The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  The more Liberty had matured into an empathetic woman, the more he had tried to suppress her. J-T understood why Percy did not want children; it would have meant her primary attention was focused on someone other than him.

  J-T jumped when Liberty shouted ‘Quick, no time!’ as she ran from the house and down to the garage, calling for J-T to follow her. Managing to simultaneously press the button on her key fob to open the electric garage door, which thankfully slid up quickly, and to press the unlock button on her car, she flung open the door and started pushing her newly purchased goodies over the seat into the back. Considering this was only a Golf, the manoeuvre was quite tricky. At last they were whizzing along Sloane Street, J-T resembling one of his dogs, sticking his head out the open window so he could breathe in the narrow seat, squashed on either side and in front by Liberty’s shopping bags.

  ‘My suit will go all black!’ he squeaked. Maybe I should hang my tongue out and try to look adorable, he thought as they stopped at traffic lights and a rather handsome young man gazed wistfully at him. No, on second thoughts, that only works with dogs.

  ‘You do realise you are saying that out loud,’ said Liberty, laughing as she changed up a gear. ‘You have Bob, you silly man. No one could be more adored.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he replied. ‘Maybe it’s time to get out of town.’

  As Liberty pulled into a parking space outside the Enterprise they both burst out of the car, Liberty giggling with relief and J-T smoothing down his crumpled suit.

  ‘You shouldn’t wear white in winter,’ she chided.

  ‘It’s my signature, darling,’ he responded. ‘Anyway, it’s bloody cold, and I am in desperate need of a strong cocktail. And it’s time for you to tell me all about your adventures.’

  They parked their bottoms on bar-side stools alongside the reporters who were pretending to read newspapers whilst listening out for the latest gossip.

  ‘A Grey Goose Martini for me, and a Malvern water for the lady,’ said J-T to the barman.

  ‘Wait a mo,’ interrupted Liberty. ‘I’ll have a whisky mac, please, with lots of ice.’

  ‘Blimey, you didn’t tell me you were drinking now!’

  ‘Only a little – well, sometimes a lot, but no point when I couldn’t taste the stuff.’

  ‘You are a funny one. Most people can’t stand the taste, they just drink to get happy, or to forget something.’

  ‘Well, that’s all wrong for a start. But that’s enough of lectures for the time being. Now, about bloody Percy . . .’

  As they enjoyed their drinks and felt warmth flooding into their bodies, they giggled over Liberty’s story. Percy had been very wily. He had not changed the locks, but had changed the alarm. Thus, it didn’t go off when Liberty pressed the old code, but did something different she couldn’t understand. She was gathering up her things when suddenly Percy’s voice boomed out of a speaker.

  ‘Liberty, I know that is you inside the house. I am coming home.’

  ‘If he hadn’t said he was coming home, I would have thought he was in the room, his voice was so close. I nearly wet my pants. It must have been a recording.’

  ‘I wonder if he wants you back,’ said J-T thoughtfully.

  ‘I doubt it. I don’t think he really wanted me in the first place.’ She then told J-T about discovering Percy’s affair.

  ‘You were the perfect wife, and that is what he wanted. But funnily enough, you were probably two quite similar people. I don’t think he feels emotion that much. He certainly doesn’t like showing it, and you were, for a long time, just happy living the perfect life together. Or that is how it seemed to your friends.’

  ‘I would have stayed with him if we had a baby to love together,’ Liberty declared suddenly.

  ‘Yes, but darling girl, he didn’t want a baby, really, did he?’ said J-T very gently. ‘I think he went along with the idea of a baby, as a dream, or someone to inherit his worldly goods eventually, but not as a father.’

  Liberty looked at her hands. ‘Whoops, widow’s fingernails. Better have a manicure very soon.’

  ‘Stop ignoring the facts, Liberty. You needed to escape from him, and as sad as your miscarriage was, especially after all the horrible experience of IVF, the fact is he gave you a bad time. And you were just not prepared to see things as they were until you discovered he was being unfaithful.’

