The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  She meant Neville. And it struck me that other people had wondered at us marrying so soon after, when I hadn't.

  ‘It was probably just a flash in the pan. A sort of desperate last sowing of wild oats, before settling down for good.’

  ‘It was. It was a one-night stand, with a barmaid.’

  ‘Oh, well, there you are! What are you getting so upset about? I mean, sure, it's a shame it happened a month after you got engaged, and not – I don't know – a couple of months before, and I can see that as far as you're concerned he's got a slightly blemished record, which is a shock and a shame, but that's all it is, Evie, a bit of a shame. You've got to see it in that context, not something to get worked up about all these years.’

  ‘Caro, there's a child.’

  She stared at me. Her eyes grew huge. ‘A child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How d'you know?’

  ‘She wrote to us, the other day. Said she wanted to get to know her father.’

  She caught her breath. ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’ I wailed.

  ‘And he didn't know?’

  ‘Had no idea! Why should he? A quick roll in the hay, never sees the girl again – why would he?’

  There was a highly charged silence as Caro digested this. The station clock ticked on remorselessly above the window. She didn't take her eyes off me. I watched them turn from horror to steel. Then: ‘How do we know it's true? I mean, some barmaid from – where?’

  ‘Sheffield.’

  ‘Sheffield! Who gets up the duff, having slept with God knows how many men—’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said quickly. ‘And sees Ant's picture on the back of his latest book.’

  ‘Is that how she—’

  ‘Yes! Well, no. I don't know, for sure, but you can imagine—’

  ‘Of course you can!’ she agreed emphatically. ‘God, you can just see it, can't you? A single mother and her daughter, scheming together, writing to him, some – some Sharon—’

  ‘Stacey.’

  ‘Stacey! Eh up, Stacey lass, let's see if we can't get soom brass outa him.’

  ‘You think?’ I said anxiously, loving her.

  ‘Oh, for sure! Oh, this has scam written all over it, Evie. I mean, why wait till now? Why not earlier? Ten years ago?’

  ‘Because she's sixteen now,’ I said, playing devil's advocate. ‘She wanted to wait.’

  Caro made a sceptical face. ‘So she says. But it's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it? The Byron book's been out a year – the paperback's just come out.’

  ‘The letter arrived a week after the paperback was launched,’ I said quickly.

  ‘You see! And it was all over the place. In the supermarkets even, with Ant's photo on the back—’

  ‘Tesco's—’

  ‘Tesco's!’

  ‘Asda—’

  ‘Asda! And she – the mother – pops her Turkey Twizzlers in her basket and thinks, I know that face… blimey. He must be worth a bob or two.’ Caro was pink with zeal, fired up.

  ‘Yes, I know, that's what I thought. But, Caro,’ I struggled with the bald facts, ‘Ant doesn't see it like that. He thinks it could be true, that she could be his, and if she is, well then, he wants to do the right thing. Wants to acknowledge her.’

  Caro's mouth contracted like a cat's bottom. ‘What, bring her into the family?’ she squeaked.

  Anyone would think we were the Windsors.

  ‘Well, yes. Introduce her to Anna.’ My face twitched involuntarily at this.

  ‘Christmas, birthdays,’ Caro breathed, a faraway look in her eye, as both of us, I know, had a mental vision of Christmas, which was always at the farm: everyone crowded in the dining room, holly over the pictures, huge turkey, and, despite our differences, very jolly. All the cousins, Mum, Felicity, Caro, Tim, me, Ant, except now, next to Ant – a dumpy, peroxide-blonde girl, her mother too perhaps, a Myra Hindley lookalike, with hard, probing eyes, glinting as they eyed up the silver candlesticks, the crystal glasses, none of it terribly valuable, but worth an awful lot more than a few china kittens that sat in the window of their high-rise in Sheffield. Worth a bit more than the souvenir from Magaluf on the telly. And then the children's faces, confused, appalled at this cuckoo in their nest. Having to explain, nervously, to their friends on Boxing Day, at the usual drinks party at the farm, where all the neighbours congregated, that this was, um, another cousin. Anna's sister.

  Caro's face darkened. ‘Over my dead body!’

  ‘That's what I said,’ I gulped. ‘When Ant told me. That's exactly what I said!’

