“Humph,” he grunted.
“Poor you,” I murmured softly, still stroking his leg. “Perhaps you need to wind down?”
He sighed. “If I wasn’t so exhausted, that’s exactly what I’d like to do. But I’m shattered tonight, Imo.”
My eyelashes brushed his back. “You’re right,” I agreed. “It’s late and I’m pretty tired too.” I rolled back on to my side of the bed.
Ten minutes later I was aware of my husband’s rhythmic breathing beside me; of faint catches in his nose and throat as he exhaled. The land of Nod had claimed him. It took me a while longer, though. My eyes were wide and staring in the dark for quite some time. Eventually, though, I did fall asleep.
Chapter Three
The following morning Alex put his lips to my ear.
“Guess who’s downstairs.”
“Hmm? What? Who is it?” I opened my eyes blearily. He was standing over me in his dressing gown, a broad grin on his face, cup of tea in hand. He put it down beside me.
“Your mo-ther!” he sang.
“Oh God,” I groaned. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Apparently we’re all going to this match of Rufus’s this afternoon, a nice big family outing. I for one can hardly wait. Please tell me your sister’s coming too?” His eyes widened in mock appeal.
“Of course she’s not,” I snapped, “and the match isn’t till three, so what the hell’s Mum doing here at seven? How did she get here?”
“She cycled, apparently. Waved good-bye to her neighbours in Belgravia and trilled, ‘Just off to the country!’ before peddling down to rural Putney for the night.”
“She’s staying?”
“Well, she seems to have an awful lot of carrier bags with her if she’s not, but I haven’t questioned her too closely.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Oh Lord. And where’s Rufus?”
“Downstairs having a passive cigarette with her.”
I giggled. “Probably in heaven.” I pulled on my dressing gown.
“Oh, he is. There’s undoubtedly a note of high excitement in the air, but I took the liberty of opening a window on their little soirée. It smells like a brewery already.”
“She’s not had a drink!”
“Not yet, just the Gauloise, but she tells me in France she always has a café Calva for breakfast and that in Provençal society it’s rude not to.”
“Yes, well, she’s in South London society now so she can jolly well have PG Tips and lump it.” I tied my dressing-gown cord smartly and took a slurp of my own tea. “How are you, anyway?” I eyed my husband over the mug rim. “After your night on the tiles?”
“God, hardly.” He sat down heavily on the end of the bed. “Americans are very clean-cut these days. Gone are the days of lining up bottles of Chablis and taking them to some lapdancing club—thank God. No, it was a Club Soda apiece and then they bustled back to the Waldorf.”
“But you got the deal?”
“Who knows, Imo, who knows.” He rubbed the side of his face wearily. “They were kind enough to let it slip at the end of the evening that they were seeing two other firms, though.”
“Ah.”
My husband nonchalantly swept back his blond hair from his high forehead and straightened his back in his navy dressing gown, but his blue eyes were troubled and I knew better than to ask more. Alex had been specifically employed at Weinberg and Parsons to drum up new business and, so far, the only business being done was old.
“It’s the same all over,” I soothed, “you said so yourself. The city’s in turmoil, no one’s having an easy time of it. But it’ll get better, you’ll see. These things go in waves.”
“In my case with a wave byebye.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” I said staunchly. “Your glass is always half empty.”
“Either that or I’ve got the wrong glass. But you’re right, things go in cycles, so who knows? Anyway, meanwhile you’d better get downstairs before your mother cleans Rufus out of pocket money.”
“Gee-gees?”
“No, cards today.”
“Ah.”
I picked up my mug and hastened downstairs: through the sitting room, which was indeed knee-deep with bulging carrier bags, and into the kitchen, where…oh, I see.
The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, but through the fug, perched on stools either side of the breakfast bar, I could make out Mum and Rufus, three cards apiece, reenacting a scene from The Sting.
“Twist,” said Mum tersely. “Twist again…Twist…Stick.”
“You can’t stick,” pointed out Rufus. “You’re bust.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are, look—ten, nine and three is twenty-two. It’s pay twenty-ones.” He reached across and took her coins.
