She’d thought about Montallon this afternoon, about the English family and the lost child and the way she’d been drawn into their drama. She hadn’t made a fool of herself, she thought, not then and not over Martin, but she’d touched a boundary she’d never had to be aware of before. She couldn’t rely on the instincts she’d honed in her previous life to guide her in every circumstance now: the world was less well-known than it had always seemed, and her place in it less assured.
She dipped her head under the surface, letting the meniscus close over her face, then shook her hair out in the way she used to as a child, sending a spray of droplets over the side of the bath. Fresh air and water: a ritual of purification for a new life. She felt a surge of contentment that reminded her of those late-night baths she used to take after operating; those sweet moments of solitude and self-reliance.
But she was aware – how could she not be? – that she was in a delicate position. Delicate in many ways: not simply the fragile heart of the widow, although that wasn’t the least of it. Henry was dead, and she’d endured years of his infidelity, but he was too recently dead for her emotions to be straightforward. But what she felt on Henry’s account wasn’t so much guilt as pity: the compassion of the living for the dead, a phenomenon she’d observed many times in her professional life. A decent interval, she thought. Should she mind that two months wasn’t a decent interval? And then there were her decades of distinguished service to the feminist cause, and the lessons she ought to have learned last time she’d fallen for a romantic ideal. Part of her was astonished to catch herself succumbing with just as little caution as she’d done four decades before, and that part of her was determined to protect her dignity more effectively this time.
By the time she finally climbed out of the bath it was ten to eight. She got dressed in a hurry then, stopping only briefly to glance at the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed with heat; she looked healthy and happy. She smiled, pursed her lips, gathered herself.
Martin was already here. She heard his voice as she reached the bottom of the stairs, speaking French of the rapid, animated kind he’d used with the wine-maker yesterday. Flora followed the sound to the kitchen door. She hadn’t seen Francine Abelard all day, and her scruples on that score competed now with a twinge of what might pass for jealousy. It must be Francine that Martin was speaking to so fervently – and speaking about what, she wondered? About her? Or about something else entirely?
Madame Abelard saw her first.
‘Et voilà,’ she said. ‘Good evening, Madame.’
Martin turned and smiled at her. He said something too, something simple and polite which Flora didn’t hear because her head was filled suddenly with white noise, as though she was changing channel on an old-fashioned television set. There was nothing unexpected about him, about what he said or how he looked, but she had a sudden, powerful sense of misapprehension. She’d tuned into the wrong channel, she thought, allowed the wrong picture to take shape in her mind. The wrong idea of herself, as much as anything. She remembered vividly at that moment his hands on her body, his arms around her, images distilling disconcertingly from the fog in her head.
Francine took a step back, as though reading something in Flora’s expression.
‘Alors,’ she said, ‘allez-vous-en.’
It seemed to Flora then that this outing was a terrible mistake. She had no idea whether it was meant to paper over what had happened last night or to cement it, but she sincerely wished that neither was necessary: that they could simply forget it. But Martin was looking at her expectantly, and Madame too. There was no choice, Flora could see that. She was dressed to go out for dinner, and she couldn’t possibly explain – certainly not in front of Madame Abelard – that in some obscure way this wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She followed Martin out to the car and let him whisk her away through the dusk.
*
The restaurant Martin had chosen looked unprepossessing – a single-storey building at the side of the road. The interior was similarly drab: a lot of pale wood, and plain tables arranged in rows. More like a classroom than a restaurant, Flora thought. This was not, surely, the place a man of Martin’s discernment would bring someone he wanted to impress. She felt a pricking of disappointment, and then of impatience. How perverse she was. Hadn’t she wanted to abandon the evening altogether, ten minutes ago? How could she want the situation further distorted by romantic flummery?
‘You’re quiet this evening,’ Martin said, when the waitress left them at their table.
‘I’m rather tired,’ Flora said. ‘I went for a long walk this afternoon.’
