Being Committed

by Anna Maxted

  Cheating women change their hair, lose weight, buy new underwear. They’re also more devious. Men aren’t so clever. They’ll leave texts on their mobile phones, emails on their computer. This is because they still believe that women are useless with technology.

  Trouble was, as a detective, I was interested in fact, not feelings. There’s always a reason people cheat, but I never got to see it. At Hound Dog, we rarely heard the end of the story. We ask the client, what do you want to achieve? If we find out he’s having an affair, what are you going to do about it? Greg says we ask because we don’t want to wreck their lives for no reason, although my personal view is that if they come to us, it’s already wrecked. Often, they’re pretty much certain of what’s going on but they want it confirmed.

  So, I was excellent at recognising the evidence that a person had left a relationship emotionally, but I had no professional need to discover why. As a result, I suspected I was no better equipped to clear the slate with Jack than I had been ten years ago.

  I tipped back my chair and stared at the wall. Bang in the middle of it was a framed note from a client. She was adopted, I’d traced her mother. She’d typed the note with an old-fashioned typewriter on to thick cream paper.

  It said, ‘Dear Hannah, last week, I met my real mother for the first time and it was both weird and wonderful. Thank you so much, you have changed my life. Love …’

  She’d stuck an old-fashioned magnifying glass over the text, and framed it. It made me smile every time I looked at it.

  Perhaps I was being too harsh. I’d gleaned some idea about the way people lived together – it was unavoidable. When a husband or wife (usually a wife) came in, fearing their partner was playing away, you’d ask about a change in habits and they’d spew out their whole life story. You had to be quite a counsellor, which I wasn’t. I got around this by mostly keeping quiet and nodding at pertinent intervals. That was all, I realised, that most people required. After an eternity of talking to the human equivalent of a stone wall, they were gasping to be heard.

  And, occasionally, you were surprised.

  One woman came in and asked us to do surveillance on her husband. She was lovely but she talked too much. Her tone never varied and I found it impossible to tell if she was talking about something really important or very banal. Anyhow, her husband’s behaviour had changed. Instead of coming home from work every night, he’d be out till ten. She didn’t believe his excuses, she suspected he was having an affair. We put two men on him (one of whom was me) every night for a week. And every night, we watched this guy go to an old-fashioned pub and, over two hours, drink a pint of bitter by himself.

  We showed her the tape and she got the message. We all did. It subdued the whole office, even Greg.

  And then there was the woman who was convinced her husband was going to prostitutes. I had to ring to tell her it was a transsexual, and all she said was, ‘OK. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  God, what was I talking about? I’d learnt masses, mainly about how low most people will stoop. But I’d also learnt a little about what it was like to feel betrayed. You don’t always need to hear a great long speech. Sometimes ‘OK. Thank you. Goodbye’, says it all. Maybe I was equipped to face Jack again.

  Anyway, I wasn’t facing him yet, I was facing his mother. I picked up the phone and dialled. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in the past, I’d have paid more attention to the present. As it was, when a male voice said, ‘Hello,’ I launched into my spiel on reflex. I’d just got to the bit where I kindly reassured the quaking taxpayer that they had nothing to worry about when the person on the end of the line interrupted.

  ‘Bullshit you’re from the DSS. That’s Hannah Lovekin, what the fuck do you want?’

  Forget outraged denial and counter-accusations of madness and delusion.

  ‘Oh, er,’ I squeaked, ‘hello, Jack!’

  Chapter 10

  I thought fast. ‘I didn’t want to upset your mother by ringing in person,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to get your current address. I thought that would be the least painful way of getting it.’

  ‘And what would you just want with my current address?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain over the phone. I thought if we could perhaps meet—’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jack, and cut me off.

  I smiled crossly and said in a sing-song voice, ‘That went well.’ Then I slumped over my desk. My legs felt light and hot, like they might give way if I tested them.

  ‘Not personal problems, I hope,’ said Greg, from the doorway.

