Sleeping Arrangements

by Madeleine Wickham

  ‘Well, start it up again!’ said Jenna. ‘It’s easy!’

  She went over to the 78 player, put down her tray and briskly wound the machine up. The song started again with new life in it, faster even than it had been when Hugh had walked into the room.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Hugh. ‘It is easy.’ He looked again at Chloe and this time her eyes met his. For a few seconds, something taut and glittering seemed to extend between them, like a spider’s web; then she turned away and it was broken.

  By the time they sat down at the dinner table, Philip had drunk three whiskies and poured himself a fourth. He had barely acknowledged Chloe as he came into the room; had nodded to the others and slumped into his chair, his mind circling around the same thoughts.

  Why could she never just leave him alone? Why did she have to make such an issue of one telephone call? If she had said nothing, he would have been able to keep his fears in check. He could have maintained his inner pretence at calmness, his practised equilibrium. But her probing and nagging had disturbed the muddy surface of his mind, sending up clouds of anxiety. Now they hung in stasis, refusing to settle, like pollution. Killing all the new, fresh thoughts, leaving behind only old, rotting worries, floating in the scum.

  A takeover, they called it. Well, it had taken him over, all right. His thoughts; his life; his family. Philip took a deep swig of whisky, as though hoping to cleanse himself with the alcohol, and repeated to himself the phrase which acted as his mantra. They were keeping fifty per cent of branches open. Fifty per cent. It had been in the press. It had been in the memo, circulated the same day as the takeover announcement. A straightforward promise amid all the blarney; all the euphemistic references to cost-effectiveness, to synergies, to forward-thinking strategy.

  They had promised, on record, to keep fifty per cent of branches open. Which meant that logically speaking he had an even chance. More than even—for his branch was a success. His team worked well; he had won an award, for Christ’s sake. Whatever twisted rules that hired team of management bloodsuckers worked by—whatever hardheaded view of the bank they had—why on earth should they kill off one of their best?

  Before he could stop it, a familiar, insidious little hope sprang into his mind. Perhaps it would be all right. The Mackenzie report would recommend that East Roywich stay. He would be singled out and promoted. At the thought, a bubble of relief began to creep under the corner of his gloom. He had an image of himself as he would be then. A confident man, secure in his career, looking back at these months of anxiety with rueful, almost amused pity.

  ‘It was tough going for a bit,’ he would say to friends, dispensing drinks with a nonchalant ease. ‘Not knowing which way things would go. But now …’ He would shrug carelessly—a simple gesture, indicating the way in which life had worked out so nicely for him. And then he would put an arm round Chloe and she would look up proudly at him, in the way she always used to. In a way she hadn’t done for a long time.

  A hard longing crept over Philip, and he closed his eyes, briefly losing himself in the picture. He wanted to be that future, successful self; he wanted to see his family’s eyes shining up at him with love and admiration. He wanted to be one of the winners. Not one of the band of cast-offs; the middle-aged rejects too slow to keep up with a technological world.

  ‘You could retrain,’ Chloe kept saying to him, with that incessant, draining optimism. ‘You could retrain in computers.’

  But the very phrase sent a chill to his spine. For what did it mean, these days, to ‘retrain in computers’? It meant you were a failure. It meant you were incapable of rising to the ranks where others pushed buttons for you. It meant you had been destined to be a button-pusher all your life.

  ‘He loves computers. But then, don’t they all?’ Chloe’s voice penetrated his thoughts and he felt a jolt of shock. Was she talking about him? He looked up sharply, but she was gazing away from him, across the table at Amanda. She must, Philip realized, be talking about Sam.

  ‘He seems like a very nice boy,’ said Amanda. ‘Very good with his little brother—I’m sorry, what’s his name, again?’ She looked only half engaged in the conversation. But then, thought Philip, that was half more than he was.

  ‘Nat,’ said Chloe after a pause. ‘Yes, Sam is good with him. He’s a wonderful boy, really.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He’s sixteen,’ said Chloe. ‘Nearly grown up.’