  We gazed at each other, and her eyes shone into mine in a way that they hadn't done for years, a way that reminded me of when we'd had a plan, years ago; a party to crash perhaps, a window that needed climbing into. One particular window sprang to mind, a high one, our most daring of all, at a May Ball. Naturally we hadn't been invited, being only lowly shop assistants, but nevertheless, we'd put on our Monsoon ball gowns, and after ten o'clock, when we knew everyone had eaten and the dancing begun, raced down Cornmarket, skirts lifted, giggling wildly, finding our building. Slingbacks in our teeth, Caro had shoved me up a drainpipe and I'd hauled her after me. On to the roof we'd climbed, jumping across to another, then through a skylight, recced days ago, dropping down into the ladies' loo. A few undergraduates applying their lippy in the mirror had looked up, astonished. ‘Just popped out for a breather,’ smiled Caro, who had all the neck, brushing off her hands. And then we'd danced until dawn. It was that same look, I realized, as we'd planned Operation May Ball in our flat in Summertown, that same steely, determined look, that she had now.

  ‘My dead body and yours too then,’ she said grimly. ‘They'll have to climb over a couple of stiffs before they gain access to my house. Before they start believing they're one of us!’

  Later, when we'd both calmed down a bit, we walked around the garden, arms tightly folded, heads bent, a couple of middle-aged women, closer than we'd been for years, discussing DNA, the fraud squad, getting them arrested, maybe even a court order to stay away.

  ‘Deported?’ I stopped. Looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘Well, they're probably not even English, Evie! Probably – I don't know – Nigerian or something!’

  I frowned. ‘Wouldn't that make passing as Ant's daughter a bit – you know – difficult? A bit easy to suss?’

  ‘Well, Poles then. God, we're crawling with them round here, picking strawberries, asparagus, wanting to get rich quick then bugger off back to Prague with their stash, feed their starving families, spread it round the bread queues…’ Caro's grip on foreign affairs was about as firm as mine. ‘Poles on the make, I bet you.’

  Tim approached, loping across the lawn towards us.

  ‘Don't tell him,’ hissed Caro. ‘He'll look on the bright side. Always does.’

  It was true, he would. And would probably agree with Ant that she deserved to be heard; deserved to be listened to. He would be generous-spirited, nicer, as men, in my experience, often tend to be. Unlike me and Caro who'd got a sixteen-year-old bound and gagged, and in the back of a cattle truck, bouncing down a dusty track and back across the border. He looked a bit sheepish.

  ‘Sorry, Evie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the horse. I was a bit… you know.’

  ‘Oh! Oh God, don't be silly, Tim. Couldn't matter less. Anyway, I deserved it. I'm a fool. Always have been.’

  ‘No, that's my province.’ He grinned and pulled my hair as he limped off.

  I wondered vaguely what he meant by that as he ambled away. ‘His hip doesn't look great,’ I said distractedly.

  ‘Never does at this time of day. He's been on it too long. Phil and I can do whatever needs doing, and I keep telling him to rest it, but he won't. But it is getting better. The doctor said it'll take three months.’

  I nodded. ‘And he's fit?’

  ‘Oh God, is he. Strong as an ox. Hasn't deterred him in the bedroom, either. There was I thinking, oh joy
, three months off games – which was what the hospital recommended, incidentally – but not a bit of it. The moment he was out of hospital he was chasing me round the bedroom on crutches. We became very familiar with “SPOD”.’

  ‘SPOD?’

  ‘ “Sexual Problems of the Disabled”, a little booklet they helpfully provide you with when you leave hospital, complete with graphic illustrations. I tell you, Evie, there are positions in that book you wouldn't attempt if you were able-bodied, let alone disabled. Forget The Joy of Sex, “SPOD” has opened up a whole new erotic world for your brother. He can't imagine what we've been doing for the last eighteen years.’

  I giggled.

  ‘I keep reading articles about men being too stressed and exhausted to make love to their wives,’ she went on, ‘and here I am, with the most stressed-out, exhausted hop-along cripple imaginable, who works from dawn till dusk, is up to his neck in debt and still wants to try the illustration on page thirty-two!’

  I laughed. ‘You'd be worried if he didn't.’

  ‘Try me,’ she said drily. ‘He even tried to slip in some rodeo sex the other day.’

  ‘What's rodeo sex?’

