Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  The girl stared at her, then managed a smile.

  ‘I’m Nikita,’ she finally offered. ‘Have you got kids, cos I do baby-sitting? ’

  ‘Um, no,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s just me.’

  Nikita frowned. ‘What do you want to move here for, on your own?’ she asked, stuffing Charlotte’s shopping into a paper-thin plastic bag. ‘You’ll go mad.’

  Charlotte pulled a ten-pound note out of her purse.

  ‘Do you sell magazines?’ she asked hopefully, thinking that what she really needed was to sit down with a copy of Homes and Gardens.

  ‘You’ve got to order them,’ Nikita replied, handing over the bag of shopping just as it split and the contents fell all over the floor.

  When Charlotte got back from the shop, there was a letter from her solicitor on the doormat. She recognised the cream vellum envelope. She felt slightly sick, as she always did when faced with something official. She hoped it wasn’t a bill. She opened it carefully. There was a letter, and wrapped inside it a form of some sort.

  She scanned the letter quickly.

  Ed has asked me to pass this on to you, in the hope that you might visit. If you do not feel able to do so, please return the order to me at your earliest convenience . . .

  Her stomach turned over as she looked at the form. A prison visiting order. Did he really expect her to visit him? In prison? She had instructed his solicitor to pass any communications on, but she thought she’d made it pretty clear that she didn’t want any more to do with Ed than was necessary.

  She pinned the order up on the kitchen wall next to her sketches, and stared at it.

  Ed was still her husband.

  She was still his wife.

  Did she owe him a visit, after what he had done? He’d reduced them both to nothing, literally and metaphorically. He was in prison, and she was in hiding, scrabbling to make a living, in fear of being discovered by her newfound friends. She was having to live under an assumed name, disguise herself; she had little hope of a future. Everything had been snatched from her: her home, her career, her marriage, her friends.

  Most of the time, she operated on automatic pilot. But sometimes, like now, the grim reality closed in on her and her mind was filled with questions. Would she ever be someone else’s lover again? Or someone else’s wife? Or even . . . someone’s mother?

  This was the really painful question. But she had to consider that, without Ed in her life, there was a chance, a small chance, that she might conceive with another partner. She took in a tiny breath, allowing herself for the first time to give this possibility some real head space. No one had ever pinned down which of them was the cause of their infertility. Suppose it wasn’t her . . . ?

  She shook her head and told herself to stop. She couldn’t go down that road. Not yet. After all, she was still married to Ed. They hadn’t actually discussed the future of their marriage. It had seemed insignificant. And there had been so much other bureaucracy to deal with that Charlotte couldn’t face divorce proceedings on top of everything else. Not that there would have been any doubt that she could do him for unreasonable behaviour. How unreasonable could you get?

  Now, looking at the prison order, she wondered if she ought to visit him and discuss the future. Until she put Ed behind her, she wasn’t going to be able to move on. She was living in the shadow of what he had done.

  She deserved a future, surely?

  ‘Hello?’

  Lost in her reverie, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked up to see her rescuer of the night before standing in the kitchen doorway. What was his name? Something weird. Mitch? Fitz? Fitch . . . that was it.

  ‘Fitch. Hi.’

  He took up nearly the whole of the doorframe with his broad shoulders.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought I’d come and check there were no more visitors.’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen so far. And thank you so much for last night.’ She moved automatically over to the kettle.

  ‘I was just going to make another pot of tea. Can I tempt you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He looked around.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.’

  Charlotte made a face. ‘I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew.’

  ‘It’s pretty daunting. I did up the old bakery, down the road. It’s still not properly finished.’

  ‘I’ve got to get my skates on. The owners want this on the market in the early spring.’

  ‘And you’re doing it all yourself?’

  ‘Well . . . there’s stuff I can’t do. Like plastering.’

  ‘Give me a shout if you want a hand. I can turn my hand to most things.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Charlotte smiled, not sure if he was offering out of the kindness of his heart or if he wanted paying.

  ‘And if you want a fireplace, or a house sign, I’m your man.’

  ‘I’ll probably want both.’

  She handed him a cup of tea.

  ‘Do you want sugar? Only I don’t have any . . .’

  ‘No, no . . . that’s fine.’

  She could see the visiting order over Fitch’s shoulder, and wondered if she would be able to take it down without him noticing. He was going to turn round any minute and spot it. It was unmissable.

  ‘Actually,’ she said hastily, ‘you could come and look at my fireplace now and tell me what you think. Bearing in mind that I am on the tightest budget imaginable.’

  He followed her obligingly into the living room. They both looked at the hideous fireplace and exchanged grimaces.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If it was me I’d just rip the whole lot out, plaster it up and have a plain slate hearth. Have it as a feature, stick a vase of flowers in it. Then if the purchasers want a real fire, they can put whatever they like in.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  He handed her back his empty cup.