“Morning, Mum.” I eyed her beadily. “You’re early.”
“Oh, not really, darling,” she said in her gravelly voice, dealing out the cards again. “When you get to my age you only need a few hours’ sleep—ask Margaret Thatcher. I’ve been up since five. Dealer takes all.”
“You were dealer last time,” Rufus reminded her.
Mum eyed him defiantly, opened her mouth to object, then shut it again and handed him the pack.
“She cheats,” Rufus observed to me, without rancour, as he dealt.
“I know, I grew up with her,” I said, reaching in the cupboard above their heads for the cereal packets. “I’d check her sleeves, if I were you, and if she scratches her ankle, check inside her shoes. Rufus, what have you had to eat?”
“Granny bought me a pain au chocolat. I don’t want any cereal.”
“Oh, fair enough. Mum? Cup of tea?”
“Please, since there’s nothing stronger.”
“Well, you can have Earl Grey?”
“I think I had him in the seventies, darling,” she drawled. “Conceited little aristo, as I recall. Twist…twist…damn!” She threw down her cards.
She really minded about winning, I thought, watching her with a smile. And, of course, that was why Rufus enjoyed it so much. He knew her mind was on the job as much as his was. She wasn’t indulging or patronising him—oh, no, she was after his pocket money. She’d take it gleefully too, only handing it back grudgingly when he won it back off her next week. I watched as she scrutinised Rufus’s shuffle, perched straight-backed on her stool, slim and elegant in a cream jacket with the sleeves pushed up to reveal tanned arms and bangles, khaki cargo trousers, lots of beads, a cigarette poised in jewelled fingers, her fading red hair piled loosely on her head and stuck about with combs. Always stylish, her clothes now had a French flavour as she’d spent much of the last ten years at her house in the South of France. Her story was she’d moved there for the weather, and she certainly got that in her idyllic sun-baked stone farmhouse just outside Aix, but my sister, Hannah, and I privately thought she’d gone abroad to get over losing Dad to Marjorie Ryan. Why she was back now, swapping the glorious colours and scents of a Provençal spring for the rainy streets of Belgravia was a mystery to us, but she seemed happy enough in the little flat she’d rented and loved spending time with Rufus. I secretly wondered if it had occurred to her, as she paced her olive grove, smoking her Gauloise and narrowing her eyes into the evening sun, that he might be the only grandson she was going to have and she didn’t want to miss him growing up.
“The match isn’t until three o’clock, you know,” I told her, putting on the kettle.
“I know, but I thought I’d have a go at your garden. My bank, pay twenty-ones.”
“Oh, Mum, would you?” I swung round gratefully. “It’s such a mess and I just haven’t had a chance to get out there.”
“Of course you haven’t, you’re far too busy,” she said loyally.
I glowed. My mother, unlike my sister, was one of the few people who didn’t think that because my art was unremunerated, it was a waste of time.
“I sold one last week, you know,” I said, pouring myself a glass of
orange juice.
“I know. Alex told me. But I don’t think you charged nearly enough.”
“She didn’t,” said Alex, coming in and doing up his cufflinks. “And it was one of the big jobbies; should have gone for twice the price.”
“I don’t actually charge for the amount of paint used or the size of the canvas,” I countered, although I was rather enjoying being buoyed up and discussed like a budding Picasso with a couple of agents. “It’s not like selling tomatoes.”
“Well, make sure you get some decent prices out of that gallery chappie Kate recommended. When are you meeting him?” He went next door to collect his overcoat and briefcase, glancing at his watch. “Shit, I’m late.”
“I have met him,” I said, following him in so Rufus couldn’t hear. “Turned out he was only after my body after all.”
He swung around at the front door in astonishment. “You’re kidding.”
“Is that so extraordinary?”
“Well, no, of course not, but blimey,” he boggled. “Bloody cheek!” he spluttered. He gazed at me a moment, then shook his head bemused and reached for his briefcase. “No dice on the paintings then?”
