by Julie Corbin
‘I think she did, you know. On the evening of her sixteenth birthday party she had a huge fight with Angeline. She really didn’t approve of what her mother was doing. In fact—’ I’m about to tell her what Orla said at lunch in Edinburgh. How she never forgave her mother. But I don’t, because let’s face it – nothing Orla says can be believed and I’m the last person who should be sticking up for her. ‘Your father’s suicide was hard on you.’
She shrugs. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’ Her lips purse together. ‘It was Angeline’s. She had him under her spell.’
‘She didn’t hold him against his will,’ I say quietly.
‘As good as! Women like Angeline have no respect for family or commitment. My dad was a decent man and an excellent husband and father. And then Angeline turned his head.’ She tears some grass into long strips. ‘We were the perfect family until Angeline came along.’
I know for a fact that this isn’t true. Monica’s mother and mine were in the Women’s Guild together. I have clear memories of my mother telling my dad how negligent Peter was, how he was never there for his daughter and how he never gave Margaret enough money to run the house.
‘My dad went round to help Angeline with her accounts for that beauty business she started.’ She tilts her head towards me. ‘He was good that way. Lots of small businesses relied on him. You ought to have seen all the cards we received when he died! Praising his care and his attention to detail. But Angeline – she mesmerised him. I wouldn’t be surprised if she put something in his tea.’
Monica keeps talking, reliving imaginary moments in her childhood when her father was perfect, a happy family mythology that absolves him of any blame: much better to see him as the hapless victim of a conniving witch. Angeline was the whore and the wrongdoer. All her father suffered from was being too trusting to see it coming.
Ironically, reinventing her past like this gives her something in common with Angeline. But for Angeline it’s about manipulating other people – better that Murray sees her as faithful – whereas for Monica, life becomes bearable when her father is blameless. Because a man who chooses his mistress over his wife and child is not a man who loves his family and can ever be loved in return.
Euan and me. The parallels are obvious. But we will never fracture two families. And we do love our partners and our children. We have beaten this thing before and we will beat it again. Paul will be accepted for his sabbatical in Australia and then I will leave the village and temptation will cease.
‘It’s important to understand why things happen, Grace.’
‘That’s not always possible.’ This whole conversation feels too close to home and I am holding myself together by the skin of my teeth. ‘Sometimes it’s just bad luck and worse judgement but it doesn’t have to cloud the good times and the good decisions and the day-to-day commitment.’ That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
‘You’re right.’ Monica smiles at me. ‘My father did his best. My mother? Well.’ She shrugs. ‘She was drinking long before the affair.’ She looks upwards and breathes deeply. ‘Orla isn’t a threat to me. I expect that’s the last we’ll see of her.’
If only. I realise I have to tell her. She’ll only find out from someone else. ‘Orla is moving back to the village.’ I watch her smile wilt. ‘I only found out this morning.’
‘She can’t!’ She falls back a few paces. ‘She can’t do that.’
‘She can and she is. She’s renting a cottage. I don’t know how long for.’
She takes hold of my wrist and grips it so tightly that her nails pierce my skin. ‘I have to stop her.’
‘Monica! You need to keep this in perspective!’ I extract my wrist from her fingers and shake her gently. ‘I know she brings back memories of your parents and I know that hurts, but now, in the present, you have nothing to fear from Orla.’ Her eyes say otherwise and as she looks into mine I see that she is close to telling me something. ‘What is it, Monica? What is it?’ My scalp tingles. ‘Is it about Rose?’
Her eyes glaze over. ‘I was warned about this. I was warned—’
‘What are you talking about? Warned by whom?’
‘Grace!’ she hisses. ‘Do you have any idea how much damage she could do?’
I give a short laugh, not because it’s funny but because I have to let some emotion out.
‘The status quo should never be underestimated. Life, ticking along. It might seem boring at times but . . .’ She looks up to the right and seems to pluck her words from the air. ‘Orla is dangerous. She will cause havoc and then she will leave. We have to stop her.’
