“Hello, Imogen.”
I swung round in surprise. A tall, handsome young man with long, poetic chestnut hair curling over the collar of a blue velvet jacket was smiling at me. His dark eyes were shy, and I knew him, definitely knew him, but couldn’t quite place him. Then, as he reddened under my gaze…it dawned.
“Oh, good grief, Casper!” I reddened too, and he went an even deeper shade of claret as we collectively remembered our first meeting together, ostensibly as gallery owner and prospective artist discussing a forthcoming exhibition, but actually—if he’d had his way—as older woman and young blade about to embark on a marathon session of afternoon delight in a double bed in the Markham Hotel.
“What are you doing here?” I said stupidly, for something to say, because actually, why on earth shouldn’t he be here?
“Well, watching the play, like you.” He laughed, embarrassed.
“Yes, of course!”
“Can I get you a—”
“No, no, I’ve ordered. But let me—”
“Absolutely not, my shout.” He caught the barman’s eye, ordered a beer for himself and paid for my gin too, which gave me a moment to collect myself. Casper. Good heavens.
“I saw you when you came in, actually,” he admitted, passing me my drink, “but didn’t quite have the nerve to talk to you.”
“Whyever not?”
“Well, you know…” He made a face. “But I wanted to,” he went on quickly, “to apologise for my appalling behaviour that day, which I do, unreservedly. I seem to remember attempting to rape you, then weeping all over you. Not my finest hour.”
“These things happen,” I murmured into my drink. God, I’d forgotten how young he was; how sweet-looking, with his long wavy hair.
“But I also wanted to thank you,” he went on determinedly, obviously keen to spit it out. He looked at me earnestly under dark sweeping lashes. “The advice you gave me that day was spot on. I did lie low, and I did play the long game, and in the end, it all blew over between Charlotte and Jesus.”
Charlotte and…for a moment I couldn’t think what the devil a girl called Charlotte was doing with Our Lord, then…oh yes. His wife, and the personal trainer.
“She eventually got bored with him and saw him for the shallow slab of beefcake he was. Came back to me.”
“Oh, Casper, I’m so pleased.” I really was. I beamed delightedly at him.
“And you were so right to dissuade me from pursuing older women round hotel bedrooms,” he went on as I gawped into my gin—older women—“and chopping up Charlotte’s clothes, which I was so close to doing. I even dragged them all out of the wardrobe, put them on the bed. I can’t quite believe it, now. Can’t believe that was me.” He gazed into his beer.
I smiled. “Love, or the removal of it, makes us do strange things, Casper. Turns us into people we don’t recognise, or like. And the more it’s withdrawn, the more we behave abominably. It seems impossible to stop.”
“I know. But I did stop, thank God. And thanks to you. It was as if you had an insight, as if you’d been there.”
I smiled. “I thought I had. But I hadn’t. I’d made a stupid mistake. Happily.” I rested one elbow on the bar. He seemed about to ask me what I meant, so I rushed on. “So now you’re back together? You and Charlotte? With the children?”
“Yes, all back together. In fact, I’m watching her tonight. She’s in the play.”
“Oh, is she! Gosh, how brave. Well, that’s why I’m here too, I thought Kate was in it, but I can’t see her.”
“Oh, no, Kate left the show a while ago. It was all too much with the children and Sebastian’s work and everything. He felt she was doing too much so she dropped out.”
“Did she? God, I didn’t know.” I felt awful. God, I hadn’t even asked.
“She has so much to juggle you see, but she’s always got time for her friends. Charlotte and I went to dinner there the other night.”
He went a bit pink and I smiled into my gin. This was clearly a social triumph. I used to tease Kate about being a society hostess and collecting admirers; I’d forgotten Casper was one of them.
“Yes, she has got a lot of time for her mates,” I agreed. “In fact, she got us together in the first place, didn’t she?”
