The Other Half

by Sarah Rayner

  “Hi.” He smiled. They’d been curled up together throughout the night, although James had said that he wasn’t normally comfortable sleeping spoons-style. But they had both been out for the count for hours, so Chloë concluded that he didn’t seem to have a problem with this kind of closeness where she was concerned.

  Nor did he seem to have a problem getting aroused, and they made love slowly and sensually, enjoying the luxury of it being their first morning together and not having to rush.

  “That was lovely,” sighed Chloë, when they’d finished. Maybe it’s because I’m still getting to know him, she thought, but, I feel incredibly liberated sexually with James—and this is just the start of our stay.

  As she got up he gave her bottom a mischievous smack. “Let’s go paint this town red.”

  They made their way down for breakfast. Tables in alcoves overlooking the lobby allowed Chloë and James to watch as other guests headed off to work while they ate. Nonetheless the dimly lit dining area was disconcerting first thing in the morning, and tucking into coffee and croissants in a Gothic setting left Chloë even more confused about the time difference than she already was. The choice of food was lavish—everything was topped with a single strawberry: the yogurts, the fruit cocktails, the grapefruit halves, the pastries … It was such a heady concoction that Chloë felt quite intoxicated before they’d even left the building.

  * * *

  First stop was the pier at West Forty-second Street to catch a boat tour around Manhattan.

  “The Circle Line is the one touristy thing we’re going to do,” said James. “It will help you get your bearings, so when you’re on your own in the city you’ll know where you are.”

  It was a warm, crisp day with clear blue skies and a light breeze. Inevitably, the boat was full of tourists, but to Chloë’s surprise, many New Yorkers too. They sat out on the deck as the boat circumnavigated the island, down the Hudson River, past the West Village and Tribeca to the Financial District. They passed Ground Zero and the constructions being erected where the World Trade once was, and Chloe sensed a shiver go up her spine. They went around the Statue of Liberty and back to Battery Park City, then up the East River and under the bridges—Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg. Chloë took photos of them all. They glimpsed millionaires’ mansions with vast gardens leading down to the water and poor tenement blocks; the dominating presence of the United Nations alongside the Chrysler building glinting in the sun; even a prison and a monastery, and throughout were kept amused by the anecdotes of a very ironic guide.

  “So that’s why the natives do it,” she said to James when the boat docked three hours later. “It was the best touristy thing I’ve ever done. Though I’d like to persuade you to make one more exception to your rule—it’s only a few blocks from our hotel according to this map…”

  And so they went up the Empire State. At 102 floors up, Manhattan stretched out on all sides below; now Chloë could see the rectangle of Central Park, the gridded regularity of the streets, the varying heights, shapes, and architectural styles of the buildings. Momentarily she felt as if she could reach for the skies, achieve anything, be anyone she wanted to be.

  But back at the hotel the receptionist brought them down to earth with a bump. “You had a message while you were out,” he said, handing over a slip of paper.

  James unfolded it and paled. “Shit! Maggie!” he said. “I never phoned her to say I’d arrived safely.” He glanced nervously at Chloë. The receptionist looked away—doubtless he’d seen worse indiscretions.

  “Why don’t I stay down here and you give her a call from the room?” she offered.

  “Thanks,” said James. He charged off in the direction of the elevator, leaving Chloë unsure what to do with herself. In the end she made her way up the floating staircase to the bar and ordered a double espresso. Then she took a seat overlooking reception as they had at breakfast, and tried not to think about James sitting on their bed talking to his wife, and to focus instead on the people coming and going below.

  Exotic beauties with pierced and bejeweled rock-star boyfriends, businessmen who could be Mafiosi, two apparently gay men with a newborn baby—what an unlikely mix they were! Yet try as she might, Chloë couldn’t help wondering what James was saying to Maggie on the phone upstairs.

