection of any row between himself and Tony.

  ‘Her attitude was most puzzling,’ I explain, taking a welcome slurp of the wine. The encounter has upset me more than I’m prepared to say, but Oliver can’t understand what’s wrong either
.

  ‘Don’t go round to see her again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re just jealous of my success, suffering from some sort of inverted snobbery. Forget them.’

  I’m appalled by the idea, reluctant to let them go completely. ‘I can’t do that. Jane has been one of my best friends for most of my life, since junior school. I can’t just cut her off.’

  ‘You can if that’s her attitude. She’s made it very clear what she thinks of me.’

  ‘She said she was only repeating Tony’s opinions. Are you sure you and Tone haven’t had a scrap, a few ill-chosen remarks, or a falling-out of some sort?’

  ‘Are you doubting me? Are you blaming me for this?’

  ‘No, of course not. I just wonder what’s wrong.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong. She’s jealous. She’s a stupid, interfering woman. It’s a bloody cheek to suggest our marriage has gone ‘pear shaped’, as if you’d gone round there looking for a shoulder to cry on. Forget her. Ignore them both.’

  But I don’t feel that I can. ‘Maybe I should get to the bottom of this, apologise or something for whatever it is I’m supposed to have done. I need to know what it is that’s really bothering her.’

  ‘Leave it! Do you hear me? I don’t want you to see her again.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Oliver lets out a heavy sigh, one I’m growing familiar with, which usually indicates he’s running out of patience. I stop arguing and dash over to check on the pasta, wishing I’d never started on this conversation.

  Later, as we sit opposite each other at the dining table, he swirls the wine in his glass, blood red and glinting in the candlelight. ‘If it’s a choice between me, your loving husband, and some old friend you happen to have known for a while, who would you choose?’

  There really is no answer to that, but somehow, losing a good friend in this way makes me feel more isolated than ever.

  As autumn approaches, I’m finding that I’m spending quite a few evenings at home alone. Oliver often goes out after dinner, playing golf, cricket or football with friends, or he’ll stay late at the office dealing with a client. On Tuesdays he’s in a quiz league, and, of course, Friday night with his mates is sacred.

  Privately I feel a little jealous of his bachelor-style social life. When I mention this to Oliver, say how lonely I get on the nights he’s out, he brings me home a pizza, as a treat, he says. It’s not exactly what I had in mind. I was hoping he’d take me to a movie, or a meal out occasionally at that little Italian restaurant we used to go to before we were married.

  I consider getting involved with some hobby or other myself, and mention an aerobics class available locally that I might attend, but Oliver isn’t in favour.

  ‘I thought you said your job leaves you exhausted every night, and you’ve still got all the washing and housework to do. How would you manage to fit it all in?’

  I sigh. Maybe I have got enough on my plate right now. After a busy summer with the holiday letting business perhaps this isn’t a good time to start an aerobics class. ‘I’ll see how I feel in a month or two,’ I agree. ‘Maybe in the new year.’

  This creeping sense of loneliness is doing me no good at all, though if I complain too much he accuses me of whingeing.

  ‘We have a beautiful home, what more do you want?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m fine, really I am.’

  ‘I should hope so. I’m just about broke after paying for this house.’

  I’m filled with guilt at this comment and, of course, he’s right, I am very fortunate. It’s just that it’s beginning to grate that while he’s fiercely protective of his own freedom, determined that, married or not, he has the right to come and go as he pleases, my own free time is another matter entirely. Oliver likes to think of me sitting at home, waiting for him. If I pop over to see my sister and my nieces and nephew, he wants to know exactly where I’m going and what time I’ll be back. I caught him once checking the mileometer on my car and I had to laugh.

  ‘You know how far it is to Jo-Jo’s, a little under two miles. I haven’t done any detours, or wasted too much petrol. You can be a real skin-flint at times, do you know that?’ I teased him, kissing his nose.

  ‘You might be meeting your lover for all I know,’ he dryly remarked, and I laughed all the more.

  One evening I can’t find my car keys. I’ve promised to pop over to Emma’s to talk over how we can develop a better strategy for following up enquiries, and cope more efficiently with bookings as they come in. The keys aren’t in my bag where I usually keep them, and I spend ages hunting high and low. I look everywhere, turn the house upside down. In the end I’m forced to ring Emma and postpone our meeting. An hour later, when I search in my bag for something else, there they are, tucked in the side pocket.

