by Isabel Wolff
‘It is, because Luke wants to see Jessica as much as possible, so, although he’s torn about me, he wants to go. Plus Magda said that if he didn’t go, she’d invite her boyfriend, and he’d end up being Jessica’s dad.’
‘How manipulative,’ said Hope shaking her head. ‘But doesn’t her chap mind her playing happy families with her ex?’
‘He sees his own kids on Sundays so it suits him.’
‘But I don’t know how you can bear it,’ Hope said. ‘I know I wouldn’t be able to.’
‘I know it’s not ideal. But twelve years ago my relationship with Luke ended because, well…’
‘Because he was unfaithful to you,’ Hope interjected.
‘Ye-es.’ Her angry tone had taken me aback. ‘But he felt terrible about it and he begged me to forgive him, but I couldn’t. I was…judgemental. I saw it in black and white. Now, older and wiser, and having been through some bad stuff myself, I intend to cut him some slack.’
‘But now it sounds as though you’re forgiving him too much—not judging him enough.‘
‘Look Hope, it’s to his credit that he should put his child first—I wouldn’t like him so much if he didn’t do that.’ I thought again of Tom, who had put himself before his wife and his newborn child—an act which, however much I liked him on one level, had seriously diminished him on another. ‘Anyway, it’s only until things shake down,’ I added. ‘Luke asked me to be patient.’
Hope shrugged. ‘Well…it’s your life. But I wouldn’t let myself be treated like that,’ she repeated. She drummed her perfectly-manicured nails on the table. ‘Oh no,’ she added vehemently. ‘I would not.’ She was getting right under my skin now so I changed the subject. I discussed the newspaper coverage I’d had. Being in PR, Hope knows how things work.
‘You were a victim of the circulation battle between the Daily Post and the Daily News,’ she explained as the waiter took away our plates. ‘Their editors loathe each other.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s partly traditional—they’re after the same slice of Middle England—and partly personal, because last year R. Sole nicked Terry Smith’s wife. Thanks to Scrivens the Post got their nasty little “story” about your “drunken behaviour”, so the News had to go one better with their “scoop” about your so-called “affair”—you were caught in a tabloid tug-of-hate.’
‘And how would they have got hold of that old photo of Luke and me?’
‘By blagging their way on to Friends Reunited and tracking down people you used to know.’ I thought of all the university friends I’d dropped after Luke and I had split up. Why should they have been loyal? ‘They could have found former colleagues of yours to give them a quote,’ I heard Hope say. ‘Or your hairdresser, or your neighbours…’ I thought of Mrs Singh next door. ‘Anyone who ever knew you. Journalists are very resourceful. Anyway, thank God it’s all died away.’
‘Thanks to the Minister for the Family.’
For the first time that evening, Hope smiled. It had been widely reported that the Right Honourable Eric Wilton, ‘happily married father of four’, had started hormone treatment prior to undergoing a sex change operation, and so my ‘story’ had gone off the boil.
‘You’ll still have to be on your guard though,’ she warned. ‘Don’t talk to journalists.’
‘I’d rather eat my own leg.’
‘And when’s the show he was in being broadcast?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
‘Really? Well there’ll probably be some press interest in that so you’d better brace yourself.’ I felt sick. Now, as our main courses arrived, Hope talked about Fliss. ‘The christening cost five grand,’ she said. ‘It was crazy. Another three months and they’ll have to put the house on the market. Has she told you what she’s going to do to make ends meet?’
‘No. We haven’t spoken for a couple of weeks.’
‘She’s putting Olivia out to work.’
‘She should be reported then.’
‘Baby modelling. She told me today that she’d sent a snap of Olivia to this “Kiddlywinks” child-modelling agency and they’ve signed her up on the spot. Fliss is thrilled—she’s dying to see Olivia’s face plastered on the cover of Babychops Magazine or whatever—plus she thinks it’ll make them shedloads of cash.’
I spooned some spinach on to my plate. ‘What does Hugh think?’
‘He thinks it’s exploitative and undignified, but she told him that as he’s not even earning because of his “silly inventions” he’s in no position to object.’ She had a sip of wine. ‘She’s got a point in a way, but don’t you think she’s mean to him?’
