The Other Half

by Sarah Rayner

  “I’m sorry,” said Maggie; she sensed the pain of troubled romance all too keenly at the moment. “Are you okay?”

  “I guess.” Georgie held her unruly hair off her face and frowned. “It’s not as if it had been that long or anything. It’s only, when you get to my age … Sometimes I wish something would work out. He was very decent about it.”

  Maggie nodded to herself. Typical Alex, she thought. Nonetheless she could see that Georgie looked paler than usual, she appeared tired, less bouncy. She tried to offer comfort. “He only parted from his wife a few months ago. Maybe it was a bit soon.”

  “Maybe…” Georgie nodded. Then she added, “I just want to meet a nice man who appreciates me. A chap like Jamie, perhaps. I mean, you two seem happy, well suited. How did you do it?”

  Maggie was unsure what to say. Her inclination was to respond with something noncommittal, although being frank might make not just Georgie feel better, but herself too. “It’s not that great always, you know, being married. Jamie’s not quite as wonderful as you might think.”

  “Really?”

  “No. In fact, we’ve been having a bit of a difficult time recently. Hopefully we’ll get over it, but still … It’s ironic, isn’t it—sometimes I envy women like you who have their freedom, who can do what they want, who only have to answer to themselves. Believe me, our relationship is far from one long mutual appreciation society.”

  “Oh.” Georgie appeared taken aback. Then she smiled. “Isn’t it funny? We always think everyone else is so sorted, and once you get to know them better, you often find that they’re pretty vulnerable, too.”

  “Indeed.” Maggie remembered how she’d come to a similar conclusion when talking to Fran. She laughed with a touch of sorrow. “I’ve certainly been feeling pretty vulnerable lately.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “As you say, people aren’t always as resilient as they seem.”

  Georgie’s expression exuded understanding and she said, “Well, I know one person who definitely appreciates you.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Alex.”

  “Alex!”

  “Oh, yes.” Georgie leaned back against the counter, more relaxed now. “If you ask me, never mind his ex-wife, I think he’s still a mite in love with you.”

  “Surely not?”

  “I might be wrong … but whenever he talks about you he sounds so fond of you.”

  “Oh!” It was Maggie’s turn to be taken aback. Yet she was comforted too.

  “There you go.” Georgie took a large gulp of coffee. “You remember that. I doubt any of my exes still carry a torch for me after fifteen years, or whatever it’s been.”

  I am flattered, thought Maggie. But however nice it is to hear my old boyfriend continues to hold me in high regard, the man I really want to appreciate me is Jamie.

  * * *

  As he ran to greet her in the playground, fair hair catching the sun, socks around his ankles, Maggie observed that Nathan had Band-Aids on both knees and both elbows, whereas that morning he’d had only two.

  “How did you get these?” she asked, examining his latest wounds.

  “Soccer. I scored a goal!” His love of the game never seemed tempered by tripping over, she thought tenderly. He was carrying a large roll of paper. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “This is for you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have a look in a moment.” Maggie tucked the picture under her arm and they set off, Nathan chatting away about his day. They stopped en route to feed the ducks, a frequent ritual. Maggie often had crusts left over from creating breadcrumb toppings for her recipes; she’d brought some in an old Waitrose carrier bag.

  “I want to do it,” he said, so she gave him the bag and took a seat under the weeping willows by the river. While Nathan busied himself throwing the crusts as far as he could to test whether the white ducks were quicker than the mallards, she unrolled the painting and held it at arm’s length.

  Mummy, it said, and was signed, with some letters back to front, Nathan Slater. She caught her breath. She’d seen Nathan’s interpretation of herself many, many times—blond hair the same bright shade of powder-paint yellow, triangular dress, big circular hands with digits carefully attached like rays of the sun, long legs, giant feet. But this picture was different. Normally Nathan painted her with her mouth upturned in a happy semicircle. Here her mouth was unmistakably turned down.

