Like I said, leaving congested Oxford was hell and I was frantic. Desperate to escape. Hot, sweaty, my mind in turmoil, I was stuck in heavy commuter traffic, praying the car wouldn’t overheat, heading by infinitesimal degrees up the Banbury Road. Nothing was moving and I was so desperate for distance that – oh, sod it – I swerved in panic into the bus lane and roared on, amid an angry blare of horns. When the black front door had closed I’d run, breathless and shaken, my feet echoing through the arched colonnade, out of the college and down the cobbled street to the restaurant and my car, my mind a blank, focusing solely on getting away. Hand trembling, I’d turned the ignition and kangarooed out of my space, forgetting the coffee I was supposed to buy. The barrier wouldn’t go up in the car park without a token. I’d had to run inside, buy a coffee and run out – whereupon I’d found an angry man in a car behind mine, which I’d deserted at the barrier, blocking his. Bleating apologies, I’d then had a horrid exchange during which he called me a selfish cow and I’d burst into tears. He’d looked aghast and retreated rapidly to his vehicle, before I finally drove off.
All this had served to distract me to some extent. Now, however, alone in the car, speeding up the empty bus lane, the full horror loomed. Celeste. Celeste. Who had surely been a true love, a proper love. The only one before me, the only one besides me, and from whom – well, let’s face it – I’d stolen Sebastian. It had been fairly uncontroversial back then, no one was married, but I’d never forgotten her shattered face as she’d left Sebastian’s first private view at the gallery in Ebury Street that evening, knowing she’d lost. Heartbroken. Devastated. But what style and grace she’d adopted in defeat. Smiling beside him, still the designated girlfriend, the partner elect; only her sad eyes giving her away. And never a cold glance at me, the incumbent. Certainly never a snarl. Dignity and poise at all times. And now, here she was, with all that dignity and poise still firmly intact, back on my doorstep, or, more literally, Sebastian’s. Was she divorced? Widowed? Or perhaps she’d never even married, I thought with a heart-stopping lurch, having never got over Sebastian? Or perhaps they were having an affair? After all, we all did it. I cringed. But a proper one. Not a half-baked one, like I’d attempted with Ludo. Sebastian would never stand for anything pathetic like that. It would be the real thing or nothing. Her face flashed before me again at the moment she’d taken the strand of hair from her lips. Still beautiful, of course, with her chiselled face, high cheekbones, beautiful blue eyes – if anything, more stunning than ever: this top Vogue model, who’d graced more covers than any other English model of her generation. Still utterly gorgeous.
I had to tell myself to breathe, to loosen my knuckles on the wheel. My fingers were going white. Oh, I’d been so smug, hadn’t I? About Isobel. With her comely, barmaid figure, her slightly raddled face. I’d known I’d had the upper hand. But this was like a slap across the face. A door had opened and not just a beautiful, if slightly older, woman had gazed out, but the bogey man too. It was as if Celeste’s face had morphed into that of a ghastly grinning gargoyle’s, like the ones overhanging the quad through which I’d run. I could almost hear the nightmarish, mocking laughter following me. Taunting me. I knew I was in shock. Knew, after something so unimagined had happened, I’d been left reeling. Revenge, they say, is best eaten cold, but I’d never really understood that platitude. I did now. It would taste so much sweeter the longer it was waited for. Not that Celeste would be interested in revenge. Life wasn’t always about me, as Tabitha had so succinctly reminded me recently: no, this was her own personal story, playing out on her own stage, which I’d just happened to stumble across: interrupt.
