‘I don’t care what colour you paint the sodding hall,’ he muttered. ‘I’m leaving.’
And so saying, he pushed past me and on up the stairs, at which point I do recall that I at least managed to say – in a voice fully intended to travel – ‘Beaver it is then!’ Knowing full well he’d prefer Muff.
Yes, that was how my husband left me. Those were the very special words with which he chose to end our marriage. I remember sitting there with my paintbrush in my hand thinking – in a shocked and stunned sort of way – that you had to hand it to Johnny. Not for him the usual garbage departing husbands give about needing to find themselves and having room to breathe, blah, blah, blah. No, his was very much in the Rhett Butler school of departure, because frankly, my dear – I paused. Except that, no, that wasn’t true either. Up until recently he had given a damn. Up until five months ago to be precise, and for the last five months I’d certainly seen this coming but, in the same way as one sees the articulated lorry hurtling round the corner, it’s still quite a shock when it hits you.
Functioning on automatic I dipped my brush conscientiously into the turps to stop it drying out, then rested my head back against the wall and shut my eyes tight. Squeezed the life out of them, in fact. For a while there I couldn’t move, but I knew I had to, because, after all, he was only upstairs packing a suitcase, and in a few minutes’ time he’d be pounding downstairs again before exiting through the front door, and I surely didn’t want to be the stepped-over wife, as well as the passed-over one, did I?
Somehow I eased myself up and stumbled blindly towards our tiny makeshift kitchen. Originally I think it had been the old scullery, but now it just housed an ancient Baby Belling stove, a small sink I’d found in a junk yard and a mini fridge, a temporary arrangement all cobbled together any old how because, after all, we were only using it until our splendid new kitchen was finished. In the middle was a small pine table. I sat down shakily, resting my elbows and clasping my hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer. I listened. Upstairs, drawers were shooting in and out with a vengeance, coat hangers were clanking and the wardrobe slammed shut – wham bang – all sounds of a speedy exit. As I reached for a cigarette I noticed my hand was shaking. I shut my eyes again, and his pale, tight-lipped face swam to mind. Chin jutting out, that hard, impenetrable look in his eye – now where had I seen that look recently …?
Well, it was just a few Sundays ago, actually, at a tense, silent, lunch in this very room, the majority of which Johnny had spent behind a propped-up newspaper, the only evidence of his continued existence on the planet being the disappearance of French bread and Stilton behind the broadsheet. Claudia and I had sat in silence too, gazing bleakly at the back of The Times, until Claudia could bear it no longer and, pausing only to shoot me a swift what-the-hell’s-up-with-Daddy look, had slipped from the room and gone upstairs to play on her computer. I’d done quite a bit of ostentatious sighing, and then in my usual, martyred fashion, got up to clear the plates. There I’d been, elbow-deep in suds at the sink, when I’d turned for a moment to scrape some rubbish in the bin, and as I’d done so, I’d seen his face. He’d left the table and was standing at the window, staring out at the rain-soaked lawn, in the middle of which sat a huge pile of rubble from our gutted house. As I’d watched, he’d raised his eyes to heaven and mouthed ‘Jesus Christ’.
I’d turned back quickly so he didn’t know I’d seen, but I went very cold. You see, I’d known what he was thinking: Jesus Christ, is this all there is? After a few moments I dropped the greasy plate back in the water and turned, smiling, wet hands on hips.
‘Oh, by the way,’ I said brightly, ‘I saw something in the back of The Times last week, in the classified ads section. There was this thing about a hot-air ballooning weekend in Normandy and I thought – well, why not? You’ve always wanted to do it and it sounds quite fun, so why don’t we go for your birthday? What d’you think?’
Johnny had turned slowly from the splattered windowpane, raised one partially interested eyebrow and said, ‘Where?’
‘Here.’
Quickly wiping my hands on a tea towel I’d scurried to get the paper from a drawer, spreading it out hastily, knowing exactly which page it was on and which column to find, because I’d saved it for just such an occasion. I’d pointed, then stood back to let him read the ad, hardly daring to breathe as I’d watched his face get gradually brighter. It was a slow transformation, but by the time he’d got to the end, he’d been almost excited.
