She had braced herself for the noise of the children and a grudging welcome followed by sulks because she had been away. She expected to answer her mother’s questions about Angie’s cottage and the error of her ways. Instead she found Matthew alone.
‘Where is everyone?’ she said. ‘Why are you home early? Is there something wrong?’ She was suddenly terrified: visions of accidents and hospitals, divine retribution, flew into her mind.
‘The kids are with your mother,’ he said. ‘I told her you were staying on with Angie till tomorrow.’
‘But why?’
‘I’ve got to talk to you alone.’
That was it. Somehow he had found out. Now that it was all over, she was going to be punished for it.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’ He looked quite ill, as if he might be getting flu.
He poured two large drinks and handed her one. ‘I have to tell you this while I’ve still got the courage. I’m being blackmailed.’
She said, ‘What?’ and sat down rather suddenly while he paced up and down.
‘There’s this girl at work I’ve been seeing and when I tried to break it off she said she’d tell you. So I thought – I thought I’d better tell you first. In case she meant what she said.’
Lynn was silent, too astounded to speak. It wasn’t possible. Matthew, who had always been so reliable … All this time and she had never even suspected …
‘I don’t know if you can ever forgive me,’ he went on rapidly. ‘It wasn’t serious and I never stopped loving you. Only … we seemed to get so far apart after the baby and you didn’t seem to want me and she did. I realise that’s no excuse but –’
Lynn said, ‘How long –?’
‘Nearly a year.’
A year. Longer than she and Sean had. She felt tears starting again.
He said humbly, ‘D’you want me to go away?’
She shook her head. She wanted to hug him, he looked so guilty and sad. She wanted to comfort him and say, ‘We’re in the same boat,’ and tell him everything so he could forgive her and they could start all over again, level. But what if he didn’t forgive her? Never let Matthew know, Angie had said, and Angie was supposed to know about these things. What if Angie was right? All her instincts prompted her to confess, but her instincts had also got her into the affair with Sean. You could always tell a secret later, but once you’d told it you could never take it back unless you said you’d been lying before and then you might not be trusted again. She looked at Matthew and thought how much she had missed or forgotten about him that this other girl had seen and wanted.
‘I think a lot of this has been my fault,’ she said. ‘Let’s try again. Let’s try harder this time. Both of us.’
He looked at her as if reprieved from a death sentence. ‘You’re so generous,’ he said. ‘That’s so much more than I deserve.’
Next day the phone rang twice. Once it was Angie who said Matthew was very clever and probably making the whole thing up just to regain her interest because he had felt she was slipping away. Very successful he’d been, too, she said, but confession was still definitely out. The double standard was alive and well, and it never did any harm to be one up. Lynn didn’t think Matthew was capable of such a complicated double bluff; but then she hadn’t thought him capable of an affair either. He was obviously capable of one or the other and she would probably never know which. Angie said it didn’t matter: either way, they would have a better marriage. And one day Lynn might want to see Sean Reilly again, or she might meet someone else.
‘I don’t think so,’ Lynn said. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ Angie said. ‘You’ve had a lucky escape, that’s all. Quite different.’
The second call was from Sean. She listened to his voice saying he still loved her and he wanted to see her again. She put the phone down without answering. Her children came back from school and switched on Anne Reilly’s programme. Matthew arrived home from work with roses.
Counting the Cost
Lizzie was still in the bath when she heard Sam’s key in the lock. ‘I’m in here,’ she called, and in he came, carrying his airline bag, from which with a conjuror’s flourish he now produced not one but two bottles of champagne. ‘My God,’ she said, impressed. ‘Are we going to get through all that?’
He was a great bear of a man, not tall but wide and solidly built, ideal for hugging. He had the sort of well-worn face that made you think he had led a life full of interesting excesses, and a smile that made you want to tell him your secrets. She should have been used to all this by now but, she was pleased to note, she wasn’t.