‘Believe me, I don’t want her around either.’ I take her hand. ‘Tell me what’s troubling you.’
‘I can’t.’ She pulls free. ‘I can’t break a confidence.’ She takes a few steps backward. ‘Can you find out what Orla wants? Can you do that?’
I already have. ‘I’ll do my best.’ I try to look optimistic. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Good.’ She recovers her composure and gives me an awkward hug. ‘I may not have been popular at school, my home life was in meltdown, but hey!’ She looks around her, takes in the sea and the sky and all the space in between. ‘I have a great career, two wonderful children and I married the man I love. I consider myself very lucky. Well, he’s lovely, isn’t he?’ She smiles. There isn’t a trace of guile on her face. ‘But then I don’t need to tell you that, Grace, do I?’
14 May 1999
I’ve been sharing space in Euan’s cabin for over a year now. It’s cold outside and the heating is on. When I arrive I peel off my scarf, coat and hat, then stand opposite my half-finished canvas and warm myself over the radiator. I look at the canvas then across at the photographs I’m working from: the sky at dusk, clouds gathering over the sea, an epicentre of swirling black clouds rising up from the horizon. When I look back at the canvas I immediately see where I’m going wrong. The painting is taking shape but the contrast between light and shade is poorly defined and I’ve lost all sense of the encroaching storm.
Euan arrives. He’s whistling. ‘Morning,’ he says. ‘Nipped out for some croissants.’ He takes one out of the bag and puts it on the table next to me.
‘What is your eye drawn to in this picture?’
He has another croissant in his hand. He takes a bite then stands back to consider. ‘This here.’ He points to the edge of the canvas. ‘What is it?’
‘At the moment just a splash of red but it will become the slate roof of a house.’ I shake my head. ‘There’s no movement in it.’
‘In the house?’
‘In the painting. There should be movement, drama, with the storm at the centre. The light’s all wrong.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
The room is warming up. I take off my cardigan, roll up the sleeves of my blouse and re-examine the photos. This is always the hardest part. I know the painting is not right and chances are I’ll make it worse before I make it better. Euan hands me coffee then sits down behind his desk and leans back, putting his hands behind his head. I’m looking the other way but I can feel him thinking. I know he’s about to speak.
‘Grace?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Do you ever imagine us making love?’
He says it, just like that, as if it’s a perfectly normal Monday morning question to ask of a workmate. I’m glad I’m not facing him. I take a breath in but have trouble letting it out. I don’t answer and after a few seconds, he repeats it.
‘Do you ever think about us making love?’ He comes over, stands beside me. ‘Grace?’
‘I’d rather not answer that,’ I tell him.
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’ I wave my hands around the room. ‘We’re making this work. Why spoil a good thing?’
‘Be honest.’ A look passes across his face, too quickly for me to read it. ‘Please.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to know.’
‘Why?’
�
�I want to know what to imagine.’
I stare up at him and try to hold on to the moment so that it won’t slip away from me but the simple truth is that I can’t deny him anything. ‘Yes, I think about it,’ I say quietly.
‘Do you know why I came back to live here?’
‘Euan, please.’ I think I know where this is coming from. Mo died less than three months ago. It’s taken its toll on the whole family. Euan has been one minute restless, the next angry, the next subdued. ‘We’ve all had a difficult time lately. You more than any of us.’
‘This isn’t about Mum.’ He takes hold of both my elbows and lifts them upwards. My head tips back. ‘I came back to live here because of you. I came back for you.’
I want to cry. In all my life I can’t remember anyone ever saying anything that meant so much to me. I don’t know what to answer so all I do is look into his eyes and keep breathing.
‘I think about making love to you all the time. I just want you to know that.’ He drops my arms, turns away and walks back to his desk.
I stand still. I feel like the air is alive and if I move I’ll push my life in a certain direction and I don’t know which way to go. Pressure builds in my chest. I swivel round. ‘That’s it?’ He’s sitting behind his desk riffling through papers for all the world like nothing has happened. ‘You drop a bombshell like that and just sit down?’
