Hands trembling, I reached for the coffee jar. Caffeine. Yes, caffeine would help, and actually, I glanced at the phone—a chat. With Kate. My heart leaped. Yes, that was who I needed to talk to, to spill the Pat Flaherty beans to. She’d be horrified, of course, appalled, but then, being intrinsically on my side, would laugh it off too. Tell me that these things happen, particularly in the middle of the night on a glass of brandy, and not to get it out of proportion, to move on, de-dah-dedah.
I took the phone in the sitting room and rang her number, but her answer machine was on. Damn. Knowing Kate, it could be days before she picked up a message, and likewise it was hopeless ringing her mobile, which only sat in her car in case of a breakdown. I glanced at my diary. Thursday. Where was she likely to be on a…oh God. I went cold. The play! There it was, in my diary, in red, on the evening of Thursday 25th—As You Like It—underlined in red too. I went hot. From cold to hot in moments. Lordy. I’d completely forgotten. What sort of a friend was I? But then again, that date had been put in my diary months ago, I reasoned wildly, while I was still in London: she wouldn’t expect me to come all the way from here for it, would she? I got up and paced across to the window. And there was Rufus to think of…
I rang Alex. My voice was unnaturally high when he answered. I hadn’t envisaged speaking to him quite so soon after…I gulped, my eyes darting across the room to the rug.
“Um, darling, you couldn’t possibly scoot along to Kate’s play tonight, could you? I completely forgot, it’s a charity thing, at that Little Britain theatre in Kensington, near the Albert Hall.”
He groaned and I heard him push his chair back. “Imo, I would, but I’ve got the ghastly Cronin brothers over from the States today. I’ve got to entertain them this evening. I dare say I shall be ploughing through Yorkshire pudding at Simpson’s yet again, indulging in some good old-fashioned English nosh. They’ll explode soon, the pair of them.”
“Oh God, poor you. No, well, don’t worry, I’ll leave Kate a message. She’ll understand. Are you very busy, my darling?”
“Sadly, yes, and I’ve just been told I’ve got to head back to New York next month to clinch this wretched Cable and Wireless deal. Charles Baxter’s just arrived to crunch some numbers, actually.” His voice suddenly became more formal.
“Ah. Right oh.”
I took it as my cue to say good-bye and put the phone down.
I walked slowly back to the window, arms folded, and gazed out. Well…OK, hang on. I narrowed my eyes at the sheep sprinkled decoratively on the hillside. Why was it so impossible for me to go? There was always Hannah. I mean, sure, she’d just had a baby, but Rufus was no trouble: could even be a help, fetching and carrying nappies and things…Yes, why didn’t I go to Kate’s play myself? We could maybe have supper together afterwards—or a drink, if she had to eat with the cast—and then I could whiz back here. I felt my shoulders unknot. Suddenly, I felt better. I had a plan. I always felt better with a plan. Yes, I thought, my heart quickening, I’d talk it over with Kate, and she’d say, Don’t worry, these things happen, heavens, Imo, we’ve all behaved disgracefully in our time—although actually, I thought cringing, I couldn’t imagine Kate ever doing that, or saying that, but no matter. I’d come back feeling it was just a silly nonsense to be passed over and quickly forgotten.
I rang Hannah, who said she couldn’t be more pleased to have Rufus helping with bath time. I quickly got changed, chivvied him out of the barn and into the car—persuading him to leave the knife behind—and then dropped him off on the way. I watched as he ran up the path, hardly giving me a backward glance; thrilled to bits to be with his new cousin, to be an invaluable helping hand.
I roared off down the lanes. Yes, this was a good plan, I decided, straightening my back and smiling as I joined the slip road that led to the M40. I zoomed up the hill to meet it, checking my lipstick in the rearview mirror. A night out in London was just what I needed, to remind myself that there was a world out there; a world beyond my bucolic little village, my rural idyll, beyond snogging a local vet. Snogging a vet! I gripped the wheel as I almost swerved under the wheels of a passing juggernaut. Oh God. I bit my lip, feeling very sticky-mouthed. There was no doubt I needed to get out more.
