‘Oh, what rubbish.’ She put her coffee cup down with a clatter. ‘Honestly, these men. Their brains are between their legs and they think ours are too.’
‘Well quite. But you know Marcus, he’s never wrong, and in this case he’s convinced he’s absolutely right. He thinks I deliberately set out to get my boss into bed. The fact that it didn’t happen is immaterial. In his book it’s all about intent.’
‘Ridiculous,’ she scoffed. ‘As if you’ve got time for “intent” with two growing children and a big house to run and all those animals to look after – or even the inclination! I mean, look at you! Do you look like a woman on the brink of an affair?’
I flinched.
‘You’ve got no make-up on, and your hair looks as if you just dunked it in the bath before you came out – you really must try that new conditioner I told you about, Henny. I’ll get you some from my hairdresser in St John’s Wood. It’ll give you much more bounce.’
‘Thanks,’ I muttered, sinking into my cup. ‘Bounce is high on my list of priorities at the moment. You’re doing wonders for my ego, incidentally.’
‘Now if he was the one having the affair, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. An attractive, successful man, surrounded by pretty young things all day – but you!’ She pulled a face. ‘Now you listen to me, my girl.’ She folded her cashmere arms on the table and leaned forward. ‘You go straight back where you belong, before this situation gets out of hand.’
‘I can’t do that, Mum. He’s told me in no uncertain terms to stay away.’
‘So what!’ she shrilled. A few people in the canteen glanced around. ‘And how dare he, anyway? If he wants to leave, let him, but how dare he throw you out!’
I hesitated, realizing both Benji and I had been slightly economical with the truth when it came to equipping her with the full story.
‘Well, he kind of believes he has just cause. And the thing is, Mum, he’s absolutely livid. Hopping mad. Don’t you think I should leave it a week or two? Let him cool down?’
‘And let this thing gather steam and get swept away on its own momentum? Absolutely not. You go straight back now, my girl. Gather your things and get on the next train home. Walk back into your kitchen with your head held high – golly, it’s as much your house as his!’
‘Well, I haven’t exactly contributed –’
‘Financially no, but you’re a wife and a mother, that’s your contribution. You have just as much right to be there as he has – more right, in fact, as any court of law will tell you. And if you don’t look to your laurels, that’s where you’ll end up. In the divorce courts. Good heavens, if Gordon had ever tried anything like this with me I’d have boxed his ears! You’ve got too much of your father in you, Henny, and not enough of me. Don’t just roll over and take it, get up and have a stand-up-knock-down-dingdong if needs be. Throw some china, get trifle on the walls, shout and scream, but get back where you belong!’
‘You think?’ I said doubtfully.
‘Certainly I think! And what would have happened if you hadn’t had a convenient flat to go to, hm? Where would you have gone then? To me? To Penny? Oh, I don’t think so. Nor would Marcus have suggested it. No, you’d have fought your corner a bit more, and he’d have backed down a bit. OK, he might have banished you to the spare room, but he’d have capitulated in the end. All this is just about teaching you a lesson, Henny. I don’t believe he has any intention of chucking you out permanently, he’s just giving you a nasty little shock in case you ever think of doing it again. You mark my words, just before those children of yours come back from boarding-school, he’ll snap his fingers and say, “Right, you can come back now,” just in time for them never to have known you’ve been away.’
‘I did wonder if he’d told the children …’
‘Of course he hasn’t. It’s a great big bluff. Now you listen to me, Henny. It may be a bluff, but if this situation is left to drift it could be very dangerous. You nip it in the bud now. Go back home and make it work. Good gracious, all marriages need a little work occasionally. D’you not think your father and I had our sticky patches? And where would we have been if we’d just thrown in the towel? You’ve had it too easy so far, the pair of you, blessed with money, good health and lovely children. This is the first little hiccup you’ve come up against. Well, don’t just cave in, fight back! Where’s your backbone, for heaven’s sake!’
By this stage any tiny details relating to the truth of the matter had been forgotten and my backbone was making a dramatic comeback. My vertebrae were positively rippling and popping like the Bionic Woman, gumption fairly coursing through my veins.
‘You’re right,’ I breathed, gripping my coffee cup hard.
