Invisible Women

by Sarah Long

  ‘Maybe upstairs,’ she said to Poppy, passing her on the way to the staircase and humming to herself as she threw open the bedroom door and retraced her steps back to the bathroom. Mariusz had resumed his position on the loo and was flicking through the pages of a builder’s merchant catalogue he had picked up from Sandra’s bedside table.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ said Sandra, in a theatrical, found-you voice.

  ‘Shh!’ he frowned, ‘Why you shout?’

  She went back to shout down the stairs.

  ‘Mystery solved, Poppy! He’s in my bathroom, fixing that dripping tap at last!’

  ‘Oh.’ From a distance, at least, Poppy’s usual flat tone did not suggest that this information was of any interest.

  ‘But he’s almost finished. Haven’t you, Mariusz?’

  Mariusz came towards her and put both hands round her waist.

  ‘Finished for now, maybe, Sandra. But I come back soon, I believe me.’

  *

  At supper that night, Tessa couldn’t believe how much noise Matt was making as he crunched his way through his fennel coleslaw. It was a recent phenomenon, probably an age thing, as the soft fleshy insulation of youth fell away, leaving only the creaking mechanism. Or maybe he’d always done it, but she was only now noticing.

  ‘I’m not being horrible,’ she said, ‘but you do make a terrible noise when you eat.’

  He stopped mid-crunch and looked at her coldly through his Prada glasses.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You never used to, but now you do and I don’t know why.’

  He put down his fork.

  ‘It that right? Tell me, have you listened to yourself lately? Because believe me, it’s not pretty, what with the bits of food that get stuck to your face, not to mention the snoring.’

  ‘I don’t snore!’

  ‘Do you want me to record it? You’re a textbook case of sleep apnoea, I looked it up.’

  ‘At least that sounds better than snoring.’

  ‘Same thing. Either way it keeps me awake.’

  ‘I suppose it’s natural to find each other slightly disgusting,’ said Tessa. ‘In the old days, one of us would have died by now, probably me in childbirth, and the other would be left alone with their unappetising physical tics.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be left alone,’ said Matt. ‘I could get myself a hot new wife. Although, to be honest, I’m perfectly happy with the old model.’

  He smiled at her in reconciliation, and brightened as he recalled his day at work.

  ‘Had a great session today on customer experience. I was reminded of the power of threes. How do you like the idea that all brands fall into one of three categories: braves, blands or brants? Bloke called Tannenbaum came up with that. Brilliant, don’t you think?’

  What Tessa thought was: empty, trite, soundbite.

  ‘Mmm, nifty,’ she said.

  Matt looked round appreciatively at the sparkling surfaces, enhanced by the cleaner’s visit.

  ‘House is looking lovely. What a marvellous little wifey you are.’

  She lifted the glass dome off the cake stand.

  ‘Do you want some gluten-free chocolate and hazelnut cake?’

  ‘You spoil me.’

  After a few glasses of Crozes Hermitage and a slice of cake, Matt’s mood continued to improve as he gave a detailed account of his day’s triumphs.

  ‘Come on, old lady,’ he said eventually, standing up and loosening his belt. ‘Let’s watch telly together and drown out our noises in boxset nirvana.’

  Upstairs, they slumped side-by-side in companionable silence, legs outstretched on pouffes to take the strain off their legs, as if in rehearsal for their final laying out. They were lingering on a particularly graphic close-up of a pretty girl corpse when Tessa felt her phone buzzing in her pocket. She had taken to keeping it about her person, didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. She glanced across at Matt, but he was asleep with his mouth hanging open, so she read the message.

  Hey, gorgeous, what you up to tonight? Three days to go. Too excited to sleep AGAIN! Check out my photos of the Manoir!!xxx

  Her laptop was beside her on the sofa, so she clicked on his timeline and found a series of beautifully atmospheric shots of the manor and gardens. He must have taken them on Saturday after she had left. The vegetable plot was featured, and the enclosure by the lake where they had kissed. He hadn’t tagged her, thank goodness, but she knew the photos were for her benefit, although he had grouped them in an album with the non-committal title ‘Back to Blighty!!!’ Three exclamation marks, but she was able to forgive him.