‘I do. Although his ideas are mad.’
‘They are. Did he tell you about the mudguards he’s just designed for women to stick to the backs of their legs on rainy days?’
‘No.’
‘Or the PVC burka for bad weather, ditto?’
I shook my head. ‘Patently absurd.’
‘But at least he tries. Fliss’ll be sorry, though,’ Hope added darkly. ‘She’ll be very sorry if Hugh gets fed up with her and has an affair.’ She pursed her lips, as though she was sucking on a lime.
‘Do you think he would?’
She shrugged. ‘Most men would, if they got the chance. Wouldn’t they?’ She looked at me intensely, as though soliciting my opinion. ‘I mean…any man would. Isn’t that what they say?’ she added feelingly.
‘Hm…not all men.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ she insisted. A distracted look came into her eyes. ‘And I sometimes even wonder…’ She put down her knife and fork.
‘What, Hope?’
‘Well…’ She sipped her wine, then ran her middle finger around the rim of the glass and it began to emit a plangent hum. ‘I sometimes even wonder…if…Mike might be having one,’ she said, finally. ‘Actually…’ She paused. ‘I think he is.’ Now I understood why she’d been in this combative mood all evening. ‘In fact I’m sure of it.’
I stared at her for moment. ‘No way. He’s not the type.’
‘That’s what I used to believe,’ she whispered, but you know, Laura…’ Her eyes had suddenly filled. ‘I’ve got a rather difficult situation—in fact I’m glad to have the chance to talk to you…’ Her mouth trembled for a moment, then she controlled herself.
‘What’s happened, Hope? Tell me.’
She dabbed the corner of her left eye with her ring finger, and the huge diamond Mike had given her for their fifth wedding anniversary flashed and sparkled. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I will. I will tell you.’ I realized that this was the first time that Hope had ever opened up to me about her marriage. Where Felicity is open to the point of imbecility, Hope is completely discreet. It wouldn’t surprise me if I found out she’d been moonlighting for MI5.
She rested her face in her hand. ‘Mike’s been behaving in a very…odd way,’ she began.
I thought of his sharp remarks at the christening, and his irritable behaviour.
‘How?’
‘He’s been working late.’
‘Since when?’
‘The end of January. Every Tuesday and Thursday, without fail, he comes home two hours later than normal.’ She fiddled with the salt cellar. ‘At first I didn’t even notice; and then when I did, I didn’t think about it, because I’ve always felt so confident in our marriage.’
‘Why shouldn’t you?’ I said. ‘Mike’s always been nuts about you.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s what I’d always believed.’
‘You’ve both seemed incredibly happy.’ She nodded, miserably. ‘And you have a great life together.’
‘I know. We’ve been so lucky—we’ve been in love, and we’ve also been very good friends. But now I feel it’s all under threat. Because on Tuesdays and Thursdays he doesn’t get home until about nine thirty. We’re usually both home by half seven, unless Mike’s working on something big, or is away on business, so it’s very strange.’
‘And you asked
him why?’
‘Of course. But he was unable to give me a satisfactory answer. He still hasn’t. Every time I say something about it he just says, very shiftily, that he’s been “working”. So I felt that something wasn’t right. Plus whenever I phoned him in the office at those times, he wasn’t there. He didn’t pick up either of his direct lines, and his mobile was switched off.’
‘Really?’ This didn’t sound good. ‘Did you challenge him about it?’
She nodded, then fiddled with the tiny vase of narcissi. ‘He looked extremely uncomfortable; then he got very snappy with me, which is unusual.’
‘So what did he say?’
‘He said I must have dialled the wrong number, or that there must have been a fault on the line, or that there might have been no signal for the mobile, or that he must have been in the canteen, or in the bathroom, or in the lift.’
‘Hmm.’
She pursed her lips. ‘In other words - crap. He’d be completely incommunicado for about three hours, and when he came home, he’d be in this strange, rather…emotional mood. So finally, last week, I asked him straight out.’ Her chin puckered. ‘It was terrible.’ She laid both hands, palm down, on the table, as though bracing herself against the pain. ‘I just asked him if he was having an affair. And he looked at me so sadly that I thought he must be about to confess. Instead he said, “No. I am not having an affair, Hope. I have never had one, and I never would. Because I love you.”‘
‘But that’s a categorical denial—so why don’t you feel reassured?’