  Caro cleared her throat and pretended to read from a booklet. ‘The couple adopt the doggy position. The gentleman then calls out an ex-girlfriend's name and sees how long he can stay on for.’

  ‘No!’

  She laughed. ‘No, quite right, not in “SPOD”. He found it in Viz. But you know Tim.’ She grinned. ‘Anyway, I expect you're right. I expect I'd be worried if he wasn't up for it. And Ant's the same, isn't he?’

  ‘'Fraid so,’ I said quickly, forcing a smile. I felt sick at his name, and she saw and squeezed my arm. But it wasn't just that. Ant wasn't the same, these days. And I wasn't someone who talked about sex with girlfriends, never had, but Caro and I had always had a bit of a mutual moan about our over-sexed husbands and how thrilled we were when we went to stay with friends and they apologized for the single beds in the spare room. But at the moment… well, this was all such a shock, of course. Put us off our stride. And before that, all that fuss with the book. Too much excitement.

  Nevertheless, when Anna and I left the farm with Caro hissing in my ear not to worry and to tell absolutely no one, and when I'd dropped Anna off at her piano lesson at the end of our road, it was still on my mind. I found myself executing my usual eleven-point turn in Little Clarendon Street, and heading back into town.

  I parked in my customary high street spot, unknown to tourists and shoppers alike, and head down, collar up, in the manner of a woman on a mission, hurried towards Marks and Spencer. Up the escalator I glided, then into the requisite department. I hovered there, in Lingerie, fingering the white cotton briefs, but secretly eyeing up the black silk on the next rack. I felt furtive, like a man in a mac. Ridiculous. And ridiculous that I'd never owned any, I thought, strolling over casually to look at them. Just to flick through them. Why, even my fourteen-year-old daughter had frilly knickers, tiny pink lacy things – lingerie, I suppose – which I gazed at in wonder as I took them from the tumble dryer. Whilst I had pants, which were always white, and came in packs of three, and eventually went grey. Occasionally I bought a pretty bra, but never anything overtly sexy, just something that did the job and was comfortable and certainly never black, which I somehow associated with sin. A bit grubby. But… men liked that, didn't they? I took a deep breath.

  Half an hour later, back in the safety of my bedroom, and feeling like a tramp and a whore rolled into one, I took the black lacy bra and knickers – with red bows on, for God's sake – from the bag. Too much. Oh, far too much. What would Ant say? Well, he'd love them, of course he would. Any man would. And it was only M&S, not Ann Summers. Oh – and a suspender belt. I'd never in my life worn one before, only tights. Hands fluttering with excitement, I whipped off my clothes and put my new purchases on; didn't actually know how to put the suspender belt on. Oh, round the waist? Really?

  I tiptoed furtively to the mirror that faced the end of the bed. Stared. How extraordinary. I looked completely different. Completely. Like, well, like a woman in a magazine! I turned around. Lordy. And my flesh looked so… so forbidden, somehow. So wanton. Too much of it, obviously – I sucked in my tummy – but still… I lay down. Yes, I did. On the bed. Gazed sideways into the mirror. Had to shift around a bit to see, but… yes. Very Playboy. I raised one leg coquettishly in the air, rolled my eyes. Just as I was fondling the bedpost, pouting—

  ‘Hi!’ Up the stairs.

  I leaped off the bed. Christ! He was home. And six in the evening was not the moment. It might have been once, but not now. He'd think it mighty peculiar to find me trussed up in black lace. I threw on a wraparound dress and was just tying it up as he came in.

  ‘Hello, darling!’ I said overbrightly.

  ‘Hi.’ He seemed almost not to notice me. He crossed the room and sat down heavily on the side of the bed.

  ‘Ant? What's wrong?’ My mouth dried. I stared across at the top of his bent head.

  ‘Nothing.’ Flatly. ‘No, nothing's wrong.’ He picked up the plastic M&S bag. Fiddled with it distractedly. Put it down again. ‘It's just, she – Stacey…’ he paused to let the requisite shock waves rip through me at her name, ‘she emailed me. She's going to come. One Sunday.’

  ‘Right,’ I breathed. I sat on the bed beside him. All the feverish activity of the last few moments evaporated like so many raindrops on a window. The silence of the empty house closed in on us.

  ‘She… emailed you?’

  ‘Yes. We have done that, once or twice. Quicker, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Except I didn't know. Didn't know she had his email address. I knew he had hers. My heart quickened.