  It didn’t take Nathan long to learn that all ducks were equally fast when motivated by food and return to her side.

  “But I look so sad in this!” she protested, holding out the painting.

  “You are sad.”

  “Oh dear,” said Maggie, rolling up the picture. “Do you think so?”

  “Mm.” Nathan looked down and scuffed his shoes on the path. Clearly he didn’t like talking about it.

  “Well, we’ll have to do something to solve that, then.” Maggie slapped her thighs cheerily and got to her feet. “I’ve an idea what’ll make me a happy mummy again. Shall we pop into Nell’s Country Kitchen and buy some of their delicious homemade fudge?”

  “Ooh, yes!”

  Nell’s was the tearoom close by on Middle Street. They pushed open the door with a merry tinkle of the bell, and Nathan cantered over to the baskets on the pine dresser where he knew the fudge was displayed.

  “Now, let’s see,” said Maggie, picking through the different flavors. “Which one of these is special magic fudge with Cheer-up Mummy potion in it?”

  “This one!” Nathan selected the vanilla and nut.

  “That’ll definitely make a happy mummy,” agreed Maggie. She handed over the exact change and they went home and had it for tea.

  * * *

  That does it, Maggie decided, once she’d put Nathan to bed and sat down in the living room with her feet up and a gin and tonic to await her husband’s return from work. Nathan’s image of a sad mummy is worrying. Evidently he’s aware things aren’t right, and it’ll be affecting him. And if I’m at the stage of confiding in my neighbors, obviously they’re affecting me hugely too. I’ve got to talk to Jamie tonight.

  She took a sip of her drink and braced herself. Just then, an idea came to her.

  I know what would cheer me up and give me strength, she thought: a chat with Alex. Get the lowdown on him and Georgie.

  “It’s me,” she said when he picked up.

  “Mags! I was meaning to call you. How are you?”

  “I’m okay.” She didn’t want to talk about herself. “More to the point, how are you?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I’ve just seen Georgie,” Maggie prompted.

  “Oh.” Alex sounded worried. “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Maggie didn’t want to be disloyal to Georgie. “Or, at least, she will be soon, I guess.”

  “I feel a bit bad,” Alex confessed.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s never easy, finishing things, is it?”

  Momentarily Maggie flashed back to when she and Alex had split up. She’d just started working in magazines and, consumed by her new job, was unwilling to settle down so soon after graduating, though Alex had wanted to. But she’d never been sure she was making the right decision ending it, which meant, for once in her life, she’d been a little heartless.

  “No,” she said.

  “Probably Georgie was a bit of a rebound thing—you know, after Stella.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Now I do, yes.” Alex was always straight with Maggie. “We had a lot of fun, and she’s a lovely woman, but I don’t feel she’s quite right for me. You won’t ever say that to her though, will you? I’ve tried to part from her on reasonable terms, though that’s often easier said than done.”

  “Of course I won’t!” Maggie wouldn’t dream of being so tactless.

  At that moment the front door slammed, and she heard the familiar rustle of Jamie slinging his jacket over the banister.

  “Oh dear,”
she said hurriedly. “That’s Jamie. I’d better go.”

  “Already?”

  “I’ll call you soon,” she promised, hung up, then called out, “I’m in here.” A couple of seconds later Jamie appeared at the living room door.

  She decided to open with something that didn’t involve the both of them. “I saw Chloë today.”

  Yet even that seemed to disconcert him. “Um…” He paused. “How did it go?” He went over to the drinks cabinet, got out one of the decanters they’d been given as a wedding present, and poured himself a whisky.

  “Actually, it was a bit odd.”

  “Odd?” Now he sounded concerned.

  “Yes. Well, rather, she was a bit odd.”

  “Really?” He turned away to replace the decanter. Why was it these days he barely ever looked her in the eye?

  “You’ve met her, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” He took a gulp of his drink.

  “Did you think she was odd?”

  “No, not particularly.” Another gulp.