‘Of course I’m right. This has Alpha Male Domination written all over it – I can spot it a mile off. It reeks of macho conceit and it’s not good enough, Henny. You can tell him so from me.’
She paused for a moment, and I saw a metaphorical lightbulb go on in her head. ‘Maybe I should come with you,’ she mused, and then sat up alarmingly straight. ‘You’ve never been very good at this sort of confrontational stuff, have you? Yes. Maybe I should –’
‘No, Mum,’ I interrupted nervously. ‘I’ll be fine.’ God, I could just imagine that little scene playing out …imagine the blood on the terracotta tiles, the body parts I’d find for ever afterwards: Oops, what’s this in the dog basket? Oh, it’s Mum’s eyeball, attached to Marcus’s finger. No, I’d decline that kind offer. However …
‘You’re right,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ll go this evening. Go back home. How dare he throw me out, actually.’ I looked at her directly. ‘How dare he!’
We gazed at each other over our cooling cappuccinos, our eyes locked in silent assent. For once in our lives, in complete agreement.
Chapter Fourteen
In the event, I went the following morning. I cooled down a bit as I rumbled back from the home on the bus, and realized that actually, I stood a better chance with Marcus if I at least arrived in daylight, rather than barging in last thing on a Saturday night. I could just see his face if I stormed in through the back door in the middle of the ten o’clock news, marching into the darkened sitting room where he was probably comfortably horizontal in front of the cathode rays, empty pizza box and beer cans beside him. He’d be at a distinct disadvantage with his wife glowering over him, and therefore, all the more unpredictable. It might bounce him into saying something he didn’t actually mean, like, ‘Bugger off.’ No, I decided, I’d go tomorrow. And actually, another night without me would do him the world of good. Let him wonder, for instance, when he woke up on Sunday morning, why there were no croissants in the bread bin? No fresh orange juice in the fridge? Let him wonder if his shirts for next week would throw themselves into the washing machine of their own accord, the sheets whip off the bed and change themselves? He might decide he’d been rather hasty in dismissing the little woman just like that.
And so it was that I stepped off the train in Flaxton the next morning feeling much more optimistic. More … upbeat. I gazed around appreciatively. Even though I’d only been away a couple of days it felt like weeks, and I thought how sweet and provincial the little station looked, with its white picket fencing and neat flowerbeds. Being a Sunday morning, all was quiet, and the place basked sleepily in bosky autumn sunshine. It was one of those clear-bluesky mornings when you could almost hear the air squeak it was so clean and crisp, and as I walked onto the empty fore-court, the birds were singing, a sound I realized I’d missed in London.
Actually, the forecourt wasn’t entirely empty. A solitary taxi sat in the rank, with Simon at the wheel. An unfortunate name, as Simon was a simple soul. ‘Not quite like other budgerigars,’ as my mother would have put it. Years ago, he’d have walked around our village in small circles, but these days, he drove them, in a Ford Mondeo. In fact, when you took his taxi, you had to be reasonably on the ball not to have him drive straight past your destination and deliver you back to the station
again. When we’d first moved here, I’d wondered if he was entirely safe.
‘Oh yes,’ the chap in the village shop had assured me. ‘Totally safe. Just very slow. You’d be quicker to walk.’
‘White Cross Farm?’ Simon said eagerly, winding down the window as I approached. Walking was clearly not an option today.
‘That’s it, Simon,’ I smiled.
‘Thought so,’ he beamed. Simon prided himself on knowing exactly where everyone in the village lived. He got out and scurried round to put my case in the boot. ‘I take your husband sometimes, don’t I? When the car’s being serviced?’
‘Quite right, you do.’
We set off at a snail’s pace, giving me plenty of time to gaze out of the window and wonder at the vibrant colours that seemed to have exploded over the last couple of days, the glorious hues of red and ochre against the sapphire sky.
‘Been away?’ Simon hazarded conversationally, over his shoulder.
‘Um, yes. On business.’
He nodded, pleased. ‘Thought as much. It was the case, you see. Gave it away.’
‘Ah.’ I smiled.
‘Expect he’s missed you then, has he? Your husband?’
‘Er, yes. Probably.’