  Eager to share, she messaged Sandra.

  J put photos up on FB of Le Manoir. Check them out now you’re FRIENDS.

  Sandra replied quickly.

  Far too busy. Stop wasting your life on FB, you loser. But did check out photos of him. Disappointing weight gain and hair loss.

  Tessa responded:

  Shallow.

  She let herself think about her night with John, and the moment when he had first put a firm hand round her waist, as they were coming in from the garden before dinner. It felt exciting, but she had wished – vain woman – that it was the same waist she used to have, the one she used to cinch in with a wide leather belt, emphasising her hourglass figure, playing to her strengths. ‘You pay for dressing,’ her mother used to say, casting an appreciative eye on her when she was on her way out, just as Tessa now took pleasure from the sight of Lola in her finery. Each generation made way for the next, but you couldn’t help feeling wistful for your own young body once the middle-aged spread set in. As if in sympathy, Matt suddenly emitted a loud snore, almost a death rattle. She prodded him awake.

  ‘Up we go,’ she said. ‘Busy day tomorrow.’

  Following him up the stairs, she sent John a quick message.

  Me too. Excited I mean. I love your photos.

  He replied:

  This is just our beginning, Tessa.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Don’t get into the habit of staying indoors because there is nothing particular to go out for. Make an object if you have not got one: anything to prevent the stay-at-home habit from growing upon you.’

  Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives, 1913

  Tessa spread a thick layer of butter on to her slice of bread and wished that she could be one of those women who sometimes forgot to eat. Or claimed they forgot to eat; she didn’t buy it for a moment, they just wanted to stay thin while giving the impression they were too busy or cerebral for food. Whereas nothing seemed to impinge on the regularity of her own appetite, not even an illicit romance. Her bag was packed, she was ready to go, just as soon as she’d finished breakfast. She rang Sandra to discuss the curse of her healthy appetite.

  ‘Why can’t I just be like you, is what I want to know?’

  ‘Priorities, that’s what it comes down to,’ said Sandra. ‘I like food as much as you do but I would rather look thin than eat the most delicious thing in the world. As Kate Moss put it, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Remember our holy trinity.’

  ‘Clever, rich and thin. And the greatest of these is thin.’

  ‘What are you eating now?’

  ‘Sourdough bread and sea salt butter.’

  ‘Yuck. When I hear that, I’m thinking, bloating, ugly, the waistband of my jeans is digging in.’

  ‘Whereas I’m thinking, the flow of my black dress will cover the damage.’

  ‘Queen of carbs. What time are you setting off?’

  ‘Very soon. I’m in a state of nervous anticipation, but I’m still stuffing my face.’

  ‘Just Say No.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m binning it now.’

  ‘I’m seriously impressed you’re bunking off for a whole weekend, what did you tell Matt in the end?’

  ‘I said I was going up north to see an old school friend.’

  ‘That’s true at least!’

  ‘A female friend.’

&n
bsp; ‘Ah. Anyone I know?’

  ‘Anne Davey. She moved to the Lakes, so it’s nearly true.’

  ‘Netball captain, I remember her. Giraffe of a girl.’

  ‘Except she emigrated to Canada ten years ago.’

  ‘Well, well, you devious woman.’

  ‘I hate lying but I’ve got no choice if I want to see John again.’

  ‘I thought you and Matt were getting on better?’

  ‘For about five minutes. Then he’s back on his normal course of making me feel like a worthless encumbrance. Being gloomy about the future. Sometimes I look at him and all I see is a dried-up little grey man. I do wonder if it’s his job that has done it to him, moulded him into someone he doesn’t like very much.’

  ‘Whereas John –’

  ‘Can’t wait to see me. Inundates me with messages. Makes me feel glad to be alive. I couldn’t sleep last night, Sandra, and you know what a sound sleeper I am.’

