by Nick Thripp
‘Why not stay a little longer? Anyway, where will you go?’
‘I’ve found us a couple of rooms in Sedley and I’ll look for work as a supply teacher, if they’ll take me back after all these years.’
‘Well, it’s up to you. I’d like you to stay.’
‘Sounds like that old cliché about a man’s stomach has come up trumps again.’ She laughed and I joined in.
‘Your cooking’s great. What I really like, though, is your all being here.’
‘That’s very kind of you. We’ll see. I’ll decide tomorrow.’
That night, for the first time, she came to my room and slipped into my bed. There are two ways to a man’s heart, and she was taking both. It was a delight to awake the next morning and find her cuddled up close to me.
‘Are you still planning on moving out?’ I said, breathing in the fragrance of her sleep-soft body. ‘You’d be more than welcome to stay.’ I ran my hand lightly down the silky skin of her stomach.
She wriggled, invitingly.
‘Our landlord seems nice. Perhaps we could stay a little longer, after all.’
She kissed me, our tongues met and she slid on top of me.
Several weeks passed in what seemed like domestic bliss. Even the rain stopped and the world was bathed in sunshine, encouraging us to take long rambles in the Surrey Hills, where the girls picked wild flowers and Amelia and I walked arm in arm, soaking in the surrounding beauty.
*
My mother phoned me one evening. In my happiness, I’d forgotten to call her.
‘How was the holiday, Mum?’
‘That was ages ago. Thanks for asking.’
‘Did you meet anyone nice?’
‘None of your business, dear, but I did. In fact, I’m phoning to let you know I’ve accepted an offer on the house and I’m moving to Halifax with Reginald.’
‘Reginald? Who the bloody hell is Reginald?’
‘Please don’t swear dear; I had enough of that from your father. Reginald was on the holiday with me, and we’re going to live together. He’s a very lovely man who’s been let down badly in life. We’ve got a good deal in common.’
‘Mum, these holiday romances never work. You hardly know the chap. Why not wait—?’
‘I’ll drop you a card to tell you my new address.’
‘Hang on, Mum. Who is Reginald, what does he do, how old is he? Please tell me something about him.’
My mother’s voice was both calm and dispassionate.
‘He’s an undertaker who’s going through a very messy divorce, and he’s forty-two.’
‘Mum, he’s more than twenty years younger than you. He’s probably just interested in you for Dad’s money.’
‘It’s my money now. Anyway, it’s nice to have someone interested, whatever the reason. No one’s paid the slightest attention to me for years. I’ve been the cleaner, the cook and the bottle-washer, that’s all. Now I’m going to have some fun before it’s too late. I think I’ll take some of this HRT stuff. Ellen says it’s marvellous.’
My stomach clenched.
‘Surely you’re not sleeping with him?’
There was a pause.
‘I really think that’s my business, don’t you? I’ll be in touch. Goodbye dear.’
There was a click and the line went dead.
Chapter 20
Martha, 1986
The air in AP’s suite at the Beart Enterprises’ offices was cool and fresh, yet I couldn’t wait to exchange it for the dense fug of a nearby pub. It was two minutes till 5.30PM, the earliest I, as partner, could reasonably slope off. As I stuffed the last of my papers into my briefcase, the door swung open and Beart ambled in, wearing a canary-coloured shirt, a magenta tie and matching braces. I tried to suppress my shudder at this latest affront to taste. I’d never liked yellow and pink together, and had always avoided this combination when planting seedlings.
‘Hi, how’s it going?’ He was as nonchalant as ever. He nodded in the direction of the outer office, which was still buzzing with activity. ‘Looks like you chaps are earning your monstrous fees for a change.’
I forced a smile. ‘You’re looking very bright today. Many a canary would be most jealous.’
‘Yes, these colours go well together, don’t they? I’m thinking of incorporating them in our logo. Should brighten the City up a bit, don’t you think?’