‘D’you know, this isn’t such a bad idea, Livvy. We could get the ferry across and maybe ask Marcus and Jane if they want to join us.’
‘Exactly. That’s what I thought.’ I’d stepped forward tentatively.
‘And we could all go in one car – pointless taking two – and take the Michelin too, do a sort of gastronomic tour of the local hostelries. It’s all cream and Calvados country round there – we’d be spoilt for choice!’
‘Precisely. All those cheeky cheeses –’
‘Plenty of vin rouge –’
‘Hoovering up the escargots –’
‘And we could leave Claudia behind with your mother.’
I paused. ‘Yup.’ We could. We always left Claudia behind with my mother.
‘In fact the weekend after next is a bank holiday so, hang on …’ he’d gone to the calendar on the door, ‘if I took the Friday off …’
I’d joined him as he’d flipped the pages over. ‘And we came back on the Monday night …’
‘We’d still be back in time for the Palmers’ drinks party on the Tuesday! Good idea, Livvy.’ He always called me Livvy rather than Olivia. ‘I’ll go and ring Marcus, see if he’s up for it. Bound to be, mad bastard!’
Oh, bound to be. And off he’d scurried to the phone, full of beans, full of plans, equilibrium restored. And I’d shut the paper slowly, put it back in the drawer, pushed it in softly. Right. So. Suddenly, we were off to France for four days. We couldn’t afford it; I’d miss Claudia; Mac and the builders needed constant supervision in this wreck of a house; and I wouldn’t get the runner beans in either, but no matter – the crisis had been averted. I remember turning to watch him through the kitchen door as he’d spoken on the phone to Marcus, his face a picture now, all animation and smiles, like a small boy cajoled out of a sulk by a trip to the zoo.
In case you think I’m the kind of girl who’d rather get the runner beans in than embark on a gastronomic tour of Normandy, I’d like to make it clear that I’m not. It was simply that Normandy was the latest in a long line of exotic treats designed to take Johnny’s mind off life. Oh, I conjured them up almost weekly. I’d only have to turn from the television to make a remark and find that he was watching me, staring at me intently – and not in a way that suggested he was mesmerised by my beauty – and I was nervously reaching for the phone. Somehow, in a matter of minutes, I’d have the last few Eric Clapton tickets to be had at the Albert Hall, some front row seats at Brands Hatch, a few impossible-to-come-by Twickenham tickets – heavens, at this rate we’d be holidaying at Sandringham soon. I felt like a door-to-door salesman unpacking my sample bag – here, how about this, or this? – but whilst Johnny smiled and nodded and accepted my wares, I knew that one day I’d empty it all out on the doorstep and he wouldn’t want anything. No, I don’t want that, or that, or that – not today, thank you.
Well, I thought wryly, dragging my cigarette down to my Docksides as I sat at the tiny kitchen table, that day had come.
I stubbed the butt out in an old saucer and cocked an ear above. It was quieter upstairs now, but I could tell he’d moved to the bathroom and was rummaging around in the cabinet, getting his shaving things together, his toothbrush. I fumbled for my cigarette packet and immediately lit another, blowing the smoke out in a long straight line to the fridge. I stared. On it was an ancient photograph of me and Johnny. It was one Claudia had found at the bottom of a drawer, pounced on in delight, and screaming with laughter at our impossible eigh
ties clothes and hairstyles, had stuck up with a magnet. I narrowed my eyes at it now. I was about, ooh, seventeen, I suppose, and in someone’s garden, Johnny’s perhaps. There I was, small, skinny, awkward-looking, with wide-apart grey eyes and a slightly too large nose – gamine, my mother would say, or even Audrey Hepburn, at which I’d guffaw. And there was Johnny beside me, who to my mind hadn’t changed. Tall, broad-shouldered, laughing merrily, those bright blue eyes staring frankly and challengingly at the camera, and a flop of blond hair falling permanently in his eyes, as it still did. In the background I could see Imogen and Molly, and maybe even Peter too so – yes … it must have been about seventeen years ago. Half my life, when I’d first met Johnny.