  “Moody?”

  “No.” He sat down, opting not for the sofa next to her but one of the armchairs. They were at right angles to each other, both with their feet propped on the coffee table, relaxed yet unrelaxed, poles apart.

  “Maybe it was me, then.”

  “Why? What did she say?”

  “Nothing I could put my finger on.” Maggie frowned, wondering how to explain. “At first she was really friendly, charming even. Then, when she saw my portfolio, she turned cool.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t think your work was right for All Woman.”

  “Perhaps…”

  Jamie took a third sip of whisky. He seemed to be drinking it awfully fast. “I did warn you that you might not be of a like mind.”

  “I know.” But years of being the social observer meant Maggie was a good judge of people’s reactions, and she was pretty sure that Chloë had liked her work. “You can tell me I’m imagining things, but I don’t think that’s what it was.”

  “So, what do you think it was?”

  Yes, I’m right: he is perturbed, Maggie decided. Possibly he’s more bothered about what’s going on in my life than I’ve given him credit for.

  “Something Jean said…” Maggie struggled for words.

  “What did Jean say?” Jamie seemed angry now. God, he was so confusing these days! Then again, he’d always been a little threatened by the closeness of Maggie and Jean’s friendship.

  “She said something along the lines of Chloë not liking to share things … so I wondered…”

  “What?”

  “Whether she was being possessive.”

  “Possessive?”

  “Mm, that she didn’t want to share working on the magazine project with me or something.”

  “Really?”

  “I can’t think of any other reason why she’d be so funny. Can you?”

  “Er…”

  “After all, my work’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Of course! It’s fine. In fact it’s more than fine, it’s great!”

  Now he’s all enthusiasm, observed Maggie. She couldn’t think of anything to add. “Anyway … I didn’t want to talk about Chloë.”

  “Ah?”

  “It’s no big deal, I suppose. I’ll simply have to look to someone else for the kind of work I want to do.” Maggie took a sip of her gin for Dutch courage. “I wanted to talk about us.” To show she was serious, she tried to look at him directly. But Jamie glanced down at his feet, just like Nathan earlier. Or Nathan was like Jamie. It didn’t matter; what mattered was Nathan’s upset had opened Maggie’s eyes. As his room was directly above, she dropped her voice. “We can’t avoid this forever.”

  “No,” said Jamie gruffly.

  “Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.”

  “No. I had.”

  “Well?” Maggie felt herself shaking again.

  Then he surprised her. “I’d kind of thought I should talk to you.”

  Perhaps this is good, she hoped: if Jamie is prepared to acknowledge things are sticky and wants to talk, surely he’ll come to Relate. “What did you want to chat about?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to say.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

  “I see.” Though she didn’t. He seemed to have lost his nerve.

  Silence.

  Then Jamie ventured, “So what were you wanting to say?”

  It occurred to Maggie that Nathan’s pictures might be a good place to start. “Hang on a minute.” She got up. “I’ve something to show you.” She went into the kitchen and collected the paper roll from the top of the fridge, then returned to the living room. She handed it to Jamie. He looked without saying a word.

  “Notice anything?” asked Maggie, finally.

  “It’s of you.”

  How selfish that his first concern was for his own standing in Nathan’s eyes! Yet perhaps that was significant too: absent-father syndrome.

  “Anything else?”

  He stopped, and examined it again. “You look miserable?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence. At last Jamie said, “Is that true?”

  Maggie was bottling up so much resentment that she didn’t know where to start, or how. As she sat there, on the huge Chesterfield, she could feel her heart thudding in her chest, her cheeks burning, the gin glass cold and clammy in her hand. All at once she felt a surge of fury, stirred up by protectiveness of Nathan. Eventually she spat—“You could say I’m pretty fucked off, yes.” Then out it poured. “I’m fucked off with you working late. I’m fucked off with you not helping more around the house. I’m fucked off with you not supporting me in public. I’m fucked off with you not calling me from America. I’m fucked off with you for not talking—you’ve hardly spoken to me since you got back from New York, for God’s sake! I’m fucked off with you for making me—yes, making me compromise and slave away writing articles I hate, just to alleviate your neurosis about money. And, above all, I’m fucked off with you for not being willing even to discuss having another child.”