‘Marcus, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
He nodded. ‘I dropped him off last night, as it happens. Didn’t want to drive home from a dinner-party, so he called me out. Had too much to drink, I expect.’ He chuckled. ‘Early hours, it was.’
My head snapped back from the glorious tints and hues, etc. I stared at the back of his neck.
‘Right,’ I breathed.
I badly wanted to ask which dinner-party, whose house, for crying out loud, and how dare he go out alone without me, but I knew it would be all round the village if I showed the slightest interest.
I managed to stop Simon at the bottom of the drive before he tootled on past, and paid him, seething quietly. I waited in the lane as he drove slowly away. Out at a party, I fumed. Too drunk to drive home. Bloody hell! And who the dickens had invited him? One of my mates? She could consider herself right off my Christmas card list.
I picked up my case and made my way up the pot-holed drive, but as the house came into view, my anger dissipated. In fact, I began to feel less gung-ho by the minute. What was the plan then, Henny? What little speech have you rehearsed for him, hm? I hadn’t, in point of fact, never having rehearsed anything in my life for Marcus, but then I’d never returned like the prodigal wife, either. God, this drive seemed to go on for ever. Had he had it stretched while I’d been away, to make it even more ‘sod off ’? I gripped the handle of my suitcase hard.
So what was the worst that could happen, I reasoned, raising my chin as I approached the front door. I turned sideways and shoved it with my shoulder. Ouch. That normally worked. Usually it was on the latch, but clearly not today. It was locked, and Marcus’s car wasn’t in the drive either, but then he often put it in the barn at the weekends. He might still be in. I went round the back, my heart pounding. The worst that could happen, I reasoned, was not so terrible. He couldn’t hit me, could he? Hadn’t done so yet in fifteen years, so that left verbal abuse, and actually, that wasn’t Marcus’s style either. He wasn’t the shouting and swearing type. No, he’d just go very quiet. Very cold and disdainful, like he had in that hotel room. I shivered. Much worse. If only the bloody man would throw something, a gin bottle perhaps, which could catch me on the temple, and he’d rush to me, horrified, and I’d assure him weakly that I was OK, and sobbing with relief he’d clutch me to his breast and carry me upstairs for some hot sex. I stopped short of the back door. Oh yes. Sex. I rocked in my trainers. Golly, how stupid of me. That had always been the way to Marcus’s heart. Had always been his Achilles heel. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
I glanced down at the jeans and pink shirt I’d rather carelessly thrown on for this encounter and wished I’d given it more thought. I wasn’t used to dressing up for my husband on a Sunday. I sniffed my armpits cautiously, then delved in my bag for a lipstick and applied lashings. On an impulse, I undid the top button of my shirt. Oh, and another. Oh – and actually, while we’re at it – I reached up my back and deftly undid my bra through my shirt, then, hooking the straps round each arm, produced it, like a conjurer, from the bottom of a sleeve. As I stuffed it hastily in my handbag, I looked up to see Bill, grinning delightedly at me across the stableyard. I went hot.
‘He’s not in!’ he yelled cheerily, leaning on his pitchfork, as if perhaps wondering if the show would go on and I’d produce my knickers from my trouser leg. Wave them with a flourish. Da-dah!
‘I can see that,’ I snapped, my cheeks burning as I fished in my bag for the key. Damn. Bloody bra fell out. I snatched it up from the gravel, puce.
‘No, ’e’s not been in a while. ’E’s gone –’
‘Thank you, Bill, I am perfectly aware of my husband’s whereabouts!’ I stormed, finally finding the key and letting myself in.
I slammed the door behind me. The glass pane rattled perilously but, thankfully, didn’t smash. Bloody man, I seethed, glaring at him as he grinned back. Always bloody spying on me! God, the first thing I’d do when I came back was bloody sack him. I don’t care how good he was with foot-rot on Muscovy ducks, he could flaming well sling his pitchfork. I threw my handbag angrily on the kitchen table and stared round the kitchen.