I’d been with the witches at the time, of course. Everything I did in those days was with the witches and, to a large extent, still is. ‘The witches’ was Johnny’s name for the three of us, Molly, Imogen and me. ‘Full of bubble, but an awful lot of toil and trouble!’ he’d hiss, stirring an imaginary cauldron, and we’d giggle like mad over that, secretly delighted that three such hard-working, sheltered, inseparable convent girls, who’d never been in a scrape in their lives, could be regarded as ‘trouble’. Mad, bad and dangerous we certainly weren’t, but it was a nice idea.
It was Molly who saw him first, at the fair on the village green that Saturday night, believe it or not, the first Saturday night I was ever allowed out on my own.
‘You get nasty rough types at a fair,’ my mother had sniffed, scrubbing away at our tiny Formica kitchen. ‘Gippoes and all sorts, but then again, that’s probably why you want to go.’
‘No,’ I said patiently, ‘I just want to have some fun with the girls.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t catch Lady Diana going to a fair at your age,’ she snapped. ‘She’d still be locked up at school!’
‘Yes, and look where that’s got her; nineteen years old and about to become a virgin bride. Talk about a recipe for disaster. And for the last time, Mum, I am not Lady Diana!’
‘No, you’re not, and you’re a long way from coming anywhere close to her, my girl.’ She whipped a dishcloth around an immaculate stainless-steel sink. ‘Go on then, off you go. Go and flaunt yourself.’
I stared at her in amazement for a moment, but then I was out of that back door like a shot. When you got a green light from Mum, you didn’t hang around for it to turn.
And so there I was that night at the fair, trying to keep the huge excitement of being out at night to myself, trying to pretend it was nothing new. Of course, for Imogen and Molly it wasn’t. Going to discos and cinemas had been part and parcel of their lives for a couple of years now, but not mine, and I hugged the experience excitedly, loving it all: the flashing lights against the dark sky, the bustle and noise, the smell of candyfloss and toffee apples, the thumping disco music, the lithe boys jumping on and off speeding carts, that heady sense of danger and excitement which stirred my teenage soul. Shrieking with laughter we made our way round every single ride, and were all piling out of a Dodgem car, ready to go round again – when Molly spotted him. She stopped dead; seized my arm.
‘Holy Moley!’ (As I said, we were quite sheltered.)
He was standing with a couple of friends in the queue for the big wheel; tall, tousled, blond, with wicked blue eyes, his hands in his pockets, head thrown back and roaring with laughter at something one of them had said. He oozed glamour but also, at a glance, that automatic social ease that comes from an expensive education, a mother who’d never had to do her own ironing and a father who was quite possibly in the Shadow Cabinet. Our plan had been to head back to the ghost train, but without a word of discussion, the three of us turned as one, and made our way to the big wheel. Molly, vivacious, curly-haired, with dark, dancing eyes, pranced up, and deliberately queue-barged her way in front of him, with Imogen and me giggling in her wake.
‘Hey, what’s your game?’ he rounded on her.
‘Sorry, we didn’t realise you were queuing,’ she smiled sweetly.
‘Oh right, so what did you think we were doing then – standing in a line behind total strangers just for the hell of it?’
Molly’s dark eyes widened. ‘Well, it’s a possibility. You look sad enough to try and make friends that way, but to tell you the truth, I really hadn’t considered you at all.’
Nudging and giggling we then piled into the next empty cart as it conveniently came to a standstill in front of us, and Johnny and his friends had to make do indignantly with the one behind. As we soared up into the night sky they hooted and catcalled after us, pelting us with peanuts, and we dutifully squeaked and ducked, pretending to be outraged, but loving every minute of it. I remember swinging round right at the top and catching Johnny’s eye, shrieking as he took aim, wondering – as his peanut hit the mark, like a perfect Cupid’s arrow, right between the eyes – if he knew the effect he had on people. I believe he did.