  She glanced at Hugh, then looked down at her glass. Her eyes looked strangely bright, as though some strong emotion had come to the fore, and Philip wondered what was wrong. A sudden surge of affection for Sam, or a recognition that her son was nearly an adult. Perhaps she was still upset by their argument earlier. Or maybe it was just the drink. He reached for his own glass and took another swig, then reached for the wine. If he was going to get drunk he might as well get plastered.

  Chloe was beginning to feel a little giddy. Jenna had not yet appeared with any food and she was feeling the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach. Next to her, Philip slumped morosely in his chair, slugging back red wine. He had not spoken to her; had not even acknowledged her. She felt as though their row was visible in the air between them for all to see. And as for the Hugh situation—it was becoming surreal. Now, here she was, sitting opposite him at dinner, discussing Sam with his wife. As Amanda had asked how old Sam was, she’d had a sudden flashback to the one and only time Hugh had met him. Sam had been nine months at the time. Nine months. The thought made her want to weep.

  ‘So he’s … done his exams?’ said Amanda. ‘Or coming up to them?’

  ‘He’s just done them,’ said Chloe, forcing her mind back to the present; forcing herself to breathe calmly. ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘In how many subjects?’ asked Amanda politely, as though she were ticking questions off a standardized list, and Chloe stifled an urge to scream, What do you care?

  ‘Eleven,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Bright boy,’ said Amanda, and glanced at Hugh. ‘I hope our girls turn out that bright.’

  ‘What’s he good at?’ said Hugh, and cleared his throat. ‘What does he enjoy?’ It was the first time he had spoken, and Chloe felt small prickles begin to dance over her face.

  ‘Most things a boy of that age enjoys,’ she said. ‘Football, cricket …’

  ‘Oh, cricket!’ said Amanda, rolling her eyes. ‘Hugh’s always moaning on that the girls won’t play cricket with him.’

  ‘Really,’ said Chloe, and took a sip of wine.

  ‘And what does he want to do as a career?’ asked Amanda, as though moving on to a new section of the questionnaire.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Chloe, smiling slightly. ‘Something interesting, I hope. I’d hate him to get pinned down in a job he didn’t enjoy.’

  ‘There are so many choices out there, these days,’ said Amanda. ‘It must be very difficult to decide.’

  ‘Well, there’s no hurry,’ said Chloe. ‘He can try out lots of different things before he settles down. Apparently employers don’t mind that these days.’ To her left, she was aware of Philip looking up from his glass. She glanced at him and saw, to her horror, that he was drunk. He was drunk, and he was about to speak.

  ‘How interesting,’ said Amanda, sounding thoroughly bored. ‘And do you think—’

  ‘So, Chloe,’ interrupted Philip. He paused, and she held her breath. ‘You know how employers think, do you? You’re an expert on career issues as well as everything else.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Chloe, forcing herself to speak calmly. ‘I just think—’

  ‘Maybe you can read their minds, too,’ said Philip. ‘You know, Chloe’s psychic,’ he added to the others. ‘Whatever you’re thinking—she knows about it. So be warned!’

  He broke off and took another slug of wine. Hugh and Amanda stared resolutely down at their plates.

  ‘Philip …’ said Chloe helplessly, ‘maybe you should have some food. Or some coffee—’

  She br
oke off as the door opened and Jenna appeared, bearing a pottery dish.

  ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Sorry for the delay!’ She approached the table, apparently unaware of the tension lurking in the air. ‘Now. Since we’re in Spain and all, I’ve gone with a bit of a Tex-Mex theme. Everyone likes Tex-Mex, right?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Amanda after a pause.

  ‘Delicious,’ muttered Chloe.

  ‘So this is your rice …’ Jenna put the pottery dish down and lifted off the lid to reveal a swirl of bright pink and yellow, like a luminous abstract painting. ‘It’s strawberry and banana,’ she added. ‘I saw it on Masterchef once.’ She grinned. ‘Joke! I jazzed it up a bit with food colouring, that’s all.’ She beamed round the stunned faces. ‘Makes it more interesting, don’t you think? Well, dig in!’

  There was a pause—then Hugh picked up the spoon and offered it to Chloe.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Philip—shall I serve you?’

