It wasn’t until much later, as they were getting ready for bed, that Roger suddenly called from the bathroom where he was flossing his teeth, ‘Was the pool crowded this morning?’ She could hear the little click-click sound as he flicked the floss between his teeth. ‘Full of rowdy kids jumping in and peeing in the water, etc.? Really, darling, join a proper gym! The pool’s not large at my one, but at least it’s clean and isn’t teeming with the great unwashed British public all the time.’
‘I don’t mind the public pool…’ She paused. Really, she was being daft. She’d been mulling over what the swim-cap lady had said that morning and realising she was right: Eleanor was a grown-up. How silly to be hiding something so trivial from her husband.
‘Actually, I went for a swim in Hampstead.’ She pulled on her dressing gown over her nightdress and glanced towards her husband in the bathroom. ‘At the pond.’
‘The pond?’ Roger stopped mid-floss, looking at her via the mirror. ‘But we agreed that you weren’t going to go there any more.’
‘Well…’ Eleanor tied the cord on her dressing gown, looking down as she made the bow as if she needed to see what she was doing. ‘You weren’t keen on it, I know, but there was no real reason not to go.’ She straightened up again. ‘And I just fancied it today. So I went.’
‘But I’d told you not to. I was extremely clear about it, darling. That woman had a heart attack. It’s just not safe. Especially at this time of year. It’s practically freezing. Another few weeks and it’ll ice over, I should think.’
‘No, it was fine.’ There was no point in telling him that the water had been pretty cold as that would rather prove Roger’s point. ‘Besides, she had a heart condition, apparently.’
‘I can’t believe you went there after I’d expressly told you not to, Eleanor. It’s most unlike you. What on earth were you thinking of?’ Roger stood in the doorway of the bathroom, holding the floss taut between his hands, as if he might suddenly lunge forward and attempt to strangle her with it.
‘I just felt like going. I know you’re only concerned for my welfare, but I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.’ Eleanor slumped onto the stool in front of her dressing table, defeated, and reached for her cleansing lotion and a cotton-wool pad.
‘It’s a “big deal”, Eleanor, because we had discussed it and you agreed not to go. You knew I would only worry about you if you went. It’s just so selfish. You’re my wife, the mother of my children. I need to know I can trust you to be safe and sensible.’
Eleanor felt her face flaming. She accepted that she was far from perfect but she didn’t believe she was selfish.
‘I think that’s unfair. And you didn’t worry in any case, because you didn’t even know I was there until just now.’
That was the trouble with people like the swim-cap lady. Life was easy for people like that: they just went ahead and did whatever they felt like, and to hell with the consequences. Eleanor knew now she should have stuck to her original plan and not told him. Her tactics had been honed over years and usually worked perfectly well; what was to be gained by suddenly dragging the truth into things? Where was the benefit?
Roger turned away from her and retreated further into the bathroom.
‘I think that’s the end of this conversation, Eleanor. There’s to be no more swimming in the pond.’ His voice had a slight echo as it bounced off the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom. ‘I, for one, do not want to have to explain to my children that their mother has dropped dead from a heart attack because she refused to see sense.’ She could hear him tugging open the mirrored cabinet above the basin once more, then a clatter as he presumably tried to shove the floss back and some items fell into the basin.
‘For crying out loud, this fucking cupboard is full of crap we never use. Eleanor, if you have a minute tomorrow, could you possibly – if it’s not too much trouble –’ his tone openly sneering now, ‘… see your way to clearing out some of this shit in here so that a person might actually be able to find something without having half a pharmacy jump out at him. That would be marvellous. Thank you.’
Then the sound of his nostril-hair trimmer started up and he banged the door shut.
Eleanor looked in the mirror and smoothed on her cleansing lotion and started to wipe it off. She leaned forward a little, noticing another line on her forehead, the slight sag around the jawline. Dragged the cotton pad over her face once more, and again. She had a sudden vision that perhaps she could just keep on, wiping and wiping, until she had erased not just her make-up, but everything, her wrinkles first, then even her skin, her flesh, her entire self, until there would be nothing left and Roger would emerge from the bathroom, his nose now pristine and perfect, and see nothing but her dressing gown, empty and lifeless, pooled on the floor.
19
The Scarlet Letter
Sunday morning. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and Andrew was full to the brim with one of his mother’s outsize breakfasts and multiple cups of tea. He leaned back in his chair and let his mind wander. Vicki has had over a month without him – long enough, he hopes, for her to have missed him. After all, didn’t he bring her a cappuccino in bed every morning? Didn’t he take out the rubbish and sort the recycling without needing to be asked? Didn’t he check her tyres and even fill up her car with petrol? And there were plenty of other things, too, like rubbing her feet while they watched telly together, or going downstairs to confront a possible intruder when Vicki heard a strange noise. It was long enough for her to have missed him but not so long that she might be used to it and starting to think she really was better off without him.