My face must have betrayed me because he laughed. ‘In any event, it would cut down on the number of corporate gifts doshed out to all and sundry.’
He must have spotted me glancing at my watch as he shut the door.
‘I won’t waste much more of your time. There’s a bit of a ticklish matter, and I’m not sure how to broach it.’
I was intrigued. I didn’t know Beart contained a single grain of sensitivity.
‘Go on, John, I’m sure you’ll find a way.’
‘It’s about Martha Grant.’
‘Yes?’
‘I won’t beat about the bush. She’s upsetting a lot of my people. She’s got the tact of a rhino on heat, and about as much common sense. It would be better for all concerned if you found her something else to do, well away from our audit.’
He stared at me. Though I knew I had to rebut his suggestion, my brain, submerged by the icy waters of his deep violet eyes, refused to respond.
‘OK?’ he added, in a tone which suggested the matter was closed, and stepped towards the door.
‘Hang on a moment, John.’ He swung round with an enquiring look on his face. ‘It’s most improper for a client to suggest such an action without going through the agreed formal procedures.’
‘Bugger the formal procedures. I don’t want her bugging the daylights out of my people and making their lives a misery. Do I make myself clear?’ Without waiting for an answer, he swivelled on his heel and strode out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
I went straight to the pub and sank several pints. As well as irritating me deeply, John’s demand had put me in a very difficult position. Walking to the station, I rehearsed telling him no one could dictate who AP deployed as auditors on his account. However, after a night of tossing and turning in a sweat-soaked bed, my resolve weakened. I imagined becoming the partner who lost the Beart account, and the acrimony I would face from my own workforce as I informed them of the resulting redundancies.
The next day, I told Richard what had happened.
‘Martha’s a good audit manager,’ Richard said, folding his arms. ‘Basically sound, even if a little headstrong and prone to rubbing people up the wrong way. We’re not going to cave in to Beart’s demands, are we? Next he’ll be writing our audit report for us.’
I bought time by taking a sip from my caffe macchiato. He was, of course, right, though I didn’t want to admit it. I put the cup down slowly, and locked eyes with him.
‘Not an easy one,’ I said.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘What would you do? Over half our revenues and two thirds of our profits are generated by Beart’s business.’
He nodded slowly and we sat in silence for a few moments.
‘What will you do with Martha?’ he asked. ‘You have to make sure she doesn’t lose out because Beart’s taken a dislike to her.’
‘Swap her with Alana on the Dickinson account.’
‘Mmmm.’ Richard stroked his chin.
‘Come on Richard, be realistic. What else can I do?’
‘OK,’ Richard sighed. He knew Beart Enterprises was a juggernaut. ‘Make sure you handle it carefully. We don’t want Martha going around telling everyone Beart’s calling the shots.’
*
‘You’ve got to be having me on!’ Martha expostulated. ‘I’m onto some real funny shenanigans, I’m convinced of it, and you want to reassign me. What’s going on?’
‘Bollocks you do,’ she replied, slamming her fist on the desk. ‘You want a quiet life. Either that or you’re too frightened to do your job properly.’
‘Nonsense—’ I started to say, but she was already on her feet and surging towards the door.
‘I quit,’ she shouted over her shoulder, ‘and I’m taking you for constructive dismissal. This is going to be all over the papers.’
Chapter 21
Divorce, 1986
I shouldn’t have been surprised when I was cited as co-respondent on the divorce petition, although it seemed a little unfair as Amelia and I had started our relationship after Simon had thrown her out.
I suppose Simon must have told Rachel somehow, because I received an urgent summons to meet Rachel at eight o’clock the following evening at a restaurant in Chelsea.
I felt sheepish as I waited for her at the reserved table, small trickles of sweat soaking into the back of my shirt. Rachel was unusually late, and I was drinking my second large scotch when I heard her voice and saw her at the entrance handing her briefcase to the head waiter.
We kissed perfunctorily when she swept up to the table. She put something the size of a brick down beside her, and it took me a few moments to recognise it as one of the new mobile phones which were rapidly becoming an essential part of the well-groomed yuppie’s wardrobe.