Of course, we lurked around after the boys for the rest of the evening then, trailing them mercilessly and popping up giggling behind every shooting range and coconut shy they went on, as they, in turn, went through the adolescent ritual of groaning and trying to lose us. Inevitably, though, all six of us ended up together outside the only pub on the green, equipped with far too many goldfish, candyfloss in our hair, cigarettes glowing competitively, and all eyes bright with possibility. Johnny, aged eighteen, went in for the drinks and we sat on the grass outside. We gleaned from the other two boys that they were all at Harrow, but that such was the enlightened attitude of boarding schools these days, they’d been allowed out for the evening. ‘So long as we’re back by – ooh –’ one of them coolly flashed his Rolex – ‘about midnight, I suppose.’ Suitably impressed by their bravado but just about managing not to show it, we’d sipped our lager-and-limes; Molly, flirting like billyo, Imogen, blonde and beautiful and not needing to, and me, certainly needing to but not having the confidence. As ever, I wished I wasn’t so tongue-tied, but Molly made sure every silence was filled, which gave me a chance to observe.
‘Posh-gob Scot’ was how Johnny described himself, with generations of Scottish ancestors behind him, but brought up in England and sent to Harrow like the rest of his family.
‘Only child, I’ll bet,’ said Molly, her dark eyes flashing with amusement, ‘of totally indulgent parents. Ponies for Christmas, a convertible for your birthday, the apple of Mummy and Daddy’s eye. They probably peel you grapes for breakfast.’
He grinned. ‘Wrong, actually. Three sisters.’
‘Ah, only boy. Yes well, that explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Your godlike demeanour. Clearly the world revolves around you at home and you’re waited on hand and foot. Loo seats are probably warmed for you and you’ve been mistakenly led to believe in the superiority of the male species. They obviously think the sun shines out of your wotsit.’
He laughed. ‘God, I wish! Those wretched sirens torment me, gang up on me, they probably stick pins in little effigies of me.’
‘Ah, shame. So you’re put upon?’
‘You bet.’
‘Misunderstood?’
‘Totally.’
‘In need of a little analysis?’
‘No fear. Those shrinks would have a field day with me!’
‘Even so, worth a try. Here – lie down on my couch.’ She patted her lap and Johnny, grinning, obligingly put his head in it. Oh, to have Molly’s nerve. She frowned with mock concentration. ‘So … a tortured soul, eh, teased mercilessly by your sisters, and I imagine Mummy’s no help because – let me see now – Mummy’s always in the beauty parlour having her nails done?’
‘Christ – in her dreams!’ he chortled.
‘And Daddy, well, Daddy’s no help either because he’s – let’s think, what would Daddy be? Certainly something in the City; something fairly enormous. Pr-o-bably the Governor of the Bank of England, and pr-ob-ably called – Peregrine?’
‘Wrong again. His name’s Oliver and he’s a t
rainer.’
‘What, fitness?’ I said without thinking.
Johnny sat up, startled. Then he and the other boys hooted with laughter.
‘No, racehorses!’ he cried. ‘God, fitness. I’d like to see Dad in a leotard!’
We all laughed, but I felt foolish and could feel myself reddening as I joined in. It didn’t escape Johnny and he shot me a kind look. I don’t believe he meant to embarrass me.
‘So back to your mother then,’ persisted Molly, yanking his shoulders down into her lap again. ‘Shut your eyes, please. I must have total concentration in my counselling rooms. If she’s not in the beauty parlour, she’s …?’
‘Oh Mum, well, she’s a bit dizzy. “Creative” is how I’m sure she’d like to be described.’
‘Ah, a bit off-the-wall.’
He opened one eye. ‘Well, only in the sense that loo paper is.’
We giggled, and then for some reason we couldn’t stop laughing, and we all fell about on the grass in a heap.
We roared at Johnny’s jokes for most of that summer. After that first meeting, it somehow seemed only natural for the six of us to hang around together. The schools were breaking up for the holidays, we all lived relatively close to each other in the stretch of green belt that wrapped itself around the foothills of the Chilterns – it was fun, it was convenient, it was easy. Secretly I think the boys felt they were too old to be hanging about at home and should have been spending their final holiday from school backpacking in Istanbul, or smoking ganja on some remote Caribbean beach, but since they weren’t, they deigned to swagger along beside us, to the events on offer locally. Keen to be equally cool, we girls sneeringly dismissed the discos and parties as ‘so-o-o incredibly tame’ – quick flick of the hair, quick drag on the cigarette – as they no doubt were, but there was no convincing my mother. She saw drug pushers and rapists at every Pony Club dance and tennis club party, and I had practically to shin down the drainpipe to join my friends.
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