by Sarah Rayner
“Which woman?”
“Some marriage counselor or something.”
“Oh.” Stunned, Chloë struggled to take this in. Does that mean the two of them are trying to work things out? she thought. James never told me.
“I’m sorry, I truly am.”
“Yeah.”
“I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“But we’ve made everything for you! I’ve bought the wine! Rob’s cooked something specially!” She looked at the beautifully laid place settings, the three chairs, the bottle of white that Rob had put in a cooler on the table while she’d been getting ready. She felt like an absolute idiot. And what would Rob say? She could hear his judgement already.
“I know, I know.” Even through the background noise, Chloë could sense his guilt down the line. “Can’t you eat it, you and him?”
“No, we can’t. Well, I mean we can, or Potato can have it, but it’s hardly the same.”
“I feel like a complete shit.”
By now Chloë was trembling. Should she say it? Yes, fuck it, she would. “Well, you are,” she said, and slammed down the phone.
32
The drive into Guildford was so familiar that, although the day was damp and dark, Maggie could focus her thoughts elsewhere.
The last few weeks have been good and bad, she thought. Good because of work: her attitude had shifted and she’d had the courage to approach a couple of editors she particularly respected with feature ideas she believed were genuinely different. Both had been unequivocally enthusiastic (a contrast to Chloë, Maggie noted), so she was currently drafting the first of two commissions. Indeed, she had been so wrapped up in research that she’d been taken by surprise when she’d looked up at the kitchen clock and seen it was time to go, forcing her to leave her notes strewn over the table.
Speeding through the countryside, Maggie’s head was still full of the article. She had given it the working title, “Is Your Money Where Your Mouth Is?” and, in order to research it, recently accompanied half a dozen professionals from the food industry on a weekend survival course. There, as well as having to forage for edible berries, mushrooms, and plants in the wilds of Wales, she and the others—who had included a chef, a supermarket buyer, a dietician, and a butcher—had had to kill a couple of fowl and then eat them. Inevitably all bar the butcher were uncomfortable when faced with the stark reality of slaughter.
The experience had tested her too—not only because, after years of eating poultry with Jamie and Nathan, she’d found she couldn’t attempt to strangle a live bird so had reassessed her own dietary habits, but also because she’d had to deal with strangers. She surprised herself with how much she’d enjoyed the weekend and it was especially gratifying to leave Jamie and the house solely in charge of Nathan.
That she’d been busy meant to some extent Maggie had been able to bury her worries about Jamie. He hadn’t been best pleased when she’d started insisting she was only going to serve them fish, vegetables, and dairy products from now on.
“But I like chicken!” he’d protested. “I don’t want to eat bloody seafood all the time!”
“Feel free to cook it yourself,” she’d said.
Their frequent rows increased Maggie’s worries something serious was amiss, but she refrained from asking him outright in case she discovered something she’d not the strength to hear.
Today I’m going to begin tackling this mess, she resolved as she drove into the outskirts of Guildford and dutifully dropped her speed to thirty. I can’t bury my head forever. This is not just about me: it involves Nathan too.
Maggie knew roughly where she was headed, so she parked the car on a side street. She got out, checked the front wheels to make sure she wasn’t overlapping a double yellow, flicked on the alarm, and walked back onto the main road.
What a vile day, she thought. It can’t seem to decide whether it’s worth raining properly or not. A gray drizzle hung in the air, getting into her hair and under her skin.
“Three four one, three three nine,” she muttered to herself, counting down the door numbers, eventually stopping outside a modern office block with a distinct ring of municipal services about it. She unfolded the typed sheet. Three three five, this was it. She went up the path to the porch. There, among the signs for voluntary services and family planning, was the word RELATE. “Third floor,” it said.
She pushed open one of the wire-glass double doors and looked in vain for an elevator. Evidently she was expected to take the stairs. As she climbed, her navy loafers echoed against the linoleum, and by the time she reached the top she was a little short of breath. How on earth is anyone elderly or in a wheelchair supposed to get up here? she wondered.
On the third floor, there appeared to be only one way to go. Although someone had tried to make it more inviting with potted plants and magazines, the small waiting area had the same cheap but not that cheerful look as the rest of the building. There was a desk with a PC, yet the chair was empty.
All of a sudden Maggie felt overwhelmed with uncertainty and apprehension, just as she had in Dr. Hopkin’s office. What am I supposed to do now? she asked herself.
At that moment one of the doors opened, and a woman popped her head around. “Margaret Slater?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” said the woman, nodding toward the empty chair. “Lorna’s off sick today. I heard you come in. Is it just you?”
Maggie felt conspicuously alone. “Yes.”
“No matter,” the woman said warmly. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be with you. Make yourself at home.”
Maggie didn’t feel relaxed enough to sit down so she stood at the window, looking out over a rain-soaked Guildford, worrying about what the next hour would hold. From her first glimpse, the woman was older than Maggie had expected, probably in her fifties. This impression was confirmed a few minutes later when she invited Maggie into her consulting room.
“My name’s Nina,” she said, sitting down in a well-worn swivel chair that creaked.