All was quiet, all was still. Just the familiar hum of the refrigerator in the background. No Dilly. She must be in the bootroom. Ah yes, there she was, scratching to be let out. And tidy, I thought in surprise, moving around. Even more so than the last time I was here. And Marcus was not a tidy man. But then, there was only one of him, wasn’t there? It wasn’t like having a family of four creating mayhem, was it? But all my messy piles had been cleared away, I realized with a start. On the edge of the island, there was always an unruly pile of correspondence pending attention – term dates to be put in the calendar, notification of school plays to attend … what had he done with all that? Swept it in the bin? Just one solitary oil bill remained. And there was something else, too. I swung about. It looked …brighter in here, somehow. Oh, of course. My enormous trailing jasmine on the windowsill that Marcus always claimed was dead and I maintained was merely sleeping, had gone. Disappeared. Consequently, light streamed in through the window, and only an empty blue pot remained, its usually grubby inside scrubbed out efficiently. How satisfying had he found that little exercise, I wondered crossly. I noticed too the gleaming sink, and the J-cloth – blue, I always bought pink – neatly folded over the taps, not slung in a soggy heap as usual.
What a little marvel he’d turned into, I thought sourly. Then I saw a note addressed to Linda on the side. I snatched it up.
Linda,
Thanks for coming in this morning. I’d be grateful if you could come in every Saturday or Sunday from now on, as discussed. I’ve left your extra money on the side. Many thanks,
Marcus
I was stunned. Every Saturday or Sunday? Good God. It was as much as I could do to get her to come in during the week! How had he managed that? Well, he’d thrown money at the situation, clearly. I’d tried that in the past, but obviously not enough. And ‘as discussed’? What had he discussed? Henny’s appalling behaviour, Linda? Her adultery, for which I’m divorcing her? So, if I up your wages, could you see your way clear to replacing her domestically? Coming in at the weekends, sticking a casserole in the oven? I screwed up the note and flung it at the bin. Oh, the man was out of his mind. Had a screw loose!
Seething, I went to let Dilly out of the bootroom. She was scratching wildly now, having smelled me. She whimpered with delight and prostrated herself on her back, shivering with pleasure and waving her paws in the air as I made a fuss of her. Well, at least someone was pleased to see me, I thought. I straightened up. And where was Marcus, anyway, on a Sunday morning? I fervently wished I’d listened to Bill. Could hardly ask now though, could I.
I bit my thumbnail and gazed around the room, looking for clues. After a bit, I wandered into the unnaturally tidy playroom, then on through the rest of the house. Sitting room, drawing room, dining room and front hall were all equally pristine, and reeking of Mr Sheen which I forbade Linda to use in favour of beeswax. While the cat’s away …I wandered back to the kitchen, then suddenly had a thought. I snatched up the phone and punched out a familiar number. She answered immediately.
‘Linda? Hi, it’s Henny here.’
‘Henny? Oh! Where are you? In London?’ She sounded embarrassed. Nervous. I could almost feel her blushing.
‘No, I’m at home, of course.’ I laughed gaily. There was a pause. I swept on. ‘Um, Linda, I’m just wondering where Marcus is. Any ideas?’
There was an even longer pause. ‘Er … no. Sorry, Henny. I don’t know.’
Well, she clearly did know, but wasn’t saying. Or was too scared to say. The back of my neck felt hot. Prickly.
‘Oh well, never mind,’ I said airily. ‘I expect he’s around somewhere. Probably in the orchard or something. I’ll go and take a look.’
‘Yes. Yes, probably. Sorry, Henny …’ She tailed off, sounding genuinely upset. I didn’t want to put her on the spot any more, so I said goodbye and put down the phone.
I stared at it blankly for a moment, then absently picked up the solitary oil bill beside it. Actually, it wasn’t so solitary, because underneath was a large buff envelope, addressed to me at the flat, in Marcus’s hand. I tore it open. It was full of redirected mail. How very efficient of him, I thought dryly. A Boden catalogue, a drinks invitation –
oh, and another envelope addressed to me, also in my husband’s hand. I ripped out the letter inside.
Dear Henny,
I’ve worked out the children’s exeats, and it seems they have two more this term. I suggest you have them for the first one in London, and I’ll have them for the second. I also think it would be a good idea to tell them the situation as soon as possible, so I’ll meet you with them in London on the first Saturday. Let me know if that’s a problem. I suggest the Savoy Grill.
Not That Kind of Girl Page 20