“She did. In fact, she was the one who suggested I go for a little bit more than just lunch with you.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“Oh, no,” he said quickly, “not—you know—like that. I handled it very badly. She didn’t mean for me to jump on you in the restaurant or anything—that was all my stupid idea—she just…” he hesitated. “Well, actually, she said she thought you might be lonely.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “I’m married, Casper.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But,” he shrugged, “well, so was I. And I cocked it up, of course. Should have just made a mate of you.”
“Or even just considered my paintings,” I said sharply. This conversation was getting a little too personal for me. “I seem to recall that’s why we met in the first place.”
He reddened. “Yes, quite. Um, how is the painting going, by the way? Are you still sticking with it?”
“Yes. Yes I am,” I said vaguely, but I was miles away. Lonely. Two people, one of whom was my best friend, the other, a man, whose opinion for some obscure reason I valued, had both levelled that accusation against me within the last twenty-four hours. I began to feel hot. Prickly. The theatre was very warm, and the loud, self-confident voices less entertaining now. More oppressive. I needed some air.
Casper was still talking, enthusing about my work, which he assured me he had genuinely liked and admired, but I wasn’t listening. I needed to go, to get out, and when the bell went for the second half, I did. I said good-bye to Casper, parting amicably and pretending I was going back to my seat, but actually, slipping away down a corridor and some clattery back steps, and out of the side entrance on to the street. It was dark now, and the night air was sharp and cool on my cheeks; welcome. I took a few deep breaths. I was indifferent to the play, and if Kate wasn’t in it, well, I wasn’t going to sit there. Also, I had a sudden urge, a sudden burning desire, to see Alex. I walked quickly up the main road. I was cross. Cross with everyone making assumptions about my life, trying, quietly, to make things better for me. A quick bonk by the fire perhaps—or, or a young man estranged from his wife for me to befriend in a restaurant—there, that would do the trick; that would make it better. Poor Imogen, stuck with a busy, distracted husband, with just her small son and her painting for company, poor, poor Imogen. The blood rushed to my face as I walked quickly to my car. Did people really pity me? Think I had a sad, solitary life? We’d soon see about that.
I glanced at my watch. It was half-past nine now, and Alex would still be entertaining the Cronins at Simpson’s, but I knew he liked to be in and out of that place, popping them smartly in a taxi and back to their hotel, and he’d be on to the pudding by now—coffee, even. We’d meet up, I decided, getting into the car and snapping my seat belt on. I pulled away from the kerb. Maybe we could go to that piano bar in Burlington Street, the one he’d read about in the Standard and told me about; said we must go, where they served cocktails till midnight? Yes, OK, it was a bit late for cocktails, but we could have a brandy, couldn’t we? The car swerved violently in the road. No—not brandy. Cointreau, then, I decided. Yes, because now I was up here, in town, I still very much wanted my night out, but I wanted it with my husband.
I rang him, but his mobile was off. Annoyed, I left a message, then suddenly, on an impulse, found myself pointing the car towards the Strand. In the direction of Simpson’s. Yes, why not? I could leave a message at reception. Or even get one of the waiters to take it in, hand it to him at his table on a silver tray, a billet-doux; very old-fashioned. I smiled to myself. “Darling, I’m up in town—long story. Will mee
t you in half an hour at Romano’s.” Yes, that was the name of the bar, I thought eagerly, Romano’s.
I drew up and parked, rather punchily, right outside Simpson’s, on a double yellow line. Then I got out, had a quick shufty round for the police, and leaving the hazard lights on, nipped up the wide stone steps and through the front door. I glanced briefly through the open door into the dining room full of identical-looking businessmen, wearily wining and dining clients, then put my head down—crikey, I wouldn’t want to be seen, that would be embarrassing—and made a beeline for the supercilious-looking Latin maître d’, guarding the front desk.
“Excuse me, could you possibly give this to Mr. Alex Cameron, please?” I breathed, handed him my hastily written note. “He’s eating here this evening.”
He looked at me a moment, then: “With pleasure, madam.” He inclined his head politely, put it on a tray, and went to take it in.