  I sprang to attention. Greg was holding a bowl of porridge, and looking unconcerned. I knew for a fact that the porridge was stone cold, but he’d still eat it. He made it every morning, stirring it on the stove until it turned gluey. Then, inevitably, something would distract him and he’d end up grabbing a spoonful here and there throughout the day. I liked seeing Greg wander around the office with his bowl of cold porridge. It made me feel at home. But not today. It was a matter of pride that I did not bring the dramas of my personal life to work. We spent all day dealing with other people’s dramas, there simply wasn’t room for our own.

  Also, when Greg had interviewed me, I’d mentioned that I was divorced and asked him if this mattered. ‘I prefer divorced people, actually,’ he’d said. ‘Divorced people are more stable, even if they’re depressed.’

  ‘I’m not depressed,’ I’d replied. ‘I’m pretty happy.’

  ‘Good. So tell me, how are you going to feel about telling people their husbands are cheating on them?’

  ‘I’d be sorry to tell anyone bad news,’ I’d said, in what I thought was a diplomatic manner, ‘but my view would be, they deserve to know, they want to know, and they should know.’

  ‘They think they want to know.’ Greg had paused. ‘I’m quite amoral. What we do is amoral. My fear is, people coming in here with their fucking morals and judging me.’

  I’d leant forward at this point. ‘Judge you for what? Finding out the truth? If someone feels uncomfortable with you for exposing cheats, chances are they’re one themselves. You’re not the one who should be made to feel guilty. You’re the messenger. Unless someone has been hurt, you aren’t employed.’

  Greg had smiled at me then. He’d nodded slowly, eyes half-closed. ‘I like that,’ he’d said.

  Therefore, it was a matter of honour that I was seen to be stable. The voice of reason. ‘No personal problems,’ I said. I sighed in a Bisto Kid-type manner, tilting my head towards a sunny tomorrow. ‘Life just couldn’t be any better!’

  Greg placed his bowl of porridge on my desk. For one nasty second, I thought he might make me eat it as a punishment for lying. ‘Go on, girl,’ he said. ‘I have so many secrets – one more won’t hurt.’

  He grinned at me, and I made a face back. I could imagine that when he was younger, women fell over themselves. They kind of still did. He looked good, if haggard. And he was intelligent without making a big deal about it.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ I said, ‘but keep it quiet.’

  I decided to stick to the facts and leave emotion out of it. He’d appreciate that. I’ve heard of offices where women actually cry in front of their boss. Gabrielle once worked on the fashion desk at Harpers & Queen and she said that at any given moment you could bet your lunch there’d be a staff member weeping in the toilets – the kind of information that made me glad I worked where I did. You don’t do that sort of thing here (unless you’re a client). I don’t like to see people cry. It frightens me. When someone cries in front of you, anything could happen.

  ‘I need something from my ex-husband, so I called him. He wasn’t pleased to hear from me.’

  Greg made the appropriate face. ‘Must be an important something.’

  ‘It is. Which is why I will find a way of getting it.’

  I don’t like to look less than capable in front of Greg. People are unforgiving like that. You can be as accomplished as Michelangelo, then you screw up
once and that’s all they care about.

  ‘Anticipating a fight then?’

  ‘It’s looking possible.’

  Greg smiled. ‘I’d like to meet the man who’s a match for you, Hannah.’

  I’d like to tell you that Greg thinks of me as the daughter he never had, but it wouldn’t be true. I think people overuse that phrase. However, he’s fond of me in an idle way. I feel that fondness sometimes leads people to be familiar, which in turn leads them to take liberties. This was one.

  ‘He isn’t a match for me,’ I replied, scowling. ‘That’s why we’re divorced and I haven’t seen him in ten years.’ Then I smiled to show I was unaffected.

  ‘What’s he do then, this ex-husband of yours?’

  ‘He’s a theatrical agent.’ I rolled my eyes to demonstrate what a silly job this was. But, being king of the silly job (‘I get paid for a lot of tomfoolery,’ he once said), Greg was keen to hear of a kindred spirit.

