Not That Kind of Girl

by Catherine Alliott

  I don’t remember much about the rest of the day, because nature, conveniently, has a way of numbing these things. Of blurring the unbearably sharp edges. I do remember – vaguely – the drive back home. The hushed whisperings in the flat, the comings and goings of relatives, the piles of unopened presents, and I remember being put to bed, perhaps with one of my mother’s pills, like a Jane Austen heroine with the vapours.

  The days went by and I stayed at home, like a convalescent. Penny visited, other friends too, and I remember the pain, the disbelief, but more than that, more than any of that, the terrible, terrible shame. I longed for Rupert, missed him dreadfully, but the shame drenched everything. Great waves of it would wash over me as I stood brushing my teeth, or as I sat blankly watching television. I became physically hunched by it. I remember, as I went out for the first time, just down the road to the shops, feeling I couldn’t walk upright because of it. And all the time, I had an awful nagging feeling. Had I pushed him? Had I pushed him too hard? Had I run home and told my mother too precipitately, giving him no time to consider, no way out? My breathing became shallow at the thought. I was shrinking by the day.

  It was only when my mother actually became ill herself and took to her bed, that I realized how like her I could be. Within days, I’d straightened my back, and my resolve, and gone back to work.

  They all knew, of course: the copywriters, the art directors, the secretaries, and some of them had even been there at the wedding. Marcus certainly had. But they took me back like a shot, the temp dismissed in seconds. And they were sweet. All of them. Nevertheless, as I tapped away at my computer, hiding in my familiar cubby-hole on the third floor, I felt my shame like a red letter, burning into my back. I felt as if those in the know were whispering to the uninitiated, ‘Oh, that’s Henrietta Tate. She was jilted.’

  ‘No! Not at the altar?’

  ‘Practically. At the church door.’

  ‘God – how awful!’

  And Marcus was particularly kind. Gentle. No questions. Just a cup of coffee perhaps, placed on my desk at lunchtime if he was working in his office, and – did I want to talk? No? Fine. No pressure.

  I didn’t hear from Rupert. I knew his Battalion had gone to Hong Kong, because Penny told me Philip was there and that suddenly, she wasn’t too sorry. I knew that Andrew went to see my parents, because Benji told me. Just Dad, he’d asked to speak to apparently, not Mum. Alone, please, in the study. I’m not sure what was said, but Benji said that when Andrew came out, he looked as if he’d been crying, and that minutes earlier, when Benji had pressed his ear to the study door, he’d heard him talk of the terrible, needless shame heaped on his boy. Of prepotary women.

  ‘No, Benji. Predatory.’

  Eventually, Marcus and I did talk, in the pub across the road after work, or sometimes he’d take me for a meal. Occasionally he’d cook for us at his house in Holland Park. Nothing happened, but he was kind and understanding, and after a while, he made me laugh. He was funny, as I think I’ve said.

  A year later, in the spring, Penny moved in with Tommy Rutlin and her parents decided to sell the flat. I moved in with Marcus, with a lot less fuss from my mother than I’d anticipated, considering his background, but then an awful lot of water had flowed under various bridges, and to be honest, I think she was almost pathetically grateful to him. I hope I wasn’t, too.

  Marcus couldn’t have been more different than Rupert. Physically, of course, being dark-eyed and stocky, but temperamentally too, being older and wiser and knowing exactly what he was doing. Whom he was marrying. Where he was going in life.

  He set up an independent production company in the autumn and, being well-known and respected within the industry, was instantly successful. We were married, quietly, in a North London register office in November, and there was a small gathering afterwards in a restaurant near my parents’ home. Angus was born the following year.

  Chapter Six

  ‘So! My first day.’ I took a muffin out of the bread bin, split it efficiently, and popped it under the Aga lid. ‘Wonder what it’ll be like?’ I turned, beaming.

  ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’ Angus wandered into the kitchen yawning sleepily in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He looked absently round the room, scratching the pit of his chest. ‘What’s the time, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Early,’ grunted Marcus from behind his newspaper at the table. ‘But your mother is re-entering the field of employment today, and feels the need to share the experience with us.’

  ‘Can you drop me at Tom’s on the way to the station?’ Angus yawned again and sat down, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand.