  ‘She got mine from the college. Left me a message. I had to answer it.’

  ‘Of course. Did she say which Sunday?’

  ‘No. Just… sometime soon.’

  He turned to me. Took my hand. His blue eyes behind his glasses were full. Deadly serious. ‘Evie, you know what this means. If she's coming, if this is actually happening, we have to tell Anna.’

  Do we? my head shrieked. Why can't we just tell her to sod off? Why couldn't this nightmare just go away?

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘And, Evie,’ he swallowed. His eyes skittered past me to the window, then back again. ‘I'd like to do it, if you don't mind. Alone. I'd like to… find my own words. Explain to her in my own way.’

  Without me. I felt my chest tighten. Felt panic rising. But, yes, of course he did. And what a relief, in some ways: leave me out of it. It was his mess, he could jolly well extricate himself. Nothing to do with me. But… equally, I was to be excluded. Why? What did he want to say to her that he couldn't say to me? Didn't want me to hear?

  ‘But, Ant,’ I licked my lips, ‘surely this is all going much too fast? We don't know anything yet. Don't even know if she's yours!’

  ‘Oh, she's mine,’ he said quietly, but it was a quietness that chilled me. He got off the bed and walked to the window. His hands in his pockets. ‘She's mine all right.’

  12

  ‘How do you know?’ I felt faint with fear. Light-headed. A pulse was beginning to throb in my temple.

  ‘Evie… I haven't been entirely straight with you.’

  His back was to me. I stared at the yoke of his blue and white checked shirt. At the fair hair curling on his collar. Oh God.

  ‘You mean… it went on much longer?’ I whispered. ‘Not just that once? That one night?’

  ‘No,’ he turned, looked surprised. ‘No, that was true. It only happened once. But… well. She wasn't quite a barmaid. She was working in the pub, yes, for a few weeks, for a bit of pocket money, but…’ He paused, swallowed. ‘She was a student.’

  ‘A student?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A containerload of emotions hit me hard, like a goods wagon skidding off the rails, everything spilled ou
t chaotically on the tracks. Not a barmaid. One of his students. Bright. Clever. An Oxford undergraduate, the kind of liaison he'd always, always frowned on, had no time for amongst his colleagues. It did happen – of course it happened – but not to Ant, not to my husband.

  ‘How old?’ I croaked.

  ‘Eighteen.’

  Eighteen. A first year. And he'd have been thirty. Questions crowded my mind. Fought to be heard, elbowing each other out of the way, like so many hands shooting up. How? Why?

  ‘She was in my English poetry group, so I saw her – obviously in lectures – but on a one-to-one basis too, in tutorials. And that was her special interest, nineteenth-century poetry. The Romantic Poets. Byron in particular.’

  Byron. His speciality. A shared interest.

  ‘Very bright?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes. Very clever.’

  That hurt. Oh, that hurt. And there I'd been, pedalling around Oxford on a bicycle pretending to be clever. Romantic fiction of a different nature in my basket; less Troilus and Criseyde, more doctors and nurses.

  ‘Pretty?’

  He looked at his feet. Silly question. Gorgeous. Your worst nightmare, Evie. Ten years younger, razor sharp, drop-dead gorgeous. Big tits too, no doubt.

  ‘Don't answer that,’ I snarled. I fought for breath. Then composure.

  ‘What happened? How did it…?’

  He made a helpless gesture, his arms rising then flopping to his sides. His shoulders sagged. ‘How do these things happen? Slowly. Imperceptibly. It was all… so unspoken. So… pure.’

  I nearly vomited; put my hand to my mouth.

  ‘I noticed her quite soon, obviously. It would take a very unobservant teacher not to. She stood out. But not in an obvious, Hedda Gabler sort of way…’

  I pressed my nails into my palms. Always the literary allusions. He knew I didn't know who the sodding hell Hedda Gabler was.

  ‘More in a Jade Goody sort of way?’ I snapped.

  He frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Forget it,’ I muttered. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, as I say, nothing happened. Nothing tangible. It was just…’ he struggled to explain, ‘well, I realized I looked forward to seeing her, to our tutorials. Began counting the days. I found myself poring over her essays when she handed them in, marvelling that her interpretation, her conceptual analysis, was so like mine…’