  ‘Sound to the point of intolerance, sleeplessness being the preserve of the weak and the guilty, in your book,’ said Sandra. ‘So obviously you’re feeling guilty, which is ridiculous. You’re a depreciating asset, we all are, and you should make the most of these last few years before you become completely invisible to men – as we were saying – and end up dribbling in an institution.’

  ‘Nice thought, thanks for that.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And bagsy I get to sit next to you for bingo, once we’re installed in the twilight home.’

  Tessa entertained the idea of herself as an old woman, in a neighbouring armchair to Sandra, shouting at the bingo-caller.

  ‘How is Mariusz, has he got over his shock?’

  ‘Yes, he’s coming to terms with it. He was so sweet on Saturday, digging that great big pit in the garden to bury Leo, while miserable Nigel peered out through the window.’

  ‘You’re very harsh, maybe he was too upset to come out.’

  ‘He never liked the cat, anyway. Then he went off to service his mind, leaving Mariusz to comfort me.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Yes, actually. I hate to sound slushy, but I think I really do love him.’

  ‘That’s a turnaround from your previous position.’

  ‘But let’s not talk about me. Have a great time and ring me when you get back.’

  Tessa threw the bread away and went upstairs to tend to her make-up. She switched the lights on, to banish the gloom of the empty house, though she’d be out of it soon enough. On an adventure to meet the man who claimed to find her desirable exactly as she was.

  The lamps on either side of the basin were set at chin height, as determined by her architect. It was how they were in actors’ dressing rooms, he’d told her, the last thing you want is harsh overhead light. An online personality survey had recently declared her ESFP – extroverted sensing feeling perceiving, defined as The Performer, and therefore attuned to this Thespian bathroom. She shared the category with Marilyn Monroe; it meant she was a born entertainer. In which case, she wondered, why do I spend so much time daydreaming at home on my own with no audience?

  Frowning into the mirror, she plucked out a single, freakishly long hair from her eyebrow. Mysteriously it was ginger; her face was full of surprises these days. Channelling her inner Monroe, she smeared a soft line of blusher to her cheekbones. Until recently she had been feeling that her world was shrinking but now she saw it was full of possibilities. The feeling stayed with her as she made a final check on the house, tidying the rooms, filing some paperwork, then she picked up her bag and closed the door behind her.

  The traffic was fluid and soon she was driving up the Edgware Road, recalling personal fragments of knowledge as she passed significant sites on the long, straight route. There was the Turkish deli she had visited at the height of her Ottolenghi mania, sourcing pomegranate molasses before you could get it in Waitrose. Now she was driving by the stern mansion blocks of St John’s Wood where she once attended a very grown-up cocktail party; then it was Kilburn, scruffy and Irish, you could almost hear the fiddle playing, and after that, murderous Cricklewood, where Dennis Nilsen lured back his young victims and buried them in his garden. Finally, she was on the M1, and beside her in spirit were Withnail and I, motoring out of the city to seek escape at Uncle Monty’s bucolic wreck of a house, on the first-ever motorway with hardly any traffic, just a few half-timbered Morris Minors and friendly-looking trucks.

  She tuned into Smooth Radio, what bliss, they were playing ‘Radar Love’. She turned it up and sang along in loud and happy harmony.

  She wasn’t allowed to listen to that station when Matt was in the car; he preferred something more edgy. But for the next four hours, she could do exactly as she liked: gorge on The Carpenters and Elton John and all the other singers Matt considered so naff.

  The last time she’d taken this route, Lola had been sitting in the back, surrounded by her books and possessions, waiting for her new life to begin. Tessa remembered again how bleak the return journey had been. She had hugged her daughter goodbye and held back her tears until they were on the M6, then cried solidly all the way home. Lola was probably at a lecture now, in a hall of hormonal young people eyeing each other up, the girls with careful make-up applied to flawless skin. In the seventies, it was a point of pride for university women to be careless of their appearance, but not these days where the number-one pressure was to look ‘fit’. Nobody wanted to be fit when Tessa was at school, only plain girls played hockey.