Vicki was always in a good mood on Sunday mornings. She’d probably be meeting friends for lunch later at the local gastro-pub, as they usually did, though it was getting harder to find other childless couples. Andrew and Vicki had lived together for less than two years. When he’d tentatively raised the topic of marriage and children, Vicki had said that, while those things were absolutely on her long-term schedule, they didn’t feature on her near-time horizon as she was only thirty-two. When Vicki didn’t want to talk about something, it was as if a heavy blackout curtain had been drawn across the subject, with not a glimmer of light remaining. Andrew, now familiar with this approach, knew better than to attempt to fling open the curtain once it had been closed, and he had let the matter drop.
By now, Vicki would have had time to think again. She would be feeling his absence as a noticeable hole in her life and in her house (it was, unquestionably, Vicki’s house; he had moved in, he paid for all the food and half the bills, but it was her domain). Who would deal with any spider that dared to scuttle across the gleaming kitchen floor? Who would change the halogen bulbs in the kitchen, which she couldn’t reach, even teetering on tiptoes on a kitchen chair? Who would bolt the top bolt at night (she couldn’t reach that either)? Who would carry the heavy shopping in from the car or mow the lawn? Yes, she would surely be missing him by now. He smiled at the thought, allowed himself to muse on her pretty face, the funny way she ran when she went jogging with her feet flopping out at an angle, the way she was so sweetly appreciative when he prepared the fruit for her breakfast smoothie each day.
‘Fabulous breakfast, Mum.’ Andrew put his dirty plate and cutlery in the dishwasher and kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘That’s set me up for the day.’
‘Well, I do like to feed my boys properly, don’t I?’ Mrs Tyler wrung out a cloth and began spraying and wiping the kitchen table with a degree of vigour appropriate for removing an influx of the plague. His dad, enclosed behind the wall of his Sunday newspaper, murmured his assent.
‘I’m just popping back to see Vicki.’
‘Hmph!’ She removed the butter dish and set it down with a clunk on the worktop.
The newspaper was folded back to one side.
‘She expecting you?’ his father asked quietly.
‘Not especially. Why?’
‘Maybe best give her a call first?’ T
he newspaper spread out again so Ron’s disembodied voice drifted over the parapet. ‘Show her you’re considerate, like.’
‘It’s no biggie. I’ll say I’ve only come to pick up some of my stuff.’
Mrs Tyler sniffed and started returning the breakfast accoutrements to their allotted places at some speed and with perhaps more force and sound effects than strictly necessary.
‘If she’s any sense at all, she’ll be begging you to come back,’ Mrs Tyler told the mixer tap. ‘She doesn’t know when she’s well off, that one.’
There was a small rustle from his father’s newspaper but no comment.
‘She’d better hurry up before someone else snaps you up.’
Andrew put his arm round his mother and gave her a squeeze.
‘Aw, Mum, that’s really sweet. Thank you.’
‘Not at all. It’s just a plain fact. These days you’re a good catch, Andrew. You’ve a steady job, and that’s not to be sniffed at. Be glad you don’t work for a bank: you might be put out on the street tomorrow like a bag of rubbish.’
‘Well…’ There was no point attempting to converse with his mother about the banking crisis. ‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘It’s very steady.’
On either side of the front door, two ornamental urns had appeared, planted with crisply clipped balls of box encircled by assertively yellow pansies. The urns were large enough and fancy enough to merit taking up residence outside a grand old pile in the country, but were possibly a tiny bit over-ambitious for a red-brick semi in Whetstone, albeit one with a through-lounge, a leather corner suite, and enough space for three cars on the front drive. Or, rather, there would normally be space for three cars, but now, next to Vicki’s metallic purple Mini, was a large convertible Mercedes in gun-metal grey straddling two spaces.
Andrew parked his own dusty Renault on the road and got out slowly. The Mercedes glimmered in the feeble sunshine. Andrew had less than zero interest in cars, but even he could see that here was a thing of beauty. There was not a scratch on it. Who in London managed to keep a car completely free from dents and scrapes? He cast an eye down at the number plate: COOL 1.
The side-gate through to the back garden was wide open and Andrew could hear the heavy drone of the lawnmower. Surprising. Vicki didn’t generally like doing that sort of task because you could so easily break a nail and it left your hands oily or dirty. He supposed he ought to ring the doorbell, but of course she’d never hear it from the back with the mower going. God, this was ridiculous – only a little while ago they’d been living together, sharing a house, a bed, a coffee-maker – it’s not as if he’d come to nick the garden furniture. He walked down the side path and called out a cheery hello so as not to give her a fright. The buzz of the mower had stopped. He came face to face with a man in navy chinos and a bright orange polo shirt. Not just a man. Vicki’s boss, Ian Sutton.
‘Oh. Ian? Er, hello. Hello again.’ Andrew had met him a few times at office parties or if he’d occasionally picked Vicki up from work. ‘I was looking for Vicki.’
‘Andy, isn’t it?’ Ian clasped his hand firmly and clapped him on the back as if they were good mates. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Andrew. Is Vicki here?’
Ian nodded towards the house and rolled his eyes.
‘Making herself beautiful upstairs. Women, eh? What can you do?’