  The fact he’s too wrapped up in being here to have remembered to call is a reflection of the amazing trip we’re having, she decided, pleased to have made such an impact. Yet at the same time her heart went out to Maggie. I bet she was worried, she thought. I’m sure I would have been. And all the while her husband is not only safe and well, he’s having a ball with me. If he’d promised to phone at the first opportunity, he should have done so before we went out this morning. Then again, she reasoned, he’s very successful; Maggie must be used to him spending time away from home. Didn’t James say she was capable and efficient? Doubtless she’s good at dealing with his foibles and takes it all in her stride.

  Chloë was torn by conflicting emotions. And as she finished her coffee and got to her feet, a voice inside her cried out in frustration, “Oh, why, in God’s name, does he have to be married?”

  17

  Maggie edged her way in through the kitchen door laden with four Waitrose carrier bags, followed by Nathan, dutifully carrying the fifth. She looked over to the answering machine and frowned; the light wasn’t flashing. She dumped the bags on the table, picked up the phone, and dialled 1471. The computerized voice gave Fran’s number from earlier that day. Maggie checked her watch. It would be past midday in New York.

  Even allowing for jet lag, I’d have expected Jamie to have called by now, she thought. I told him not to bother when he arrived as I’d be fast asleep, but to call when he woke up instead. Maybe he’s having a lie-in. We so rarely get one. She resolved to ring him later and began to unpack the food.

  “Can I have one?” asked Nathan, grabbing a packet of Wagon Wheels Maggie had bought him in a moment of weakness.

  “Yes, but first help me put everything away.”

  By seven thirty Jamie still hadn’t been in touch. Once she’d put Nathan to bed, Maggie rang his mobile. It went straight to voice mail, so she tried the hotel.

  “I’ll try the room for you, ma’am,” said the switchboard operator.

  Maggie listened to the extension ring and ring.

  “I’m afraid there’s no reply, ma’am,” said the operator eventually. “Would you like me to pass on a message?”

  “Yes, please. Could you tell Mr. Slater that his wife, Maggie, called?”

  Maggie was curled up on the sofa watching TV when the phone’s ringing made her jump.

  “Hi, Maggie.”

  “Jamie!”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t phone you earlier.”

  “I was so worried. I know it’s silly, but you’d promised to call.”

  “I know, I know, I’m really sorry. I guess I completely forgot, what with jet lag and stuff.”

  Maggie was hurt, but didn’t want to nag. “How was your flight?”

  “Oh, fine,” he said. He sounded very far away. “The usual, you know. All that drag of getting through customs and immigration—it seems to take longer each time. I didn’t get in till very late.”

  “Mm,” said Maggie. Before Nathan had been born she and Jamie had been to New York together. He’d said he loved it, and although initially she had been uncomfortable because she associated it with an ex of his who lived there, the more time she’d spent in the city the more it appealed—the amazing art galleries, the unparalleled choice of restaurants, the value-for-money designer clothes. Back then there had been an antiestablishment vibe to the Village around NYU and Christopher Street which struck a chord with her, reminding her of the way she’d been as a student.

  Nevertheless, she thought, if I’d gone this time with Jamie I wouldn’t have had much chance to explore. Doubtless I’d have been roped into socializing as “the wife of the publisher.” She shuddered; it was her idea of
hell. No, best leave Jamie to it, she concluded, he’s much better at schmoozing than I am. And Nathan needs me here, after all.

  “What have you done today?” she asked, tucking her feet under a cushion on the settee in readiness for a chat. She was so glad to hear from him that their recent argument seemed light years ago.

  “Oh, nothing much.” A pause.

  “You must have done something—you were out of your room all afternoon.”

  “I, er, went to Bloomingdale’s.”

  Great! thought Maggie. Perhaps he’s bought me a present. “Did you get anything?”

  “Um, yes.” He sounded evasive. Maybe he had! “Something for Nathan.”

  “What?”

  “Wait and see. It’ll be a surprise.”

  “You don’t need to surprise me if it’s for Nathan. Tell me, what is it?”