‘Because the situation has remained the same. Every Tuesday and Thursday Mike “works late”, but cannot be contacted and will not tell me where he’s been. He’s out tonight, for example. That’s why I was able to come and meet you because I knew he wouldn’t be home until nearly ten. It’s always the same story.’
‘How weird. And have you looked at his credit card statements?’
She nodded, guiltily. ‘I’d never done it before. It had simply never occurred to me to snoop on him.’
‘And?’
She shook her head. ‘Zilch. But he could just be paying for the Agent Provocateur and roses with cash.’
‘Any alien scent on his clothes?’
‘No. But I’m convinced he’s got a mistress,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘There’s no other plausible explanation for where he is, or why he’s so reluctant to explain, plus his odd mood when he gets home, plus we’re coming up for the seven year itch.’
‘Well…it does sound a bit odd.’
‘My guess is that Mike can’t bear to admit the affair, even to himself, because he is a decent person, so instead he just lies to me.’ We were silent while the waiter took away our plates. Hope’s lamb was almost untouched. ‘They say that a wife’s instinct is never wrong,’ she continued miserably. ‘They also say that you just can’t tell—about any man,’ she added with a painful shrug.
I thought of Tom, and of how decent he is, and of how, despite this, he’d behaved so callously.
‘I mean, you could never have imagined that Nick would do what he did, could you?’
‘No. I can safely say I never saw that coming.’
‘You read these stories all the time,’ Hope went on. ‘About these women who say, “I never thought for a second my husband would stray. He just didn’t seem the type.” Or they say, “I thought I knew my husband—but now I feel that our whole marriage was a sham.” Why should I be immune from that, Laura? Why should I be lucky? Lots of people suffer—I mean, you did—’ her eyes had filled again—‘so maybe now it’s simply my turn. Anyway, ‘ she croaked as she fumbled in her Kelly bag for a tissue, ‘that’s what’s been going on in my life.’
‘Hmm…’
She looked at me. Her eyes were pink-veined and her mascara had run. It was strange to see her looking so distrait. ‘So,’ she said quietly. She was fiddling with the stem of her wineglass. ‘So…’ she said again. ‘So…’ she repeated with a sigh. Why did she keep saying that? ‘So what do you think I should do?’
‘Oh…’ I was taken aback. As I say, Hope has hardly ever told me anything personal, let alone sought my advice. To be honest, I found it rather scary. That Hope, whose entire adult life had seemed as unruffled as her salon-smooth hair, now had personal problems for which she needed my help.
‘What should I do?’ she repeated.
‘I don’t…know,’ I replied truthfully. I didn’t want to say what I thought—that Hope’s instincts were probably right. That’s why Mike was behaving so strangely at the christening, I now saw, because being in church reminded him, uncomfortably, of the marriage vows he’d made six years earlier. He was being aggressive because he felt bad.
‘Will you help me, Laura?’ she said quietly. I stared at her, shocked. She looked about twelve years old.
‘Well—of course I will,’ I stuttered. ‘You can talk to me about it any time—day or night—you know that.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
I looked at her. ‘What do you mean then?’
She blinked a few times, then took a deep breath. ‘I want you to follow him.’
‘What?’ My heart sank to the soles of my shoes. ‘Don’t ask me to do that,’ I murmured. ‘I really don’t…’
‘Please, Laura,’ she interrupted. ‘I need you to.’
I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t bear to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if he is having an affair, I do not want to be the person to tell you, Hope. It could affect our relationship for the rest of our lives.’
She was shaking her head. ‘But I’d rather hear it from you than from anyone else. And because we’re sisters, I feel we could survive it.’
‘I’m not sure about that—this kind of thing can be a minefield.’
I felt uncomfortable seeing Hope like this. I found her sudden vulnerability disturbing when she’d always seemed unassailable.
‘Look, Laura, I need your support, and it’s not something I could ask of a friend. And, I helped you didn’t I?’ she added.
I had been so hoping that she wouldn’t say that.
