I nod. ‘Certainly. It’s been done well.’
While he waits with the glass still tilted under the pump, the man holds out his spare hand. ‘I’m Derek, by the way. Landlord.’
I shake his hand. ‘George. George Wolsey. Pleased to meet you.’
Derek raises his eyebrows. ‘Anything to do with Wolsey Associates?’ He sings a line or two from one of my current ads.
I sing along with him, ending with a flourish, then grin. ‘Yep. I am the one and only Wolsey.’ I give him a mock bow.
Derek nods slowly and places my pint on the counter. ‘Welcome to the village. Now what’s your rather lovely lady wife drinking?’
‘A large glass of Sauvignon, cheers. Hang on, let me introduce you. Stell!’ I call across the pub. ‘Come and say hello!’
God, she looks good as she walks over. I’d say there are ten or so other women in the pub, some younger than Stell, and none of them holds a candle to her. There’s something of the Angelina Jolie about the length of her legs and the look in her eye. Her hair’s scooped back in a messy bun and, with her face framed against her her roll-neck sweater, it shows off both her cheekbones and her lips. The diamond studs I bought her glitter in her ears. She’s gorgeous, and the best thing is: she has no idea herself. Hand on heart: she’s perfect for me.
‘Derek, this is my wife, Stella.’
Now I’m used to men appreciating Stell’s looks but I’d have to be blind to miss the way he looks at her. I swear his mouth falls open and, for whatever reason, my hackles rise and all the good feeling I had about him recognising me evaporates. Then Stell holds out her hand for Derek to shake but he does that poncy thing where he takes it and kisses it.
‘Enchanted,’ he says, and Stella only goes and blushes.
‘Will you be eating tonight?’ Derek asks without taking his eyes off her.
‘We’ll take a look at your menu, certainly,’ I say briskly and Stell gives me a funny look, as if to say: We came out for dinner, why are you being so weird?
‘Why don’t you grab a table while there’s still one available, and I’ll bring over the menus?’ says Derek.
‘Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll take them,’ I say.
*
The food’s nice and Derek doesn’t bother us. Maybe he picked up on my irritation, but he sends over a waitress to take our orders and, after another beer, I manage to enjoy my steak pie and chips. Stell’s more critical of her salad, like she’s writing a review in her head.
‘Dressing’s a bit oily,’ she says, poking a lettuce leaf with her fork. ‘The beetroot was non-existent and I barely saw two bits of walnut.’
‘But it’s good?’
‘It’s OK. No great shakes.’ She sighs. ‘It’s such a shame. They’ve a trapped audience here. If a pub like this had someone like me consulting on the menu it’d be unstoppable.’
‘Like the River Café.’
Stell laughs, and we take our time over one, then two, bottles of red wine, and then I have treacle pudding and custard – custard! – while Stell has a coffee. I yawn.
‘Early night, Mrs W.? I’m exhausted.’
‘I was thinking about a nightcap.’
‘Let’s go home. I need my bed.’ I stand up and Stell follows suit.
‘’Night!’ calls Derek across the pub.
‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ says Stell as the cold air hits us outside. ‘Being known by the landlord? I like that. He seems really nice.’
‘Yeah, “really nice”. I saw you blushing when he slobbered all over your hand. Don’t get too “known by the landlord”!’ I stumble a little then, and realise I’ve drunk more than I thought.
Stell laughs. ‘Oh I don’t know… if you’re going to be at work all the time…’ She skips a little ahead of me, swinging her hips and flicking her hair. ‘I’ve always fancied having a go with an older man… seeing what a silver fox is like in the sack… I mean: all that experience!’
She turns back to me and she’s laughing. I know she’s joking yet, from nowhere, a red rage courses through my body. Ness was never like this. Ness knew her place. In two steps, I’m on Stell, and we struggle as I try to grab hold of her by her upper arms. For a moment, we’re both grappling in the street. Then I get her and I give her a tiny shake, my face close to hers. Her eyes are saucers in the white of her face.