  ‘I must be losing my mind,’ I say, flopping back on the sofa beside my husband. ‘The keys were in my bag all the time.’

  ‘You’re too stressed,’ he calmly informs me, a small smile on his handsome face, and with such a tenderness in his tone that it melts my heart. ‘Lucky for me though, I’d much rather have you here,’ he says, starting to kiss me.

  After we’ve made love he goes off for a shower, says he might pop out for a quick drink at the pub.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I say.

  ‘Looking like that?’ he teases. ‘As if you’ve just fallen out of bed.’

  I giggle. ‘I never got as far as the bed.’

  He leans over and gives me a long lingering kiss. ‘Well, go to it now, darling. Don’t wait up, you need your sleep.’

  I sigh and cuddle the cushion as I wave him off. He’s so considerate, fussing over me like an old mother hen that I forgive him the fact that he’s the one going out again, and not me. Why can’t things always be this way between us? Why am I always whingeing? And why am I turning into such a scatter-brain and always losing things? Maybe he’s right, and I am doing far too much.

  It’s a week or two later and again I’m at home alone watching a video of Pride and Prejudice while working on a new brochure for Perfect Cottages. I’ve printed out the basic design from my lap top, now I’m sticking on photos, and adding little sketches. Once the whole thing is finished to my satisfaction, I’ll scan it back in, adjust the formatting a little, then get it printed up professionally.

  I hear his key in the lock and look up with a smile. ‘Hello, darling. Had a good evening?’

  He doesn’t answer immediately but looks pointedly at the lap top on the floor, the stack of books on tourism I’ve been browsing through, and at the papers I’m working on. ‘I thought I told you never to bring work home?’

  I smile and shrug. ‘Needs must when the devil drives. It’s too hectic at the office to deal with this sort of thing. I didn’t think it mattered, since you were out. Anyway, darling, you bring work home all the time and hide yourself away in your den, so why shouldn’t I occasionally do the same?’

  I can see by the way his jaw tightens that I’ve said the wrong thing and I feel a small flutter of concern. ‘You surely aren’t comparing your work with mine?’ he asks, giving a sarcastic little smile.

  ‘N-no, of course not,’ I stammer, feeling a curl of unease.

  ‘Don’t tell me that partner of yours has got you doing the books? You know nothing about accounts. You’re a first class idiot over money.’

  ‘I’m not doing accounts. This is a brochure I’m designing,’ I say, feeling my cheeks start to burn, for it’s true, I’m not good with figures. I generally leave all of that to Em. I am, however, very careful with money though judge it wise not to argue that point.

  ‘You’ve no flair for design either. I made all the decisions about this house. You were hopeless.’

  I want to say that I was never given the chance to offer an opinion, that everything was settled between himself and the builder without reference to me, but it seems petty, so I try to smile and say something about doing my best.

  He gives a
heavy sigh of exasperation. ‘If you must make a fool of yourself, Carly, at least do so where I can’t witness your folly. I won’t have your pathetic work cluttering up our beautiful home and intruding on our time together.’ Mouth tight, he snatches up the papers off my lap, opens the door of the wood burning stove, and throws them on to the fire.

  I gasp in dismay as the flames lick and blacken the photos, quickly consuming my detailed design. ‘What have you done? I’ve been working on that all night.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a copy on your lap top,’ he says, his sneering tone tight with disapproval.

  ‘Not the drawings and photos, I don’t. They still needed to be scanned in. Oh, Oliver, that’s a whole night’s work wasted.’ I can feel a great wodge of tears forming at the back of my throat, misery and frustration almost overwhelming me.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t start getting hysterical.’

  ‘I’m not hysterical, but I am cross. I don’t understand what devil gets into you at times.’

  ‘Oh, Oliver, I am cross,’ he says, sarcastically mimicking my voice. ‘Are you daring to question me? I won’t have it,’ he coldly informs me. ‘How was I to know you foolishly hadn’t scanned those stupid photos on to your computer? Now I’d like a cup of tea, if it’s not too much trouble.’ Instantly dismissing the dispute he switches off the video and reverts to a football match on TV, settles himself comfortably on the sofa, unperturbed by my distress.

  Upset as I am, I march to the kitchen and switch on the kettle, quietly seething. I’m nearly bursting with frustration but realise it’s useless to protest. Besides, it’s true what he says, I should have scanned the damned photos into the computer first. I feel so stupid and inadequate. Why can’t I do anything properly?