‘So, I hear you’ve got a bird after all,’ she said, placing her hand on the phone as though expecting a call any minute.
Though I didn’t like the disparaging term, I let it pass. I coughed.
‘I’ve started, I’m in a— ’
‘Yes, I know. It’s a pity I had to hear it from someone else. Are you sleeping with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know it’s all over between us. We can never sleep together again.’
Her illogicality irked me. ‘So, if you divorce me, you’ll only go out with virgins. Is that what you mean? If it is, you’ll probably have to limit yourself to 12-year-olds or complete wallies.’
‘That may be so. I certainly won’t be sleeping with you again, whatever happens.’
The food came and we ate in silence. I put my knife and fork together and waited for her to finish. I looked at my plate and had no recollection of what I’d just eaten. I looked at Rachel’s glazed expression and wondered where her mind was. It certainly wasn’t here with me. Her body jolted slightly and she stared at me.
‘I’ve been to see my solicitor. You’ll be receiving the petition shortly.’
‘I’ll add it to my collection.’ I forced a laugh. Rachel didn’t smile.
We pecked each other’s cheeks as we said good night, and I had the strong sensation of an era passing.
*
On the train home, I mused on my lack of emotion. I still felt nothing, despite the length of time Rachel and I had been together. Perhaps it was because we’d drifted apart gradually over so many years, like two continents inching almost imperceptibly away from each other and opening a massive rift between them.
When I got in, a gentle aroma pricked my nostrils. I guessed they’d had spaghetti bolognese for supper. I took off my tie, made myself a cup of instant coffee and opened a couple of envelopes before wandering slowly upstairs. Amelia was in my bed, warm and soft with sleep, hints of garlic on her breath. She raised her arms and I burrowed my nose into her supple neck, breathing in the smell of her warm skin. Within a few minutes we were making love, and Rachel faded from my mind.
*
Life seemed simpler and more straightforward now that our relationship was in the open. Amelia and I got on well. Her daughters, Chloe and Annabel, had taken to me, and to the casual observer we would have appeared a happy family unit.
Domesticity suited me and I found myself looking forward to coming home. The only problem in our firmament was Amelia’s reluctance to talk about her past. She skated over her years with Simon with a few derogatory words and acknowledged no other lovers. I didn’t have the courage to confront her over the time Beart’s car had been parked outside her house. When I did ask her how she’d got to know him and how well she’d known him, she added little to the very first description she’d given me. ‘Such a darling,’ she would say, ‘such fun underneath that austere exterior’ or ‘secretly he’s quite a rebel.’ When I probed for evidence to support her statements, none was forthcoming.
Every so often, she would decamp for the weekend, taking the girls with her. She would never tell me where she’d been, except to say, ‘with friends.’ Whenever I pressed her for an answer, she lapsed into a sulky mood which lasted for days, and only came to an end when I swallowed hard and apologised. Because of the oppressive atmosphere I was brought up in, I’ve always hated moodiness and rows and would go to almost any lengths to avoid them.
Despite this, the few months that followed were happy ones. Unfortunately, this halcyon period had to come to an end, and it did so with the sale of Thorpe Barton as part of the divorce settlement. I tried to buy Rachel out and keep it, but couldn’t get a big enough mortgage.
Feeling tearful and sick at what I was having to do, I invited the estate agents round and selected the one I thought respected the property most. It didn’t take long to find a buyer and the price we achieved reflected a healthy profit on our purchase price and all subsequent outgoings. It was only after we’d exchanged contracts that I found out that the purchaser was a front man for a developer, and the house, along with the one next door, would be demolished to make way for eight town houses.
I was alone in the house when the phone rang. Someone started shouting as soon as I picked the receiver up. I held it a foot away from my ear, recognising the voice as Allan’s, a retired insurance broker who lived next door but one.