‘Well, one bottle’s never quite enough, is it?’ he said, putting them down. ‘I think they’re making them smaller these days. It’s probably something to do with the Common Market.’
‘Happy anniversary,’ she said, as he leaned over the bath to kiss her. ‘You’re early. I meant to be all tarted up before you arrived.’
‘I prefer you like this.’ He sat on the edge of the bath. ‘In fact I may join you in there in a minute.’
He looked tired. She said tenderly, ‘Was it an awful trip?’
‘No, just routine. I must be getting too old for all this dashing about. You look like Alice in Wonderland without your make-up.’
‘I must have my hair cut,’ she said.
‘Not without my permission.’
She was a small woman, blonde, who had once been thin and still wasn’t fat, but she fretted about the lines round her eyes and the size of her breasts and the stretch marks on her stomach. Only when he said she was beautiful, she believed him. The evening extended ahead of them, seemingly endless, like the start of the school holidays.
‘You’re not really worried about the job, are you?’ she asked. ‘They couldn’t manage without you, you’re like an ambassador.’
‘More like a glorified salesman.’
‘Well, you sold yourself to me all right.’
‘Best deal I ever made,’ he said seriously, kissing her again.
‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘You’re all talk. Get ’em off. Let’s see a bit of action.’
He undressed slowly, making a production of it, while she watched and heckled. Finally he got in opposite her, making the water splash dangerously close to the edge.
‘You look wonderful,’ she said, hugging him. ‘And you feel even better.’
‘I’m putting on weight,’ he said sadly, waiting for her to deny it.
‘Aren’t we all? Why d’you think there’s so much foam in this bath? To hide the proof that when you’re away, I eat biscuits.’
They tried to make love under water, but as usual the idea was more fun than the reality.
‘We must be doing something wrong,’ he said. ‘It always seems to work in the movies.’
‘They cheat,’ she said. ‘They cut and come again.’
He smiled. ‘You really do make the most awful jokes.’
‘I know. And they’ll be even worse when I’ve had too much champagne.’
‘We could make a start on that.’
They climbed out of the bath, shared a glass of warm champagne, put the rest in the fridge and went to bed. ‘This is all I could think about,’ he said, ‘while I was away. What it would be like to make love to you again.’
She always worried a little that it was too good to last, that next time some of the magic would be gone, but it was always better than she remembered, as if they simply could not get it wrong, no matter what they did. First there was the simple excitement of skin on skin, then all the various complicated games they played, watching one another for recognition of each move, smiling at the way it never failed, then the final shattering freedom of letting go and crashing out somewhere, quite apart from themselves, and coming back to earth warm, relaxed, dazed and somehow dislocated, as if from some tremendous journey.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘We’re improving.’
‘Not
bad for only three years,’ she said. ‘In another twenty-three we might get it right.’
‘Or even thirty-three,’ he said. ‘I certainly think we should persevere. The main thing is not to get discouraged.’
They lay quiet for a while, wrapped round each other, contemplating their good fortune. She began to think he might even be asleep when he suddenly said, ‘Oh, Lizzie, what are we doing, why don’t we just tell them? I want you with me all the time.’
She felt the thrill of terror, the temptation of the forbidden, impossible thing. ‘But it wouldn’t be like this,’ she said. ‘It’d be mortgages and fish fingers and socks.’
He sighed. ‘That’s what we always say. Maybe we’re wrong. I’m not sure I care, anyway, I just want more of you.’
She sat up and looked at him, kissed him, traced his features with her forefinger. He looked younger after making love, as if orgasm, like death, had the power to rejuvenate, smoothing out the creases. ‘You’re getting the best of me,’ she said gently.
‘I know. But I want more time. Don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. I just can’t imagine telling them – hurting them. And I don’t think you can, not really.’
He didn’t answer.
‘If you had to go home and tell Claire tonight,’ she persisted, using the name on purpose to shock him back to reality, ‘how would you feel?’