‘It’s hardly a bombshell.’ He bites on another croissant and takes a drink of coffee. ‘It’s been running between us for months, years, decades, since we climbed out of our prams.’
‘But you’ve just crossed a line by talking about it,’ I point out. ‘Now we can’t put it back.’
‘I don’t want to put it back.’
‘Well, maybe I do. Did you think of that?’
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod emphatically. ‘I would like to put it back because now I feel like you’re going to make a move on me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘We work in such a close space.’ I look around the room. ‘How are we expected to carry on now?’
‘This room is over five hundred square feet and anyway’ – he shakes his head – ‘I’m not going to make a move on you.’
‘Why not? Why bring it up just to do nothing about it? Because we’re married? Because you don’t want to spoil a good friendship? Because you can’t get it up?’
‘You think I can’t get it up?’
‘Well, can you?’
‘Do you want me to make love to you?’
‘No. I want you to prove that you can get it up first.’ I lean back against the desk, purse my lips, fold my arms. My heart’s pounding but I’m angry as hell. I expect him to back off, apologise.
But he doesn’t. He opens his trousers. ‘Will you help me?’
I don’t answer. I’m busy trying to regroup and then I look at him, wonder when he was circumcised.
‘Undo your blouse,’ he says.
I do it. I’m wearing a pretty lace bra that I bought in the January sales. It’s a midnight blue, balconette style, lays my breasts out like panna cotta on a dessert plate. He doesn’t touch himself, just looks at me.
‘When were you circumcised?’
‘When I was twelve. Tight foreskin.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I’m trying to concentrate.’ His eyes flash up to my face. ‘I believe I have something to prove here.’
I smile in spite of myself and then I laugh because what we’re doing is ridiculous. It sets my breasts wobbling. He likes that. I watch him grow hard.
‘Satisfied?’ he asks me.
‘In a manner of speaking.’ I back away, do up my blouse, hear him zip his trousers. The phone rings. He answers it and talks like it’s any other day. I sit down behind my desk. What was that all about? I’m shaking.
When he finishes the phone call he looks over at me. ‘Is that it?’
My heart swerves. ‘Is what it?’ I say.
‘I thought for a minute there that we were playing I-show-you-mine, you-show-me-yours.’
‘What’s brought this on, Euan?’
He shakes his head as if it should be obvious. ‘We’re a long time dead.’
I hold his eyes, see desire in them and tenderness and a flicker of fear. I stand up, walk over, stop in front of him, pull down my trousers and my pants, not elegantly, that will come later. I yank them down. I have my eyes closed. Inside me a voice screams: What the hell are you doing? It tries reminding me that I am a mother. It shows me my two girls running off into the playground, the pompoms on the back of their hats bobbing in time with their running legs.
When I open my eyes, Euan is staring between my legs. His mouth is slightly open and I can see the tip of his tongue between his teeth. I begin to tingle, heat spreads down into my groin and I know in a couple of minutes I’ll crave him so badly that I’ll beg. ‘Is that enough?’ I say.
‘You tell me.’
I’m falling. It feels heady, a rush of sweetness and light. One last try. I think about Paul, how he will be sitting with his students patiently talking them through their dissertations, the way he looks at me when he comes in from work, hugs me to him, asks me about my day, encourages me, makes love to me, gives me money and time and gives me himself. I think of my girls, holding my hand, falling asleep beside me, drawing hearts, big and red to present to me, blowing kisses, shouting, I love you, Mummy! into the wind. I think about Mo, how she cried at my wedding, how she looked after me as if I were her own and how much she loved us both.
‘If I could go back in time I would do things differently,’ I say. ‘When you went to Glasgow I thought about looking for you. I imagined myself turning up at your uncle’s house and surprising you. I imagined you walking away from me—’
‘I wouldn’t have walked away from you.’ He pulls me on to his lap. ‘I would never have done that.’ He starts to kiss me so gently that I can barely feel it. My skin sings. I reach my hands up under his T-shirt. His chest is warm and I tangle my fingers in the hairs.