  It was a relief to come off the motorway and leave behind the industrial grimness. Arriving in north Yorkshire was the reward you earned for driving past the steaming funnels of Pontefract, the factories of Doncaster. Here was a different world of rich-green pastures and stone bridges and grand arrangements of autumnal trees. Tessa pulled over to study the map and educate her satnav into choosing a scenic route. She picked out a series of interim destinations to set along the way, ensuring her romantic weekend began on the right note.

  They had agreed to meet late afternoon at the hotel, and Tessa certainly didn’t want to get there first. Anyway, she was hungry. Lunch at a pub and an invigorating walk was just what she fancied. She stopped at a village a few miles away and parked outside a pub festooned with medals and promises of Theakston Old Peculier, the most peculiar thing about it being the spelling. A couple of local farmers eyed the car as she locked up, it was a definite consolation, having a decent set of wheels, at least something about you attracted attention once your looks were past their best. She smiled at them on her way in and they gave her a grudging nod. Respect for the woman with a flash car, even if it did belong to her husband.

  Walking into the bar, she thought there was a lull in conversation, like in American Werewolf in London where the two hitchhikers bring the pub to silence as they step in from the rain. Then she realised it wasn’t a lull, it was just that the lunch crowd were unusually quiet, pensioners with their his ’n’ hers short grey hair and maroon anoraks. Tessa ordered a Giant Yorkshire Pudding filled with sausage and onion gravy. It sounded filling, but she could pick at it, like in Gone With The Wind when the girls are obliged to eat before the party, so they can appear ladylike later by turning down the food. Her party for two with John; she mustn’t seem to be too greedy.

  She took a seat by the window and looked out at the arty wool shop across the road, dramatically framed by the sheep-grazed hills rising up behind it. She was drawn by a sweater displayed in the window, knitted in shades of purple, veering from deepest burgundy to delicate mauve. She imagined wearing it on the Hebridean island they had fantasised about moving to, during the sleepless night with John last week. ‘Let’s go to an island with a population of twenty-five,’ he had said, sliding his hand between her legs. ‘Live on a croft and have sheep and make love all day long.’

  ‘It’s too cold in Scotland,’ she had protested.

  ‘Not when you’re in front of the fire on a sheepskin rug,’ he said, ‘and you can see how good I am at war
ming you up.’ It was at that point that she had moved away from him, laughing, to the other side of the enormous bed. Now she entertained the idea again, maybe they would have chickens, and she would go out on a misty morning to bring in the eggs which they would eat for breakfast, poached on toast from a homemade loaf. She’d always fancied a bread machine, but it was pointless in London, where you were surrounded by excellent French bakeries. The Scottish wilderness was a different proposition, you’d have to get the ferry to the mainland, no chance of an Ocado van there.

  ‘How was it?’ asked the waitress at the end of her meal, looking doubtfully at the half-eaten remains.

  ‘Lovely, thank you, sorry I just couldn’t manage it all.’

  No need to apologise for apologising, as Matt wasn’t there. She ordered a coffee and asked for the bill. Taking out her card to pay, she then thought better of it, and put down cash instead, probably best to cover her tracks.

  She checked her phone and saw a message from John, informing her that he was running ahead of schedule and would be arriving at the hotel in half an hour.

  Tessa left a generous tip – they’d expect it, what with the Maserati – and nodded goodbye. It had started to rain and she hurried across the road to look at the jumper that had caught her eye. But there was no time for shopping now, and certainly not for the walk she had planned. Dursdale Hall was beckoning and, like a Georgette Heyer heroine, she must go and meet her bodice-ripping destiny.

  As she swept past the stone gateposts, she realised the website had undersold the location. The manor was only distantly visible from the end of the long drive, surrounded by woods and moorland. Only when she pulled up outside did she see evidence of the walled gardens, beckoning you through an iron gate, still supporting the last of the summer roses.

  Unwilling to present herself at Reception, she messaged John to announce her arrival. He could meet her at the car and escort her in, to avoid any awkwardness.