  Philip looked at her for a still moment, then pushed back his chair. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I think I’m going to head outside. Take a walk.’ He raised his hand. ‘No offence, Jenna, I’m just not hungry at the moment.’

  ‘None taken!’ said Jenna. ‘It’s your holiday!’

  ‘Enjoy your meal,’ said Philip, and left the room without even looking at Chloe.

  When he’d gone, there was an awkward silence. Chloe stared down, feeling her cheeks hot with an embarrassed, angry colour. She knew things were hard for Philip. Things were hard for them both. But the point of this holiday had been to get away from all of it. Couldn’t he make the slightest effort?

  ‘So, the rest of you—tuck in!’ said Jenna. She looked at Chloe. ‘Isn’t that rice something else?’

  ‘It’s … wonderful,’ said Chloe faintly.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ said Jenna, heading towards the door. ‘Just wait till you see the chilli!’

  There was silence until the door closed behind her. Immediately, Chloe looked up.

  ‘I can’t apologize enough for Philip’s behaviour,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Amanda politely.

  ‘He’s … he’s been under a lot of strain lately. We both have.’

  ‘Please don’t worry!’ said Amanda. ‘These things happen to us all. Every marriage has its ups and down—’

  ‘We aren’t married,’ said Chloe, more sharply than she had intended.

  ‘Oh,’ said Amanda, glancing at Hugh. ‘I’m sorry, I simply assumed—’

  ‘Philip doesn’t believe in marriage,’ said Chloe. ‘And I—’ She broke off and rubbed her face in silence. There was a still pause.

  ‘Of course, a lot of people don’t get married these days,’ said Amanda knowledgeably. ‘A friend of mine had a pagan blessing instead. On a clifftop. It was simply stunning. Dress by Galliano.’ She paused. ‘Of course, they broke up a year later, but I honestly don’t think having a wedding would have made any difference …’

  ‘Amanda, have some pink rice,’ said Hugh, and pushed the dish towards her.

  ‘We’re as committed to each other as any married couple,’ said Chloe, a slight tension in her voice. ‘More so.’

  ‘You have a child together,’ said Hugh.

  ‘We have two children together,’ said Chloe, looking up. ‘Two children.’ She met his eyes and there was a pause, during which something silent seemed to scurry across the table.

  ‘This rice is quite extraordinary!’ said Amanda, sniffing suspiciously. ‘Do you think it’s OK?’

  ‘Go on, tuck in!’ came Jenna’s voice from the door. She strode towards the table, holding another large pottery dish. ‘Here’s some guacamole to have on the side.’

  She put the dish down, and there was silence as everyone looked at the lurid green substance. It reminded Chloe of a revolting toy Nat had once had in his stocking, called Slime.

  ‘It looks delicious,’ said Hugh at last. ‘Very … green.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jenna. ‘I thought the avocado on its own looked a little pale. A bit boring, to be honest.’ She looked with satisfaction at the table. ‘Good-oh. Now all we need is the chilli.’

  She turned towards the door and stopped in surprise. ‘Octavia, sweetheart, what are you doing down here?’

  The others all looked up. Octavia was advancing cautiously into the room, wearing gingham pyjamas and holding a plushy elephant.

  ‘Mummy,’ she said. ‘Beatrice is crying. She says she wants you.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Amanda, rising to her feet.

  ‘Darling, sit down,’ said Hugh. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘No!’ said Octavia. ‘She wants Mummy.’

  ‘D’you want me to go up?’ said Jenna. ‘Try and calm her down?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Amanda, sighing slightly. ‘I’d better go myself. Sorry to leave you in the lurch,’ she added to Chloe. ‘Hardly very sociable.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Chloe. ‘That’s fine!’ She was aware of Hugh’s head swivelling towards her, and a faint tinge of colour came to her cheek. ‘I mean,’ she continued without looking at him, ‘I know what it’s like when your children are ill.’

  ‘Shall I put some food on a plate for you?’ said Jenna.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Amanda. ‘I’ll make myself something later. Come on, Octavia.’ She stood up, put her napkin on the table, and headed towards the door, taking the child’s hand as she went.

