by Jane Asher
But it couldn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t happen. However hard she tried to turn away from the horror that insisted on confronting her she couldn’t ignore it, and the urgent desire to know more began to dominate her thoughts. She needed to find out everything; the only way she could imagine getting through the day was to be allowed to spend her time picking over this sore that was infecting the whole of her body and mind; to pull at it, scratch it and fiddle with it until it revealed every last bit of putrid unpleasantness. She knew the healing process of allowing it to cover itself over with a skin of normality mustn’t be allowed to begin until everything lurking inside had been dug out and destroyed.
She had planned to visit that woman again, but knew she was unable to face it. The images of her with John had become so horrendous and all-pervasive that she feared she would be unable to look at her without attacking her, or sending herself into a humiliating fit of weeping or ranting. So should she confront John? Was it today she should tell him? Would the satisfaction of revealing that she knew expiate this terrible jealousy that was dominating her?
A terrible fear clutched at her at the very thought. Supposing he left her. Supposing her confronting him just meant that he spent more time with his whore. Supposing he was pleased to have it all out in the open: he might be relieved that she had found out; grateful to be free to go to her. No. It was far too risky. She couldn’t bear it. Her physical longing for him had become so great that she couldn’t countenance the idea of life without him, couldn’t survive the thought of having to lie alone for the next twenty years picturing his hands on the other’s body, his mouth on hers. She had always thought herself strong and independent; now she could see how much it was an illusion. Knowing he would always return at the weekends had been her anchor.
She felt no love for him, just gnawing, consuming need. The burning rage that screamed for revenge was as powerful as ever. She must be patient. Find out everything she could and then plan, carefully, how to get him away from her. She would have to suspend all decisions until she was calmer and more in control.
She picked up the hand mirror from the bedside table, put it onto her lap and looked into it in disgust. Her skin drooped down in heavy folds that were deadly pale in the moonlight that was reflected up off the sheets. ‘John,’ she whispered slowly, ‘John, I loathe you. John, I need you. How can I hate you and need you at the same time? What am I to do? Who will help me?’
The girl. That was the only way she could find out more; the girl that she had somehow, extraordinarily, found some sort of sympathy – even empathy – with. Her stepdaughter. Somehow she must get in touch with her and carefully go over as much of her young life as she could, matching the girl’s account of what she could remember with what Eleanor had been doing, saying, thinking at the time; watching for any clues that might help towards any kind of explanation or illumination. She couldn’t begin to understand why, but the thought of this brought her some kind of temporary peace. Her stepdaughter. She would get in touch with her stepdaughter. It gave her a quiet satisfaction to start working out how she could contact her without alerting John, to deceive him as he had deceived her for so long. And she knew suddenly something more: that she would invite her down here. To the house.
It felt right. It pleased her to know instinctively how much he would hate it; how much it would upset him if he knew. To have his two lives intermingling behind his back, for Eleanor to be unravelling his secrets, discussing him with the daughter he had so carefully hidden. How dare they have kept this creature hidden from her? Brought her up together, changed her nappies, rocked her to sleep while Eleanor sat alone in the house, innocently pottering about or tidying his things or doing work for his business. How dare they?
To get the girl down here would add another piece to the mysterious jigsaw she found herself unwillingly putting together. Even as she hated the picture that was assembling itself only too clearly as she fitted each new little chunk into place, she was well aware that nothing could stop her now until it was finished; she wouldn’t be able to rest until every little corner was complete, and not a single jagged hole was left unfilled, or one knobbly, convoluted spare piece left unaccounted for.
She would give the girl lunch. The thought of having something to plan for, to work for, seemed comforting, and she put her mind onto the soothing area of menu planning. She had a brief moment of fear at the thought that she had no idea what a girl of nineteen would eat – especially this one, tied more closely to her by events than any child she had ever met, but at the same time utterly unknown. She might be vegetarian, or only eat fish, or never eat wheat, or – no, this was ridiculous. Eleanor must calm herself and think clearly; push aside the old insecurity she always felt when having to deal with children. Their direct looks and replies uncushioned by social convention always made her uneasy, and she would often find herself awkward and gushing in her dealings with them. But the girl wasn’t a baby: she could speak for herself, for goodness’ sake. When she managed to get hold of her, she would ask her. What could be simpler than that? She would cook something simple but elegant, the kind of understated good food that she felt sure was beyond the capacity, or even the knowledge, of that woman. This thought made her jump. She hadn’t realised that she had felt herself to be in any direct competition with – Barbara (much as she loathed to speak the name, even in her head, the sound of it was now imbued with so much disgust that she used it as an insult instead of a description) until this moment. The jealousy had been obvious and unbearable, the anger and resentment fiercer than she would have believed possible, but up until now she had had no idea that she felt any need to compete. She smiled to herself, feeling for the first time a tiny chance of redemption in the challenge of bettering her husband’s lover in this small matter of a meal for the daughter. If battle lines are to be drawn across the dining table, she thought, there’s no question who will win.