He closed his eyes.
‘You see?’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘She’d get over it,’ he said. ‘As long as she had the children and enough money. She’d be hurt and angry at first but she would get over it. She’d probably remarry.’
‘The children wouldn’t,’ Lizzie said.
There was a long silence. ‘I have this fantasy,’ he said, ‘that I tell Claire and you tell Roger, and they fall in love with each other, so we’ve really done them a favour.’
‘Oh, me too,’ she said. ‘That’s what I think every night.’
‘It happens, you know,’ he said. ‘I’ve read about it in the papers.’
‘That’s why it makes headlines,’ she said. ‘Because it’s so rare.’
‘All right, you’ve convinced me again.’ He kissed her. ‘Let’s have some more champagne.’
‘I love you for saying it, you know,’ she said. ‘If you didn’t, I would, and then you’d have to talk me out of it.’
They got up, put on bathrobes and went into the living-room where she had lovingly prepared a feast: gazpacho; salmon trout with salad, mayonnaise and new potatoes; fresh mangos. He fetched the champagne, now beautifully chilled, and they gave each other small gifts that would pass almost unnoticed at home and have meaning only for them, music they had made love to: Sinatra, Gilberto, Miles Davis, Puccini. She lit candles and they started to eat.
‘Where are you meant to be?’ he asked.
‘At the NFT with Ginny seeing Casablanca. Then supper.’
‘Will he believe that, after all the times it’s been on television?’
‘He believes anything of Ginny because he thinks she’s slightly mad. Actually she has gone to the NFT. She wanted to see it again on the big screen. So it’s not really a lie at all.’
‘Dear Ginny,’ he said. ‘Whatever would we do without her?’
‘We don’t have to,’ she said. ‘She loves going to the pictures and we do use our own sheets. What are sisters for?’
‘We’ll be sunk if she ever gets married again.’
‘She’ll have to marry Paul. Are you meant to be having dinner with him?’
‘Yes, reporting on the trip. But I promised Claire I’d catch the last train.’
Suddenly it felt like the middle of August, the holidays half over, hurtling towards September and you did not know where they had gone. She shivered in the warm room.
‘Why didn’t you just say you were on a later flight?’ she asked.
‘I’m a bit superstitious about that. In case it crashes.’
‘Oh, don’t. How would I explain why I couldn’t stop crying?’
‘No, I meant in case the other one crashes. How would I explain being the only survivor?’
She laughed weakly. ‘You might have to disappear and start a new life.’
‘Would you come with me?’
She thought about it. ‘I’d want to, but I’d be scared. When I left home tonight Roger was slumped in front of the television and the kids were thumping about upstairs. I kissed him on top of the head and told him supper was in the oven and he just grunted. When I get back he’ll be in bed asleep.’
‘Sounds just like me and Claire.’
‘But that’s exactly my point. It’s marriage. We’re all like that after fifteen years. And you and I would be too if we just … went off.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ he said. ‘I love your body and your cooking and your conversation. I want them every day, not once a week. I want to go to sleep and wake up with you there.’
‘I’d be an awful disappointment,’ she said. ‘I’m very bad-tempered in the mornings and I grind my teeth at night.’
‘Oh, darling,’ he said, ‘you’re really scared, aren’t you? Come here.’
They curled up on the sofa and she felt safe while he was holding her. The telephone rang, but they ignored it as they always did and let the machine answer.
‘So we’re not really trying to spare the others pain,’ he said. ‘We’re protecting our investment.’
‘Can’t it be both? It’s so good the way it is, why change anything? You can’t afford two homes, you’re at full stretch already. Can you imagine all the access visits, taking the kids to the zoo on Sundays and all that? Wouldn’t we feel guilty? We might blame each other – and then what?’
‘Why do you have to be so practical?’
‘Because you’re romantic – and I love you for it.’
She shut her eyes and tried to make time stop. She always knew the moment before he looked at the clock.