  J-T and Bob had briefly flirted with the idea of having a baby with a surrogate mother, and had looked into the process, so both of them understood what IVF involved.

  ‘You will see in years to come. Your miscarriage was perhaps a blessing from your baby. Anyway, let’s get something to eat. You need your strength and I want to see what gives you your fabulous new look.’

  They ordered a typical London lunch, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a warm salad of frisée, walnuts and goat’s cheese with beetroot foam that looked pretty and didn’t taste of much. Too cold, thought Liberty. Both played with the bread basket; J-T as he avoided carbs alongside alcohol and Liberty as she had acquired a taste for good bread and felt there was little point in eating anything else.

  ‘So that is how Europeans stay so thin!’ declared J-T. ‘They only eat what tastes good, which cancels out a lot. Anyway, you had better have a double espresso, as you have to drive. They do those well here.’

  ‘No, it’s OK, it will be a nice walk to Mr and Mrs CR’s.’

  ‘And then what?’ asked J-T. ‘Where are you staying? I was only kidding, of course, Bob would love you to stay.’

  ‘No, no, so kind of you, but don’t worry. As I said, I need to get on with my plan. I am driving down to Mummy’s this evening. Anyway, I only had one glass of wine.’

  Whoops! thought J-T, realising how much he must have drunk. ‘Bob needs me to be on form this evening, but it’s a bit late for that! I’ll have a double espresso and another Martini,’ he announced to the barman. ‘So what advice did you want from me?’

  ‘Well, it will only be for the café’s decor.’

  ‘Oh, darling girl, you have got your personality back with a zing, and you will know much better this time around what china, wallpaper and so on you will want. I will happily source things and ensure you get discounts, but I think my old pal is back on course, and we must let you blossom! The only advice I will give you is that the word “café” sounds very working class, and not you at all!’

  Liberty gathered herself together from this outburst, and told J-T it was time to go before she started to have second thoughts.

  J-T downed his Martini and wobbled off to find a taxi, only pausing to bend down and kiss his old friend on the top of her head and tell her to call him when she had found somewhere or when anything interesting happened.

  So probably tonight! she thought.

  Number 12 Westchester Street was a lovely, beautifully proportioned Regency town house situated in a quiet garden square in Belgravia. Black railings enclosed a small front garden filled with huge terracotta tubs holding neatly pruned bay and box and winter cyclamen, with ivy trailing in an orderly way, all maintained by Gordon’s of Belgravia. Steps led up to a glossy front door with a gleaming brass handle and bell, no doubt polished that very morning by Mrs Stickybunns, Mr and Mrs Cholmondly-Radley’s plump, loyal and improbably named housekeeper. As she answered the doorbell she gave Liberty a wide open smile which allayed the younger woman’s fears immediately. Acting most unlike the very proper housekeeper that she was, and had been for the Cholmondly-Radleys for over thirty years, she enveloped Liberty in a giant bear hug, as only a tiny woman with a remarkable resemblance to Mrs Tiggy-Winkle can manage. More alarmingly, she also burst into tears and said, ‘My darling child, come in, come in.’

  Liberty almost expected to be taken downstairs to the kitchen and have hot milk and shortbread thrust on her, as she had done in difficult times when she and Percy had lived in the house.

  ‘Mr and Mrs CR are in the yellow drawing room. Go on up and I’ll bring tea.’

  With some tr
epidation creeping back, Liberty mounted the staircase. She had always cared deeply for Isabelle and Cecil, her parents-in-law. They were deeply decent, kindly people. Fed up with the draughty rooms of Anstley Hall, they spent most of their time in London, but this was not the only reason. Just before their eldest child Elizabeth, Percy’s older sister, celebrated her ninth birthday, she died in a terrible accident on the estate. During a family picnic she had fallen into the pond and drowned quickly before any of the family could do anything about it. Her parents would never forgive themselves. Percy, who was only eighteen months old at the time – a happy mistake – had from that time on been spoilt and indulged by Cecil, and mollycoddled and protected from life’s turmoil by Isabelle. They were both painfully aware that perhaps their son’s shortcomings resulted from their treatment of him. They also genuinely adored Liberty, and had taken to her as some sort of recompense for the daughter they had lost.

