by Alison James
When she eventually admitted a rain-soaked Marcus to the Battersea house one dank, wet February evening, he handed her the keys to a newly-acquired flat. And then, to her shock, he dropped on one knee and said, ‘Will you marry me, Lucinda?’
She hadn’t answered for a few minutes, by which time Marcus had stood up again, frowning, as she brushed rain drops from his overcoat.
‘I thought you were in love with me. I thought you’d be thrilled.’
‘I am… it’s just…’ Lucy had been flustered. ‘You’re not even divorced yet… Maybe we should try living together in the flat for a while before we make any big decisions?’
And then she saw him angry for the first time.
‘You little bitch,’ he had said coldly, snatching the set of keys back from her hand so roughly that it left a weal on her palm. But it was his words that hurt her most, sending a jolt of ice down her spine. ‘You tempt me away from my home and family and then have the nerve to suggest it’s too trivial for us to get married? That it’s less hassle just to shack up?’
Wrong-footed and a little frightened, Lucy assured Marcus that she did want to marry, but perhaps after a year or two. But he moved her possessions into the rented flat the following evening and they ended up marrying as soon as his divorce was finalised, in May 2013. It was a small affair at Chelsea Town Hall, with just Lucy’s parents and a handful of friends. She wore a cream Chanel suit and a wide-brimmed hat rather than a long dress and veil, which seemed right, even if it was not how she had once pictured herself as a bride. It ended up being a happy day, happy enough to convince Lucy that getting married to Marcus was the right thing too. Because, after all, Lucy really did love him. She couldn’t have loved anyone more. Or more blindly.
It starts to rain halfway through the fifteen-minute walk to the café, and Lucy has not brought an umbrella with her. By the time she arrives, her jacket is spotted with wet patches, her cheeks are damp and her pale hair is slicked darkly to her scalp. She feels flustered; more so knowing that she is not giving off the confident, reassuring air she had aimed for. At this moment in time, she does not look like someone who has their act – or their life – together.
The café is filled with sodden coats and umbrellas, steaming up the windows so much that Lucy doesn’t see Jane coming in. Jane has remembered her umbrella, so her springy auburn curls look fresh and her make-up intact. She does look like a woman who has her act together. She’s stylishly, if not fashionably, dressed in cowboy boots and a plaid dress that disguises her slightly matronly hips.
After they’ve ordered coffees, the two women exchange light chat about the terrible weather and discuss Jane’s work at a chi-chi homewares shop in Clapham.
‘It’s not exactly an intellectual challenge,’ she says with a rueful smile. ‘And my dad would be turning in his grave at the thought of his brainy daughter working in a shop. But the hours are really flexible, so it’s great for fitting in around the kids and their activities.’
‘Sounds perfect then,’ Lucy smiles over the rim of her coffee cup, hoping the entire conversation is not going to centre round children or the lack of them.
‘So have you had any more thoughts about what you’ll do once you’ve got your master’s? You’ll be finished with your studies in a few months, presumably?’
Lucy nods. ‘I’m planning to take the summer off and then start looking around.’ She hasn’t run this past Marcus, of course, but it feels like the right thing to say.
‘Any particular direction you’re interested in?’
Lucy feels her cheeks colour slightly. Of course she has thought about this, quite a lot. She has discussed it with the other students on her course. But saying it out loud still feels strange, makes it disturbingly real. ‘I’d really like to go down the charity route. Ideally something that involves working with asylum seekers.’
Jane nods, clearly thinking this sounds neither odd nor silly. But her warm brown eyes are fixed on Lucy’s face as she says, ‘I get the impression Marcus isn’t keen. That he’s not going to make that easy for you.’
Lucy makes a reflexive shrug. ‘Well… I mean, obviously he’s incredibly busy, and relies on me for support at home. And it’s not as though we need a second income to make ends meet.’
‘Of course not,’ Jane says, with a slightly sardonic smile.
‘But if there was something I really wanted to do then he wouldn’t stand in my way.’
‘I would bloody well hope not.’
‘I mean, he’d support me.’
Lucy is aware of the guilty flush spreading up her neck. Would he? Does she really believe that? Jane clearly doesn’t.
‘It can’t be easy, being married to Marcus,’ she observes bluntly. He seems to take the expression “control freak” to a whole new level.’
