Hard to describe the look of excitement and pleasure that flooded Ludo’s face at this. He leaned forward eagerly, arms on the table.
‘Ella, come away with me. Somewhere in the Welsh hills, perhaps. Walking in valleys by shimmering lakes, the sun on our faces. Then a cosy pub somewhere. I need you. I want you, damn it.’
Forcefully, in a coffee bar in Oxford. I nervously took a great gulp of cappuccino and singed my mouth.
‘Ludo, I can’t,’ I muttered, paper napkin clamped to burned lips. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Not yet,’ he echoed with a yelp, slumping back in his chair in mock despair. ‘When? I’m not getting any younger, Ella. Bits will start dropping off me soon. We’ll be taking our teeth out as well as taking our clothes off if we leave it any longer.’
‘But then what?’ I said. ‘I mean after? If we rush off to the Gower Peninsula or whatever, what happens after that, when I’m a fallen woman?’
‘Then I’ll set you up in a charming little bordello in Cardiff and visit you regularly. You’ll be in the window in a basque, winking saucily as I roll up in my jeep.’
‘Obviously I’ll have to get rid of Taffy first.’
‘Oh, obviously. He’ll be slipping out the back with the rest of the male voice choir.’
I narrowed my eyes thoughtfully. ‘How many in a male voice choir?’
‘About twenty-two. You’ll manage.’
We both grinned, but, as ever, never really got to the bottom of what next. Never planned any further. Were both too scared to say: One day we’ll run away together, rent a little cottage in the Highlands – and I so wished I could. But – what about the children? All four children? How could we possibly leave them? And, to be fair, I thought to myself, as we chatted on about this and that and then a bit later he paid the bill, how could we plan anything when we hadn’t even been to bed together? When we may not be a perfect fit? When there was an outside chance he’d say, ‘Good Lord, I’m sorry, Ella, but I had no idea you were a shrieker’ – I’m not, incidentally. Or, ‘Ludo, much as I love you, I’m afraid those star jumps you warm up with don’t work for me.’ Sex was surely a huge part of the equation.
And, anyway, not spinning dreams and not planning any Highland fantasies made us more realistic, I decided, as I drained my coffee. More truthful. And I was a sucker for the truth, perhaps because latterly I’d had so little – my fault, as much as Sebastian’s. But, then again, surely fantasizing was part of being in love, which we undoubtedly were. Why were we so cautious, then? Was it the sex? Or lack of it? The proper intimacy? Ludo smiled up at the young waiter, a student probably in his gap year, giving him a hefty tip because he was no doubt skint, then pocketed his wallet, leaning back easily in his chair. Lean and chiselled, he was by far the most elegant man I knew. He passed a hand through his still-blond hair; hair I loved and wanted badly to pass my hand through too. I felt a surge of what I knew to be longing. Ludo folded his arms and fixed me with a crooked grin.
‘All set?’
I thought he’d been about to try to persuade me again.
‘All set,’ I agreed, gathering up my handbag from the floor. I’d put it in a wet patch, which was unbelievably annoying. I surreptitiously wiped the bottom with my napkin, hoping Ludo hadn’t seen. I realized, though, I was thoroughly out of sorts. That I wasn’t leaving the café nearly as contented and glowing as I’d imagined I would. It hadn’t served a purpose, the one I’d so smugly said was all I required. Ludo went to help me on with my jacket, then remembered and didn’t, and a bit of play-acting ensued whereby we both agreed roundly that it had been great to bump into each other and gave our love volubly to each other’s spouse. We left the café. Outside, he peeled off one way down the High Street towards the covered market and his car, and I went the other, towards the bridge. After a few yards, though, just before I reached the junction at Magdalen College, I stopped. Turned round. He was walking away into the distance, disappearing into the throng. I ran back through the crowds, handbag bumping against my side, dodging between students, strolling shoppers. As I reached him I seized his arm: he turned, surprised.
‘Fix it,’ I urged him breathlessly. ‘Fix something and I’ll make it. Whatever happens, I’ll be there. I promise.’
Leaving him with a look of utter astonishment on his face, in the middle of a clutch of Japanese tourists, I turned and hurried off down the street again, his eyes on my back as I went.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘What were you doing with Eliza Pritchard’s husband in the Copper Kettle yesterday?’ asked Ginnie, when she called round the following day to collect Mum.
