I took a deep breath. ‘I can’t do it, Ludo,’ I said to the floor. But also to Eliza. And perhaps my children. Certainly her children. Maybe even my ex-husband. And then I looked up. Made myself meet his eyes, which were indeed very sad. And then I turned and went, clutching my belongings, closing the door quietly behind me.
Down the stairs I ran, my heart pounding. I hurried across the courtyard in the drizzle, my arms full, and entered the annex like a thief, clattering through a modern glazed door. Climbing some rather nasty stone stairs – but, oh, I was so pleased to see them – I hastened along the corridor, pushed open the door, which had conveniently been left ajar, and into my father’s room.
Pushing the door shut with my bottom, I heard him gargling noisily in the bathroom. It was something he’d always done, and something Ginnie and I laughed about and said you could hear across the landing. But maybe Mum didn’t? Laugh? And maybe I wouldn’t either, I thought, with a jolt. If he were my husband.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I called.
‘Hello, darling!’ he gargled back.
I quickly got changed into my brand-new silky nightie and slipped into the spare bed, thinking I’d get up and brush my teeth later, when Dad was asleep. It wouldn’t be long because Mum used to say he’d be snoring before his head hit the pillow. I waited as he peed noisily, door wide open, then emerged in his stripy pyjamas, top tucked right in, cord tied up underneath his armpits. He gave a great belch and went to sit down weightily on the side of the bed, but just before his bottom made contact with it – he farted. I winced. Then he rolled heavily under the bedclothes and turned out the light.
‘Night, darling.’ he muttered.
‘Night.’
I lay there staring into the darkness. Sure enough, within moments, one rhythmic snore followed another. They gradually gained momentum until the room fairly shook. I lay still, listening to the monstrous cacophony, feeling the hotel vibrate, and wondering if the people next door could hear? Of course they could. Finally I got wearily to my feet, not even bothering to be quiet. I knew I could turn on the bathroom light, brush my teeth with brio and even pull the chain and he still wouldn’t wake up. I did all of these things and crawled back to bed, bits of sodden loo paper stuck firmly in my ears. It muffled the sound, but certainly didn’t keep it out. As I shut my eyes tightly and tried to pretend I was on a ship and it was merely the noise of the engine, it occurred to me that Mum used special ear defenders, ordered in bulk, from America. It also occurred to me that only I, Ella Montclair, could come away on a dirty weekend, and end up sleeping with my father.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next morning, feeing horribly fuzzy-headed, I tottered down to reception. I’d left it late, knowing my father would be up early and away to the rally, and in fact I’d heard him moving laboriously around the room. I couldn’t miss him, actually, clearing his throat and humming. Did he have to make such a din? I thought, slightly uncharitably – after all, he’d kindly let me share his room – but still. When he’d gone, saying, ‘Cheerio, Ella!’ in a loud stage whisper, just to make sure I was well and truly awake, I lurched out of bed, turned off the light, lunged to switch off the radio he’d left blaring, then went back to sleep for an hour.
Nine o’clock, therefore, saw me creeping downstairs with my bag. There’d been a slightly awkward moment earlier when a chambermaid had popped in to clean the room – clearly reception had told her the occupant had paid the bill and checked out – so, assuming the room was empty, she’d barged in with her bucket and mop and found me in my bra and pants.
‘Oh!’ She’d frozen to the spot, eyes wide. Then, in broken English: ‘Oh, so sorry – they say the gentleman had gone!’
She looked me up and down in astonishment. Such an old man. Such a young woman. The man was surely old enough to be …
‘He’s my father,’ I told her quickly, snatching my dressing gown to cover myself.
She blinked. Then gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Of course, madam.’
‘No – really, he is! I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard that line a million times before, but honestly –’
The door was shut. She’d gone.
Right. Well, of course. This was the ultimate irony, wasn’t it? I tossed my dressing gown on the floor, bitterly. For it to be put about that I’d had a steamy night of passion, when in fact I’d done nothing of the sort? Had resisted manfully.
By the time I reached reception, word had indeed spread. My comfy, currant-bun lady had a very different look on her face as I wondered, tentatively, if I had anything to settle up?