  ‘If you’re ready in two minutes, yes. Good heavens. It’s Lily.’ Marcus clattered his cup in its saucer in mock horror. ‘A face I thought I’d never see at this hour of the morning. Welcome.’

  ‘Why’s everyone up?’ she whispered, clutching her dressing-gown to her possessively and looking pale as she lowered herself into a chair. ‘Oh God, I feel sick.’

  ‘Do you?’ I froze, mid-bite of muffin, and rushed anxiously across. ‘Oh well, then I won’t go, my darling.’ I felt her head, crouching down beside her. ‘You are a little hot – maybe you should hop back to bed and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea. I’ll ring in and say I’ll be –’

  ‘She’s fine, for God’s sake,’ snapped Marcus, folding up his paper with a flourish. ‘She only feels sick because she’s never seen seven o’clock before, and if you’re going to cry off every time one of your children whinges, you’ll never keep a job. God, I remember now why I hate employing women. They’re either pregnant or lactating or administering to offspring. Bloody liability.’

  ‘Certainly I’m going in.’ I straightened up hastily from Lily’s brow. ‘You’ll be fine, darling,’ I muttered. ‘Just don’t – you know – overdo it. Linda will be in soon.’

  Lily slumped further down in her chair, until she was forced to sit bolt upright. ‘You’re wearing my shirt!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Oh yes. I thought – well, if you don’t mind.’ I smoothed it down caressingly. ‘Only mine are all so baggy and old-fashioned.’

  ‘Looks cool on you,’ said Angus admiringly and I glowed with pleasure. One of the bonuses of having a strapping thirteen-year-old daughter was that I could just about borrow her clothes. This black stretchy number was a winner, if a little snug.

  ‘It’s practically indecent,’ Marcus said darkly into his coffee. ‘Come on, we’re going to be late.’

  He threw the remains of his cup down his throat and moments later was marching out of the back door towards the Range Rover, clutching his briefcase. I hurled some final instructions to Lily about unloading the dishwasher and not answering the door to anyone until Linda arrived, for which I received a withering look, then ran outside to get in the front seat beside my husband. Angus, trainers in one hand, grabbed a pair of jeans from the laundry basket and hopped into them as he ran across the gravel, wincing in his bare feet. He opened the boot and crawled in behind us.

  ‘Quite fun, this commuting together, don’t you think?’ I said brightly, reaching for my seat belt.

  Marcus grunted.

  ‘And we can do this most days, can’t we? You drive us to the station, and we’ll get the train together. Saves taking two cars.’

  ‘Unless I’ve got an early meeting,’ he muttered. ‘This is late for me.’

  ‘Oh, well yes. Of course, I might have an early meeting too. Might have to – you know, take Minutes. That kind of thing.’

  ‘I think you’ll find things have moved on a bit since your day, Henny. Not many Minutes are taken. A lot of business is done via email.’

  ‘Is it?’ I clutched my handbag nervously. ‘Only my shorthand’s pretty rusty, Marcus. If I have to do it, d’you think I can ask him to go slowly?’

  He shrugged. ‘Personally I use a Dictaphone.’

  ‘Why don’t you use your finger like everyone else?’ Angus quipped, then sniggered dirtily.


  ‘Thank you, Angus,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t need smut on my first day.’

  ‘Go-lly, sorry. Just making light commuter talk. Someone’s nervous. This’ll do, Dad. Drop me at the corner and I’ll walk to Tom’s. Not sure I can bear the tension.’

  We disgorged Angus in a jumble of ripped jeans, the T-shirt I knew he’d slept in, and no doubt the boxers as well. Now if I’d been at home I’d have noticed that. Made him change. First black mark against my mothering skills.

  ‘Trainers!’ I yelled, as he made to lope across the field to Tom’s farm in bare feet.

  ‘Oh.’ He loped back and took them from the boot, still not bothering to put them on, I noticed, as he sauntered off.

  As we approached the little country station I spotted other smartly dressed souls hurrying to the entrance, looking purposeful and efficient as they strode out. Just like me, I thought excitedly. Close up though, I couldn’t help noticing they didn’t look entirely happy; rather grim and washed-out, in fact, but then again it was still early, and they were probably busy running through their presentations in their heads. So much better than wondering how full Waitrose was going to be.