So it begins.
We make love that first time and all the waiting, the wondering and the imagining ignite with the touch of our bodies like oxygen to a flame. I am shameless. I can’t open my legs wide enough. I want to show him all of myself. He takes me so completely that I feel like my body is his. Like he made me. My feelings for him stretch to the corners of myself and back again. He feels strong, warm, delicious, intoxicating.
The minute I leave the cabin to go home for the evening, the guilt starts. Why did I do it? Why? I love Paul, I love my children and I love my life. Sure, sometimes it’s humdrum but the attachment to my family is deep and satisfying.
In the end I put it down to a flash of pure lust. It won’t happen again. I’m better than that. I shower for almost fifteen minutes. I feel like I am coated in him and I’m afraid that Paul will smell him on me. I make a quick family meal then go to bed early, feigning tiredness.
I don’t go into work the next day. At ten o’clock Euan calls me.
‘Are you coming in?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
I screw my eyes up tight. ‘I’m too scared.’
‘You have one hour and then I’ll come and get you.’
I go. We do it again and again. We take risks but we minimise them. Monica almost never comes down to the cabin but, just in case, I buy the same sheets and when we’ve spent the afternoon in bed, I change them. I even make sure we use the same soap powder. We never send texts to each other. We don’t email, we don’t phone unless it’s to do with the children. We limit ourselves to once a week. We double-check that Sarah and Tom are not likely to arrive home unexpectedly.
Sometimes I dig and push. I can’t help it. I want to understand him. I want to know why he loves me so that I can protect it, keep it safe, nurture it so that it never dies.
‘Why did you marry Monica?’
‘Monica’s a good person, Grace. She works hard. She’s l
oyal and kind. I love her for that.’
‘More than me?’
‘Different.’
I can’t stop. ‘But if you had to choose one of us?’
‘I don’t know. She’s the mother of my children.’
‘Does that mean you’d choose her?’
‘It means I don’t know.’
I still can’t stop. ‘In your heart me or her?’
He looks at me for a long time. I wait and in the waiting it comes to me that I don’t want to know the answer. I cover my face with my hands and peek through my fingers. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I see that I have hurt him. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I think we need some rules.’ He takes my wrist, kisses the back of it. ‘We don’t talk about our partners. Ever. That has to be a boundary.’
‘I understand.’
So we make rules:
1. We never talk about the sex we have with our partners.
2. We never talk about the future and what would happen to either one of us if we didn’t have the other.
3. We resist all pressure from our partners to spend time together as families.
Marriage should be about love and trust, loyalty and honesty. I know that. What I’m doing is wrong, dangerous and ill-advised. But, oh, so hard to stop. I know we have the edge on marriage. We never experience the deadening effect of endless days of mundane arrangements. Euan is always a man to me, never a husband, or provider, someone to put out the rubbish or stop off for dog food. The high-octane mix of love and loss fuels us. I’m not interested in whether he can cook an omelette or remember to put his clothes in the laundry basket. I’m interested in making him smile, stroking him, loving him and working out what makes him tick.
It’s not the nineteenth century. We could leave our families and start afresh together. It would be messy, nasty even, but that doesn’t stop a lot of people. We think about it and then we talk about it. Just the once. But I can’t do anything else wrong. Having an affair is wrong, I know that, but it’s the lesser of the wrongs than splitting up two otherwise happy families.
After eight months we agree to give each other up. There is no future in it, the pain of discovery would outweigh the pleasure and we can’t keep pushing our luck. I know that it’s the right thing to do and I go back to being an honest wife and mother. I have done what’s good and proper and I should feel pleased but I don’t, I feel utterly desperate, incomplete, raw inside. I can’t sleep and spend the small hours doubled up on the bathroom floor.