There was surprisingly little traffic on the roads, and I reached London in record time. I should do this more often, I thought, as I swung confidently around the Hammersmith roundabout and headed off towards Kensington; after all, Alex did it regularly, so did Eleanor, and even Mum popped up and down at a moment’s notice. It was sheer laziness that made me not bother.
It was only six thirty, early still, and the play didn’t start for an hour, so on an impulse, I parked on a meter behind Kensington High Street, and then, dodging and weaving through the crowds, nipped into Jigsaw. I’d dressed in something of a hurry this afternoon in my rush to leave that cottage, and felt a bit dowdy in my boring navy-blue jacket now that I was up here. Adopting the serious shopper position—head down amongst the rails, tail up and sniffing—I got to work, and emerged, forty minutes later, proudly sporting a new sparkly pink cardigan, a pretty shell necklace, and a long velvet scarf, my old clothes in a Jigsaw carrier bag swinging jauntily from my arm. There. Marvellous. I strode off confidently towards Kensington Gardens. Now all I needed was a side-splitting play to lose myself in and I’d forget all about the little hearth-rug incident. In fact, I’d almost forgotten it already.
I walked off towards the park, ducking down into a side street under the gaze of the Albert Hall, and joined the queue for tickets outside the theatre. Quite a glitzy throng had gathered, I noticed. I glanced around. They were well-heeled, these young things, because this was very much an upper-middle production. It wasn’t your usual am-dram, produced on a shoestring with rehearsals in some chilly town hall. No, it was well funded and professionally produced. These thespians were city bankers and lawyers by day—or high-maintenance wives like Kate—folk with no money problems, but who dreamed of treading the boards, and, once a year, thanks to knowing the right people—a director here, a producer met at house party there—got to live their dream and act on a real stage before a proper audience, most of whom, of course, were friends and family. I recognised a few people in the queue: Amanda Quentin-Smith, who was quite a party girl, Tamara Hogg, and a couple of exotic friends of Kate’s. On balance, I was glad I’d ditched the navy jacket.
We trooped in amongst much laughter and chatter, and took our seats, but because I’d bought a ticket on the night, I was badly placed: right at the back, behind a pillar. Damn. I’d need my glasses for this. I rooted around in my bag, but clearly hadn’t brought them. Double damn. Although actually, I decided, closing my bag and looking around, the theatricals going on off-stage were entertaining enough. Confident, fruity voices rang out: “Bumble! Bumble over here!” “Oh God, we’re in the wrong row. Oh, Ludo, you’re such a prat!” Jewellery rattled and pashminas swept and I sat, like a country mouse, drooling and lapping it all up. Lovely.
When the curtain went up with a flourish, I realised I’d been so preoccupied with my people-watching, I’d failed to buy a programme. Stupid. And I couldn’t for the life of me remember who Kate was playing. Was she Rosalind? The main part? Or that other girl, the sister, in the green dress? I couldn’t really see from here, but actually, it didn’t take long to realise she was neither. Right, so she must be one of the more minor characters at the back, some sort of spear carrier. Trouble was, they all had wigs and gowns on and were tittering coyly behind fans, and I was blowed if I could work out which one she was. I leaned across to a pinstriped type beside me.
“Excuse me, could I possibly borrow your programme?”
I was met with the pale blue, uncomprehending stare of the seriously overbred and stupid. I watched as slowly, the penny visibly dropped, the eyes cleared, and eventually a programme was duly passed, together with a toothy grin. Smiling my thanks, I scanned the cast list in the dark. Then I scanned it again. No Kate Barrington. Or even Katherine
Barrington. I glanced up at the stage. She wasn’t in it. I frowned. Perhaps I’d got it wrong? Perhaps she was helping backstage, or something.
I tried to follow it anyway and laugh at the right bits, but Shakespeare wasn’t really my thing, particularly the supposedly comic kind, with very unfunny jokes about cross-dressing and lots of thigh slapping and “lawks a mercy, my liege!” although the audience seemed to lap it up, roaring with laughter and haw-haw-hawing away. Blue Eyes beside me looked fit to bust his pinstripes. I was glad when it was the interval, and being at the back, was able to muscle my way pretty promptly to the bar—something I’d got down to a fine art after years of watching Dad’s productions—where I ordered a gin and tonic.