  ‘If I drop you here, you can get a Telegraph and some Polos for me while I park.’ Marcus came to halt outside a kiosk.

  ‘But you’ve already read The Times. And why Polos?’

  ‘Because I like to read the Telegraph on the train and, occasionally, I masticate a mint. Is that all right with you?’ he said evenly.

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ I said humbly, altogether new to this side of my husband. To his morning rituals.

  ‘And get me some cigarettes, would you?’ He roared off in the car.

  I knew better than to remind him he was trying to give up, and meekly joined the queue at the kiosk. It occurred to me, whilst I waited, that I too could develop rituals.

  I could get the Daily Mail. Yes, how different would that be, not to spend the usual half hour over it with a cup of coffee in my dressing-gown, before getting on the telephone for a chat. Which actually, was wherein the problem had lain. Because just as I was settling down for a protracted gossip with say, Laura down the road, she was likely to stop midflow and say, ‘Damn. I must go, Henny, that blasted Hickey woman’s arrived to look at her fabric.’ Or Camilla, when I tried her next and raised the possibility of a coffee later, ‘Oh God, I’d love to, but I’ve got a client coming at ten. I’m designing a knot garden for her, must dash.’ But now, I too had to dash, I thought happily.

  ‘Yes, luv?’

  ‘The Telegraph, a packet of Polos and the Mail, please. Oh, and twenty Silk Cut.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  Oh Lord. Which did he have? Silver, blue or purple, I could never remember.

  ‘Um …’

  The vendor turned to read the packets. ‘D’you want Smoking Kills? Or Causes Heart Disease?’

  ‘Oh. Gracious. Well, not kills, obviously …’

  ‘Serious Damage to Arteries?’ His hand hovered over a packet.

  ‘Er, less drastic, I suppose, or …no, that one.’ I pointed eagerly.

  ‘Impotence?’

  ‘Please. Marvellous.’

  He grinned. ‘Doesn’t come with a guarantee, you know.’

  ‘More’s the pity!’

  He laughed. ‘Let me know, eh, luv?’ He winked.

  ‘I will indeed,’ I chuckled.

  Pocketing my goodies, I felt decidedly perky. Nothing like a little light banter with the paper-seller every morning. Why, I’d be calling him Bob soon, or Ron. My, this was entertaining.

  ‘Here, darling!’ I waved extravagantly as Marcus marched up. He didn’t stop and strode briskly past me. I blinked, then dashed after him.

  ‘You’re in a hurry!’

  ‘Because the train is due in precisely forty-five seconds.’

  ‘Oh.’ I quickened my pace. ‘Cut it a bit fine, haven’t we?’

  ‘That is entirely the point, Henny,’ he said as we clattered at breakneck speed down the flight of steps to the platform. ‘One does cut it fine. It’s so that one can breeze into one’s office and exclaim airily to one’s colleagues, “Oh yes, a delightful rural idyll and not another house in sight, but only forty-five minutes door to door”.’ He handed me my ticket. ‘There are two things men lie about in life. One is the length of their dick, and the other is the length of their commute.’

  ‘I see. Rather childish and pointless?’

  He nodded. ‘Correct. For that is what we are.’

  This silenced me somewhat. The train arrived and we barged our way onto what seemed to me an unnecessarily crowded carriage. We only just got a seat beside each other.

  ‘Phew!’ I sat down with relief. ‘Morning.’ I smiled at my other neighbour who glanced at me in nervous horror. Everyone looked so gloomy and tetchy. Marcus instantly opened his Telegraph and folded it efficiently. I opened my newspaper.

  ‘Elbows,’ he barked.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I tucked them in like a petrified chicken. It was desperately uncomfortable, and terribly difficult to read. By Orpington I’d given up, and instead engaged Marcus in bright conversation about the various back gardens we were passing as we went through the suburbs and how, as a child, I’d loved train journeys and always fantasized about the occupants of the houses, wondering what their lives were like.

  ‘This isn’t going to work,’ he growled as we got off together at Charing Cross.

  ‘What? What isn’t?’ I scurried to catch up. God, he went so fast. I was sure he didn’t move like this at home.

  ‘This commuting together. It’s a mistake. We’ll talk about it tonight. I’m thinking separate carriages.’