‘George! Get off me! What are you doing?’ Stell struggles, but I’ve got her hard by the biceps. I give her another tiny shake.
‘Don’t you ever joke about it! OK?’ I’m shouting. It’s suddenly imperative that I get this message through to her. I’ve given up everything – my house, my wife, almost all of my money in that sham of a divorce settlement – to be here with Stell. She has to know what a sacrifice I’ve made. She has to know she can’t mess me about.
‘I never want you to speak to him again!’ I hiss at her and she flinches as some of my spit lands on her face. She tries to rub it off with her shoulder.
‘Yes, George.’ She speaks slowly and nods sarcastically. ‘Yes, never speaking to the pub landlord: that’ll work. Dream on!’ She wrenches herself free of my arms and runs towards the house. I break into a sprint and grab her but we both go crashing to the ground.
‘For fuck’s sake, George! What’s got into you?’ Stell scrabbles in the mud and wet leaves to get up. I jump back up. I’ve banged my elbow and my knee.
‘Stell. I’m so sorry.’ I try to touch her but she jumps away and scurries towards the house without looking back. I catch her up at the door and bundle through it after her as she tries to slam it in my face. In the hall, I grab her and spin her around to face me.
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I love you! OK?’
She stares at me. We’re both breathing hard, scraped and covered in damp patches from the fall, covered in leaves and sticks and smears of mud. Then I lean forward and kiss her, hard, and then I’m practically eating her I’m so hungry for her. I claw at her clothes, desperate to feel the warmth of her bare skin, to feel the weight of her tits in my hand. I wrestle with my jeans then I tear off her boots and wrench down her leather trousers and then I’ve hitched her up against the wall, her legs around my waist and I’m slamming into her and we’re both gasping and I come hard inside her.
My God, that woman.
NINE
Stella
George goes upstairs when we’ve recovered ourselves while I fix my clothes and hobble into the kitchen. What the fuck was that all about? It was a side of George I’ve not seen before. I sit at the island for a minute or two, head in hands, and try to examine how I feel.
How dare he? How dare he treat me like that? I sit in silence for a good few minutes, thinking. Then, shaking my head, I pour us each a glass of water and follow George upstairs. He’s already in bed.
‘Here, take these or you’ll have a sore head tomorrow.’ I hand him his water and a couple of tablets, and watch while he takes them.
‘Thanks, princess,’ he says. ‘That was amazing, by the way.’
‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’
I take back his glass but, by the time I’ve hung my clothes, he’s fast asleep. I stand and look at him as he snores on the out-breath as well as the in-breath. Lying there, smelling of booze, George looks like any soon-to-be middle-aged man – there’s no hint of advertising’s golden boy there now – and, for a fleeting moment, I wonder what someone else’s middle-aged bully of a husband is doing in my bed. He’s put on weight lately, carrying it in the pudge in his face, his torso, backside and fleshy thighs. Although his general outline is familiar, it’s as if it’s blurred – blended – and I don’t like it one bit.
But then look what he ate and drank at the pub. Where does he think all that rubbish goes? George used to be so lean, so fit. He used to care about how he looked. Is that it? Now he’s got me, he’s letting himself go? I resolve then and there to put him on a diet. It’ll be hard for him: I know how much he likes his food.
Is it a punishme
nt for the way he treated me tonight?
You tell me.
TEN
George
I come to slowly, unsure for a few seconds of where I am. Light oozes between the shutters and I’m aware of a throbbing pain in my head before I’m even fully conscious and I lie still, desperate not to make it worse. I haven’t had a headache like this in years: it’s quite a party trick of mine to know just how much I can drink before a hangover is inevitable. I’m famous for it at the office, actually: the last man standing; the first man in at 8 a.m. So what happened last night?
I think back. We went to the pub. Quiet night. Dinner, a beer or two, a bottle of wine – or was it two? I can kind of picture myself asking for a second one. Then? Oh my God! The sex! I remember the sex. Despite my head, my dick stiffens at the memory and I allow myself a moment to remember the feeling of Stell clinging to me, rammed up against the wall while I thrust into her.