That she was living at Sebastian’s, with him, was beyond doubt. I swung through the farmyard gate, almost scratching the side of the car on the post, scattering ducks and chickens in my wake. It was obvious by the proprietorial way she’d opened the front door. The elegant yet casual clothes which said: ‘At Home’. She’d no doubt gone back to the kitchen, where she’d been having her lunch and reading the paper, letter in hand, thoughtful. No, of course she wouldn’t open it, Ella. What, steam the envelope and read it? Of course not. But she’d put it to one side, thoughtful. Then probably dismiss it as a handwritten note from a professor or a student, which, I was sure, was very Oxford. Very normal. And then Sebastian would come home tonight, after his lectures, his classes, and as he opened it and read it she’d watch his face, which would be – what? Thoughtful? Incredulous? Derisive? Yes, the latter, I thought in horror, as I flew into the house and slammed the back door behind me, instinctively locking it for privacy, not wanting my mother or Ottoline. Would he share it with her? The letter? Would they discuss me, the little woman, abandoned and feeling a bit desperate? Writing letters to her ex about the possibility of having lunch? Feel sorry for me? I threw off my coat and ran into the sitting room, slamming yet another door and leaving the dogs shut up and whining in the boot room, not even wanting their company, the reminder of what I had: dogs, chickens, sheep … animals. Not people. Wanting to hide.
I curled up in a corner of the sofa in the gloomy, north-facing room, dragging a cushion onto my lap. It was spotless, the room: I’d had a thorough spring-clean. Had thought it would be cathartic, but the result had been the opposite. A sad, immaculate reminder of where the children used to lounge horizontal on a sofa apiece and throw crisp packets and biscuit wrappers on the floor, fighting over the remote control. The children. Why hadn’t they told me? Suddenly I startled in recognition. Sat up a bit. They had. Tabs had tentatively asked, a month or so ago, if I knew Dad was seeing someone. Yes, I’d answered with a bright smile – we’d been going through the freshly-baked-cheesecake stage – I did. Even Josh had grunted something about Dad’s squeeze. I’d thought Isobel. Squeeze surely meant comfort. It meant curves. And sex. So stupid, Ella! So patronizing.
I raked a hand through my hair and, at that moment, saw myself very clearly. And what was stretching ahead. I’d always been happy on my own, in my own company, but there was a big difference between solitude and loneliness. I ached with the latter and the promise of more. I also felt the groundswell of a terrible, terrible jealousy. Bitterness is common to many abandoned wives, particularly those who’ve been replaced, and the knowledge that Celeste and Sebastian were sharing a bed hurt more than I can say. But a breakfast table, a supper table with my children. A life …
The idea that the two of them, Sebastian and Celeste, would be walking arm in arm through sun-dappled quads, no ducks to feed, no scaly chicken’s feet to wash, no sheep with poo-coated bottoms to clip, no Cold Comfort Farm, was bad enough. But the four of them … At plays, concerts, which they’d doubtless done already. My mind raced ahead. I saw Celeste listening as Josh explained in the interval how he interpreted the play, in that intense, glittering way of his, so reminiscent of his father. Celeste, who was beautiful but no fool, chipping in, discussing it; bringing Tabs in, making sure she didn’t feel left out. Then later, in some trendy Oxford restaurant, laughing over a bottle of wine, this arty, golden, dynamic family. People noticing them. Thinking: How lovely – what a good-looking family.
By now my breath was coming in little bursts if I was lucky enough to inhale at all. Hyperventilating, I believe it’s called. I’d never done that before. Image upon image piled into my brain. I remembered the first time I’d seen Celeste, as I’d bumbled up to my flat in my old blue coat: they’d been coming down from Sebastian’s, going out to dinner or a party. She’d been wearing a black velvet minidress and I recalled thinking I’d never seen such a vision in all my life. I sat for a long time on that sofa, gazing into space, eyes wide, reflecting. And then I put my head in my hands and cried.
At length, I noticed it was dark. The murky autumn night had gathered quickly outside the windows and pressed against the glass and my legs were stiff from being curled for so long beneath me. I was cold. The dogs, who’d been whining for ages at being deprived of my company – and their supper – were barking now, or at any
rate Doug was: always his last resort for attention. I slowly unwound my legs and went to the window to draw the curtains, knowing I had to light the fire, have a drink at least. Move on. But, as I went to pull the drapes across – I screamed.
A face was pressed right up against the French windows, or so it seemed to me. I shrieked and lurched backwards, falling over a low stool. In the dark outside, a man threw up his hands, exasperated. Sebastian. Christ Almighty, it was Sebastian. I stared in disbelief for a moment. Then stumbled to my feet. With cold, fumbling fingers, I undid the French-window lock. The door flew open.