“Hello, Imogen.”
I swung round in surprise. A tall, handsome young man with long, poetic chestnut hair curling over the collar of a blue velvet jacket was smiling at me. His dark eyes were shy, and I knew him, definitely knew him, but couldn’t quite place him. Then, as he reddened under my gaze…it dawned.
“Oh, good grief, Casper!” I reddened too, and he went an even deeper shade of claret as we collectively remembered our first meeting together, ostensibly as gallery owner and prospective artist discussing a forthcoming exhibition, but actually—if he’d had his way—as older woman and young blade about to embark on a marathon session of afternoon delight in a double bed in the Markham Hotel.
“What are you doing here?” I said stupidly, for something to say, because actually, why on earth shouldn’t he be here?
“Well, watching the play, like you.” He laughed, embarrassed.
“Yes, of course!”
“Can I get you a—”
“No, no, I’ve ordered. But let me—”
“Absolutely not, my shout.” He caught the barman’s eye, ordered a beer for himself and paid for my gin too, which gave me a moment to collect myself. Casper. Good heavens.
“I saw you when you came in, actually,” he admitted, passing me my drink, “but didn’t quite have the nerve to talk to you.”
“Whyever not?”
“Well, you know…” He made a face. “But I wanted to,” he went on quickly, “to apologise for my appalling behaviour that day, which I do, unreservedly. I seem to remember attempting to rape you, then weeping all over you. Not my finest hour.”
“These things happen,” I murmured into my drink. God, I’d forgotten how young he was; how sweet-looking, with his long wavy hair.
“But I also wanted to thank you,” he went on determinedly, obviously keen to spit it out. He looked at me earnestly under dark sweeping lashes. “The advice you gave me that day was spot on. I did lie low, and I did play the long game, and in the end, it all blew over between Charlotte and Jesus.”
Charlotte and…for a moment I couldn’t think what the devil a girl called Charlotte was doing with Our Lord, then…oh yes. His wife, and the personal trainer.
“She eventually got bored with him and saw him for the shallow slab of beefcake he was. Came back to me.”
“Oh, Casper, I’m so pleased.” I really was. I beamed delightedly at him.
“And you were so right to dissuade me from pursuing older women round hotel bedrooms,” he went on as I gawped into my gin—older women—“and chopping up Charlotte’s clothes, which I was so close to doing. I even dragged them all out of the wardrobe, put them on the bed. I can’t quite believe it, now. Can’t believe that was me.” He gazed into his beer.
I smiled. “Love, or the removal of it, makes us do strange things, Casper. Turns us into people we don’t recognise, or like. And the more it’s withdrawn, the more we behave abominably. It seems impossible to stop.”
“I know. But I did stop, thank God. And thanks to you. It was as if you had an insight, as if you’d been there.”
I smiled. “I thought I had. But I hadn’t. I’d made a stupid mistake. Happily.” I rested one elbow on the bar. He seemed about to ask me what I meant, so I rushed on. “So now you’re back together? You and Charlotte? With the children?”
“Yes, all back together. In fact, I’m watching her tonight. She’s in the play.”
“Oh, is she! Gosh, how brave. Well, that’s why I’m here too, I thought Kate was in it, but I can’t see her.”
“Oh, no, Kate left the show a while ago. It was all too much with the children and Sebastian’s work and everything. He felt she was doing too much so she dropped out.”
“Did she? God, I didn’t know.” I felt awful. God, I hadn’t even asked.
“She has so much to juggle you see, but she’s always got time for her friends. Charlotte and I went to dinner there the other night.”
He went a bit pink and I smiled into my gin. This was clearly a social triumph. I used to tease Kate about being a society hostess and collecting admirers; I’d forgotten Casper was one of them.
“Yes, she has got a lot of time for her mates,” I agreed. “In fact, she got us together in the first place, didn’t she?”