“No dice,” I agreed, amused that it hadn’t occurred to him to ask if I was still intact. Unraped, as it were. I opened the door for him. “So no injection into the Cameron finances just yet, I’m afraid. You must go darling, while at least one of us has a job. We’ll see you this afternoon.” He looked blank as he stepped outside. “At the match.”
“Oh, the match! God, wouldn’t miss that for the world.” He popped his head back and yelled down to the kitchen, “What position are you playing, Rufus?”
There was a pause. “I’m playing rugby.”
“Yes, but what position?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, give them hell!”
Another pause. “Who?”
Alex and I exchanged smiles. He kissed me. “See you on the touchline.”
As I shut the door and made to go up and get changed, noting that, as ever, Rufus was already in his uniform ready to go, I reflected on what it had taken to get us to this touchline position. To be proudly sallying forth, en famille, to watch our son in a rugby match. Being in a team—any sort of team—had not remotely flickered on Rufus’s radar until the day when the lists had gone up in the school hall for the nine and under A and B squads, with Rufus’s name on neither. I’d scanned them avidly when I’d collected him, along with a clutch of similarly eagle-eyed mothers. Even Arthur and Torquil had made the B team, it being such a tiny school, but not my son. I’d felt my blood pressure rise, felt fury mounting.
“Never mind, darling,” I’d muttered, hurrying him away from the group of exultant mothers.
“What?” He looked blank.
“Not getting in the team.”
“Oh. That.”
“Don’t you mind?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
I drove home very fast. Too fast. They’d written him off. Written him off at nine—how dare they! And Alex would be so disappointed, I thought with a lurch. We wouldn’t tell him, I resolved quickly. But he’d find out, I reasoned even more quickly. Sebastian would tell him Orlando was in the team. My hands felt sweaty on the wheel. I glanced at my apathetic son beside me.
“Rufus, don’t you like rugby?” I said crossly.
“It’s OK.”
“So, if you were in the team, that would be OK too?”
He shrugged. “I suppose.” He turned. “I’m not very good at it, though, Mum.”
“Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it?” I shrieked. “You haven’t been given a chance!”
The following morning I strode into school and ran the games master to ground in the long corridor. He was in his tracksuit, pinning up another list, this time for the Colts.
“Mr. O’Callaghan, Rufus seems to be the only boy in his year not in a rugby team—is that fair?” As I said it, I nearly cried. Honestly nearly sobbed. Keep breathing, keep breathing.
Mr. O’Callaghan turned and frowned. “He’s not the only one, Mrs. Cameron. There’s Magnus Pritchard.”
“Magnus Pritchard has a broken leg!” I yelped. “OK,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “he’s the only boy with two legs not in a rugby team!” For one surreal moment I felt Pete and Dud’s one-legged Tarzan sketch coming on.
Mr. O’Callaghan fiddled nervously with his whistle. “Well, the list stands for Wednesday’s match, I’m afraid, but I’ll see what I can do for next week, OK? It obviously has to be entirely on merit, though.”
“Oh, obviously,” I’d purred obsequiously, and I’d scurried away, hugging my precious secret to me. Next week. Next week he’d be in.
The whole of that week I’d prayed to God, to Allah, to anyone who was listening, to give strength to Mr. O’Callaghan’s pen; to empower him to write Rufus Cameron, in bold letters on the nine and under B list.
The following Monday Rufus and I hastened into the school together. By now even Rufus had caught my excitement and had admitted last night, albeit with rocketing sugar levels after three Ribenas—the closest I could get to getting him pissed—that he’d actually quite like to be in the team. His disappointment was all the more acute, therefore, when he realised he wasn’t.
“I’m not there,” he said, his eyes quicker than mine.
I couldn’t speak I was so angry.
“I’m in again!” came a voice from behind, and I turned to see Orlando, his face wreathed in smiles.
“Oh, well done, darling.” Kate’s eyes scanned the list. I wanted to hit her. Wanted to hit my best friend hard in the mouth.
“Not you, Rufus?” she frowned. “That can’t be right, surely?”
“Of course it’s not right!” I said in a shrill, unnatural voice.
Kate looked startled. “Oh, well, maybe next week,” she murmured.
