Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “Ghastly. I haven’t been to the loo for days and my stomach feels like reinforced concrete.”

  She looked terrible, admittedly: pale and slightly damp at the edges as she held her breath, wincing.

  “Well, go and see the doctor tomorrow. They’ll give you a suppository or something.”

  “Charming, then I’ll have the trots for days. No, I’m banking on getting food poisoning here and then letting it do its worst. Eddie’s convinced the sausages are passed their sell-by date so he’s frazzling them to a crisp.”

  “I wondered why he’d taken charge of the barbecue. But is it really just us, Hannah?”

  “Piers’s mother is knocking around somewhere.” She glanced around vaguely. “She went inside, I think, claiming it was too hot, but you could see she was pained by the company.”

  “Oh God,” I giggled. “Lady Latimer and Dawn!”

  “Oh, yes, you missed that floor show. Dawn asked her if she was really a lady, to which the great woman replied, ‘So my gynaecologist tells me.’”

  “I snorted. “But no Purple Coat?”

  “No, she’s got a gig, apparently. Singing at that hotel in town, the one with the piano bar.”

  “The Regal? Blimey, good for her.”

  “Isn’t it? Oh, and there is someone else here actually, some local chap who lives on the estate, but other than that it’s just us. Honestly, you might have warned me, Imogen. I’ve come dressed for a sodding garden party.” She pulled at her long dress and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  “Well, you were there when she asked us—how was I to know?” I smiled up as Eddie blew me a kiss through the barbecue smoke. “I’m going to kiss my brother-in-law,” I said, getting up.

  “Do. It’ll be the biggest thrill he’s had all week.”

  Eddie paused in his manic sausage turning to greet me. “Salmonella type C and full-blown dysentery is what we’re getting here today,” he informed me sotto voce. “Don’t go near the pork chops, and give the burgers a very wide berth until I’ve truly incinerated them. Warn Rufus.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” I assured him. “What’s up with Hannah? Dodgy prawn?”

  “Not in my house,” he bristled. “No, I think she’s just been overdoing it. She’s started this Weight Watchers thing, you know, and she’s exercising as well. Frankly I’m worried she’s not fit enough to go to the gym yet. I reckon she’s pulled something.”

  “Hannah’s at the gym?” I boggled.

  “Only late at night, Imo, when most people are safely tucked up in bed. And no, she doesn’t wear a leotard.”

  “Ah,” I said humbly.

  “Isn’t he doing a marvellous job?” Eleanor, her hazel eyes bright, was suddenly at my shoulder.

  “He is,” I agreed. “Eddie’s a very good chef.”

  “Well, he’s a godsend today. Piers really can’t be bothered and I always end up doing it and getting hot and bothered. So much for men being macho with tongs. Imogen, you haven’t met Piers’s mother yet, have you?” She shot me a warning look and I turned to see, in the shadows, just inside the French windows, an older, female version of Piers, complete with large, beaky nose and watery blue eyes, giving me a very fishy stare. She was ostensibly talking to someone whose back was to me, but clearly wondering why this newcomer hadn’t come to say hello. Hadn’t presented herself. I hastened across the terrace with Eleanor.

  “Louisa, this is Imogen Cameron, Alex’s wife,” Eleanor said in a loud voice. “Remember I told you? She and Alex have taken a cottage.”

  “What?” Lady Latimer frowned and cupped her ear.

  “Remember I told you they’ve taken a cottage!” Eleanor shouted, as at that moment, I realised who her mother-in-law was talking to. I caught my breath.

  “And Pat you know, of course. You sat next to him at supper,” Eleanor reminded me.

  I took the dry, papery hand the old lady had extended. “I remember,” I said coldly. “How do you do, Lady Latimer?”

  Pat Flaherty looked about to greet me cordially, then registered my frosty features and dropped the smile.

  “He’s a vet,” Lady Latimer informed me in sepulchral tones. “Rather a good one.”

  “I know. I mean, that he’s a vet,” I added, thereby clarifying, for his benefit, which part of her sentence I agreed with. I turned to him.

  “Thank you so much for your letter, which arrived promptly on Friday. I shall, of course, be responding forthwith.”

  Pat looked taken aback and Eleanor bemused. Good. That would teach him to send exorbitant fees by return of post. He didn’t like being shamed in front of these people, did he? “Mr. Flaherty’s fees,” I explained for the benefit of the audience. “For services rendered.”