‘What the fuck did you scream like that for?’ he demanded, furious.
I gaped, astonished.
‘What are you doing here!’ I gasped, when I’d eventually found my voice. ‘You frightened the life out of me!’
‘Well, I couldn’t get in through the back door, you’d locked it, so I came round here. What the bloody hell are doing sitting here in the dark, Ella? Like some little gnome? I thought there was no one in. Could barely see you.’
‘I – I, well, I … was tired. Must have dropped off,’ I gabbled, staring up at him as he came right in now, on a gust of cold air, shutting the door behind him. He bent down to switch on a lamp. My heart was still banging with fright but the first thing I noticed was more nice clothes: a navy-blue moleskin jacket, which he’d never choose on his own, a crisp white shirt, clean jeans. Not the grey, shambling wreck I was wont to see shuffling through this sitting room. I took a breath and straightened up. Found some steel.
‘What are you doing here, anyway? In my house?’
He gave this last remark the derisive look it probably deserved, then whipped my letter from his jacket pocket.
‘You came to see me,’ he told me coldly. ‘Celeste said she saw you deliver this by hand.’
I flinched. Brazen. Just mentioning Celeste like that. So Sebastian. So forthright. And I’d thought I’d got away with it. Thought she hadn’t recognized me. I’d ducked pretty smartly behind that column and our eyes had met only very briefly. I’d seen no recognition in hers and I’d had longer to study her. I must have been wrong.
‘Um, yes, yes, I did. Because I just happened to be in town. Shopping. And I thought I’d just scribble you a note. In Waitrose. Which was where I was shopping. Not – scribbling as I shopped, I didn’t do that, but – in the café. Just to say, if we ever needed to meet to discuss the children, or – or have a kind of – meeting – we could maybe have lunch. But now I see that lunch is not a good idea. So – so maybe a coffee or something to – you know. Discuss.’
‘We’ve never discussed the children in such a corporate-sounding way, Ella.’
It was true, we hadn’t. We just sort of muddled through. Didn’t, as I knew other parents did, go to parents’ meetings together, discuss their aims and ambitions, their problems, their potential. We just let them flow on around us in what Lottie told me was a rather haphazard fifties fashion, rather as her parents had done: never knowing what exams Lottie was taking, who she was going out with. Nowadays parents were much more watchful, more involved, she’d tell me. But mine had been much too watchful. My mother, certainly: way before her time. So maybe my inclination was a reaction against that? And it certainly wasn’t in Sebastian’s nature to be remotely vigilant.
‘N-no, we haven’t done that,’ I faltered. ‘But now that they’re getting older, doing more important exams, and now that we’re – you know – separated, geographically – well, in every sense – there might be a need to, I don’t know, touch base. As it were. Occasionally.’
We were standing before one another in the sitting room. Sebastian towered above me. I was in my socks, my stockinged feet, and I wasn’t tall. Not like Celeste. He scratched his head.
‘Right,’ he said shortly. ‘I thought it might have been more than that.’
‘No, no,’ I said quickly. ‘No more.’
He nodded slowly. Took a moment. ‘Well, in that case I’m … sorry I frightened you.’
‘Oh, no, don’t worry. It was silly of me to be sitting here in the dark.’
‘You’re free to do what you want in your own home.’
He was looking at me carefully now. Scrutinizing me. Clearly he did think it was a bit strange. I gulped. Moved on conversationally; groping my way.
‘And – and, Sebastian, we must start to think about – you know …’ I floundered.
‘What?’
‘Well, a more … permanent … situation. Obviously.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Still I couldn’t say it. Then I managed: ‘Divorce.’
‘Oh.’ His face was inscrutable. ‘Obviously.’ There was an edge to his repeating me. A snideness.
‘Well, yes. I mean – I’m not going to just potter along behind at your speed, take my cue from you. I have to take some initiative here. And now I know the lie of the land, I’m inclined to force the pace a bit.’ I felt my chin jut. Good for that chin. I pushed it out a little further.
‘Why now?’ Was it my imagination, or did his eyes look strained? ‘I thought things would be easier now?’
‘Well, for you, maybe,’ I spluttered. ‘Since you’re living with someone!’