At eleven o’clock the phone rang. Convinced it was John, Eleanor looked up in fear from her seat on the kitchen stool but then ran quickly to answer it before she could let herself think too much about how she would handle it, instinctively trusting that the old Eleanor who had answered his calls thousands of times over the years would somehow take over and talk to him without giving anything away. She was thrown at the sound of a different voice than the one she was expecting. A voice she couldn’t identify for a moment, but one that, once recognised, filled her with a nauseous terror. It was she. The whore.
‘Yes, what do you want?’
‘It’s Barbara.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m the—’
‘I know who you are, for God’s sake. What do you want? You haven’t told him, have you? You haven’t been stupid enough to—’
‘No, no, of course not. I wouldn’t want to, can’t you see that? I don’t know what he’d do if … But I’m frightened. I don’t know what to do. He’s bound to find out, isn’t he? And then what’s going to happen? He hates any – he just won’t stand any trouble. What shall I do?’
Eleanor was so taken aback by the appeal to her from the other woman that she answered without thinking, comforting the object of her jealous fury automatically.
‘It’s all right. You don’t have to be frightened. Why did you ring me?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do.’
‘Where’s Susan? She’s not listening to all this, is she?’
‘No. No, of course not. She’s gone out. She’s gone up to the job centre. She told me that you’d been to see her. She thinks you’re her aunt, doesn’t suspect. But what if she says something in front of John?’
‘Stop being frightened. It’s important he doesn’t find out. You’ve lied to Susan and to yourself for long enough, woman. What’s so different now? Don’t be so pathetic. Just go on being the two-faced liar you’ve been for so long and you can’t go wrong.’
‘I haven’t lied. I—’
‘Of course you have. Haven’t you let Susan think you’re married? That you’re
his wife? That he stayed at weekends with – what did you call me? – her aunt? Her daft, unwell aunt? You knew the truth all the time. You knew he was married, that you were wrecking a marriage. You knew you were taking someone else’s husband – didn’t you? You bitch.’ Eleanor winced regretfully at the sound of her own insult, and silently vowed from now on to keep her anger discreetly leashed until she felt quite sure she could control it and use it to its best advantage. There was a silence on the other end of the telephone, and Eleanor realised she had hit on something important.
She went on, angrily, impatient to know more, and irritated by the feeble insecurity of the woman she knew to be listening, ‘What did he tell you about me? Come on, woman, you’re in no position to hold anything back from me, for goodness’ sake, not after what you’ve done. What did he say about me, his wife? HIS WIFE!’
‘Well, he – he always said that, you know, that you’d both not – that, oh dear, that you’d been very unhappy. That you didn’t – I’m sorry, I’m not very good at talking on the telephone, I didn’t – oh I don’t know what to say.’ The woman was crying now, her voice disappearing in a mumbled blur as quickly as Eleanor’s had been rising in intensity. ‘He always told me it was over, that he just felt sorry for you.’
Eleanor grimaced at the words but ignored them and ploughed on bravely, determined to dig out as much information as possible while she had the chance: ‘But you knew we were still married?’
There was another silence, and Eleanor gripped tightly onto the receiver and clenched the muscles of her abdomen in her efforts to stop herself from yelling in impatience and frustration.
‘Didn’t you?’ she said at last, in as near to a calm voice as she could manage.
‘Yes, I did. But he always said, you know, that it was … oh dear.’
‘What, for Christ’s sake? What did he always say?’ She couldn’t stop her voice rising again in fury, hating herself for being in the miserable position of having to beg this woman for information that she knew could only hurt her.
‘That it was, I mean that your marriage was – oh what did he call it? He had a word for it that he always used when I asked him. Because I did ask him, you see, Mrs Hamilton. I did often ask him. I don’t want you to think that I—’
Eleanor interrupted her, aware as she did so that she was allowing her voice to slip into the patient, patronising tone she used when addressing her cleaning lady or a shop girl. ‘Look, I’m really trying very hard to be what they call civilised about this. I’d be very grateful, though, if you would do your best to answer my question and tell me exactly what my husband said to you about my relationship with him.’
‘He used to say that it was a – a formality. And that when you were better he’d get a—’
‘Better!’ Eleanor snorted. ‘What the hell do you mean by that? Am I ill? Did he say I was ill? What do you mean, when I was better?’
‘I – I mean … oh dear, I mean …’
Eleanor could sense that tears were once more hovering not far beneath the surface, and interrupted the hesitant stuttering in impatient anger: ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, you silly woman. I’m the one who’s been deceived, for Christ’s sake. I’m the one whose life has been turned upside down, who has been consistently lied to and humiliated for twenty years. You’ve got it easy. Pull yourself together and get back to your washing or however you spend your time.’
Eleanor was amazed to hear the nastiness and spite coming out of her own mouth, and she drew in her breath in an attempt to calm herself. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re having a tough time too. I just haven’t got used to the idea of—I just can’t begin to accept it all. Something will sort itself out. I’ll make it sort itself out. But for now I just have to keep going. And he mustn’t know until I decide that I’m ready to tell him. I don’t want you to let him know that I know – that’s very important, do you understand?’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Good. Just go on behaving as you always did. You’ve been denying my existence and living a lie for all these years quite happily, so I shouldn’t think it’ll be much problem to you to go on doing it just a bit longer. Will it? You must be pretty good at lying by now … Mrs Hamilton. Is that what you call yourself?’