  “Oh. Right.” He squared up to me. “Well, that tends to be the form, doesn’t it? Something for something else?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I replied sweetly, and was about to continue sarcastically, that’s the quid pro quo, but I’d never said it before, so what I actually said was “That’s the pwid crow po.”

  For a moment I thought no one had noticed, then:

  “What?” Lady Latimer’s hand cupped her ear. “Crow what?”

  “Po,” Pat informed her solemnly.

  She frowned, none the wiser. Then turned to me. “Got marvellous hands,” she said loudly. “Looks after my fanny.”

  “That’s Fanny the Yorkshire Terrier,” breathed Eleanor quickly.

  “She got a nasty infection in her bladder last Christmas, but I think you caught it just in time, young man.” She tapped his arm with a liver-spotted hand. “You’ve got very good instincts!”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Pat looked uncomfortable.

  Yes, he might well look awkward. This was clearly the sort of vet he was; the sort that charmed old ladies out of their savings and administered to their pampered pooches. Although, this was one old lady, I decided, looking at her crumpled silk dress caught together hastily at the neck with gigantic diamonds, who could probably spare a bob or two. And he certainly looked the part with his ready smile and easy manner: a twinkly-eyed charmer in a sapphire-blue shirt and jeans. I felt awkward in my flowery dress and high mules.

  “Eleanor, would you get Piers to turn that dreadful racket down?” asked her mother-in-law, holding a hand to her ear again. Gentle reggae was filtering through the drawing-room speakers. “I can’t bear that sort of music. It makes me feel I’m about to be robbed.”

  “Of course.” Eleanor’s mouth twitched as she made to go.

  “And who are those dreadful people on the terrace?” hissed her mother-in-law, catching her sleeve. “I had to pretend it was the heat driving me inside, but they really are beyond the pale.”

  “Oh, er—”

  “I’m afraid that’s my family,” I said smoothly, noticing her nose was very pink at the tip. She looked like a drinker, and I could smell her gin from here. “Actually, they’re perfectly pleasant when you get to know them. Ah, look, the sausages are ready, I must go and feed Rufus.”

  I sailed outside, my heart pounding, and went down the slope of the lawn to find Rufus. He was playing with the youngest Latimer on the swings.

  “Come on, boys. Lunch time,” I muttered.

  Rufus caught my tone and followed meekly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” We climbed the terrace steps, hand in hand, Theo following. “Here, have a seat on this bench next to Eddie. There doesn’t seem to be a seating plan. I’ll get you each a hot dog.”

  Eleanor came rushing up as I collected the food from Eddie. “I’m so sorry, Imogen. She’s a terrible old snob. I mean—” She broke off, awkwardly.

  I grinned, suddenly rather liking her. At least I wasn’t the only one whose brain didn’t engage before speaking.

  “It’s OK, I know what you mean. And actually, one or two of them do take a bit of laughing off.” Out of the corner of my eye I caught Dad doing his Kenneth Williams impersonation for Piers’s benefit, hand on hip,
head thrown back, nostrils flared, mincing round the terrace. Happily, Piers thought it was even funnier than Dawn’s pompom.

  “By the way, how come Pat Flaherty’s here?” I asked casually as I split Rufus’s bun. “He seems to be a permanent fixture in your house.”

  “Oh, he’s got the lodge house at the moment, so he pops up quite a lot. He’s renting it while the builders do up his place, an old rectory in the next village. He’s good fun, isn’t he?”

  I ignored her eager question, pretending to be intent on getting the ketchup from a nearby table. By the time I’d got back with it, she’d gone.

  “We call it Crumpet Cottage,” remarked Piers, lining up behind me at the barbecue, his plate clamped to his chest, like a small boy at prep school.

  “Sorry?”

  “Pat’s place. He seems to entertain a never-ending stream of women down there. Lucky dog.” He chuckled. “A pork chop and a burger, please, dear boy.”