  ‘I better go. I’m on my way to pick up the girls from school.’

  So he was married with children. Of course he was. Most people their age were.

  ‘Monday nights is swimming. My wife refuses to take them.’ He gave a small cough. ‘My ex-wife.’

  ‘You’re divorced?’

  ‘Not yet. Talking about it.’

  Charlotte bit her lip. Part of her wanted to spill the beans and share her own dilemma with someone, and the temptation to share it with someone who was going through the same thing was huge. But she didn’t want to reveal her life story to the first person that stepped over her threshold, so she kept quiet.

  ‘Well, thanks for dropping by.’

  ‘It’s OK. I know what it’s like being the new kid in town. The locals don’t fall over themselves to be welcoming around here.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You’ve got to have been here a long, long time before you’re accepted. At least three generations.’

  ‘I’m not planning on staying here that long.’

  ‘You say that,’ warned Fitch, ‘but it gets under your skin. It’s pretty hard to adjust to the real world once you’ve lived in Withybrook.’

  When Fitch had gone, Charlotte plonked herself down on the sofa in the living room, stretched and yawned. She was absolutely exhausted and yet she felt she had achieved nothing of note. She picked up her notebook and tried to draft out a plan of action, making a list of people she needed to call - skip hire, telephone, internet provider - but she couldn’t get the visiting order out of her head. She knew that unless she dealt with it, she wasn’t going to be able to concentrate.

  The quickest option would be to stick it straight in an envelope and send it back to Ed’s solicitor. But somehow she felt that was the coward’s way out, and would provide her no respite. What she needed to do was to visit Ed, outline her terms and conditions, and draw a line under the whole hideous affair. A divorce would mean freedom and a chance to start again. Pleased with her decision, she went to find the order and wor
k out what she had to do. The instructions were firm and clear and not to be argued with. She was to phone the prison and make an appointment.

  She found that if she went to the top of the house and leaned out of the bedroom window she could get two bars of signal - just enough to provide telecommunication with the outside world. She prodded in the prison number and stuck her head out of the window, looking out over the rooftops of Withybrook and watching the crows circling round the chimney pots.

  ‘Hello,’ she said tentatively. ‘I’d like to make an appointment to visit a prisoner.’ She took in a deep breath. ‘Edward Briggs.’

  ‘What’s your order number, love?’

  The man on the other end sounded disinterested. She imagined him, fat stomach straining against his uniform, sitting in a room of empty chairs that were bolted to the floor. As Charlotte gave him the details, she realised she was entering a whole new world, with its own rules and regulations, that was about as far removed from her experience as you could get.

  When she put the phone down, her hand was shaking. Next Friday. She was going to visit her husband in prison next Friday. She swallowed down a gurgle of nervous laughter, and was astonished to find she felt rather elated. It was the first piece of positive action she had taken off her own bat. Coming to Withybrook was positive, but she had been goaded, persuaded, aided and abetted by Gussie and could hardly claim the idea as hers. But this she had done of her own free will, she’d grasped the nettle and she felt better for it. Maybe she was coming out the other side, at long last. She had spent so long floundering about in the chaos of what Ed had created, she had almost forgotten that she had choices.

  Infinitely cheered, she decided to take the truck and go to find the nearest supermarket. When the fridge was full, she would feel a little more at home. And she’d treat herself to that copy of Homes and Gardens and a big bottle of expensive bubble bath. At the moment, it was the little things that made life bearable.

  Penny typed up her patients’ notes into her computer, pushed back her chair and sighed. It had been an exhausting afternoon. Mondays always were, as people had had the weekend to deliberate their ailments and were eager to get them off their chests. The surgery she worked in was on the outskirts of Comberton, and there were an awful lot of people on the poverty line on the register. It was funny; people always thought Devon was some sort of idyll, a place where nothing bad happened, but Penny had seen as much suffering here as she had in any inner-city practice. People grey-skinned from poor diets, both overweight and underweight, many of them with mental illness, depression, stress, kids with ADD. There were few employment opportunities, few facilities - breathtakingly beautiful countryside was all very well, but there was bugger all for a lot of these people to do. She did everything she could to help them empower themselves, but it was a losing battle when the clock was ticking and you had to rush on to your next appointment. You couldn’t make much of a difference in five minutes.

  She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had ten minutes’ tea-break. It should have been fifteen, but she had inevitably over-run. She breathed in slowly and let her mind drift. She knew exactly where it would go, because it always did.

  It was her treat to herself, her little mini fantasy. It was free, after all, and didn’t do anyone any harm. The need to fantasise was always greater after she had seen him. Sometimes she had almost, almost got him out of her head, reduced thinking about him to a couple of times a day, but just as she thought she had cured herself - for she thought of her obsession as an affliction - then he would pop up in her life and fan the flames again. And she would be stricken once more, tormented by images of him day and night, allowing her imagination to run wild.