‘Well, my love,’ he said, looking at the clock, ‘I’ll have to be going.’
He got up and fetched his clothes from the bathroom. She watched him dress as attentively as she had watched him undress, but without the joyful anticipation; she saw the lover disappearing back into his suit and shirt and tie, becoming the business man again. Prince into Frog.
‘Oh,’ he said suddenly, ‘I knew I’d forgotten something. Claire might ring you.’
‘My God,’ she said, ‘whatever for?’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Calm down. She just said she might ask you and Roger to dinner.’
‘But she hardly knows us. We were only neighbours, not friends.’
‘I think she’s feeling homesick for London even though it was her idea to move to the country. Don’t look so worried. You can always make an excuse. I just thought I should warn you.’
‘I don’t think I could look her in the face,’ she said. ‘I like Claire. I wish I’d never met her.’
‘But then we’d never have met either.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘There’s no answer to it, is there?’
They kissed goodbye.
‘Lunch on Tuesday?’ she said.
‘Next week is bad, it’s the sales conference. I could maybe manage a drink after work on Thursday.’
‘No good – PTA meeting.’
‘Lunch on Friday somehow?’
‘Lunch on Friday no matter what.’
They kissed goodbye again.
‘Hurry, darling,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t miss your train.’
‘We didn’t finish the second bottle,’ he said.
‘Never mind. Ginny will appreciate it.’
When he had gone she made herself deliberately very busy, so as not to feel alone. She washed up and tidied the flat and changed the sheets back again. She scribbled a note to Ginny; ‘Thanks a million. There’s a little something in the fridge for you. Lizzie.’
Leaving the flat was always painful and had to be done fast, slamming the door and lock
ing up, putting the key back in its hiding place. She was grateful for the tube journey: she needed time to relapse into her other self. The guiltiest secret of all she still kept hidden, even from Sam, because it seemed like an insult. If there should be a divorce, even assuming the court gave her custody, as they probably would, what if the children chose to stay with Roger? They were old enough to choose. Sometimes she even had nightmares about it, though when she was awake she told herself not to be ridiculous.
When she got home she was relieved to see the house in darkness except for the hall light. It was reassuring to find everything as it should be. The hall light shone on the hall table, where the telephone sat; there were two phone numbers on the pad and two messages, which she stopped to read, almost needing her glasses for Roger’s small, precise script.
‘Lizzie – Claire Roberts rang. She and Sam want us to have dinner with them next Friday. I said you’d ring her back.’
And below, in handwriting even more cramped: ‘St Thomas’s Hospital rang. Apparently Ginny was knocked down by a car. She is all right but has concussion. They found our number in her diary. I have gone to bed early to give you time to think. Please try to come up with something convincing. I’m not sure I can bear the truth just yet – R.’
Finding a Voice
The day started badly. Jenny on the phone at breakfast time, breathless and apologetic: ‘Sorry, Mum, but is it all right if I come home next weekend instead of this one? Only I’ve got an essay to write and there’s a party on Saturday that Tom wants to go to and …’ Her voice trailed away. She waited to be understood and forgiven, told it didn’t matter.
‘That’s fine, love. I don’t mind,’ Meg said firmly. ‘I’ve got plenty to do.’ She was absurdly disappointed but she hoped it didn’t show. At all costs she must avoid sounding like her own mother, who always made her feel she had not done enough.
‘Do something nice,’ Jenny said. ‘Don’t just go and see Gran. Give yourself a treat.’
‘Maybe I will.’ The pips went. ‘Shall I ring you back?’
‘Well, I’m late for a lecture –’
They were cut off. Meg put the phone down, furious and miserable that there hadn’t been time to make it feel all right. She resented being dependent on Jenny: it unbalanced their relationship. If Johnny had still been there, it would have been quite different; he’d have hugged her and it wouldn’t have mattered, one weekend or the next, so what? They had each other.
Triangles Page 6