  Did he indeed, I thought, going to sit beside Rufus with my hot dog. So he really was the local stud as well as the charming vet, eh? Pretending to listen to Rufus and Theo’s prattle, I watched as Pat collected his burger from Eddie with a joke and an easy smile, then went to sit next to Hannah on the sofa. Well, that was one female he wouldn’t be able to get round, I thought as I bit into my bun. One bird he couldn’t work his magic on. I saw him lean in to talk to her as she sat—or lay, almost—prostrate beside him. If she wasn’t feeling so grim she’d give an obvious charmer like that very short shrift. She’d never had any truck with playboys, and had only really warmed to Alex because I’d married him. Had Alex been a playboy, I thought with a jolt? I looked across at him by the barbecue, and as I did, something terrible happened. I intercepted a glance between him and Eleanor. It was a secret, raised-eyebrow look across a crowded terrace and she gave a quick shrug and a half-smile back. I looked away, horrified. Then I went hot. Really hot and panicky. I lunged for my Pimm’s and knocked it back too vigorously, half of it missing my mouth. I reached for a napkin to mop myself. Get a grip, Imogen, for heaven’s sake. It probably wasn’t that sort of look at all, probably perfectly innocent. Probably—d’you want a sausage? No! Not a sausage. A—a burger? To which she’d replied, with a shrug, “Yes, I might.” Yes, that was it.

  I watched feverishly under lowered lashes as Eleanor sat everyone down; not formally round a table, just scattered about the terrace, balancing plates on laps, then offered knives and forks wrapped in napkins. As I reached for my drink again, I noticed my hand was shaking. Perhaps Hannah was right. Perhaps I should have counselling. Yes, perhaps I should go and sit in a room with a complete stranger and say, I’ve got this irrational fear; this fixation that my husband’s having an affair with his ex-girlfriend. Or perhaps, I thought, tightening my grip on my glass, I should confront her—Eleanor. Go up to her when I was totally plastered—which wouldn’t take long—in the dying moments of this party, when she was saying good-bye to the last of her guests, push my way through and shout drunkenly, “Get your hands off my husband, you bitch!” Watch her face fall and my entire family go quiet as everyone turned to stare. Or perhaps I’d do neither, I thought miserably, as I stabbed viciously at some salad. Perhaps I’d just carry on as usual, wondering and worrying, fretting myself to a stupor. Yes, probably. I took a deep breath. Let it out shakily.

  Luncheon continued. Not feeling up to adult chat, I stuck with the boys and pushed food around my plate. Behind me, Pat’s mobile rang and he went inside to take it. I tried not to notice his rather perfect bottom in his jeans as he went through the French windows. Then I decided that if I could notice other men’s bottoms, even unspeakably arrogant ones, it was surely a good sign? I couldn’t be too suicidal.

  “You’re not eating?” I said in surprise to Hannah as she waved away Eddie’s offer of a burger. This was a first.

  “No, thanks. In fact,” she staggered to her feet, “I think I’m going to go to the loo.”

  “Good luck,” I grinned up at her, then saw that she really did look very pale. “Are you going to be all right?” I made to get up, concerned.

  “Fine, fine,” she waved me away impatiently as she moved heavily across the terrace, making painful progress.

  “She looks terrible,” I hissed to Mum, who’d sat down beside me with her plate.

  “I know, and personally I agree with Eddie. I think she’s pulled something at the gym. It’s the same one Dawn goes to, you know, and Dawn says they really make you work out. What Hannah’s doing there I simply can’t imagine.”

  I regarded my mother beside me. “You get on well with Dawn, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, but not for much longer. She’s moving to Newcastle next week, leaving your father in the lurch.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Apparently that’s where the best beauticians’ course is, and she applied and got in. I think even your father’s mid-life crisis doesn’t extend to living in student digs complete with bean bags and cheese plants, so he’s staying put.”

  “Well, that’ll be the end of that relationship, then. He’s also far too lazy to go up for weekends, and she’ll probably get distracted by the local talent.”

  “Shame,” mused Mum.

  “Let’s see who he comes up with next,” I grinned.

  She grimaced. “That dreadful Tessa Stanley asked him to dinner at the Hurlingham last week. I do hope he doesn’t take up with her.”

  I shot her a sideways look. It was odd. Mum was positively gleeful about the likes of Dawn, yet didn’t want him consorting with any of their old friends in London. That was her territory. Her stamping ground. It seemed she was happy for him to make a fool of himself in the country where no one knew him, but not amongst old muckers.

  “Who’s that terribly attractive Irishman in the blue shirt who was here a moment ago?” she asked in a low voice.

