The Question

by Jane Asher

  She stood completely still and tried to make out the meaning of John’s indistinct words, not daring to move near enough to be able to hear more than the occasional muffled syllable. He suddenly turned, aware of her presence, and Eleanor was astonished to recognise in his face a look that told her in a flash that he was as terrified as she was. He stuttered an unrecognisable sound or two into the receiver before letting his voice peter out into silence. The two of them stared at each other for a second, mutually mesmerised by their fear, then John suddenly cleared his throat and turned away again, speaking now in a voice of normal volume, but with an uncharacteristic quiver still hovering behind the words.

  ‘OK, then, I’ll speak to you soon. Thanks for calling … Yes, of course … Goodbye.’

  He put the receiver down and cleared his throat again, then turned back to Eleanor. ‘Simon. From the office,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Eleanor answered, finding difficulty in speaking through the pulsing in her throat. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Figures.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just some figures. For January.’

  How badly he lies, she thought. How he’s managed to keep me in the dark all these years when he lies as badly as this I can’t imagine.

  ‘Why would he suddenly want figures on a Sunday afternoon?’ she asked, enjoying watching John struggle as she came back at him unexpectedly.

  ‘For the – um … Oh Eleanor, really, you don’t want to know all this. It really isn’t your department. For heaven’s sake, why are you so suddenly interested in my business affairs? You wouldn’t understand them anyway, so there’s really no point in my—’

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘What did you say? How dare you? For one thing, you know perfectly well I would understand. There’s no need to keep up the little woman thing here, John, when there’s only you and me here. I don’t mind at the office; I’ve got used to the amusing little jokes about not worrying my pretty little head with statistics, letting me come up with pretty patterns and colour schemes and leaving the business up to the men and all that. I’m happy to go along with that if it pleases you. But you don’t have to do it here – you don’t have to fool yourself it’s true. I deserve more than that, surely. And I see little enough of you, for God’s sake. I think I’ve a perfect right to question why your office staff should ring you on a Sunday, one of only two days I see you each week, to ask you some pathetic question about figures.’

  Eleanor was amazed and delighted to find herself arguing in such familiar style and with so natural a reference to John’s weekday absences. John sighed, exaggeratedly, clearly sure that his clumsy cover-up had been believed; relaxing in the luxury of the old criticisms from his wife.

  ‘Sorry, darling, you’re quite right. He really shouldn’t have rung, and I didn’t mean to be patronising. Sorry, old girl. No offence, eh?’

  She felt like hitting him, but instead brushed her hair back with her hand and decided to let him temporarily off the hook – or at least reel it out a little so he was no longer aware of having been caught on it in the first place.

  ‘No offence,’ she smiled. ‘Are you staying tonight, by the way?’

  ‘No, I think I’d better get back. I’ve an early meeting and some work to catch up on in the flat before then. Don’t worry about food, I’ll eat something in London.’

  I’ll bet you will, she thought.

  As soon as John had gone upstairs to collect his things together, she rushed over to the phone and dialled 1471. ‘You were called today at fifteen oh five hours,’ began the impersonal recorded voice, stilted and precise in the refined tones of a fifties BBC announcer, going on to reveal a London number as being the source of the recent call. ‘To return the call, press three,’ the voice went on. Without stopping to think, Eleanor quickly pressed three. A bell rang out at the other end and she held her breath and listened, half aware of John moving about in the bedroom over her head, ready to cut the call off in an instant as soon as she had confirmed the identity of the caller.

  ‘Hello?’

  It wasn’t her. Eleanor felt her tension and dread evaporate in a flash as she recognised Susan’s light, young voice. She hesitated a moment, the muscles of her arm halted in rigid immobility by the sound of the unexpected voice just as she had automatically begun to replace the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’ Susan asked again, a hint of tears in her voice.

  ‘Susan, it’s me. Eleanor. Aunt Eleanor.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ the girl replied. ‘I rang a moment ago, and I—’

  ‘I know you did.’