I dropped the wet dishcloth I’d been holding. Felt a gigantic menstrual blush course up my neck and flood my face. ‘Having a coffee,’ I whispered. ‘I bumped into him in the street.’
‘Oh, OK. It’s just Sophie Bellingham saw you. I didn’t know you knew him?’
‘Ginnie, you gave him to me, as a present, remember? To do my garden?’
‘Oh, of course.’ Her face cleared a bit. ‘I’d quite forgotten. That was ages ago, though, wasn’t it? Oh, well, it’s nice that you’re friends. He’s a bit of a lad, though; you know that, don’t you?’
I turned to stone. Right by my own washing machine. It was a full few seconds before the rush of life returned to my congealed limbs. I gripped the work surface above my Bosch for support and we entered Final Spin together, both vibrating violently. ‘What d’you mean?’ I gasped, as even my face shook.
Happily Ginnie had bent down to greet Buster, who’d recognized her and come wagging up; she hadn’t seen my tortured expression. ‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ she said, tightening Buster’s tartan collar. ‘This is too loose, incidentally. Just flirts with his clients, I think. Goes with the territory with that sort of job, I should imagine.’ She straightened up, hands on hips. ‘Now, what d’you think about Country Casuals, for a change? Or should I just head her straight into Jaeger, as usual? I was thinking it might be a bit cheaper. I know she regards Daddy as a bottomless pit, but she should perhaps be a bit more careful at the moment, don’t you think?’
I said something about Country Casuals being a splendid idea, but my mind wasn’t on coats. A flirt. Of course I knew women flirted with him, but Ludo wasn’t like that. What could she mean?
‘She’s jolly tricky, though, isn’t she? Eliza? I wouldn’t blame him if he indulged in a bit of banter occasionally, in his line of work,’ I said, hoping I wasn’t returning too blatantly to the subject.
‘She can be,’ she admitted. And this her best friend. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean he was a danger. He certainly hasn’t strayed, if that’s what you mean. Eliza would have said. And she would have kicked him out, too.’
She would. On both counts. Women always did tell their best friend, and, being Eliza, she’d have got rid of him, too. But some damage had been done, nonetheless.
That evening, after downing nearly a whole bottle of wine, whilst Tabs was at a friend’s house and Josh in Oxford with his mates, where he spent most evenings in the holidays, I sent Ludo a text.
Really sorry to mess you about but can’t do Wales for a bit. There’s so much going on here with my mother at the moment. Will be in touch. x
I nervously dropped the phone on the carpet as if it were molten.
Then I knocked back the remains of the Chianti and waddled to the kitchen to drop the empty bottle in the bin. I’d lost it already, I thought, staring down at it. My bottle. Didn’t take long.
No probs. Let me know when? x
His text had come back like lightning.
Soon. I promise. x
Then I hastened outside to shut up the chickens, which I’d forgotten to do, hunched in my old brown coat, deliberately leaving my phone behind.
Lottie was sympathetic when I told her the next day.
‘You don’t have to do it at all,’ she told me, washing up at her kitchen sink as I hovered, hollow-eyed through lack of sleep, the papers and milk clutched in my arm
s. ‘Just say no.’
‘Yes,’ I said miserably.
‘But that would mean saying goodbye?’
‘No. It wouldn’t. I’m very sure of him, actually. I know he’d stick around whether I went away with him or not. It’s just … I suppose I don’t want to disappoint him.’
She shrugged. ‘If he loves you he’ll understand. Stop beating yourself up about it. Although, actually, I don’t think he is a flirt. He doesn’t seem the type. Are you sure Ginnie wasn’t just saying it out of … you know.’
‘Jealy-bags?’ It had occurred to me. Ginnie had looked a bit miffed. After all, Ludo was her property. And pretending she didn’t know I knew him – she’d bumped into him in the supermarket, mentioned the gardening.
‘Possibly,’ I conceded gratefully.
‘He’s certainly never flirted with me.’
‘Really?’ Lottie was much prettier than any of Ginnie’s friends, his gardening clients.
‘She’s probably just lashing out, a bit piqued. We all do it. And, anyway, if it makes you feel any better, Eliza is seeing someone.’