  This time she allowed last night’s turn of events in the Speckled Trout to take a totally different route. When she asked Sebastian if he wanted a cigarette, he agreed with alacrity. He followed her outside, and no sooner had she delved into her bag for her lighter than he grabbed her, pulled her to him, and devoured her with hot, passionate kisses. Oblivious to the cold night air, they had let their combined ardour carry them away. Within moments they were making love on one of the picnic benches. Sebastian was telling her he couldn’t resist, that he thought about her constantly, that the torment was stopping him working . . .

  Penny let the preposterously unlikely dream run its course with a smile on her lips. By the end of it, she was so turned on she didn’t know what to do with herself. Woe betide her next patient, she thought. Her nipples were hard, and she could feel a throbbing between her legs, an incredible effervescence as minute bubbles of excitement danced around her loins. There was nothing she could do about it now; she could hardly stuff her hand in her knickers. Even though her door was shut people frequently barged in without knocking; that really would be the ultimate embarrassment. She fanned herself with a sheaf of paper, convinced that her thoughts were written all over her face. She couldn’t carry on teasing herself like this. One day she would explode with the frustration.

  It was tragic, really. A horny, middle-aged woman with no one to take it all out on. What would she prescribe if one of her patients came in and described her own symptoms to her? What would she recommend, to alleviate their suffering? A vibrator, she supposed, with a rueful smile. A buzzy little magic wand. A battery-operated friend that guaranteed satisfaction every time.

  As she stood up on trembling legs to go to fetch herself a glass of water, she stopped in her tracks. Why not take her own advice? Why shouldn’t she have a vibrator? If all the magazine articles she read in the surgery were true, every woman in England had one in her knicker drawer. Or carted one round in her handbag just in case the urge overtook took her. They were no longer taboo, but commonplace - as necessary in every woman’s armoury as a good moisturiser and decent tweezers and a well-fitting bra. Some people had several - a different design to suit the mood. For heaven’s sake, even Good Housekeeping had a Sex Toy of the Year. She had no need to feel ashamed or embarrassed, and every right to know what all the fuss was about.

  She sat in front of the computer self-consciously for a few moments, before getting up the nerve to type ‘vibrator’ into the search engine. She was slightly worried that it would be embedded into her history for ever more, but not entirely sure anyone would ever be interested enough in her online activity to investigate. A dazzling range of web-sites came up, from the overtly graphic to the coyly twee. She chose one that seemed warm and intelligent, rather than sensationalist. It explained each piece of apparatus in a clear and non-threatening way, but was also amusing and self-deprecating. In browsing the site Penny realised that she had been leading a rather sheltered life, but her appetite had been whetted. If these little babies delivered the goods like they promised, then she wanted in.

  In the end, she chose one that was substantial, but not alarmingly so. And expensive. And didn’t make much noise. Her finger hovered over the mouse as she hesitated, wondering whether she really had the nerve to click ‘buy’. Then suddenly she found she had done it, and her mouth went dry.

  It promised next-day delivery, in a plain padded envelope, not one emblazoned with ‘Sex Toys ’R’ Us’ in bright-red capitals. Nevertheless, she would have to whiz back from the surgery at lunchtime to find it, because if Tom and Megan got back first, they could not be relied upon not to rip it open. They had no respect for her privacy. For all she knew, her precocious daughter already had one in each colour. She wouldn’t be surprised at all.

  Feeling rather like a naughty schoolgirl, she closed down the website, smoothed down her skirt and buzzed in her next patient.

  On her way home that evening, Penny decided to call in on Daisy Miller. Daisy was one of her older patients, and one of her favourites, but Penny had a sense of unease about her that wouldn’t go away. Daisy had always been bright, alert and good-humoured, but on the last few occasions she had seen her she had a faint aura of bewilderment about her that she tried to hide with a smile. Even in old age, a pretty face
could go a long way towards disguising ills, and Daisy had wide blue eyes and unlined skin, and a cloud of soft white hair. She was the sort of old lady you would choose to look like. But something wasn’t right. Six months ago Daisy had fallen and broken her wrist, and had been into the surgery regularly while it healed. Penny had taken to calling in on her at the time, but she hadn’t seen her for a couple of months since the plaster had finally come off. She thought it was high time to check up on her.

  It took Daisy a while to answer the door, and as soon as she did so Penny’s heart sank. There was a blank, worried expression on her face, and a total lack of recognition.

  ‘Daisy? It’s Dr Silver. Dr Silver from the surgery? May I come in?’

  Daisy looked to one side, and Penny could tell that in the far recesses of her mind she was weighing things up, struggling to assimilate the information in her memory bank. Eventually she looked back at Penny and nodded, standing to one side.