‘Working up an appetite?’ Martin smiled. ‘That’s good. You’ll need one.’
As soon as she opened the menu Flora understood. Romantic flummery might not be Martin’s line, but food certainly was. Neither her French nor her culinary discernment was as expert as his, but the quality of the cuisine was immediately apparent, even to her, from the descriptions of the food.
‘They’ll have a Michelin star by next year,’ Martin said, with satisfaction. ‘Worked bloody hard for it, too.’ He shut the menu and smiled at her. He was wearing a tie, Flora noticed belatedly, and a shirt that looked brand new. ‘Let’s leave it to Pascal,’ he said. ‘Nothing you don’t eat, is there?’
Flora shook her head. After the tumult of the last hour she felt a blessed sense of relief. She had never been to a Michelin starred restaurant before, or even one on the verge of such distinction, but just now it seemed the perfect answer. They could spend the evening eating their way through a sequence of delights that neither of them would have to choose.
*
After that, conversation flowed quite easily, although it covered ground Flora hadn’t anticipated.
‘Was your husband a doctor too?’ Martin asked, as the amuses bouches arrived.
‘Heavens, no,’ said Flora. ‘Nothing like that. He was a music critic. He wrote reviews and introduced concerts, that sort of thing. The Proms, for years and years. He had a chat show, too.’
‘On the radio?’
‘Henry Jones’ Musical World. It had quite a following, for Radio Three.’
‘Henry Jones?’ Martin looked incredulous. ‘How extraordinary. We’re connected, then. My wife’s a cousin of his – a distant cousin of some kind.’
‘Really?’
Flora felt the ground between them shifting, making their meeting both less simple and less unexpected. His wife and her husband: well, well. Not after all two strangers, but threads twining within a social pattern. Signs and coincidence, she thought, remembering that moment on the ferry, aeons ago now. She was still suspicious of their intrusion into her life, although the last few weeks had revealed them everywhere.
‘They met, I think, a while back,’ Martin said. ‘Their paths crossed. Some family business.’
Flora shrugged. It wasn’t likely she would remember a family matter of Henry’s. Henry’s family hadn’t featured much in their life. It wasn’t the kind that went in for gatherings or genealogy.
‘Some financial arrangement, I think.’ Martin looked at Flora as though something had occurred to him, but after a moment, a tiny moment, he shook his head. ‘Miranda used to listen to his show. She has the musical gene too. Friday afternoon, wasn’t it?’
‘Two o’clock.’
Flora had never listened to Henry’s programme: she’d always had an outpatients clinic on Friday afternoons. Towards the end, when she was at home with him, Radio Three had played some repeats, but he hadn’t wanted to listen to them. Especially not the older ones, with guests who’d died since the programme was made. Harold Pinter, Ted Heath, Muriel Spark.
‘Quite the power couple,’ said Martin.
‘Hardly.’ Flora felt a familiar twist of regret, the kind that shades into irony, for the gap between the glamorous image Martin’s phrase conjured up and the shabbier reality of her marriage.
The waiter appeared, carrying two more plates.
�
�Terrine de canard aux noix,’ he said, bowing as he backed away again.
‘How beautiful,’ Flora said. ‘Too pretty to eat, almost.’
The décor might be plain here, she thought, but the dishes were not. The terrine was served with a fan of perfect French toast, fringed by redcurrants and little fronds of some herb she didn’t recognise. She smiled at Martin. She didn’t mean to talk about Henry anymore. This was a nice occasion: she wouldn’t let it be spoiled by shadows.
‘Tell me about Madame Abelard,’ she said instead. ‘Tell me about her family.’
‘Dear Francine,’ said Martin. ‘Oh, that’s a long, sad story.’
‘We’ve got all evening.’
‘So we have.’ Martin hesitated, though; Flora could sense his reluctance.
‘Not if you don’t –’ she started to say, and at the same time Martin said, ‘I suppose you’ve guessed we were lovers.’