  ‘Interesting. Who’s he represent? What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know his name, girl, you married him!’

  ‘You know what I meant. I don’t know who he represents, Greg. His name’s Jack Forrester.’

  Greg frowned. ‘I’ve heard that name.’

  ‘Oh! Are you sure?’

  ‘Wait there.’ Greg padded out of my office, leaving his congealed porridge on my desk. I moved it out of my eyeline. No doubt Jack was marvellously, marvellously successful. Well. If so he deserved it. He’d not exactly shied away from work. He’d wanted to get into the industry because, he said, it sounded like fun. ‘Looking after people who dress up for a living.’ But if I knew Jack, it was a lot more than that. I could imagine him doing well in a business that required you to be hard and charming. Jack got what he wanted by not quitting (except with me). I couldn’t begrudge him that.

  The phone rang, scattering my thoughts.

  ‘Hannah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s me. Jason.’

  ‘Hell-o, Jase! How are you?’

  ‘Really well, thanks. And you? I was ringing to find out how you were getting on. With my –’ he paused – ‘requirements.’ He coughed.

  Jason was hyperalert to the faintest squeak of innuendo which, in this brash modern world, I found sweet. Did I say, he would never ever pass anyone, man or woman, an upright banana? I formed this theory on casual observation, then tested him, over the years. Horizontal, always. God forbid it should remind them of a standy-up you-know-what.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Great.’

  ‘Good. It’s just that I feel that it would be best for our relationship in the long term.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was a sigh. ‘Hannah?’

  ‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’

  He sighed again. Just as it is hard for some women to accept that their man does not believe in Valentine’s Day (what a crock), I knew it was hard for Jase to accept that I was not an ‘I love you’ person. I showed my affection by making fun of people. I made fun of him the most. Ergo, I adored him!

  ‘All right, Hannah,’ he said. ‘We should meet in, say, a week, for a progress report.’

  ‘Defo.’

  He sighed for a third time and put the phone down.

  A progress report? This was ridiculous. All the same, I had to be impressed. Jason, being assertive. How mmmmmmanly! Meanwhile, I was uncomfortably aware that so far I’d achieved nothing. I’d put off all the fuff about taking more care of my appearance, because in this day and age I could barely believe he was serious.

  My hesitation was not on feminism’s behalf. It was based on the principle that you should accept a person for who they are. Oh hell. That is such a lie. We only accept people for who they are until we marry them. Then we dispense with the froth and get down to the serious business of shaping them with a scalpel. Jason was being honest and, for that, I had to applaud him.

  Furthermore. An admission. That day I was a bride? Gabrielle was right. Even I had been transformed. It was a kick to be told by a stranger, ‘You look beautiful.’ And when Jack saw me, tromping up the aisle, despite the surreal horror of what we were doing, I recognised that look, a look of awe, a look that men usually reserve for women like Sophia Loren and Cindy Lauper – I mean, Cindy Crawford. Call me outdated – it was one of my proudest moments. It would be nice to get that look again off a man. Jason, I mean.

  I picked up the phone and dialled Jack’s mother. This time, the snow queen herself answered.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Forrester. Is Jack there by any chance? It’s Sylvia, a friend of his. I’m from school, he might not remember me.’

  I hoped if I gave her all the information she needed, the conversation would be short.

  She must have cupped her hand over the phone. There was muffled discussion, then, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yeah, Jack, sorry, it’s me again.’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you.’

  It wasn’t a question, but I smiled. Tenacity was a trait he valued in himself. People get sentimental about that kind of thing. It causes them to make rash decisions. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘We don’t have to meet. But I do want to speak to you. Please. It won’t take long.’

  You don’t frighten people off by abruptly dumping a great big time-gobbling effort-heavy demand on them. You kindly request them to grant you a small easy favour, then, when you’ve wriggled your way into their confidence, you ask for a little bit more and … a little bit more.

  Silence. Then he said, ‘What’s your number? I’ll call you back.’