‘No, madam,’ she said icily. ‘Your husband saw to that.’
‘Oh – he’s not my husband,’ I said instinctively, then realized that was worse.
‘Your – ahem – friend, then. Mr Pritchard in room seven. Your friend in room twenty-three, Mr Jardine, has also settled up.’
‘Yes, he’s my father,’ I said, feeling a little faint.
‘Of course, madam,’ she said smoothly. ‘Both gentlemen have paid their bills. And yours,’ she added pointedly.
There didn’t seem to be anything to say to this, and, actually, I was really rather exhausted and it was only nine o’clock. I crept away under her censorious gaze, vowing never to return to the Bunch of Grapes at Binfield as long as I lived.
I perked up when I neared home, though, thinking that as long as my own conscience was clear, which it was, the rest of them could go to hell in a handcart, as my Auntie Doreen used to say. I squared my shoulders defiantly at the wheel. I felt a pang of regret and remorse for Ludo, of course I did, not for last night – that was never destined to be – but for the future: for the fun and the love and the laughter we’d never have. But I wouldn’t let my mind go there. Instead I made myself sing along to Westlife on the radio. Wouldn’t indulge. I’d made a decision, I’d stick to it. Nevertheless I found myself sighing pretty deeply as I got out of the car and slammed the door, but I was fairly sure that had more to do with the mud in the yard, the dogs barking for attention and the chickens running out to be fed – where have you been, you hussy, written all over their faces – than anything else.
As I put the key in the back door, I turned at an unfamiliar noise. Then gawped. A Bentley was gently purring through the open gateway, into the yard. It stopped outside my mother’s cottage. A chauffeur appeared to be getting out. He knocked on the Stable door. After a moment, my mother answered, looking drop-dead gorgeous and swathed in a mink she hadn’t worn for years. Her heels were high and black, her stockings sheer, and diamonds were sparkling in her ears. Agog, and as if drawn by a string, I went in a trance towards her.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Oh, hello, darling.’ She smiled across the car bonnet.
‘Off somewhere?’
‘Yes, Charles and I are going to the Fat Duck at Bray for lunch.’
‘Oh! How lovely.’ I peered into the car. Sure enough, Charles, looking very fat-catish and wrapped in a covert coat with velvet collar, rug over his knees, brigade tie firmly knotted, was in the back. He gave me a friendly smile and a fluttery wave of his liver-spotted hand. I fluttered back.
‘Um, Mum.’ I sidled round the car and stood beside her as she fished in her bag for her key. ‘I saw Dad yesterday.’ I said it softly, hoping to bring her back down to earth as she locked her front door.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes, and, you know, I think he’s really regretting his – well … His actions. Especially, you know …’
‘Maureen?’ She turned, pocketing her key. She looked lovely: lightly made-up, her hair softly waved.
‘Yes,’ I said eagerly. ‘Maureen.’
‘Well, if you saw him you’ll know I’ve seen him, too.’
‘Yes, and you’re meeting him again soon. And – well, the thing is, Mum,’ I lowered my voice further, although I was sure Charles was fairly hard of hearing as well as seeing and the windows were up, ‘I think if the two of you were to iron out a few creases, just tiny o
nes, there’s every chance for the pair of you. I really do. And it would be crazy to throw – what, forty-odd years of marriage? – down the drain, wouldn’t it?’
‘Would it?’ She smiled. Snapped her bag shut. ‘How was Rebecca?’
‘Rebecca?’ I came to with a jolt. Remembered I’d told her, and the children, that I was going to stay with an old schoolfriend of that name last night. I coloured and realized she was watching me closely. ‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Good. Sorry, darling, what were you saying? About throwing away years of marriage?’
I opened my mouth. Shut it again.
She regarded me sagely. ‘I don’t know the answers, darling. Wish I did.’ It wasn’t said snidely. Or nastily. Or bitterly. Just slightly sadly and genuinely. She got in the car as the chauffeur opened the door for her. In the back I saw Charles reach across and squeeze her hand.