Andrew found himself grinning and nodding in agreement, chaps together. True, it had always taken Vicki an age to get ready, but Andrew felt he was missing something, as if he’d come in when the movie was already halfway through and he’d skipped some critical piece of the plot. Maybe Ian’s business wasn’t going well and he had taken on part-time gardening work to… to… supplement his income? Maybe Vicki was already finding it all too hard without him and Ian had kindly offered to help her out a bit? The way you do… pop over and mow a subordinate’s lawn.
Ian had dazzling white teeth and a year-round tan. Vicki had said ages ago that all ‘the girls’ at work found their boss ‘a complete and total hottie’, but that he was also ‘a perfect gentleman’ and never stepped out of line. Andrew stood on the patio, hands in his pockets, wondering what to do. Should he recline on one of the sun-loungers, to show how very much at home he still was? Or perch casually on one of the unfeasibly heavy teak chairs? Ian’s leather jacket was hung on the back of the nearest one and Andrew poked it with a finger as if he were a small boy intent on provoking an animal.
Ian brushed himself down to remove any stray bits of cut grass.
‘I’ll go and see what she’s up to,’ he said. ‘How long does it take to powder your nose, for Chrissakes?’ He laughed and clucked his tongue, then slid open the patio door, slipping off his annoyingly perfect loafers as he did so. Andrew sidled over to the gap and poked his head in. Hmm. Still looked the same. Everything perfectly neat and tidy. Fresh flowers – stiff yellow roses – in that grotesque orange glass vase, though. Vicki wasn’t a fan of fresh flowers, with their tendency to drop leaves and petals and pollen all over her shiny surfaces. He could hear footsteps on the stairs and he sprang back from the opening and stood surveying the now striped lawn. Ian reappeared and they stood there side by side.
‘Nice job.’ Andrew nodded at the lawn. He said it as if he were an authority on such matters, as if in fact he often went round the country judging lawns and the quality of the finish. He thought about shoving Ian to the ground and pounding his head to a pulp on the patio.
‘Cheers. Soon knock the garden into shape, I reckon.’
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? It was already in shape under Andrew’s attentive curatorship, extremely in shape.
‘Take up this patio.’ Ian tapped his foot on the paving slabs. ‘Get some decking down instead. Decent bit of hardwood.’
Andrew tried to think of something clever to say about decking but all he knew was that it seemed to feature on every single gardening makeover programme he had ever watched with Vicki, and he hadn’t really been watching, not properly; he had usually been reading the paper at the same time because he hated makeover programmes. He thought about running Ian over with the lawn-mower and making nice stripes across his fucking horrible polo shirt.
‘Bit last year though – decking – isn’t it?’ Andrew employed his mother’s dismissive sniff. He gave a knowing laugh. ‘I rather think garden design has moved on a notch since then.’ He leaned back on his heels and nodded. Yes, he too could be a total arse when the need arose. Ian laughed, however, apparently completely unbothered by the put-down. He took a swig of his beer and didn’t offer Andrew one.
‘Well, I guess I’m no expert–’ Ian paused over the word, allowing it to hang in the air, ‘on –’ he laughed again, ‘ah, garden design.’ He made it sound as if such an activity was fit only for lesser beings. ‘Not much time for that sort of thing, I’m afraid.’ The unspoken conclusion was as loud as if it had been bellowed across the now-immaculate lawn – being a highly successful, well-paid fellow with a big fuck-you house and a spanking new Merc in your girlfriend’s driveway. Ex-girlfriend’s driveway.
‘And how is the – ah – “museum”?’ Ian asked, making air-quotes with his fingers when he said the word, as if Andrew were really a spy or a drug-dealer, and being a museum conservator were merely a rather quaint cover story. Andrew toyed with the idea of crushing Ian’s head in the sliding patio door while reminding him that the British Museum is the greatest ‘museum’ in the world, bar none, you perma-tanned creep. He pictured Ian looking up at him beseechingly while he, Andrew, Paper Conservator Extraordinaire, made air-quotes at him.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, after a few moments.
Vicki appeared, looking all pink and perfect and neat and smelling of the expensive perfume Andrew had given her on her birthday.
‘Andrew.’ She nodded, and gave a very small, tight smile, as if she was doling out a strictly controlled ration.
‘Vicki,’ he responded. ‘I’ve come for my stuff.’
‘Of course. Come this way.’ She click-clacked back along the path, gesturing at the garage, as if she were an estate agent giving him a tour of the property.
Any moment now, Andrew would say, ‘So what the fuck’s the deal with Ian, then?’ He would tell her he’s no fool, he can see what’s going on, she can’t pull the wool over his eyes. He would demand to know how long this has been going on. He would even raise his voice, if necessary, and be extremely firm with her.
Vicki pressed the remote and the garage door opened upwards. Andrew’s remaining boxes were marshalled along one edge, each marked with a large red ‘A’ on a white label. It reminded Andrew at once of Hawthorne’s novel The Scarlet Letter, in which the heroine, Hester Prynne, had to wear the letter ‘A’ stitched on the front of her dress – ‘A’ for ‘Adulteress’.
‘Ha!’ he said, emitting a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. ‘The Scarlet Letter! How very apt.’
Growing Up for Beginners Page 13