  As Liberty entered the pretty, sun-filled room, they both immediately rose and embraced her.

  ‘Welcome home, darling,’ said Isabelle as she ushered Liberty into a Nina Campbell two-seater sofa by the fire and sat next to her.

  ‘Whatever has been going on? We haven’t seen you for simply ages,’ Cecil shot at her in a friendly but demanding way. At a discreetly raised eyebrow from Isabelle he bumbled his apology, and retreated, saying, ‘Well . . . well . . . um, maybe I will leave you two gels to it for a while. I will be in my study if you need me. Just let me know when I can safely return!’

  Isabelle smiled sweetly at him and mouthed a thank you. As Cecil left the room Mrs Stickybunns came in with tea and cake. ‘I’ll have a whisky in my study, please, Sticky,’ he said to her. ‘I need something stronger than tea.’

  As ‘Sticky’ poured the tea, and made a bit of a fuss with the milk jug and teaspoons, Isabelle asked after Liberty’s parents, her health and the weather in France. She knew full well that the housekeeper was desperate to find out all the news. Although Sticky, as she was known by everyone, was essentially part of the family, having been with them for so long, and would no doubt find out all the news in her own way, Isabelle didn’t want to grill Liberty with an audience. All Percy had told them was that the IVF had been a mistake, and that Liberty needed some time to recover. This had been quite enough of a shock to his parents, as Percy had been unable to discuss their infertility, and therefore his parents hadn’t realised they had problems in that department, let alone had been undergoing IVF.

  Liberty thought Percy would have kept them informed, but Percy, in his anger and annoyance at his wife’s actions, had completely forgotten his parents’ ignorance of the matter.

  Eventually Sticky, after fussing over plates, napkins and cake forks, moving each cup and saucer about the table and checking for drips from the tea strainer, could find nothing more to do, so she reluctantly retired to ‘get on with the evening meal’. Liberty was perfectly aware Sticky could produce a fabulous, if plain, meal with the ease of a chef for up to 150 people, without ruffling a silver hair on her head. Besides supervising the cooking she would ensure the silverware was perfectly polished and all the carpets scrupulously vacuumed, but she always had to fuss and make it known how hard she worked. Liberty knew she was rewarded handsomely, with apartments of her own in both houses and a high salary.

  ‘Right, my dear,’ said Isabelle, once Sticky had left the room. ‘Poor Percy is in such a state. He has rigged up cameras all over your house and connected them to his computer, so he can see when you return home. It seems like something out of a film. What on earth has happened between you both?’

  Well, that explains the booming voice, thought Liberty.

  ‘I am not sure how much to tell you,’ she said. ‘In any case, whatever I say will not really explain everything. Percy is your son, and I do not want to criticise him in any way to you. Therefore, I can only say it is impossible for me to remain living with him as his wife. I will not ask him–’ or you, she implied ‘–for any monetary settlement, and of course I have brought Cecil’s mother’s ring back.’ She had returned to their marital home specifically to retrieve the original ring box, which she now placed carefully on the mantelpiece. ‘I have to ask you to trust me when I say that I simply cannot continue living with him.’

  Isabelle, a woman of the world, had been married to Cecil for fifty-five years. She had endured her fair share of affairs, deceptions and tragedies, and felt she could honestly say that marriage was about working these things out, getting past them and finding the relationship was stronger for the experience. ‘I know Percy can be selfish – he is a man, after all – and we are terribly sorry about the IVF not working, but don’t you need a few cycles for it to be given a chance?’

  Liberty decided now was not the time to enlighten her mother-in-law.

  Isabelle continued, ‘I know you, my dear. You are not a girl who gives up on something so easily. Percy is devastated. He had a month off work, which is unheard of. He said he had to think, which is also unheard of!’ She tried to smile, but failed.