There were two armchairs opposite her, one mustard, the other brown.
“Er, where should I sit?” asked Maggie hovering.
“Either.”
Maggie plumped for the brown one. Now she could get the measure of the woman better. She had what Maggie thought of as an apple figure: most of her bulk was centrally placed. She had a big bosom and a large tummy, although Maggie could see that she had small wrists and elegant ankles. Her hair was gray and well cut, in a short style that not that many women of Nina’s size could take. But Nina had a strong face with a big, broad mouth and good cheekbones, so it suited her. She was dressed equally confidently in a rust-colored bouclé jumper and olive-green velvet trousers, offset by chunky silver and turquoise jewelry that rattled when she moved. The effect was impressive and Maggie thought she looked marvelous, but it did little to lessen her anxiety.
Nina leaned back. “I often think it helps if I start by telling you a bit about how this works.”
Maggie was relieved. In spite of her resolution to talk openly, she felt overwhelmed with shyness.
“First, I need to check if this appointment is okay with you on a regular basis?”
“Yes, it is,” said Maggie. “I have a son, Nathan, but I’ve arranged for him to go to his friend’s in the village after school.”
“Good. And I should explain to you that the session is always the same length—an hour—and we can’t overrun, even if you’re late, because I see someone directly afterwards.”
Maggie couldn’t imagine she would wish to prolong the agony of talking about emotional issues, but didn’t say so. “I understand that.”
“Next there’s the issue of funding.” She handed Maggie a form. “You’ll need to fill in your details and bring this back to the next session. Then we can see if you’re eligible for a subsidy, or what.”
“Thanks.” Maggie took the form. “Though to be honest I doubt it.”
“Finally, I wanted to as
k,” here Nina adopted a more sympathetic tone, “whether it’s only today that your partner couldn’t join you?”
Maggie found herself blushing. She was both disarmed by the directness of the question, and ashamed.
What will Nina make of the fact Jamie refused to come? she worried. She might see it as a sign our relationship is beyond hope. Perhaps there’s a limit to how many sessions I’m allowed to attend on my own: this is marriage guidance, after all.
The silence seemed interminable. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Oh?” It appeared Nina wanted her to elaborate.
It was as though Maggie was about to launch herself off a precipice. She was acutely aware that once she’d spoken, she couldn’t go back on what she’d said. The questions came thick and fast. If I tell her, will Nina think me disloyal? Demanding? Unreasonable, even? Go on! she exhorted herself. You’re the one who wanted to do this!
“Well…” She hesitated. “He hasn’t exactly been receptive to the idea of counseling so far, no.” She gained momentum. “In fact, I suppose it’s fair to say that he’s been dead set against it.”
“So it was your idea?”
“Yes. Or rather it was my friend Jean’s suggestion, but it seemed like a good one.” She sighed. “We’ve been getting on so badly, me and Jamie—my husband—that sometimes it seems any attempt I make at communicating is met by a brick wall.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Desperate.” Maggie answered simply. “That’s why I’m here.” She was silent again. At that moment it seemed as if the room was filled with her troubles, the air heavy with her unspoken fears.
Then something snapped.
Every bit of evidence—in terms of Jamie’s emotional and physical behavior—pointed to it. She had known deep down for ages, yet it was only now she was ready to confront it.
“I think Jamie’s having an affair.”
My God, she thought, I hadn’t meant to say it. Not in my first session.
But she couldn’t bear to keep it in a moment longer. All at once it was as if the blindfold had been lifted from her eyes, and her vision had been restored. Yet it wasn’t pleasant, being able to see so clearly. Far from it: it was terrifying.
My husband, my Jamie—sleeping with someone else! How could she—the other woman, whoever she is?
Maggie was beyond hurt. She was shaken to her core. In that minute she wanted to die. She felt as if part of her had died.
Yet bizarrely, as this ghastly realization took shape, transforming Maggie’s world, Nina continued sitting opposite her, plump, capable, and bejeweled. The chair next to Maggie, where Jamie should have been, remained exactly the same, with its worn mustard covers that must have borne witness to a hundred similar heartbreaks. Of course, the whole room was exactly as it had been five minutes before.
Time passed without either of them saying a word. Maggie could hear the clock ticking on Nina’s desk. She was acutely conscious of it; that she had only an hour.
“What makes you think Jamie’s having an affair?” asked Nina gently.
“Everything … Everything.”
Then she told Nina how Jamie was out late a lot, how he’d been so odd and elusive when in New York, how he’d withdrawn from her generally. Once she’d started she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t that it was easy to say—it wasn’t—and she was trembling with emotion throughout, but she was burning to get it off her chest. “And we row all the time now,” she added, finally.
“What do you row about?”
“Oh, everything. Anything. What we eat,” she explained, because it was still at the front of her mind, “the house—his mess. Nathan—how we each are with him. Where we live. His work, my work. Money. Whether or not to have a second child…”
“Ah.” Nina frowned.
Maggie glanced at her. “How did you know he doesn’t want one?”
“I didn’t,” said Nina.