Flora’s heart jumped a little; but only a little, she was pleased about that. More at the unexpectedness of the words than at what they conveyed, she thought.
‘Not anymore,’ Martin said. ‘Not for a long time. We were childhood sweethearts, donkeys years ago. We were practically engaged when we were seventeen. Then her brother died while I was away at university in England, and when I came back the next summer she was married to that oaf Claude Abelard.’
‘Why?’ Flora asked.
‘I’ve never understood. For the farm, I suppose: it was a prosperous concern back then. Francine’s family fell apart when Jean-Pierre died, that was the thing. The whole village was rocked by it.’
‘And he was a friend of yours?’
‘They both were. He was a year older than me, Francine a year younger. He was a terrific chap. Generous, capable, turned his hand to anything. The father was a lawyer, but he was an invalid. They were all waiting for Jean-Pierre to take up the reins, keep the family on the road.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Meningitis. Went off to university in Paris, and he was dead within a month. Just a small outbreak, but he copped it. Terrible luck.’
‘Awful,’ Flora agreed. ‘Poor Francine. So she married Monsieur Abelard, and that was it for the two of you?’
‘Not quite.’ Martin made a rueful gesture.
‘I’m sorry,’ Flora said. ‘It’s none of my business.’
Martin looked at her for a moment or two. ‘Not for a long time now,’ he said. ‘Just friends, or – just friends now.’
He took a piece of bread from the basket and tore it apart. Flora ate the last morsel of her terrine with a delicacy that felt unfamiliar; the tang of the redcurrants reminded her uncomfortably of Francine Abelard.
The next few courses passed with small talk about Martin’s business and his daughter’s wedding. A different sort of dialogue, Flora thought, as though they’d remembered that they hardly knew each other. They ate fish and then lamb, and then a cheese trolley appeared beside the table and a recitation of their names and provenances was given, which reminded Flora of a party game she’d played as a child. She was very full already, and still unaccustomed to the French habit of eating cheese before dessert, but she chose a couple, and slivers were cut and placed in front of her.
‘I should have introduced you to the neighbours,’ Martin said. ‘Some you can give a wide berth to, but there are a few you might like to meet.’
‘You haven’t seen my house yet,’ Flora said. ‘You might not like it.’
He smiled at her. ‘Ah, but you like Les Violettes, don’t you? I’m not sure I have a choice in the matter.’
And now there was just the dessert to come. What happened next, Flora wondered, as the waiter set before her a confection that looked more like modern art than food? Had she forgotten, somehow, that this genteel social dance would end very soon with the two of them on opposite sides of the Channel?
Martin hadn’t tasted his gourmandise de chocolat either. Flora caught his eye, and he reached a hand across the table to take hers. She felt a charge of pleasure run up her arm and down towards her belly. It seemed to her now that she’d been waiting for this all evening; that she’d wanted to touch him since that first moment in Francine Abelard’s kitchen. But it felt enough, this clasping of hands. As much as she could manage, just now.
‘I’ve got to be off early tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to . . . I have to go, I’m afraid. But if you like we could –’
‘No,’ Flora said, although her heart beat painfully. Better, she thought, to be the one to assert common sense. So much better than waiting for him to do it. ‘I’ll go home. Back to the Abelards’.’
He said nothing for a few moments; she thought she could read relief in his face. ‘I’ll give you a set of keys,’ he said. ‘You can move in whenever you like. Marie-José comes on Monday mornings. She’ll show you everything you need.’
Flora nodded. She reached into her bag and took out her keys – the only set of keys for Orchards she’d brought with her. ‘You’ve got the address?’ she said. ‘I’ll let the agents know. And my daughters.’
‘Of course if they want to come home – or you do . . .’
He looked troubled, Flora thought. An unfamiliar phenomenon: a man with scruples. Or was that wishful thinking? He’d got exactly what he wanted, she thought suddenly. A clean exit. She felt sure, all at once, that he had never lost sight of that fact; that despite her best efforts she had been naïve. Life had prepared her well enough for this sort of scene, though. She mustered her self-possession, and the requisite degree of briskness.