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s the latest American gadget. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

  “I’m fascinated.” What could it be? “Did you get anything for me?”

  “Yeah, a little something. That will have to be a surprise too.”

  “How exciting!” exclaimed Maggie. “You are a lovely man!”

  “Thanks.” Jamie sounded ill at ease. Then again, thought Maggie, he’s always been bad at receiving compliments.

  18

  Chloë listened at the door. It seemed as if James had finished on the phone. She knocked lightly and went in. He was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.

  “James?” she said softly.

  He glanced up. She could swear he had tears in his eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Mm.” He didn’t sound it.

  She sat down next to him on the white bedspread. The weight of the two of them propelled her closer. She took his hand.

  James sighed unsteadily. “I feel like such a prick,” he whispered.

  It was a tone she’d not heard before. Oh dear, she worried, here we go. He’s going to get cold feet. Regret the whole thing. Finish with me. And we’ve only been in New York a day! The prospect of rejection was more than she could bear.

  He looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. She’d never seen him so sad.

  They were silent.

  After a while she said, “It’s Maggie?” trying to control her voice.

  James nodded. “Kind of.”

  “Tell me.” Chloë wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but they were in too deep now.

  “And Nathan…” James put his hand to his mouth as if he could hardly bear to say what he was saying. “Oh, Chloë!” He gasped. Then he squeezed her hand hard, as if to establish that she was definitely there.

  Chloë was caught in a maelstrom of emotions. Part of her wanted to end this conversation right now, to move on to something lighter, less serious. They’d been having such fun, and she didn’t want it to end. Part of her wanted to make him feel better, to take his pain away, no matter what it cost her. And part of her wanted to run as fast as she could back to England, to Rob, her apartment, her friends, Patsy, her job, before she also got hurt.

  Instead she sat there, saying nothing, paralyzed.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said, after a while.

  Chloë stroked his hand. “You don’t have to do anything.”

  “Honestly?” He stared up and into her eyes. He appeared lost, vulnerable, like a small boy.

  Lord, thought Chloë, feelings veering wildly. I don’t want to lose him, or to curtail the time we’re sharing. Perhaps I am falling for him, after all. “No.” She wanted to reassure him. “You don’t.”

  James sighed again, but this time he sounded a little relieved.

  “You’re quite a woman.” He smiled in acknowledgement.

  “Thank you.” Chloë smiled wanly. “I try.” She had a mad, impulsive desire to tell him she loved him.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  She pushed away the thought of potential pain. “I won’t.”

  He started fidgeting with the bedcovers, pulling at a loose thread. Then he took a deep breath, “It’s just … I have a son…”

  “I know,” said Chloë, the full force of his words hitting her like a truck at ninety miles per hour. “I’m not asking you to leave him.”

  “I know … I know…”

  Chloë’s thoughts rushed back to that conversation she’d had with Craig, the journalist, a few weeks ago about the damaging effects of divorce. She felt a sudden jolt of identification with Nathan, remembering how she had once been helpless in the face of her parents’ preoccupation with their own affairs. Incapable of making her mum and dad behave any differently, incapable of understanding them.

  “I don’t expect you to leave them,” she murmured. She sensed her eyes fill with tears. Before she could stop them, they were coursing down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Chloë,” he said again, and kissed her.

  It was the only thing that could possibly, possibly make her feel better, so she kissed him back, blotting out the sorrow and the confusion.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, brushing away her fringe so he could look into her face.

  “Me too.” She sniffed. And they kissed some more, falling backward onto the bed. She giggled through her tears. “I guess we’re both just being a bit overemotional…”

  “… and jet-lagged…”

  “… and jet-lagged…”

  James began to kiss her again, more passionately, as if he couldn’t bear for them to be apart. Then Chloë was swept up, up, and once more the future and the past didn’t matter—neither did she, Nathan, Maggie, or anything, other than being on the bed, in the Paramount, in New York, at that moment. And as they made love she thought of the view from the Empire State of the huge, huge city and the tiny, tiny people, all in their apartments, with their own lives to live and their own paths to tread. And she thought that she and James were just two ants in the whole scheme of things, and that the world would keep on turning regardless, and that she was powerless to stop herself, and what would be would be. Then, as she felt him move inside her, she started to come, softly, gently at first, then on and on, as if it was never going to end.