‘You did help me, Hope—but that was very different. All you had to do was write me a cheque, which I repaid as soon as I could. But if I did this for you, I might end up paying a terrible price psychologically. Can’t you see that? If you want Mike followed you should ask someone who’s neutral—preferably a private detective.’ She shook her head. ‘Whynot? You can afford it.’
‘It’s not the money.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s the humiliation! Having to explain it to a total stranger—plus you can’t be sure they won’t blab. But I know that you’d be discreet. Unlike Felicity. Please Laura,’ she begged. ‘I was going to phone you, but it’s much easier asking you face to face. I’m glad Luke had to abandon you tonight as it’s given me this chance to talk to you.’
‘Couldn’t you follow him yourself?’
‘No.‘ She shuddered. ‘It would be…awful. In any case, I’d give myself away. He’d spot me—I know he would—because he’d somehow sense that I was there, because of our emotional connection, but for that reason, I doubt he’d see you. Please, Laura,’ she added. ‘Please. I’m in turmoil.’ I looked at her anguished expression. I so wanted to help.
‘I’m sorry, Hope. But the answer is no.’
I like facts. I find them comforting. Facts make you feel somehow secure. You can usually rely on facts in the way that you can’t trust opinion and conjecture. Facts won’t let you down. I don’t just mean the ‘Riga is the capital of Latvia’ kind of fact, but facts in the broader, human, sense. For there were certain facts about Mike’s behaviour, for example, which led painfully, but inexorably, to one conclusion. Which is why I refused to do what Hope asked.
If I’d thought she was barking up the wrong tree, I would happily have agreed to her request, in order to have the pleasure of proving her wrong. But I didn’t believe that she was. For why else would Mike be behaving in such a
n odd way? If he was doing something quite innocent—going to the gym, or to an evening class—he’d be open about it. If he was having dinner with clients, he’d say. If he was going to see his parents, or his sister, he’d tell her, and in any case she always goes too.
It was possible that Mike was doing something that, for whatever reason, he felt self-conscious about. Seeing a shrink, for example, or going to church, or attending Weight Watchers (not that he’s fat) or Alcoholics Anonymous (not that he drinks), or going to a lap-dancing club with some of his racier colleagues. But if that were all it was then he’d admit it rather than let Hope continue in the destructive belief that he was having an affair.
But he’s refusing to enlighten her in any way about his activities, whilst continuing to come home late twice a week. So the facts do, unfortunately, seem to support Hope’s growing belief that Mike is ‘embroiled’. That’s why she was in such an unsympathetic mood I now realized. And that’s why she was so tough on Luke. She was transferring all her anger and negativity about Mike’s behaviour on to him.
Even so, I felt awful refusing to help.
‘I’m sorry, Hope,’ I said again. ‘But I just can’t do it.’ I fiddled with my napkin.
‘I know why. You’re refusing because you’re angry with me for criticizing Luke. Aren’t you? Because I didn’t say what you wanted to hear.’
‘That’s not the reason at all.’
‘Yes it is. That’s just what you were like when we were kids. You’re trying to punish me.’
‘No I’m not.’
She picked up her bag. ‘Anyway, I’m going home. Kindly do not mention what we discussed tonight to anyone.’
‘I won’t. You know that, Hope.’
‘Yes,’ she said frigidly. ‘I do at least know I can rely on your discretion—even if I can’t rely on your support.’ She gave me an ‘Et tu, Brute?’ look and then left.
So, to confirm to myself that I had made the right decision, I imagined doing as she wished. As I sat there, sipping my espresso, I imagined following Mike from work, on foot, or by taxi, keeping a safe distance, hoping that I wouldn’t be spotted by him, or by anyone else for that matter given that my face has become familiar through the quiz. I imagined watching him enter his girlfriend’s house, or some faceless hotel, then having to hang around until he emerged, hair ruffled, tie askew—quite possibly with her. Hope would no doubt want photographic evidence. Now I imagined presenting her with a photo of them kissing perhaps, or holding hands. No, I said to myself again. No way. I’d happily give Hope one of my kidneys, my blood, my bone marrow, or my life savings—but I wasn’t prepared to give her bad news.