I stiffened like a child playing musical statues when the music stops. Reached out and seized Lottie’s hand. It was wet and rubber-gloved.
‘She’s not,’ I breathed.
‘She is, but I honestly shouldn’t tell you, Ella.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, you’re an acupuncturist, not a neurosurgeon! Who is it?’
‘I don’t know. And that’s all I can tell you. I’ve said too much already.’ She went all pious on me, her mouth disappearing into a small line, but my heart was soaring.
Eliza was seeing someone. Eliza was cheating! On her husband, Ludo! Oh, joy of joys! Joy unlimited! She and Mr Singh were suddenly transported upstairs, she in his arms, to his little room above the fabric shop, except … might that be a bit – you know, seedy? No. No, they’d gone to India. On a covert trip, planned furtively together some time back. She, ostensibly to buy silk; he, ostensibly to see his family, but in fact – in fact … they’d holed up in a luxury hotel in Jaipur. There they were, lying on an exotic four-poster bed, silk canopy billowing, mosquito nets flapping, window open wide to the desert – or, no, was it the jungle? His brown limbs entwined with her ivory ones as they smiled secretly at one another, replete. Beads of sweat glistened on their upper lips and his arm was flung protectively over her pale breasts. ‘Shalom,’ Eliza whispered, fluent in Urdu now. Or was that Hebrew? Oh, well. ‘Shalom,’ he whispered back as the violins rose to an almighty crescendo and the camera panned away to the mountains – jungle – beyond.
I bounded out of Lottie’s house with my milk and papers, bounced across the stream via the stepping stones, and almost skipped home through the village. It was the most heavenly late-summer morning: the browned-off fields shimmered under a pale lavender sky, which was saving itself for deeper colour later and the promise of intense heat, something we’d sorely lacked this summer. The ox-eye daisies, sodden with rain, were staging a heroic comeback in the hedgerows on account of the unexpected warmth, the wood pigeons were cooing in the tree tops, the swallows swooped and soared in the bleached sky. And so did my heart: right up to the heavens.
But I wouldn’t text back and say: ‘Yes! Yes! Any time! Any place! Anywhere on the Gower Peninsula!’ I would just hug this to myself for a while. Play it cool. Play it my way. Be still, my beating heart, be still. The flaming crocosmia in the lanes nodded their heads approvingly, applauding my restraint: rows of tiny orange beads in hearty agreement as I went on my way, spirits high.
Ottoline’s pottery group convened that afternoon in her studio at the side of the Dairy. Sometimes I had to steel myself to join this gathering, but today I nipped happily across to help. Up until recently, and out of the goodness of her heart, Ottoline had run a Women’s Drop-in Centre in town, where she taught ceramics, sponsored by a charitable authority. In some dingy basement room below Asda, local disaffected women – abused, addicted to drugs and alcohol, out on parole – had come to take out their frustrations on a lump of clay, under Ottoline’s watchful, tutoring eye. She’d take their creations home, fire them in her kiln, then present them back to them the following week to be painted or glazed. Many a time I’d seen the products of weird and wonderful imaginations drying on Ottoline’s workbench, and marvelled. Typically, though, when the recession bit, it was one of the first things the council insisted must go. The women had been upset: tearful, even, apparently. Characteristically undaunted, Ottoline had said she’d run the group from home, one day a week, if anyone was interested. They were. One or two men were interested too, which didn’t faze Ottoline or the other women – the local authority would have had something to say about it had it still been under their auspices and their roof, but it wasn’t.
Some people had come once, then couldn’t be bothered to get the bus from town to the village again; but one or two stalwarts kept coming. It was a very mixed bag, and, in keeping with the sporting analogy, a rather gamey one too. There was a large, silent woman called Amy, in a vast khaki anorak that smelled as if a rat had died in it, a skinny teenaged girl called Sam, a vocal and foul-mouthed girl called Becks and her equally foul-mouthed sidekick, Debs, and an extraordinarily well-spoken woman called Amanda. Most of the women had been in and out of prison but no one was quite sure what Amanda had done. We did know, however, that she loathed her husband. Had she tried to kill him? Spiked his Gentleman’s Relish? It was a mystery. Everyone knew Becks and Debs had had their run-ins with the police, mostly drunk and disorderly, but I liked Becks. As I pushed through the stable door to Ottoline’s bright, airy studio, I saw her stationed at the bench already.