I watched him go. Good. No questions; no—Mr. Alex who? Oh no, he was well known here. God, he flaming well should be, the amount of company money he put the restaurant’s way.
I nipped back to the car and drove off via Regent Street, down Conduit Street to Burlington Street. Alex had heard about this place, kept telling me we ought to go and check it—ah, here it was, Romano’s.
I approached it slowly, no traffic behind me, and paused for a second, double-parked but engine still running, to look. I peered in. Through a brightly lit plate-glass window, a bustling bar was getting up a nice head of steam; a man in a tail coat was tinkling away at a grand piano at the back of the room, and some really rather beautiful people were reclining on white sofas, or perched on stools at the bar, chatting and sipping champagne. Lovely. I shivered. I’d buy an evening paper, I determined, excitement fizzing in my veins now, find a quiet corner and wait for him with my cocktail; nab one of those white sofas. Might even get picked up! God, that would be funny, seeing his face when he walked in. I imagined his amused, quizzical look as I frantically rolled my eyes over some professional lounge lizard’s head. I grinned and shunted the car into first, about to drive past and find a parking space, when suddenly, the door opened, and out into the street, came my husband, Alex. He was laughing, and throwing back his head, and then turning to smile delightedly at a beautiful girl in a pink sheath dress, with long blond hair. On an impulse, he took her in his arms on the pavement and pulled her in towards him, kissing her thoroughly on the lips. It was Kate.
Chapter Twenty-seven
There are moments, often brutal, invariably tragic, when one becomes aware that life as we know it is never going to be the same again. In a film, such a moment would be accompanied by a rising crescendo of stirring music, by violins screeching; in life, it’s usually by a silent stopping heart. This was my moment. Glimpsed in a second, yet destined to change years. The catalyst for unravelling aeons of time that had gone before, and aeons to come. And I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I sat there, transfixed by my moment, a spectator on my destiny, caught in that mixture of billowing blond hair and tailored grey flannel as it came down the street, frozen like a wild animal in headlights, by the horror that was unfolding before me.
They crossed the street, yards from my car, and came down towards me on the opposite side of the road, holding hands, laughing into each other’s face. As they got closer, I felt a sharp stab of panic, as if I was the one that shouldn’t be seen; as if I were the interloper. I hit the accelerator. I remember not being able to breathe, or at least, only shallowly, as if through a straw, and as if my lungs were deflating fast, like a burst balloon. Somehow, I steered the car through the traffic, through lights, through a cacophony of beeping horns, which seemed to follow inexorably in my wake, across London. No coherent thoughts formed in my head, just crazy white ones—Alex and Kate, Alex and Kate—chasing around in nightmarish circles, with the rhythm of a train, like a poem I’d learned as a child—faster than fairies, faster than witches, Alex and Kate, Alex and Kate. The only thing I knew with any certainty was that I had to get away.
I drove around the streets, anywhere, round and round in circles like the ones whirling in my head, but eventually found myself at Hyde Park Corner. Then I was in Knightsbridge, and then, in the blink of an eye, it seemed, driving much too fast through Chelsea going towards Putney, towards home. I drove mechanically, hypnotically, over the bridge, as if being pulled by a force I was unequal to, down familiar streets, taking familiar short cuts. Eventually I turned the corner into Hastoe Avenue. I skidded to a halt outside Kate’s house, and opposite mine: I turned off the engine, and sat there in the darkness staring straight ahead, like someone who knows they’ve reached their journey’s end in so many senses, my heart pounding.
I glanced down. My hands were sweaty, clenched tightly in my lap. Alex and Kate. Alex and Kate. At one point, a car swept past, illuminating the interior of my car, and as I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw my face, chalk white and ethereal, my eyes huge. I realised there was blood in my mouth. I must have bitten the inside of my cheek. I swallowed it, and looked at Kate’s house. There were a couple of downstairs lights on, the curtains were drawn, but otherwise, it was in darkness. The children would be in bed by now, and perhaps Sebastian too, if he was at home. Did he know, I wondered? Or suspect that Alex and Kate—oh, Alex and Kate. The bile rose in my throat and I opened the door just in time, bending low to vomit in the gutter. I stared as it dripped away down the street. Flowed down a drain. Then I found a tissue, wiped my mouth, and shut the door. In the glove compartment was an old bottle of Evian water. I took a slug, gulping it down.