‘I don’t expect they will,’ she said. ‘But thank you, anyway.’
‘I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Some time in the summer, I’ll be back.’
‘As you like,’ said Flora.
‘Of course if you’d rather I stayed elsewhere . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Flora almost managed a laugh. But Martin was still frowning, and she felt a quiver of irritation now. They understood each other perfectly: what more, exactly, could he want from her?
‘It’s been a very pleasurable few days, Flora,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She smiled, and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Yes, it has.’
November 2004
They are in bed, awake, naked. This is not something to be taken for granted; not so much a part of the normal run of things that it should pass without notice.
Flora has just got back from a conference in Geneva, where she’s been awarded a medal by the European Surgical Society, and she and Henry have been celebrating with a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet. She feels happy, and tender: she’s at the pinnacle of her career, and her marriage has settled. Her patience and her judgement have been rewarded at last. She leans across to kiss Henry, and feels a quiver in her belly.
The workings of her body please Flora more and more as she gets older. There’s one thing to be said for the vicissitudes of her marriage: sex has never been dull. Passion could have declined slowly into companionship, for them as for others, but instead an exhilarating spectrum of emotions has been brought to their bed over the last twenty-five years – rage, remorse, regret and even, sometimes, retaliation. Imagine how things might have been if she’d accepted one of those men her mother intended for her, stalwarts of the Tory party and the City Livery Companies for a quarter of a century now. She laughs at the thought, and Henry raises an eyebrow.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Tony Glover.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘My mother wanted me to marry him,’ Flora says. ‘A suitable beau.’
‘I thought she wanted you to marry Landon?’
‘Only as a last resort. Tony Glover was the apogee of her hopes.’
Henry frowns, miming offence.
‘I’ve kept you in the manner to which she was accustomed, haven’t I?’
‘Well,’ Flora says. ‘On and off.’
His chest jerks up and down as he laughs. ‘I’ve never regretted it for a moment,
’ he says. ‘Marrying you.’
‘I should hope not.’
‘Have you?’
Flora’s heart bobs, riding out a ripple on the water, but it passes.
‘No,’ she says. ‘At times, maybe, but – no.’
She kisses him again, then runs her hand down over his chest, its familiar lines softened by the years. The triangle of hair below his throat is greying faster than the thick curls on his head, she notices.
‘There’s a bump there,’ he says. ‘A cyst, or something.’
‘Where?’
‘In my tit,’ he says, ‘or near it. Male menopause, maybe. Growing boobs in my old age. I’ll be impotent before you know it.’
Flora smiles, sliding her hand round the contour of his ribcage. ‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘Not just yet.’
Something rings: her hand halts, tightens, relaxes again. The house phone, not her mobile.
‘Leave it,’ she says. ‘It won’t be for me. Not on duty this weekend.’
The phone stops, then rings again.
‘Better get it,’ Henry says. ‘Could be one of the girls.’
‘Unlikely.’ Kitty’s staying the night with a friend; Lou is at university and has better things to do on Saturday nights than ring her parents.
The phone rings on. Henry leans towards it without a word.
‘Hello?’ he says. ‘No. Yes. Maybe tomorrow. OK.’
‘Who was it?’ Flora asks. Her voice is gentle, unthreatening, but her eyes are wide open.
‘No one.’ Henry pats her on the shoulder; a tell-tale gesture. She smiles and says nothing, and he looms above her, the swing of his penis ungainly as a shipyard crane.
*
Afterwards Flora lies still and silent, listening to Henry’s breathing slowing, deepening; to the sudden catch and gurgle in his throat as he slides into sleep. She feels the warmth of him, his weight in the bed, the comfort of having her husband beside her. For a long while she doesn’t move: she should savour this moment, she thinks. This might be the last time for a long time – perhaps for ever – that she lies beside him, naked, awake.
The Things You Do for Love Page 14