‘How d’you mean? Who am I living with?’
‘Oh, come on! You just told me she saw me. Celeste!’
‘Celeste?’ He frowned. ‘I’m not living with Celeste.’
I stared. ‘You’re not?’
‘No.’
I regarded him for a long moment. Blinked. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. I don’t lie. I’m not living with Celeste.’
We regarded one another. He didn’t lie. I did, small, white ones, but … he didn’t. And as we stared, various respective pennies began to drop. At length Sebastian found his voice. ‘Ah. Right. So – you thought …’ He stopped. Regrouped. ‘Celeste came for lunch. With Hugh. Her husband. I was burning something in the kitchen, attempting to feed them, and the soup was boiling over, and we heard the door. She went to get it.’
I stared. ‘With Hugh!’
‘Yes, the banker husband she married seventeen years ago. You remember?’
I didn’t. Or did I? Hugh. Hugh Hugh Hugh. Oh, that Hugh. Did she marry him?
‘They’ve got a son at Magdalen School, a chorister. I bumped into them last week in town. He’s only sixteen, the boy, but Celeste is already thinking about university. He’s very bright, apparently, and you know Celeste. Ambitious. I think she thought I might be the way to some admissions tutor’s pigeon hole in a couple of years’ time, but perhaps that’s uncharitable.’
I gaped, trying to absorb this information. ‘No. No, not uncharitable.’
‘At any rate, he’s nice, Hugh. Despite being a bit of a stuffed shirt. And it was nice to see her.’
‘Yes.’ I felt breathless. ‘Yes, it must have been … nice.’
He frowned. ‘You didn’t seriously think … ?’
‘Well, I didn’t know!’ I squealed. ‘I mean – she came to the door! Your door!’ I turned away, needing some time, some space. But there wasn’t any. I walked around the sitting room, which was tiny, trying to get some purchase on the situation. Not Celeste. Thank Christ for that. Thank the frigging Lord. I couldn’t compete. Just couldn’t. But – what, then?
I stopped by the bookshelves. Turned. ‘Sebastian, are you still seeing Isobel?’
‘Isobel? Well, yes, I paint her. See her quite a lot, in fact.’ He glared at me. ‘What is this, the third degree?’
Suddenly, though, it was important. ‘I – I sort of need to know. Really know. You just paint her?’
‘At the moment, yes. But she’s a friend, too. And she has been more.’
‘I know. Yes, I know.’
‘And Ludo?’
It was said abruptly. Uncharacteristically. Sebastian didn’t ask questions. Ever. He never pried.
‘Over,’ I said quickly. ‘Almost before it had begun.’
He stared, assimil
ating this. Nodded briefly. ‘Right. Well. Here we are, then.’ He gave a short laugh.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. It felt like a play. Like two characters on stage. ‘Here we are.’
In the home we’d shared for ten years. Brought the children up in. But not a happy home. We shouldn’t be here. It was wrong. I ached to be elsewhere. Anywhere. Because we had been happy once, in other places. Blissful. So blissful it hurt.
‘Ella, much more pertinently,’ Sebastian said, and this in a much lower voice, ‘are you painting?’
I flushed, found out. ‘Occasionally,’ I admitted, knowing he meant proper painting. Knowing it would pain him.
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘Yes.’
A dark shadow passed over his face. I hung my head.
He moved a hand across his eyes. Sat down on the arm of the sofa and shook his head. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘Sebastian – only very occasionally, and only –’
‘No, terrible that you have to steal around doing it at night. To spare my feelings.’
‘Well – I … well, obviously,’ I floundered, surprised.
To my even greater surprise he stood up, came across and took my hand. He looked levelly at me. ‘I know all about that feeling, Ella, of course I do. What d’you take me for, a bloody fool? About not being able to help it. When people say to me in amazement – because I haven’t produced anything for so long – “Are you still painting?” I look at them bewildered. Think: Of course. It’s like breathing. I have to do it. And I’ve stopped you doing it. You haven’t been able to breathe.’
I gazed beyond him, to the dark night outside: over his shoulder. I didn’t look at him.
My Husband Next Door Page 40