‘You people make me sick, despoiling the neighbourhood for a quick profit. You should be ashamed of yourself—’
I put the receiver down on the telephone table, the rant continuing as I left the room and shut the door. Planting myself on the dining-room floor, I cradled my rapidly emptying bottle of Macallan. Dusk was falling and the room was gradually merging into the darkness. I placed my palm flat against the wall, which was as cold as a body in a morgue.
‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry.’ I paused, half-expecting Thorpe Barton to reply, as hot tears pricked my eyes. ‘I’ve let you down, I’ve betrayed you, and now you’re going to be destroyed, all because of me.’ The house’s silent stillness was the most eloquent and dignified condemnation of my self-absorbed negligence.
I told Amelia I planned to rent for a short period as I didn’t want to be rushed into buying a property I didn’t care for. I would, however, make sure there was room for her, Chloe and Annabel and after that, perhaps they would care to move into my new house. I stretched my hand out towards her, hungry for the reassurance of her warm palm in mine. Amelia didn’t take it, and after an uncomfortable few seconds I withdrew it.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t want to impose on you anymore. My divorce settlement has come through. I’ve got enough to buy a place of my own and I don’t ever want to be dependent on someone else again. With the property market as it is, I’d be crazy not to buy now.’
‘Perhaps we could pool our resources and buy a place together?’
She looked at me like a big sister consoling a younger brother who’s broken a favourite toy.
‘The last few months have been great, and you’ve been wonderful. While I love you dearly, I’m not sure I want to settle down with you.’
‘You’re not sure. So there’s still a chance?’
‘No. My mind’s made up.’
‘Oh. You are sure.’
‘I hope we can stay friends. You’re really very special, and very impo
rtant to me.’
‘Is there someone else?’ My voice was thick with emotion.
‘No, of course not!’ She hugged me and kissed me on the lips. ‘It’s just that I’m not ready to settle down with someone again. I need some space.’
‘You needed some space when you tipped up uninvited on my front doorstep – space in my house and then space in my bed. What’s changed?’
She looked away.
‘It’s been great, but— ’
‘Where will you live?’ I asked interrupting her. I couldn’t bear to hear what might follow the ‘but’.
I was shocked when she told me she’d been looking for some time, and had made an offer on a Victorian cottage nearby.
‘Will we still see each other?’ I asked.
‘I hope we’ll always be friends. I’m very fond of you, you know.’
‘This is so sudden, so unexpected. Can’t we give our relationship another go? We all seem to get on so well together.’
‘I’ll always be grateful for what you did for the girls and for me.’
‘Surely there was more to it than that. I thought we had something good going on between us. I didn’t realise I was just doing you a favour.’
Her expression blended the sympathy and determination of a pedigree dog breeder who knows her favourite bitch must be put down and is resolved to see it through. I shook my head in disbelief. How could I have misjudged the relationship so badly?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking at the ground.
‘Not half as sorry as I am.’ I left the room and dragged myself upstairs, my self-pity a dead weight round my shoulders. I slumped onto the bed where I lay face down with my hands over my head. I don’t know how long I was there but it was dark outside when I opened my eyes. I half-hoped Amelia would come and say she’d changed her mind. She remained downstairs, the faint sounds of her chattering with the girls as though nothing abnormal had happened a bitter confirmation of the demise of our relationship.
During the next few days, dejection seeped through me, permeating every fibre of my being. My mind was enveloped by darkness. Nothing seemed worthwhile. I slept only fitfully. I couldn’t eat. Even taking a shower and shaving were too much of an effort. Amelia moved back to her own bedroom and there were no more nocturnal visits. We barely spoke again. I did everything I could to avoid her. Even though I found it difficult summoning the energy to crawl out of bed every day, I left the house very early, went through the motions at work and came home very late, usually quite drunk. On returning late one evening, I found Raffy, Annabel’s soft orange giraffe on the kitchen table. Its floppy neck was twisted so its large brown eyes were staring at me, and I broke down.