  ‘Oh no, did he—I mean, how do you know? Did he tell you? Have I done something terrible? I’m so, so sorry. I just didn’t think. I’ve hardly ever rung this number before and I just didn’t think. We have it for emergencies and things at weekends, but he always told me not to ring. Because he always said you didn’t like people phoning, you see.’

  Eleanor sighed, more in irritation than surprise; so accustomed now to extraordinary revelations that she found herself not at all shocked to hear of yet more lies and complexity in her husband’s other life.

  ‘I just feel gutted,’ Susan went on. ‘I’m so stupid. I did it just—’

  ‘Susan, it’s all right. No, he didn’t tell me. He didn’t tell me anything. He’s not angry. It’s all right, you haven’t spoilt anything.’

  Eleanor heard John move into the bathroom and knew he was in the last stages of his preparations, the use of the lavatory and washing of his hands being the regular prelude to his making his way out of the house and to the car.

  ‘Look, Susan, I can’t talk for long. Just tell me quickly – why did you ring? And what did you say to him? Will he know something has changed?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. When he answered I realised how stupid I’d been and I told him Mum was ill and that she’d asked me to get hold of him. I’ve done that before, you see. He’ll tell me off later, for ringing when you were there, but he won’t think anything’s wrong. He’ll just be really pissed off.’

  ‘And why did you ring?’ asked Eleanor, ignoring the temptation to comment on the girl’s language.

  ‘To say I can come on Tuesday. That’s all. I’d love to come on Tuesday.’

  There was a pause. Eleanor found herself oddly moved by Susan’s acceptance. She sounded so normal, and so polite.

  ‘Well, that is good news. I shall collect you. By car. If you haven’t been before this can be quite a tricky place to find, and there aren’t always taxis at the station. You haven’t got a car, have you?’

  ‘Shit no!’ laughed Susan. ‘Of course not! Neither has Mum. But she can’t drive anyway. I can drive but I—’

  ‘Susan, I think we’d better stop chatting now. I’ll pick you up outside Baker’s, the dry cleaners in Marylebone High Street, do you know it?’

  ‘Sorry – I talk too much. Yes, of course I know it.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up outside there at eleven o’clock on Tuesday then. And you don’t talk too much. Not at all. All right?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks. Thanks, Aunt Eleanor, I’m looking forward to it. ’Bye.’

  ‘Oh and Susan – you’d better tell your mother what you’ve said, hadn’t you? About her being ill, I mean. Or when your father asks her, she’ll—’

  ‘I was just going to do that now. Do you think she’ll mind? I mean, it’s such a muddle, isn’t it? She’ll have to lie about being ill and asking me to phone.’

  ‘Susan, I don’t think she’ll mind at all. I’m sure your mother will be able to cope with lying quite smoothly. Don’t worry.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it just be easier if we told Dad that we’d met? I don’t see why we have to—’

  ‘No!’ Eleanor had raised her voice, but quickly quietened it again as she continued, ‘No, Susan. There are things you don’t understand, you see. I’ll explain everything to you soon, I promise, but – well, you know how complicated families and relationships and things can be. It’s just easier a
t the moment if your father doesn’t know about my funny night-time visit. Look, I must go now. See you on Tuesday, all right?’

  ‘All right. See you then. ’Bye.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  Just as she put the phone down John came down the stairs, carrying the familiar black leather overnight bag and briefcase that regularly made the twice-weekly trip up and down the A3 with their owner.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked as he put them down outside the drawing-room door and walked towards her.

  ‘Just Andrew,’ Eleanor answered, hoping she wasn’t opening up a re-examination of the reasons for her recent trip by having chosen her brother’s name as a hasty excuse.

  ‘Oh. OK, is he? I mean, you’re not thinking of going down again or anything?’

  ‘No, he’s fine. Not at the moment I’m not, anyway. Although I might take a few days down there again soon. I still don’t feel quite myself somehow.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’

  Oh can you? thought Eleanor. Aren’t you a caring, perceptive little husband then?

  ‘Well, maybe that’s a good idea,’ John went on, ‘bit of fresh air and so on.’