“She did. In fact, she was the one who suggested I go for a little bit more than just lunch with you.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“Oh, no,” he said quickly, “not—you know—like that. I handled it very badly. She didn’t mean for me to jump on you in the restaurant or anything—that was all my stupid idea—she just…” he hesitated. “Well, actually, she said she thought you might be lonely.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “I’m married, Casper.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But,” he shrugged, “well, so was I. And I cocked it up, of course. Should have just made a mate of you.”
“Or even just considered my paintings,” I said sharply. This conversation was getting a little too personal for me. “I seem to recall that’s why we met in the first place.”
He reddened. “Yes, quite. Um, how is the painting going, by the way? Are you still sticking with it?”
“Yes. Yes I am,” I said vaguely, but I was miles away. Lonely. Two people, one of whom was my best friend, the other, a man, whose opinion for some obscure reason I valued, had both levelled that accusation against me within the last twenty-four hours. I began to feel hot. Prickly. The theatre was very warm, and the loud, self-confident voices less entertaining now. More oppressive. I needed some air.
Casper was still talking, enthusing about my work, which he assured me he had genuinely liked and admired, but I wasn’t listening. I needed to go, to get out, and when the bell went for the second half, I did. I said good-bye to Casper, parting amicably and pretending I was going back to my seat, but actually, slipping away down a corridor and some clattery back steps, and out of the side entrance on to the street. It was dark now, and the night air was sharp and cool on my cheeks; welcome. I took a few deep breaths. I was indifferent to the play, and if Kate wasn’t in it, well, I wasn’t going to sit there. Also, I had a sudden urge, a sudden burning desire, to see Alex. I walked quickly up the main road. I was cross. Cross with everyone making assumptions about my life, trying, quietly, to make things better for me. A quick bonk by the fire perhaps—or, or a young man estranged from his wife for me to befriend in a restaurant—there, that would do the trick; that would make it better. Poor Imogen, stuck with a busy, distracted husband, with just her small son and her painting for company, poor, poor Imogen. The blood rushed to my face as I walked quickly to my car. Did people really pity me? Think I had a sad, solitary life? We’d soon see about that.
I glanced at my watch. It was half-past nine now, and Alex would still be entertaining the Cronins at Simpson’s, but I knew he liked to be in and out of that place, popping them smartly in a taxi and back to their hotel, and he’d be on to the pudding by now—coffee, even. We’d meet up, I decided, getting into the car and snapping my seat belt on. I pulled away from the kerb. Maybe we could go to that piano bar in Burlington Street, the one he’d read about in the Standard and told me about; said we must go, where they served cocktails till midnight? Yes, OK, it was a bit late for cocktails, but we could
have a brandy, couldn’t we? The car swerved violently in the road. No—not brandy. Cointreau, then, I decided. Yes, because now I was up here, in town, I still very much wanted my night out, but I wanted it with my husband.
I rang him, but his mobile was off. Annoyed, I left a message, then suddenly, on an impulse, found myself pointing the car towards the Strand. In the direction of Simpson’s. Yes, why not? I could leave a message at reception. Or even get one of the waiters to take it in, hand it to him at his table on a silver tray, a billet-doux; very old-fashioned. I smiled to myself. “Darling, I’m up in town—long story. Will meet you in half an hour at Romano’s.” Yes, that was the name of the bar, I thought eagerly, Romano’s.
I drew up and parked, rather punchily, right outside Simpson’s, on a double yellow line. Then I got out, had a quick shufty round for the police, and leaving the hazard lights on, nipped up the wide stone steps and through the front door. I glanced briefly through the open door into the dining room full of identical-looking businessmen, wearily wining and dining clients, then put my head down—crikey, I wouldn’t want to be seen, that would be embarrassing—and made a beeline for the supercilious-looking Latin maître d’, guarding the front desk.
“Excuse me, could you possibly give this to Mr. Alex Cameron, please?” I breathed, handed him my hastily written note. “He’s eating here this evening.”
He looked at me a moment, then: “With pleasure, madam.” He inclined his head politely, put it on a tray, and went to take it in.
I watched him go. Good. No questions; no—Mr. Alex who? Oh no, he was well known here. God, he flaming well should be, the amount of company money he put the restaurant’s way.
Crowded Marriage Page 38