The water, fresh and cool in my mouth, rushing down my throat, seemed to clear my thought processes. How long? I wondered suddenly. And where? And how often? My mind, up until then a shocked, blank canvas, was suddenly ambushed by questions, which jostled feverishly for position, like protesters at a rally, shooting up their hands. Lots of times? Once? We must be told! I shut them out, all of them, squeezing my eyes tight, slamming the door in an heroic effort at self-preservation.
My eyes snapped open as I heard a taxi trundle up. It stopped in the middle of the road. Kate got out, her long tanned legs flashing, blonde hair getting stuck on her lipstick as it blew into her face in the breeze. She unstuck it and turned to pay the driver. I saw her face, radiant and smiling in the moonlight. My stomach gave a sickening lurch. Kate. Dear Kate. I watched as she said a cheery good night to the driver, turned away, and walked quickly to the pavement, skirting the bonnet of my car as I shrank down, feeling like the guilty party again, the shadowy figure in the dirty mac. She went up her path, ducking under the magnolia tree, a spring in her step, and I heard her call out, “Hi Maria!” as she turned the key and went inside. I sat there, trembling, watching, as more lights went on in the house. Then Maria came out of the front door: I recognised the elderly Spanish lady who lived down the road and baby-sat occasionally, the collar of her old camel coat turned up against the night air, her head bowed as she shuffled off down the road. So Sebastian was away.
A few minutes later, as I knew it would, another taxi drew up. Out got Alex. Like Kate, he looked buoyant, cheerful, excited even. He joked with the driver as he paid him. My heart began to pound. Suddenly I remembered other evenings, long ago, when I was in that house across the street, in bed, or painting, long into the night, and the same thing would happen. A taxi would rumble up, bearing Kate—and, I’d assumed, Sebastian—and then another would arrive, a few minutes later, with Alex. I used to smile to myself and think how uncanny it was that everyone unerringly arrived back just before midnight, before the witching hour, everyone doggedly aware of the working week ahead. I never put two and two together. Why would I? Alex would come up the stairs and crawl into bed, too tired after a bellyful of the Cronin brothers to make love to me, and I’d go back to sleep. And on more than one occasion I’d known that Sebastian was abroad, so I’d known that Kate was alone in that taxi, coming back from her play rehearsals…every Wednes
day, which was usually the night Alex entertained clients.
Breathe, breathe, I told myself fiercely, realising I was hunched up over the wheel, fists clenched, no neck. I straightened up and watched Alex go—not into the main house as I’d expected, but down into the basement flat. I stared. For a moment I wondered if I’d been seeing things in Burlington Street, hallucinating, rather as I thought I had at Eleanor’s house when I’d caught him embracing her in the mirror, but then—no. Clever. Very clever. Always separate taxis, and always, even if Sebastian was away, separate entrances: for the neighbours’ benefit. Always scrupulously careful in their movements, which, of course, was why they’d never been caught.
As a light went on in the basement, I got out of the car and walked up the path to the front door of the main house. I rang the bell, thinking how often I would have bent down and called through the letter box, “Only me!”
Kate’s quick, light footsteps came down the hallway. There was a pause as she looked through the spy hole, and when she opened the door, I saw she was still in her pink dress, but barefoot. She looked startled to see me.
“Imogen!”
“Hi.” I smiled.
“Good heavens. What on earth are you doing here?”
She had the grace to flush. I laughed. A shrill, unnatural sound ringing out in the still night. “Oh, it’s a long story. Can I come in?”
A Crowded Marriage Page 39