“No,” I said breathing hard through clenched teeth. “No, this week.” And I strode off towards the staff room.
I’m not very proud of what happened next. Kate, to this day, swears I pushed Mr. O’Callaghan into the PE cupboard, locked the door and threatened to take all my clothes off, but of course that’s nonsense. What really happened was that I saw Mr. O’Callaghan already inside the PE equipment room—cupboard, Kate insists, snorting—followed him in, shut the door, and rationally asked him to reconsider. I do remember seeing the naked fear in his eyes as he backed into a pile of clattering hockey sticks whimpering something like, “Help me!”—I expect I misheard—but I have no idea why the top button of my shirt came undone nor why he was seen running, wild-eyed from the cupboard, grabbing a pen from a passing child and writing “Rufus Cameron” in large, shaky letters at the bottom of the B team list.
I sighed as I mounted the stairs to my bedroom now and peeled off my dressing gown. Hell certainly hath no fury like a woman whose child has been scorned, but I wondered, if Rufus wasn’t an only child, if I’d feel everything so keenly. Feel his disappointments like serpent’s teeth, his tiny triumphs like Olympic achievements. If I could share my emotions out between some siblings, would they dilute, or would I just emote even more until I became one gigantic emotion? I didn’t know, because as yet it hadn’t happened and however much I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered, “Come in, Cameron minor, your time is up,” nobody showed. Obviously I knew I had to do more than holler, but sometimes I wondered if Alex did.
I had a shower and dried myself slowly, keeping an eye on my reflection in the long mirror. My figure still wasn’t bad—at least I hadn’t completely gone to pot like Hannah—but those thighs could definitely be slimmer. I really ought to lose a few pounds but I worried that dieting affected fertility and I couldn’t help thinking that if I ate well, a big fat baby would follow. And it suited my face too, I thought. What was it they said? After thirty, you choose between your face or your bottom. Well, I’d made my choice, and Alex approved too. “It suits you,” he’d murmur in bed when he held me close.
“You’re voluptuous, Imo, not like those terrible stick-insect women.” Not like his first wife, I knew he meant, but part of me longed to be like Tilly and her daughters: tall, dark and reed thin, not round and blonde and obvious.
“Are you going to paint today?” Mum called up from the bottom of the stairs.
“Yes, why?” I abandoned my reflection and reached quickly for my bra and pants.
“Well, I’ll take Rufus to school if you like, then get out in the garden.”
“Oh, Mum, would you?”
“Course.”
I rifled in my drawer for a top, but as my hand closed on one, I went cold. I ran to the top of the stairs.
“Mum, make him hold your hand, won’t you? And he has to be taken right to the gates. Don’t let him tell you he can walk from the corner.”
My mother shot me a withering look as she hustled Rufus out of the front door. “We’re cycling. See you later.”
Cycling! The front door slammed on my open mouth. I stood there, horrified. Rufus had only ever cycled in the park, never on a busy road. She couldn’t mean it. I ran to the bedroom window. Sure enough the pair of them were walking bikes down the path, and as Mum hopped aboard and led the way, Rufus pedalled after her, wobbling wildly, no helmet. I struggled with the window latch: it wouldn’t open. I hammered: it wouldn’t break. Terrified, I ran downstairs, flung open the front door and was on the point of yelling, “STOP!” when I realised that was guaranteed to send him under the wheels of that passing juggernaut. I stifled my scream and made myself watch as he peddled alongside it. He did it rather beautifully. Much steadier now, and in a straight line behind his granny. As they disappeared around the corner, the postman delivering to next door gave me an odd look. It took me a moment to realise I was in my bra and pants. I hastened back inside and shut the door. God, what was wrong with me? I plunged my fingers into my hair. I seemed to veer from flagrant neglect and tossing Rufus a crust at tea time, to suffocating the poor child, never letting him out of my sight, and running down the street after him with no clothes on.
“You’re an obsessive,” Alex would say, nonjudgementally. “You’re either obsessed with your painting, or your child, but the two are mutually exclusive.”
Crowded Marriage Page 4