  And he did. After fifty-seven minutes.

  ‘This is going to be short. I’m busy. And I have nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said, scribbling down his caller ID.

  It was Jack’s nature to be mean. Even when he made you laugh, it was by being nasty. I remembered him reading out a problem, written to an alternative therapist in a Sunday supplement. Some poor woman had had a hysterectomy and was suffering night sweats.

  ‘“I have tried agnus-castus, black cohosh and sage tincture, but am still struggling,”’ Jack had quoted. ‘“What else can I try?” Hmm, a fucking doctor? Jesus, something really horrible’s happened to you! Stop eating weeds! Get some proper medicine.’

  He was cruel and he was clever, a devastating combination. Especially so when he no longer liked you.

  I wondered if I should tell him the truth. Bloody hell. The truth was only the entire point of the exercise!

  ‘I’m getting married,’ I said. ‘Probably. The bloke has suggested I, er, clear up some dead wood first.’

  ‘What?’

  Quite. I tried again. ‘He wants me to –’ I squirmed – ‘make my peace with you before we—’

  ‘You’re getting married?’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘Me? Peace with me? What the fuck have I got to do with anything?’

  I swallowed. Was the connection bad? He was hardly making sense. ‘He thinks I –’ I made a face – ‘he says I hold back because of … stuff. What happened. With us.’

  ‘You told him you’re a cheat?’

  ‘Ah, Jack. Maybe I was, once, in a way, but it was never like you thought. But yes, I’ve told Jason the whole truth.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  I felt a twinge of pity. Jack had liked my family, especially my mother and Gabrielle. Despite how I felt about my mother, I hadn’t minded. I’d wanted Jack to have all the love he could get, he had been so deprived of it. When we divorced, his loss was the greater, and I wondered if he blamed me for that too. It would be painful for him, even now, to think that I’d told my family about messing around with Guy. Jack would feel diminished in their minds, I knew it. He’d hate that.

  ‘God, no,’ I said, compassion making me stupid. ‘If Daddy knew we split because I’d been stupid with another man, he would … he wouldn’t respect me. He’
d despise me. It would be horrible.’

  Jack was silent. Then he said, ‘Oh, you don’t know, Hannah. The experience might do you good.’

  Chapter 11

  I put the phone down on him which, I realised after I did it, was the reflex of an idiot. It wasn’t even in anger. It was from fear, like a child smashing a window, then drawing the curtain: there, now it hasn’t happened.

  When people discover I’m a detective they always ask, ‘Have you ever been shot at?’ No. Why would I be?

  With my personal relationships it was different. A miracle that a loved one hadn’t shot at me. But if Jack was to tell my father the truth about why our marriage ended, he could inflict as much damage. I found it hurtful that he still hated me.

  Over the decade, my feelings towards Jack had softened and I’d remembered him with goodwill. So it was a shock to speak to him after all this time and realise that his interpretation of our break-up had not been refined, that the years had only intensified his anger.

  I didn’t think it was Jack’s style to tell tales. He’d had ten years to blab and hadn’t. But the news that I planned to remarry hadn’t pleased him. Now I had a niggling anxiety to add to my other worries. My father had a thing about infidelity. Should I call Jack back? In a hostage situation, negotiators advise that the captive maintain dialogue with their kidnapper to increase their chances of survival. But what if the captive’s dialogue is whiny and irritating? If I tried to maintain a dialogue with Jack, I might take a metaphorical shot in the heart.

  Or should I never contact him again? I do believe that if you ignore a problem, it goes away. For a bit. I always feel, when faced with an unwelcome situation: now is not a good time. If this had happened next week, I would have been able to deal with it much better.

  I didn’t want to deal with it at all. I would just tell Jason that Jack still bore a grudge and refused to see me. I’d tried. I hoped that would be enough for Jason. If it wasn’t, I was in trouble. I dreaded the idea of telling Roger that I’d failed with Jack – again – and that my marriage to Jason was therefore off.