But what led to that? Was there some sort of scuffle? It’s hazy. Something to do with the bloke in the pub? I’m naked – which is usual – but, out of the corner of my eye, I see my clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor which is not like me. I usually manage to get them at least on the chair; folded, even. I buy nice clothes. I look after them. Was I that drunk?
Slowly, gently, trying not to hurt my head any further, I roll over and look at Stell. She’s on her side, sleeping the way that makes her hair kink in the morning, and she looks really peaceful. I enjoy watching her sleep: I love the way her eyelashes curl onto her cheeks and the sandy pink of her lips – slightly parted in sleep – her nose, the paleness of her skin, the little freckles she hides every day with make-up, even the fuzzy, warm scent of her. I can still smell a version of her perfume from last night, top notes missing now, like ghosts. I like the faded scent, but it disorientates me for a moment, especially in my state, because it used to be Ness who had the cosy, slept-in, morning smell while Stell was always fresh perfume and lipstick, applied for our dates. I still can’t quite believe that everything’s out of the closet now – no more creeping around, no more lying.
Stell’s eyes flutter and open. She doesn’t move; just lies there staring back at me, through eyelids that I see now are puffy.
‘Morning.’ My voice is a croak. ‘Jesus, what did they put in that wine?’
Stell’s hand moves to her forehead, her fingers exploring. ‘Ow.’
‘I think that bloke spiked our drinks!’ I try to laugh but it hurts too much.
Stell moves her hand away from her head, moves her head a little, and I see a bruise, angry and purple, on her temple; a stain on the satin of her skin.
‘Whoah!’ I say. ‘That looks sore. Are you OK?’
She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back on the pillow.
‘When did you get that? Not last night?’
She rolls over and faces me; props herself up on one elbow and I see properly now the extent of the bruise; the puffiness of her eyes.
‘What happened?’
She shrugs.
I think back again. I remember more detail this time, but there are still blanks – the latter half of the evening is definitely hazy, but I can picture Derek behind the bar; I remember the way he’d slobbered over Stell; the rush of anger that had coursed through me; Stell teasing me; goading me, and shame oozes through me as I remember how jealous she made me feel. As if Derek, with his paunch and his thinning, greying hair, would ever stand a chance!
‘Was it when we… ?’ I smile, but she doesn’t smile back. ‘It must have been then. You must have bumped your head.’ But even as I’m saying it I’m remembering the position we were in and I know her forehead wasn’t anywhere near the wall. I reach out to touch her arm, but she jerks it away.
‘I didn’t bump my head.’
Another memory leaps into my mind’s eye: us tussling in the mud. ‘Oh God! We fell over, didn’t we! My elbow’s sore, now I come to think of it.’ I rub at my arm. ‘You must have hit your head then.’
Stell sighs. ‘Does it matter?’
‘You’ve got a bruise the size of Africa. Of course it bloody matters!’
‘Can we just drop it? The bruise is inconsequential. What we do need to talk about is the bigger picture about what happened last night, which is your insecurity. You were drunk and jealous. I mean, really, George. You were out of control. I’ve never seen you like that before.’
‘Must have been off my head. Sorry.’ I grin at her: sheepish, I hope, but she’s looking at me in a way I’ve never seen before. As if she’s shying away from me. She puts her hand to the bruise and looks so sad that I suddenly can’t breathe.
‘Do you remember what happened? How you got the bruise?’
She just looks at me with those eyes.
‘Stell? Tell me.’
She closes her eyes. ‘Can we just not talk about it? It’s bad enough as it is without hashing over it.’
She turns her back to me, gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I try the door: it’s locked. I knock.
‘Stell… hon… open up. What are you saying? That I did this to you?’
Silence.
‘Stell, come on! Please!’ I lean my head against the door. How did we come to this? We’re barely married two minutes and now she’s got a bruise and she’s locked me out of the bathroom. I feel like a complete shit; unworthy. I hear her pee, then the flush of the toilet, the gush of water as she washes her hands. Then the door opens, forcing me to scramble upright.