The car purred expensively into life and, in a daze, I watched them go. Blimey. Bentley. Fat Duck. Profound remarks. You had to hand it to the old girl, didn’t you? She hadn’t lost her touch. It also occurred to me that throughout mine and Ginnie’s young lives Mum had always been the one to prod and question and challenge whilst Dad took the back seat. The easy seat, if I’m honest. I’d always resented it, but … maybe it made us what we were? Maybe, without Mum’s constant intervention and probing, I’d have ended up in bed with Ludo last night? Had her influence on my life stopped me? In some distant, hazy place to do with upbringing, perhaps I’d done the right thing because of her rules and maybe I shouldn’t resent her so much? Years ago, when I’d left home at eighteen for art school, her one piece of advice to me had been: ‘Trust your instincts.’ Not ‘Don’t do drugs.’ Or ‘Don’t sleep around.’ Just ‘Trust your instincts.’ Was that because she knew she’d shaped them? Formed them? And knew she could rely on them, and therefore my moral judgement, to be good? Without her knowing – and certainly without crediting her – I’d quietly held on to that piece of advice all my life.
Ottoline came out to join me from her studio, covered in clay. Stood beside me.
‘How long has this been going on?’ I jerked my head in the direction of the Bentley as it disappeared down the lane into the distance.
Ottoline wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Oh, he’s been pursuing her for ages. Flowers are delivered practically every day. Her place looks like a film star’s dressing room. Didn’t you know?’
I turned and peered through Mum’s sitting-room window, cupping my hands around my eyes to see better. Sure enough, white lilies and gardenias abounded.
‘No. No, I didn’t.’
She laughed. ‘Too busy with your own life, I expect. How was your night away?’
‘Good,’ I said shortly, avoiding her eye. She didn’t try to find mine.
‘Excellent,’ she said lightly. There was a silence. ‘By the way, I’ve got Becks and the gang coming round soon – do you want to join in? Or would you prefer not to hit the ground running?’
Already, round the corner from the village, the small green bus from town was trundling into sight, laden, no doubt, with Becks, Amy, Amanda et al., and, actually, it was the last thing I needed right now. I opened my mouth to say no, thank you, to make an excuse – then shut it again. I’d taken note of Ottoline’s last remark. Too busy with your own life. Me again, see?
‘Lead on, Macduff,’ I told her, as she turned and went back into the Dairy. ‘Let’s shape that clay.’ Something more apposite about feet of clay becoming pliant came to mind, but I couldn’t quite articulate it.
Later that day, when the children came home from school, I hadn’t prepared blueberry cheesecake, or even a spaghetti Bolognese: there was just a hastily opened tin of beans and some bacon burning in a pan. They looked a bit relieved that the table wasn’t laid with a cloth, as it had been for the last week or so, and glugged happily from the Tesco Smoothie carton as they stood at the open fridge.
‘You know this hasn’t got much fruit in it,’ Josh observed, reading the label. ‘You should be buying Innocent Smoothies, like Rob’s mum. Looking after our five-a-day.’
‘Except Innocent Smoothies are about three times the price, so I wouldn’t be looking after your inheritance, would I?’
‘There is one?’
‘Of course. There’s a massive debt for you, Josh, and Tabitha gets the chickens.’
They grinned. Almost back to old times, I thought, as they drifted towards the playroom to await supper on their laps. I took a deep breath. ‘Darlings, I think I’ve been a bit of an idiot.’ They turned; looked at me in surprise. ‘I overreacted when you told me about Dad’s place the other day. Shock, I suppose, but it was stupid and totally out of order. I’ve had some time to mull it over and I think you should both go there for a bit.’ I couldn’t help that ‘for a bit’. ‘Your school’s in Oxford and it makes perfect sense if he’s there. And it’s not like I’m a million miles away. You can pop home for a square meal whenever you feel like it.’ We all tried not to look at the square meal burning on the stove, but I could feel the room relax a bit: the air was not so taut.
‘I don’t know,’ began Tabitha. ‘You’d be on your own. I’d feel bad about that. I was being selfish too, wasn’t thinking of that.’
‘I wouldn’t be on my own!’ I said, realizing Ludo had been so right: drop the reins and it brings them up short immediately. ‘Blimey, it’s like a commune here. I’ve got Granny and Ottoline – and I could pop into Oxford whenever I felt like it, for lunch.’