  ‘So it looks like it’s just the two of us,’ said Hugh to Chloe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Chloe after a pause. ‘Yes, it does.’ She took a sip of wine and then another.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Jenna. ‘All the more for you two! Right, I’ll just go and see how this chilli’s doing.’

  She left the room, closing the door behind her. Chloe took a deep breath, intending to say something light and breezy and impersonal. But suddenly she could not speak; the phrases withered away as they reached her tongue. As her eyes met Hugh’s she saw that he could not speak, either. The entire room seemed temporarily immobilized, as though in a still-life painting. The candlelit table, the gleaming glassware; the two of them, transfixed.

  Forcing herself to break the spell, Chloe took another sip of wine, draining her glass. Without speaking, Hugh reached for the bottle and replenished it.

  ‘Thank you,’ muttered Chloe.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  There was another, unreal pause.

  ‘I think I’ll have some guacamole.’ Chloe reached for the dish and spooned a dollop of the green substance onto her plate.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ said Hugh in a low voice.

  A bullet of emotion shot through Chloe before she could stop it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said without looking up, ladling another dollop of guacamole onto her plate. ‘You always were one for the insincerities.’

  ‘I’m not—’ retorted Hugh angrily, then stopped himself. ‘Chloe—I want to talk. About …’ He paused. ‘About what I did.’

  There was silence. Very deliberately, Chloe spooned a third dollop of green mush onto her plate.

  ‘I want you to know why I acted like that,’ said Hugh. ‘And … and how hard the decision was …’

  ‘Was it hard?’ said Chloe tonelessly. ‘You poor thing.’ Hugh winced.

  ‘I was a different person then,’ he said. ‘I was young.’

  ‘I was young, too,’ said Chloe. She reached for a fourth spoonful, then paused and put the spoon down.

  ‘I didn’t have any idea about life, about people—’

  ‘The thing is, Hugh,’ interrupted Chloe, ‘I’m not interested.’ She looked up and met his eyes. ‘I’m really not interested in … in what you thought or why you did what you did. As you say, it was a very long time ago.’ She took a sip of wine and shoved the guacamole dish towards him. ‘Have some slime.’

  ‘Chloe, just listen,’ said Hugh, leaning forward urgently. ‘If I could just explain the way I felt, the way I panicked—’

  ‘Wh
at do you want, Hugh?’ snapped Chloe, feeling a flash of anger. ‘What do you want? Forgiveness? Absolution?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hugh defensively. ‘Maybe I just want to … talk to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  There was silence. Hugh picked up a fork and examined it intently for a moment, then lifted his eyes.

  ‘Maybe I’d like to get to know you again. And for you to get to know me. The person I am now,’ Chloe stared at him, then shook her head incredulously.

  ‘You,’ she said, ‘are on very dangerous territory.’

  ‘I know I am.’ Hugh took a sip of wine, keeping his gaze fixed on hers.

  Chloe reached for her glass and did the same, trying to keep composed. But the conversation was rattling her more than she could have predicted. Beneath her calm demeanour, she could feel the old hurt returning; the old raw vulnerability. She wanted to yell at Hugh, to wound him; to give him some of the pain he had given her.

  ‘Chloe.’ She raised her head, to see Hugh looking at her gravely. ‘I’m sorry. I’m … so sorry.’

  The words hit Chloe like a thunderbolt. To her horror, she felt a sudden hotness around her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry for everything I did,’ Hugh was continuing. ‘If I could just … I don’t know, go back in time …’

  ‘No!’ Chloe’s voice lashed out like a self-defence kick. She took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘Just … just stop right there. Sorry is irrelevant. There’s no point being sorry about something unless you can do something about it. And you can’t. We can’t go back in time. We can’t change what happened.’

  She stopped, aware that she was pink in the face and panting slightly. She glanced at Hugh; he was staring at her with a hungry expression as though waiting for her to speak again.

  ‘We can’t go back in time,’ she said, more calmly. ‘We can’t change what happened.’ She pushed back her chair, stood up and looked at Hugh with a dispassionate gaze. ‘And I wouldn’t want to anyway.’

  She dropped her napkin on the table and strode out of the door. As she left the room she saw Jenna heading towards it, a large oval dish in her hands.