  “That’s the supremely arrogant Pat Flaherty. He’s a hugely expensive vet—don’t let him anywhere near Samba.”

  “Well, you know Samba: she’s the most unfriendly cat imaginable. Totally arrogant herself, so she probably wouldn’t let him anywhere near her. Why, only the other day I tried to take her for an injection and…darling, what’s wrong?”

  I was on my feet. Pink with shock and fury. For there, through the open French windows, in a dark corner of the drawing room, reflected in the mirror above the fireplace, my worst nightmare was unfolding before my eyes. I’ve heard that when faced with trauma, the human psyche deals with it by shattering the evidence; fragmenting it, there being only so much shock it can take in one go. And shatter this image did; it fairly spun too. But even in its disjointed, kaleidoscopic state, a few immutable facts remained. The look on my husband’s face as, presuming himself to be hidden from view behind the door and exquisitely alone, he took Eleanor in his arms; the longing in Eleanor’s eyes as he gathered her towards him; the way their bodies melded seamlessly together. The bald, simple truth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My hand gave an involuntary jerk and my glass let loose a stream of Pimm’s, which flew through the air, splashing into Mum’s lap.

  “Oh!” She leaped to her feet, shaking her dress.

  I stared at the large dark stain as if I’d never seen anything like it, then back to the drawing room. I couldn’t speak.

  “Don’t worry, darling, it washes beautifully,” Mum was saying as she seized a napkin and began mopping frantically. “I spilled some balsamic vinegar on it the other day and thought—oh well, that’s the end of that, but—oh…”

  I was vaguely aware of her pausing in her mopping to stare, as I hurried away without even an apology, across the terrace to the French windows. I flew into the room and spun around. No canoodling couple sprang apart at my dramatic entrance; no one gasped in horror, no eyes grew wide with fear, no hands flew to mouths. Eleanor was sitting in an armchair talking animatedly on the telephone, and Alex was on the opposite side of the room on his hands and knees, his head in a cupbo
ard full of glasses.

  “Yes, that’s fine,” Eleanor was saying, “and if you could deliver on Tuesday that would be even better.”

  “Can’t find them anywhere,” Alex muttered into the cupboard’s depths. He drew his head out and glanced round. “Oh, hello, love. Eleanor’s tasked me off to find some water tumblers before everyone gets too pissed. Apparently the party needs diluting.” He rested back on his haunches. Frowned up at me. “Are you all right?”

  I stared down at him, flummoxed.

  “Good.” Eleanor put the phone down with a decisive click. “That was the silk flower company, they’re coming with some samples on Tuesday.” She grinned at me. “Your mother’s really enthused me, Imogen. I’ve got the bit between my teeth about having a pastiche garden. Can’t you just see Louisa’s face when she fingers a lily and gets the shock of her life!” She laughed. Then her face clouded over. “Are you OK? You look a bit pale.”

  “Yes…no. I’m…fine.”

  “D’you mean these?” Alex took some tall tumblers from the cupboard.

  “Perfect. Grab a few of those, would you, and make sure Louisa gets one. She’s flying already. I’ve put a few bottles of Perrier on the table.” She got to her feet. “Are you sure you’re OK, Imogen?”

  “Yes, I—I’m fine,” I stammered. I tried to regulate my breathing. It was coming in sharp, heavy bursts.

  “It is terribly hot,” Eleanor peered at me, worried.

  “Yes. I—I think I’ll have a glass of water too.”

  “Do. Help yourself. Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind taking a few glasses out, that’d be great.”

  I picked up some glasses and went back outside in a daze. I felt a bit faint. I went over to the drinks table. Held on to the edge. Then I poured myself some water. Suddenly I glanced sharply back over my shoulder at Alex. He’d followed me outside, dropped off the glasses, and was talking to Eddie now, over by the terrace steps; hands in his pockets, leaning back and roaring with laughter at something Eddie said. Eleanor was crouched down in front of Rufus and Theo with a tub of ice cream, letting them scoop it out inexpertly themselves into cones. No furtive looks were being exchanged, neither of them looked unsettled, rattled. I put the water to my lips and realised my hand was shaking. I put the glass down and raised a hand to my forehead. It was damp. I was going mad. I was actually going mad, seeing things that weren’t there, that weren’t really happening. Not just imagining the worst, but seeing the worst. Going insane.