“Well, I guess he’s never been that happy with the idea. In fact, he wasn’t that happy when he found out I was pregnant with Nathan. It was an accident, you see. Still, there was no way I could have a termination. I just couldn’t.”
“Did he want you to?”
“Yes, he did, initially. But it went against every principle I’ve ever had. I really do believe it was my right to choose. So I said I was going to go ahead regardless. And a few months into the pregnancy he came around. I think it was when he saw the scan … At last he seemed able to see it was a little person, a little us … Whereas I’d felt like that all along. After that he was completely different about it. And then, when Nathan was born, I suppose he came around so wholeheartedly to being a father—he’s great with Nathan, truly great—that I’m sure he’d do so again.”
“Maybe he’s not so sure,” said Nina.
Maggie was shocked: she’d not fully acknowledged this. “Hmm … You might be right … There is a side of him that’s reluctant to grow up.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t feel ready to.”
“Well, I do!” said Maggie, vehemently. “I’m nearly forty! And I want another child!”
She began to cry. It was all too much.
Tentatively, Nina ventured, “And now you think there’s reason to believe he’s having an affair?”
“Yes,” Maggie whispered.
“Have you asked him?”
“No.”
There was a long pause. Nina passed over a box of tissues that sat on her desk.
“But you’re sure?”
Maggie drew her breath. “I’m not sure. But I’m not totally stupid. And he’s been very preoccupied.” She stopped crying.
Nina looked at the clock. It was obviously nearly time to finish.
I’m going to ask him, thought Maggie. She said it aloud, to make it real. “I’m going to ask him tonight.”
* * *
It wasn’t until she was halfway home that emotions got the better of her again. As tears started to fall, blurring her vision, she pulled into a parking lot, fearful she might crash the car. She wept, soundlessly at first, then she began to howl, deep down from the base of her gut, with the pent-up grief of months of worry, with an anguish she couldn’t recall experiencing before, not even when she was a little girl.
And she didn’t care if the people in the other vehicles in the parking lot could hear or what they thought. She didn’t care about anything, except Jamie, and herself, and Nathan, and what was going to happen to them all.
33
“But I’m playing squash tonight.”
“Cancel it.” Maggie wouldn’t budge. I can be as stubborn as you if I want to be, she thought. She might be scared of the outcome, nonetheless she’d vowed to confront Jamie that night, and nothing was going to get in her way. She’d even stood up to phone him to help herself be bolder.
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I promised Pete I’d play.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jamie.”
“I’m not lying to you. Why on earth would I lie to you?”
“I don’t believe you’re playing squash tonight.”
“Of course I am!”
Maggie detected the note in his voice that came to Nathan’s when he was caught doing something he shouldn’t be. “If that’s all you’re up to, surely it’s easy enough to rearrange? Just phone and tell him you can’t play.”
“I can’t get ahold of him.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have his number.”
The tension made Maggie’s throat so tight that she could barely breathe. Jamie’s unwillingness to come home underlined how right she was to distrust him. Presumably he was planning on seeing whoever he was messing around with.
“Jamie, I’m not a fool. Of course you’ve got his number. You must call him all the time.”
“I do not.” Jamie paused. “He’s out at a meeting all day.”
His lies were so blatant that Maggie was insulted. Jealousy was ea
ting at her, but she didn’t want to confront him over the phone. “Ring his mobile.”
“That’s the number I don’t have—he changed it recently.”
“Leave a message at his work.”
“He’s not going back to the office—he’s heading straight to the club.”
Maggie found it hard not to scream. “Simply don’t turn up, then. Phone reception at the club and tell them to explain.”
“I can’t do that, Pete’s my friend.”
“And I’m your wife, Jamie. Your wife. Or had you forgotten that?”
“Of course not.”
“Say it’s a family crisis. If he’s such a good friend he’ll understand.”
“What? He’ll understand that my wife’s been to see some stupid counselor who’s put a whole load of ludicrous ideas into her head? That’s a crisis, is it?”
He was doing it again, turning his shortcomings into her failings. “Stop being an arsehole.”
“C’mon Maggie.” His tone became soothing. “This is a bit melodramatic, isn’t it? Why do we have to talk right now? Can’t it wait till I get back?”
“No, it can’t. You won’t be home till midnight—if your recent Thursday nights are anything to go by—and I don’t want to sit up waiting for you. Anyway, this isn’t the kind of conversation that’s going to be over in a couple of minutes. And you’re hardly likely to be happy talking till three. Heaven forbid, you might miss some of your precious beauty sleep.”
“Can’t we talk on the weekend? We’ll have much more time then.”
How was she going to convince him this was serious? What was he doing that was so important? “Jamie. I. Need. To. Talk. Face-to-face. Now. If you don’t come home at a reasonable hour, then you might just find me and Nathan not here when you do.”
“Okay.” At last he seemed to get the message. “I’ll be there.”
* * *
So, for the first time in months, Jamie was back by seven.
“Daddy!” Nathan ran downstairs to greet him. He was half dressed in a white vest and underpants—Maggie had been poised to put him into the bath.