  ‘We’ve plenty of fresh air here, John. We have just as big a garden here. I don’t go for the air, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. No need to be prickly, Eleanor. You know perfectly well what I mean. However lovely your garden is – and yes, I know you do hours of work in it – the air of the green belt just isn’t quite the same as that of deepest Gloucestershire. All right? I was not casting aspersions on the beauty or size of your—’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, don’t be so bloody pompous, John. Go and get in the car. You don’t want to find yourself in the traffic,’ said Eleanor, pleased to be again maintaining a naturalness in her tone, while secretly assuaging a tiny fraction of her anger by indulging in a marital row. She marvelled at her own capacity to translate the vicious, searing words of rage that stormed her mind as she looked at him, into these innocent little stabs of attack.

  She followed him as he fetched his coat from one of the hooks in the back hall and walked towards the front door, collecting his bags as he went. His hair was still dark where it moved over his collar at the back of his neck, and as he bent and looked down to grasp the handle of his briefcase it lifted horizontally in a little spiky fringe, reminding Eleanor of the neck ruff of some tropical bird she had seen at the zoo. The skin beneath was pale and unlined but had the same pulpy look she’d noticed in the garden. As he straightened up the hair slid over it again and the collar was once more set against the ruddiness of the rest of his neck. He turned to look at her and she saw the white, dry hair at his temples and in front of his ears, contrasting startlingly with the still black eyebrows. You’re growing old, John, she thought. No matter how many mistresses you have, no matter how virile they make you feel, you’re growing old. Just like me.

  He bent to kiss her on the cheek, and she thought of Judas. He smelt of wood smoke from the bonfire they had walked past in the garden, and as he put a hand briefly onto her upper arm and squeezed it, she felt a wave of sensuality rush up her body towards her head, where it mingled with the feelings of anger and betrayal already filling it. She wondered again at her ability to hate and want him at the same time, and patted him briskly on the chest to stop herself reaching out and grabbing him in a storm of weeping, desperate need.

  ‘OK, darling,’ she said, moving a little away from him and opening the front door, ‘see you during the week, I expect.’

  ‘Are you coming up?’

  ‘Yes, I should think so. I might come up Wednesday or so. Spend a night at the flat and get a few things done.’

  So I suppose he plans his week nights around me? Eleanor thought. How complicated his life must be. When does he decide which home to sleep in? And with which woman? I suppose he’s planning right now: a couple of nights with her, and then one with me, and then—She cut her thoughts short to raise a hand to wave goodbye.

  ‘’Bye, darling!’ she called in what she hoped was a charmingly wifely sort of tone. ‘See you on Wednesday!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Have you ever thought of cutting your hair, Susan?’

  ‘Well, I do cut it. I mean, it’d be far longer than this if I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, of course. How silly of me,’ Eleanor answered, smiling at Susan over the half-eaten plates of pasta. ‘I didn’t mean that you’d never cut it. Obviously. I just wondered if you’d ever thought of having it shorter? You have such a neat face – a good shape. It’s heart-shaped, really, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ Susan laughed. ‘Well, I’ve never heard it called that. I hate it, anyway. My face.’

  ‘Oh you don’t! You mustn’t. You’ve got the kind of face they use for modelling, you know. It’s just that – well, it’s none of my business, but I’m not sure you make the most of it.’

  Susan looked genuinely puzzled. She turned towards Eleanor, a forkful of tagliatelle halfway to her mouth, and frowned slightly, apparently about to say something.

  ‘What?’ asked Eleanor. ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘I’ve got a crap face. Why d’you say that about modelling? Models are beautiful.’

  ‘No, it’s bone structure, you see. That’s what counts. Not that you’d want to be a model anyway, Susan. You could have a far more interesting life. But you do have wonderful bones.’

  Susan giggled and stuffed the pasta into her mouth, leaning over her plate as a stray noodle slipped from the fork and dangled over her chin. ‘Well, I think you’ve got a pretty funny idea about models, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right. But I’d still love to see you with shorter hair. And with less makeup.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my makeup?’