‘An apology would be nice,’ she says, walking past me, ‘then let’s leave it at that.’
‘I’m sorry! Of course I’m sorry! You’ve no idea how sorry I am!’
I spin around and watch her slide open the wardrobe door and rifle through her clothes. And then I see a mark on her arm. Four semicircle marks on her bicep, to be precise. I pick up her arm and she watches me as I examine it. There’s a larger mark on the inside of her bicep. Matching marks on her other arm. My eyes meet hers and I let her arm drop. My head’s pounding; my vision cloudy and I feel giddy, like I might even throw up. I lean against the wall for support.
Stell turns back to the wardrobe. ‘Look, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not important,’ she says. ‘There’s zero chance of me running off with Derek, so let’s just agree today that you’re going to learn to control your jealousy and anger, and then pretend it never happened. OK? It’s fine.’
‘It’s not fine. It’s far from fine! You’re covered in bruises!’ I realise I’ve raised my voice, but domestic violence in any shape or form is not something I do. Ever. There are things I may be, but a wife-beater is not one of them.
Stell spins around, her hands up and her eyes wide with – oh my God! – fear. ‘Whoah. Chill out! You have such a temper. It’s not good.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I hit you! I wouldn’t do that!’
‘But you don’t remember?’ She stares at me, challenging me.
I hang my head. ‘No.’
She looks at the bruise in the mirror, tracing around it with her finger. ‘Look. It was an accident. And I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing to say.’ Her tone is final, like there’s lots she’s not telling me; lots she’ll never tell me. ‘I just hope no one from the village saw us fighting. I’d be so ashamed.’
My heart’s thumping. ‘I didn’t hit you.’ I take a step towards her, wanting to pull her into my arms, stroke her hair, comfort her, apologise, make things right again, but she sidesteps me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘If it was my fault, I’m so, so sorry. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything at all after coming upstairs.’
Stell takes her clothes into the bathroom and shuts the door again. I slump onto the end of the bed and wait. It’s the first time she’s ever shut me out while she’s getting dressed. Is she punishing me?
Or is she scared of me?
The door lock clicks open. ‘I just don’t think you should drink
so much,’ she says when she comes out. ‘It doesn’t help. And I’m really worried about your jealousy, your anger and about the fact you can’t remember much of last night.’
‘But – I love you. I’m sorry I got jealous. It’s just I’ve given up so much to be able to be with you, I couldn’t bear to see a prick like that landlord slobbering over you and you looking like you enjoyed it. You understand that, don’t you?’ I look at her but she’s got her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.
‘I’d never harm you,’ I say. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ I try to catch her arm and again she shies away. I feel like a fool following her around, naked. I’m so frustrated I want to shake her to get her to understand and then I realise that I shook her last night. It comes back to me: me shaking her on the way home from the pub. Did I shove her, too? Bash her head on the wall in my rage? Punch her?
Did I?
‘You promised it wouldn’t happen again,’ Stell says. ‘And I believe you, so it’s fine.’ She looks at me, hands on hips. ‘Please let’s just pretend it never happened.’ She releases her hair from her clip and pulls the front so it falls over the bruise. ‘Look. I can put make-up on it, too. No one need know.’
Suddenly, I’m swallowing back tears. ‘I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.’
Finally, she comes over to me and stands right in front of me. I stare at her, taking in her face, her beautiful face, then she leans forward and kisses my cheek.
‘Let’s put it behind us and move on,’ she says. ‘Please?’
ELEVEN
George
Stell goes downstairs and I sink back onto the bed, my head in my hands. Never in my life have I felt so ashamed.
And so confused.
I’m not perfect – this I know – but I’d never deliberately harm a woman. If there was one thing our parents managed to ingrain into Harry and me, it was not to lay a hand on a woman. But I know I have both a jealous side and a bit of a temper, especially when I’ve had a few. And Stell knows how to push my buttons. She’s much feistier than Ness. But was I really so drunk that I pushed her, hit her or smashed her head on something? Why was I so angry? That Derek bloke was hardly God’s gift.
The One That Got Away Page 13