  19

  The next day Maggie dropped off Nathan at Fran’s to play with Dan, and caught the train into London to meet Jean at the Tate Gallery. True to form, Jean was already waiting on the steps of the museum overlooking the Thames when Maggie arrived.

  “Well.” Jean lifted her sunglasses to air-kiss Maggie’s cheeks. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” replied Maggie, as they entered the foyer and headed for the ticket counter.

  “Are you sure? Jamie was a bit of an arsehole when we all came to supper.”

  Gosh, Jean doesn’t pull her punches, thought Maggie. That was weeks ago. “Oh, we’re over that now,” she said, joining the line. “I spoke to him last night and he’s already bought me a present in New York.”

  “How sweet. So…” Jean nudged her in the ribs. “Been having lots of hanky-panky to conceive a sibling for Nathan, have we? I’ve noticed Jamie’s been looking pretty good recently. Glowing, I’d say. And I thought it was only women who so clearly betrayed when they were getting some action.”

  “Oh, er, yes.” Maggie was too embarrassed to contradict her. Though Jamie doesn’t look any different to me, she thought. If anything, he seems more exhausted. Maybe he’s putting on a front at work—it being a new job—driving his energy into impressing his colleagues.

  “Ooh, I shall enjoy teasing him at the conference later this week,” Jean plowed on. “Meanwhile, I await the happy news. Remember, this time I want to be godmother!”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone else.”

  As they wandered around the exhibition, Maggie found herself unexpectedly moved by the paintings. Alex had always said she looked like a fair-haired, prettier version of Virginia Woolf, and there was one striking portrait of her sister, Vanessa Bell, by Duncan Grant where she appeared both stoic and vulne
rable. It was accompanied by a quote from Virginia: “A spirit given to contemplation and self control. Decision and composure stamped her.”

  Jean came up beside her. “Vanessa reminds me of you in that,” she said.

  Maggie moved on to a series of male nudes by Duncan Grant.

  To think he and Vanessa were lovers, she pondered. Yet the passionate strokes of paint over the muscular forms suggest he was far more interested in men than women. His bisexuality can’t have been easy to bear; I get the sense she always seemed to be yearning for him, even when she was married to Clive Bell …

  What a weird triangle that must have been to be part of—Vanessa, Duncan, Clive—with Vanessa having children by both of them … Apparently Vanessa and Duncan’s daughter wasn’t told who her real father was until she was eighteen. God, that Bloomsbury bunch got themselves into terrible muddles; their relationships often seemed built on such shaky foundations. They might have produced great art, but at what cost to their children?

  Maggie stood in front of a self-portrait of Duncan Grant as a young man and looked deep into his eyes.

  The self-love is evident, she observed. What did Vanessa see in him? How on earth did she put up with living in such close proximity to him throughout his various liaisons? Perhaps she excused it as they were with men and she was married. Though it must have hurt all the same … And he wasn’t even that good-looking, thought Maggie indignantly. If Jamie manages to be faithful, and he’s much more attractive—why couldn’t Duncan be—if not to Vanessa, then at least to one man?

  As she turned to the next series of sketches, Maggie caught her breath. A man was standing with his back to her, examining a landscape. The way he was holding his head, coupled with the line of his shoulders, was Jamie to a T. A woman came up beside him and he placed a hand on her bottom in a manner that was both intimate and confident.

  Now there’s a hot-blooded heterosexual male, she decided. She moved to get a glimpse of his face. He’s remarkably handsome. Even if this woman is his wife, lots of other women must throw themselves at him …