  Eleanor sensed she’d gone too far, and quickly leant forward and put a hand over Susan’s.

  ‘Nothing. I’m old-fashioned, I expect. I’m just not used to all that shading and things – don’t pay any attention. You’re a jolly pretty girl, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Eleanor watched her as she went on eating. She was indeed pretty, but it was frustrating to see her young, fresh skin buried beneath the thick foundation, and the over-layered wispy cut of her hair made it look lank and thin and dragged her face down. A good, blunt cut would thicken it up and let it curve round her strong jaw line. And a delicate, pale makeup base with soft, smoky eye shadow would accentuate the gamine quality that Eleanor could see lurking beneath the deceptively modern mask. A cross between Juliette Greco and Dora Carrington – but in nineties style.

  ‘Is the pasta all right?’ she asked, pleased to see the girl scraping the last remnants of sauce off her plate with the side of her fork.

  ‘Yes, it’s really nice, thanks.’

  ‘Have some salad.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What does your—I mean, what do you eat at home? What’s your favourite?’

  Oh God, she thought, I sound like some terrible newspaper quiz, or a list of questions to a TV star: ‘What’s your favourite food? Which is your favourite colour?’

  ‘Well, I eat out with my friends mostly. But Mum’s a really good cook. Casseroles and roasts and things. And I like pasta. But we don’t usually have it like this.’

  Eleanor stood up and reached over to clear Susan’s plate. ‘I’ve made some baked apples, Susan. You don’t have to eat any if you don’t want, of course, but—’

  ‘No, that sounds great. Thanks. Shall I help you clear the plates?’

  ‘Don’t worry – there’s so little. Don’t move. So what do you eat when you go out? Isn’t it awfully expensive?’

  ‘McDonald’s. Chinese. Stuff like that. Dad gives me money. He and Mum like to eat together anyway, so he doesn’t mind me going out. So he gives me money for it. You see.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  Eleanor looked down at the top of Susan’s head as she stretched to pick up the empty pasta dish. She
felt an extraordinary pang of pity, picturing the girl clutching a five-pound note, hurrying out of the flat in Marylebone in search of a tasteless hamburger or bag of chips while her father toyed with his mistress in peace. How dare they? she thought. How dare they bring a child into the world and not give her everything they would want for themselves? No – not for themselves: no doubt that pathetic, common little bitch of a lover thinks her daughter is gorgeous. Long, lank layers of hair and cheap earrings are just up her street. But John: John has no excuse. She glanced down at Susan’s tight lilac sweater and black jogging pants and at her gilt earrings: three small hoops in the thin, curled edge of one ear and two rings and a stud in the other. Now the pity she was feeling changed to anger that John could allow his own daughter to grow up with so little style. Hasn’t he any pride in her? You’re the equivalent of his whirly ceilings, my girl. He knows you’re ugly and wasted but he just doesn’t care. Has more important things to invest his time and money in.

  She carried the plates over to the sink and rinsed them off before bending over to stack them in the dishwasher. As she straightened again and moved towards the oven to get the apples she caught sight once again of Susan’s slight figure hunched over the kitchen table. She paused for a moment and stood quite still. She could feel an extraordinary and exciting idea beginning to tingle at the back of her head, but before it could crystallise into something clear enough for her to understand, the moment was broken by Susan suddenly shifting in her chair and leaning back with a small sigh. Eleanor reached for a blue-edged tea towel, aware that the thought was continuing to form itself gradually into a coherent idea as she opened the oven and carefully took out the dish that held the large, shiny apples. They had split a little on the tops, exposing the fluffy whiteness of the fruit against the wrinkled green skin, the stuffing of dates, honey and raisins oozing upwards out of the centres and down the sides and mixing with the buttery juice that surrounded them. The beauty of the glistening roundness of them gave her a pang of nostalgia for something she couldn’t identify, and she frowned as she turned to put the dish down on the hardtop, releasing it quickly with a little thump as the heat of its edges began to burn into her hands through the towel. Susan turned quickly at the sound and smiled up at her.