She made a startling apparition. Her short, hennaed hair was bright red and stood on end as if she’d had an electric shock, and she was covered in tattoos that crept up her neck. She wore a black shirt, combat trousers and heavy army boots. Beside her was small, dumpy, peroxided Debs, wrapped in a cheap market-stall cardigan, shoulders up round her ears. Incongruously, on the other side of the workbench, my mother was poised, silvery hair swept professionally off her forehead, fully made up, a pristine white apron over a crisp beige skirt and blouse.
I wasn’t quite sure how this would go. As I slipped in beside her and grabbed an apron I said quietly: ‘You do know, Mum, that the language can get a bit fruity in here?’
‘Oh, I know. I was here last week, remember? I’m not that easily shocked, Ella. And, anyway, Ottoline has banned the C word. Apparently most people comply.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not the worst, is it?’ argued Becks. ‘To be honest, I’d rather be called a cunt than a fucking slag. That really pisses me off. Orright, Ella?’
‘Fine, thanks, Becks,’ I said breathlessly, one eye nervously on Mum, but she didn’t flinch and carried on calmly kneading her clay.
Before us, behind a trestle table, was Ottoline, in habitual puffa jacket and jeans. She was outlining the plan for today and making sure everyone had a lump of clay, including the two men in the group, Ray and Charles. Ray was about fifty; small, round and leering, but so inconsequential no one cared. Becks and Debs could slap him down in moments if he was a pain and took great pleasure in doing so. Charles was a stately eighty-two and from the Hall at the far end of the village. A very grand old man – Sir Charles, no less – he was nearly blind. When he’d applied to join, Ottoline had been at great pains to tell him about the origins of this group; about its rehabilitative status and how those that came were often ex-cons. But Charles hadn’t minded a bit.
‘How marvellous,’ he’d said. ‘Good for you, Ottoline. Can’t leave it all to the Salvation Army, can we?’
‘Well, ’es probably lonely, isn’t ’e?’ Becks had remarked. ‘Knockin’ round that big ’ouse all day. It’s not natural.’
And she was probably right. He seemed to treat the session as a social occasion and once brought fruitcake made by his housekeeper, which Ottoline had passed around, some of the women taking it in wonder, as if they’d
never seen fruitcake in their lives before. But then the next week he’d brought a hip flask full of sloe gin, saying it was just like hunting, wasn’t it? Frightfully good fun. Ottoline, of course, had to ban that, as the women swarmed. It wasn’t Charles’s fault, but he did tend to settle his hazy, sightless eyes at breast level as he talked to you, and keep them there. When I mentioned this to Ottoline she said, ‘Oh, I don’t think he’s blind at all. Just pretends, so he can stare down women’s tops.’ Ray, of course, didn’t pretend: he just stared anyway.
Leering aside, though, both the men were quite jolly, and somehow helped dilute the occasionally highly charged and decidedly hormonal, female atmosphere.
We were all encouraged to do our own thing by Ottoline and make whatever we liked. Most women indulged in fantasies. Some made little gardens with flowers when I knew they lived in high-rise blocks, or tiny models of thatched cottages with picket fences and smoke curling from chimneys. It was rather moving how often this bucolic theme cropped up. I was making jugs, thereby indulging my own fantasy, which involved my children sitting around a checked tablecloth at breakfast, pouring milk from them over their cereal, instead of drinking it straight from the bottle standing at the fridge, one hand plunged into the cereal packet.
I collected the jugs from the draining board by the sink, where Ottoline kept things stored from the previous week, and slid in between my mother and Becks. Becks was by far the most artistic of the group and had promised to help me with the handles. She was on her fourth ashtray, highly stylized and dramatic in the shape of a wave, the crest of which was breaking over to form the rim.
‘How’s tricks, Becks?’ I asked cheerfully. ‘What have you been up to this week?’
‘I got arrested this morning, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, no. How dreadful! What on earth for? What did you do?’
‘Nuffin’ that wasn’t justified,’ she told me defiantly.
‘Yes, I’m … sure it was justified.’ Ottoline and I exchanged a glance. ‘What happened?’
My Husband Next Door Page 19