‘And Dad says you can come to the house if you want,’ said Tabitha eagerly. ‘See us there.’
‘Did he?’ I was surprised. But then not, when I thought about it. Sebastian had so little feeling for me; he neither loved nor hated me. It wouldn’t matter to him if I popped in and out. It would be a matter of complete indifference, which was sad. Indifference was sad. I, on the other hand, couldn’t possibly do that. I’d feel stirred up for days afterwards if I set foot in a house we no longer shared: had no history in together.
‘Or Wagamama? Or, as I say, you can come here. But the point is, it’s not a separation, as I so stupidly suggested it was. It’s just the next phase in a very sensible and fluid arrangement. Sensible geographically, and fluid because, who knows, one day you might both be itching to come back here when you decide you want to be sheep farmers!’
They both laughed, but I saw proper light return to their eyes, which I hadn’t seen for a while, and it made me ache. How wrong it had been to insist they stay. This would hurt so much, I couldn’t pretend it wouldn’t: couldn’t even think of them packing up their things – not too much at once, they’d be subtle, I was sure of that – but still, their clothes would have to go, books, make-up, guitar, CDs. Yet how much worse to have those polite, subdued children around, who might – and this chilled me to the bone – have ended up hating me? I almost wanted to run upstairs and pack their things now.
In the event, we did it at the weekend. That gave us a few days to acclimatize ourselves. Not that I’d ever acclimatize, I thought, running periodically to the loo to take a moment to steady myself as I gripped the washbasin, but time for them to talk to Sebastian, transfer a few things after school, tidy the stuff in their rooms upstairs into piles. I watched them get excited and try to hide it. I saw them both glancing at me anxiously, looking for signs of a nervous breakdown. Tabitha took her favourite posters off her walls – then put them all back. I think the Blu-Tack-stained room upset her. She threw her arms around me a lot. Squeezed me tight. She’d prattle away about how much she’d be back. And I did terribly well, too. Josh would tell me I’d probably take a lover and I’d agree that seemed to be the sensible course of action, and he’d suggest likely candidates, favouring the landlord at the pub, mostly: over seventeen stone and with boils on his nose. I’d give Ron serious consideration and we’d laugh. But when they weren’t there, at school, usually, I’d run to Lottie’s practice and tell her to stick needles in me, anywhere, the tears rolling down my face.
‘Just stop it hurting.’
‘I can’t really do much about the pain,’ she’d tell me sadly, holding my hand. ‘But, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. They’ll be back. You’ll see.’
I’d gulp, still dripping, and then climb up on her couch anyway and she’d stick a few needles in my ankles for form’s sake. And, actually, I usually did feel a bit more relaxed – exhausted, probably – on the way home.
Ludo texted after a few days, saying he’d been a prat and he hoped we could still be friends. That sort of thing. I didn’t answer for a while, but then in a very weak moment texted back: ‘Of course.’ I didn’t want to put a kiss but it looked so weird and cold without, to my lovely Ludo, so I did.
On the Saturday I drove the children into Oxford. We turned off the High Street and wended our way down the tiny cobbled back streets which lay behind some of the more beautiful ancient colleges and quads. As we drew up at the porters’ lodge of, arguably, the grandest of the lot, the porter, having checked our names on a list, took out a huge bunch of keys and opened what looked like a drawbridge gate for us. As we drove slowly and rather reverently into the other-worldly, hallowed grounds of the famous college, a shock of vivid green quad in the centre, the children were on the edge of their seats, unable to contain their excitement.
‘It’s over there, I think,’ pointed Tabitha, across the other side of the quad.
I duly navigated the gravel path round the square and pulled up outside a beautiful terrace of Cotswold-stone Georgian houses, dripping with late roses and wisteria. Sure enough, as if he’d been at the window, Sebastian emerged from the front door of the end one, wreathed in smiles.
I almost passed out when I saw him. He was smiling, as I say, which was unusual in itself, and dressed, not in his usual baggy, crumpled, paint-splattered ensemble, but new black jeans and a proper shirt with a collar. His hair was cut quite short and freshly washed. It gave him an achingly vulnerable look, which was so unfamiliar I couldn’t help but remark on it as we got out.
My Husband Next Door Page 34