After a moment’s pause, Eleanor went on, aware once more that if she were to attempt to use this woman as the key to unlocking the truth of the past she must somehow restrain her natural inclination to abuse her and must preserve some kind of communication with her. ‘Don’t try to think about anything until we’ve both had more time to get used to things. To find out everything there is to know. I won’t give anything away to Susan, I can promise you that. I don’t want to.’ Eleanor knew it was partly her own shame at the idea of the deception that she had unwittingly suffered for so many years that would prevent her even considering telling the child the truth of their relationship. It was enough of a challenge to face this girl: to have to see the pity or hatred she knew would inevitably appear in her eyes if she found out that this ‘aunt’ was in reality her father’s secret wife was unimaginable. ‘I shall remain her aunt for the time being. But I would like to see her; to talk to her, to look at her. I expect you can understand that. I’m sure you can’t imagine what it’s like to suddenly discover that your husband has a child. It isn’t something one comes across every day, you know – oh, and a mistress, of course. That’s another little surprise I hadn’t foreseen.’
Even as she was saying it, Eleanor knew this new tone of bitterness was not going to get her anywhere; that she must drop the sarcasm that was creeping into her voice if she were to keep this frightened rabbit of a woman in her control. She tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling as if appealing to someone, something to acknowledge what she was having to endure, while she went on, calmly: ‘And I’m glad you rang. I think it’s important that we talk to each other. And I believe you that you thought our relationship was – what did you say? – a formality. I can’t forgive you, but perhaps I can begin to try and understand.’ She felt she was teetering on the edge of apologising for the way she had spoken, but knew it would be a step too far and one she was not prepared to take. ‘I’d like Susan to come down here, to the house. It’ll be perfectly acceptable to her to be allowed to come and see her batty aunt after all these years. She’s old enough now to come and see her, especially after the batty aunt’s unexpected night-time visit. Don’t you think? I’ll explain to her why I don’t want her father to know, so you don’t have to worry about that. How ill am I, by the way? Completely crazy, or just a little physically incapacitated? Should I hire a wheelchair and have it sitting somewhere in the background, maybe? Or an oxygen cylinder?’
There was no reply, and Eleanor quickly went on, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not serious. And I’ll – I’ll try to call you after I’ve seen her. Just to make sure you know exactly what we’ve talked about, so that we can keep our stories the same.’ She laughed, and went on, ‘Quite a game, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And for God’s sake don’t call me Mrs Hamilton. I have to say, that seems particularly unsuitable given the circumstances.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Eleanor, I’ll wait to hear from you later, then.’
Oh you stupid cow, thought Eleanor. Even to hear my name in your mouth, in your stupid, irritating accent is unbearable. What am I doing, discussing my life with you as if you had any real importance? But she does, the maddening voice that kept coming to her now, unbidden, whispered in her head; Oh, she does, baby.
‘Wait a minute – how am I going to contact Susan? What’s your number?’
As she wrote it down, Eleanor annoyed herself by feeling a little sting of surprise at hearing the same exchange numbers as those of the phone in the London flat, but she kept the calmness in her voice as she said a polite goodbye and replaced the receiver. ‘What do you expect, you idiot?’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s in the same building.’ But even as she said it, she was, yet
again, attacked unexpectedly by a hot flush of disbelief. The thought of the two flats, two lives, two wives, and the fact that a part of her was now accepting it as true made her sway on her feet in giddy incredulity. What? she thought. What is all this? This can’t be real. I must be imagining all this: this just isn’t my life, this is someone else’s, I’m—
But she stopped herself, and took a deep breath to steady her trembling legs and clear her head. It’s real. It’s real, she repeated in her head.
Chapter Ten
When Ruth telephoned her from the office at nine o’clock on Tuesday morning it was all Eleanor could do at first to stop herself shouting abuse, but she was far too uncertain of the direction of the girl’s loyalty to risk alerting her in any way to her discovery. She felt sure her voice was strained and awkward as she attempted to reply normally to Ruth’s friendly chatter, but was pleased to hear no hint of suspicion in the other’s voice, and as the conversation progressed she began to relax and even feel a little pride in her own performance. It pleased her to feel that she had chosen not to reveal her hand, that it was her decision alone and utterly in her power as to when she would confront them all with her knowledge. She could see now that the feeling of despair that had swamped her on realising that she was unable to unburden herself to John about this, the most serious crisis of her life, had another side to it. Never before had she tackled an issue of such gravity and complexity on her own; never since her marriage had she relied totally on her own resources to guide her. It had always been an automatic response to any problem to talk it through with her husband, and although there had been many times over the years when it had been her counsel that had prevailed, it felt extraordinarily unfamiliar to be handling complex decisions and choices without the backing of a partner. It was frightening and lonely, but she could feel it also promised the possibility of some measure of satisfaction that might help to take the edge off the biting pain that was now her constant companion.