  ‘I suppose,’ stuttered Liberty, now feeling more than a little guilty and like a naughty schoolgirl, ‘it’s a lot to do with me. I am not sure I have been myself recently, and the things that Percy and I have just gone through have brought matters to a head. I cannot go back, as I wasn’t being the person I feel I am inside. Percy doesn’t like the real me, so I spent years being who I thought he wanted, so as to make him happy. I thought I was happy at the time, but now I know I must be true to myself. So for Percy’s sake as well as for my own, it would be fruitless to try to return to the marriage. I am very sorry, I know you must be terribly disappointed in me, but for both our sakes we have to live apart.’

  ‘But you have been together for so long, you can’t just give up and go away. Heavens, Cecil and I would have separated years ago if I walked out at the whiff of a flirtation, or if he spent too much at the races.’

  Liberty was feeling rather nauseous. ‘All I can say is that this is slightly different. I am sorry you don’t understand. If Percy chooses to tell you more in the future, then he can. But I don’t feel able to. I am truly sorry. I had better go.’

  ‘I am so saddened,’ sighed Isabelle and, horror of horrors, Liberty could see tears welling up in the normally controlled eyes. ‘Please remember, I still consider you as part of our family. Do stay in touch. I beg of you not to give up, and I hope that you come to your senses very soon. I do understand what you are going through – more than you know. Don’t forget, I lost a daughter. Your brain does funny things when you are mourning a loss. You have lost a baby, too, and maybe when you have recovered from that you will contact Percy. Please, for our sakes, don’t divorce him until at least a year has passed. It took me well over nine months to smile again after Elizabeth died, and it never gets better, or easier, but you learn to live with it. Every day you feel less guilty for smiling or feeling happy, and it gradually comes back.’

  Christ, thought Liberty, now I feel doubly guilty – her loss was far greater than mine.

  Cecil was called, and both the CRs hugged her closely and with genuine warmth. But as she left, the engagement ring in its velvet-lined box was pressed into her hand, and Isabelle repeated, ‘Don’t give up on Percy. He may be spoiled, but he is your husband, and he wants to remain that. At least think about it for some time. And do stay in touch.’

  Liberty now felt claustrophobic, both because of the grey city surrounding her, and for all the emotions pressing down on her. She had not realised that Mrs CR would make her feel so very guilty, and for the first time she really did wonder whether she was doing the right thing. Had she been too hasty?

  As she raced to her car, eager to flee the city which had for so long been her home, Liberty tried to list why she had left Percy. Were the reasons justified? she asked herself. Had she simply jumped out of the situation, as so many before her, when she should really be putting all the bad things she did not like about her husband into the past, and moving on? W
ould Percy have her back? At this last thought her body went into such involuntary convulsions that she was afraid she might have to sit down. No, she certainly could not live with him any longer. The last couple of months had allowed her to realise there had been occasions when she had felt wrong, but at the time she had simply pushed all negative thoughts from her mind. The Percy she had originally got to know was a strong, athletic young man with ambition, but in the usual way of the over-indulged he was also selfish and spoiled, and that came to the surface when things didn’t go his way, or when he was drunk or high, which had become more regular over the years.

  He also had a passion for the darker side of life. Cocaine had been a great friend, as it can be to the rich. It gave him a great deal of false confidence and turned him into an aggressive bore. It also left him depressed and uncommunicative after a binge. His ambition led him to make waves in the City, but he was so driven by the need to better his contemporaries at whatever they did that he lost his friends as quickly as he made them. Anything he attempted that didn’t work out was labelled ‘someone else’s fault’ or swept under the carpet, and anyone who succeeded in finalising more deals or bigger contracts would be relegated to the ‘oh well, but he is an ugly bastard and only did well because of luck’ bin. Liberty was originally happy to live with this, but it filtered down into her and suffused her normally happy nature with cynicism. After she discovered his affair and lack of desire for a family, she finally knew for certain that he was not the man she wanted to be with. She knew she wanted children, and she could not really tell his parents that he didn’t. She realised they were desperate for grandchildren; despite their never putting pressure on her, there had always been casual comments such as, ‘Well, we can’t clear out the attics, dear, we may need the Moses basket again soon!’