  And with that, he disappeared down the escalator towards the Northern Line and Camden Town, and into the bowels of the earth. I stood at the top, shocked. Separate carriages? Heavens, it sounded like separate beds. A turning-point in our marriage, perhaps. And why so grumpy? I walked on. Was it because I’d had a headache last night? Hadn’t indulged in nookie? I seemed to recall him sarcastically apologising for attempting to inconvenience me as he rolled back to his side of the bed, and then knocking back a handful of Chinese herbal sleep remedies. Perhaps they hadn’t worked, and he’d had a bad night. Or maybe he was still feeling short-changed. Hmm. I might have to tick a certain box tonight.

  I sauntered off across the Strand and up into the labyrinth of streets around Covent Garden, enjoying the morning sun-shine. When I reached the grand white-stuccoed frontage of number 42, I hesitated, wondering whether to ring the bell or just push on through, trilling, ‘Morning!’ confidently. After all, I reasoned, I was arriving for work. Couldn’t ring the doorbell every day, surely? But on the other hand, this was Laurence’s private house, and it would be awful to blunder in and find him in his boxers, spoon poised over a cereal bowl in front of breakfast television. In the end I gave an apologetic little half-ring – pathetic, worst of both worlds – and Laurence opened the door. He was wearing an old checked shirt over a white T-shirt and jeans, and looked even more disreputably handsome than I remembered. He ran a hand through his dark locks.

  ‘Henny! Welcome. Do just barge in, no need to knock.’ He stood aside to let me in. ‘I’ve been having a frantic tidy-up knowing your approach was imminent, and you’ve caught me mid bin-run.’ He reached behind him for a black sack and dumped it on the front step. ‘Didn’t want you to recoil in horror at the mess on day one, it’s a bit like Life of Grime in there.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not. And you shouldn’t have bothered,’ I twittered as I followed him upstairs, secretly delighted he’d made an effort for me and wondering if I could still leap steps two at a time like he did. Definitely younger than me, but not much, I hazarded. I made a mental note to try it at home.

  He ushered me into the long white drawing room, which admittedly didn’t look nearly as pristine as when Emmanuelle had been in situ. ‘Now the awful thing is,’ he admitted as he lunged about the floor, snatching up books and cushions as he talked, ‘I’m
going to have to dash. I’ve got a breakfast meeting with a producer about my new series in about ten minutes, so I shall have to leave you in the lurch. I’m really sorry, Henny.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll cope.’

  Actually, that was fine, I thought as I gazed about. I preferred to get my bearings on my own, feel my way around, poke through a few filing cabinets – if they still existed – without him standing over me, pleasant though that would be later, I thought as he straightened up from his tidying and regarded me anxiously. God, he was attractive. Like a modern-day swashbuckler. A pirate chief with dark curls and flashing eyes.

  ‘Sure?’ His eyes cleared with relief. ‘Oh well, that’s great, because although I’ll be in and out today, it’ll mostly be out. It’s just sod’s law that you’re starting on a particularly frantic day.’

  ‘Best way though, don’t you think? In at the deep end. What would you like me to do?’

  ‘What I’d love you to do is field all my ghastly calls.’ He started gathering up papers and books. ‘They mostly want interviews – unpaid, of course, the bastards – so unless it’s the BBC or anyone interesting like Parky, say no. Politely, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Although I’m afraid my telephone manner won’t be quite as sexy as Emmanuelle’s.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ He flashed me a wicked grin. ‘She gives good telephone.’

  I giggled.

  ‘More prosaically though,’ he went on, ‘I’m afraid there’s a monumentally dreary manuscript waiting to be typed up. It’s my script for the next series which I like to write myself, and if I wasn’t so computer illiterate, I’d type too. It’s all on these wretched little tapes.’ He indicated a bundle on his desk. ‘I gabble away into a machine when I’m in the bath, and the thing is, I need to be able to read it back. Usually in the bath again where I get it wet, and then have to beg you to print it out for me all over again.’ He grinned at me disarmingly from under his floppy fringe, like a small boy admitting to a penchant for catapults. ‘It used to drive Emmanuelle up the pole. She’d say, “Why can’t you read it on-screen like everyone else?” But I’m afraid I’m desperately old-fashioned.’