  He could be in no doubt as to the level of her wrath and pain. Yet he merely stared down at his shoes, which made her angrier still.

  “You’re pathetic,” she said.

  Jamie was shocked: now at least he looked at her. “Oh?”

  “Or, rather,” she corrected herself, “your recent behavior is pathetic.”

  This made him flush, whether with anger or guilt she couldn’t be sure. “I just…” he stammered “… I don’t know how I … feel about things right now.”

  “You surprise me,” she said venomously. “About what, precisely, don’t you ‘know how you feel’?”

  He went even redder: “It’s not you; it’s me.”

  “Thank you for that insight.” She was relieved that he had acknowledged it wasn’t her fault, but it was such a hackneyed excuse, and it didn’t help her understand things any better—she didn’t know what “it” was. The half-formulated belief that he was being unfaithful had remained with her since the day of the exhibition, but she was afraid to articulate it. Instead she asked, “What is it with you? Some midlife crisis or something?”

  “Perhaps, I’ve been feeling a bit claustrophobic lately. I guess I’m not sure quite where I’m at.”

  “How original.” Again she couldn’t resist heavy irony. He sounded so juvenile, like a teenager, and she resented being made to feel that she was hemming him in. So she added, knowing it would really annoy him, “Jean was right, then.”

  “Fuck Jean.”

  “How dare you talk like that about my friend!”

  “How dare you talk to your friend about me!”

  “If you won’t talk to me, who the hell else am I supposed to talk to?”

  “No one.”

  “No one? Oh, get real, Jamie! I may keep things to myself a lot of the time, but I’m not a bloody robot! We’ve hardly made love
for three months, and when we do I can tell your heart’s not in it—probably because you’re petrified of getting me pregnant. We’ve not spoken, you’re hardly here, you don’t help me, you nag me about money, you go away, you don’t call—what on earth am I meant to do? Not breathe a word? Jesus, I had to go to the GP I was so miserable. The doctor, for heaven’s sake! And let me tell you, I found him a whole lot easier to talk to than you!”

  “You went to our GP?”

  “Yes.”

  “You talked to the doctor about us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, great. So now everyone in the village will know about our marital problems.”

  Maggie had a flash of guilt about how she’d confided in Georgie earlier, which enhanced her indignation. I wouldn’t need to confide in these people if he talked to me! she protested inwardly. And, anyway, I didn’t say that much to Georgie, did I?

  “In case it had escaped your notice, Jamie, doctors are sworn to secrecy, so you needn’t bloody worry that he’ll go around spilling the beans in the goddamn supermarket.”

  Maggie realized the conversation was not going the way she’d intended at all. I was supposed to be persuading Jamie to come to counseling, not driving a wedge between us, she thought. She was once more conscious there was only the ceiling separating them from Nathan, so she halted to calm down. “Anyway, I think that’s the point, isn’t it?”

  Jamie appeared bewildered.

  “I’ve had to offload to somebody.”

  “More than somebody. Somebodies.”

  “Somebody, somebodies, whatever.” She moved on, more calmly. “My point is that I’d much rather be discussing things with you.” She took a deep breath. “So I wondered, would you come with me for counseling?”

  “Counseling?”

  Her heart sank; this was going to be hard work. “Yes. Marriage-guidance counseling.”

  “I don’t need bloody counseling.”

  “You might not. We do.”

  “No, we don’t.” She knew Jamie in this mood. Stubbornness personified. For the time being she was sure he wouldn’t budge, but she forced herself to give it one last try. “It’s not a bad thing, Jamie. Hundreds of couples do it.”

  “And we’re not one of those couples.”