‘He’s not that bad,’ Lucy begins, then remembers that Jane saw with her own eyes that he was.
‘And do you really not want children?’ Jane goes on, before Lucy can steer the conversation onto something neutral. She glances desperately at her watch. ‘You’re… how old?’
‘I’ve just had my thirty-fourth birthday.’
‘Oh, so you’re still young enough,’ Jane exclaims. ‘There’s still plenty of time.’ She is looking straight at Lucy, expecting an answer.
Lucy lowers her gaze. ‘I did want children, yes. But Marcus is adamant that two is enough, so…’ She picks up a paper packet of demerara sugar and twists it until the golden crystals scatter over the table. They have two children. Just not her children.
‘He might change his mind. Men do, you know. Robin was one hundred per cent certain he never wanted three, but he relented.’
Lucy screws up the packet of sugar and tosses it onto her saucer. ‘Unfortunately, Marcus can’t really change his mind. He’s had a vasectomy.’
Jane gives a sympathetic sigh, looking down into her own coffee as she stirs it. ‘I suppose that’s the risk of being the second wife. That he’s already gone down that road with his first.’
‘No…’ Lucy bites her lip. ‘He had the vasectomy a few weeks before we got married.’
Jane stops mid-stir, her eyes widening. ‘What? And you knew about this?’
‘He told me when we were on honeymoon.’
This time Jane makes no attempt to disguise her shock, allowing her mouth to fall open and shaking her head slowly.
‘He didn’t want there to be any accidents,’ Lucy keeps her voice low. ‘Any drunken mistakes.’
‘You mean he doesn’t trust you to use contraception correctly?’ Jane says. ‘Seriously, Lucy, that’s so wrong! To do it without telling you. And for you to not find out until you’re married and it’s too late. Although…’ She narrows her eyes slightly, adding darkly, ‘of course, it never is too late.’
But it is too late, Lucy thinks grimly; he’s made sure of that.
‘Belt and braces: that’s how Marcus does things at work,’ Lucy explains. ‘He can never afford to leave anything to chance: someone’s life might depend on it. And I suppose that carries over into his private life as well.’
Jane gives her a long, steady look. There is kindness in it, but also resolve. ‘What I saw at Fiona and Jonathan’s the other night… that kind of behaviour isn’t right, you know. Manhandling you like that constitutes…’ Jane hesitates, moving her lips as though trying to pluck the right word from her mouth, ‘… abuse.’
Lucy pretends to be inspecting flaws in her manicure. She becomes aware that she’s holding her breath.
‘Lucy?’ Jane’s voice is gentle. ‘I’m only bringing this up because I’m concerned for you. I know Fiona saw it too, but she’s so blind to her brother’s flaws there was no point in trying to discuss it with her.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Lucy juts her chin slightly.
‘Had he ever done that before?’
‘Not really.’
This is not true, and she hopes Jane won’t ask her to expand. She doesn’t want to have to
tell her that Marcus routinely asks where she’s going and where she’s been and with whom, has demanded to know her passcode so that he can access her phone at will. That he shouts and smashes things when he loses his temper. Instead she would like to tell Jane all about the day, when they were first working together, that she slipped into the back of the lecture theatre at St Mary’s and watched Marcus explaining a procedure to medical students. She would like to describe the rapt attention on their faces, as he talked them through the intricacies of cardiac disease, infusing the talk with passion, humour and fascinating anecdotes. She’d love to tell Jane how attentive her husband can be, and about the surprise gifts that he brings home for her: expensive but personal pieces of jewellery, beautiful silk lingerie, exquisite scent. The impromptu trips he’s planned for them: to Rome and the Swiss Alps. And Paris.
The trip to Paris, though, has stuck in her mind for other reasons too. Because that was when it all began to go wrong.
When they arrived in the city, Marcus was tired and stressed from operating, and rejected Lucy’s suggestion of a moonlit wander along the Seine. They would eat in the hotel restaurant and then get an early night. But still, because it was Paris and the restaurant had a Michelin star, Lucy made an effort. She put on a sexy dress and very high heels, and plenty of scarlet lipstick. Over dinner, Marcus was tetchy and impatient with the waiters, who fawned over Lucy.
‘More champagne for you, Madame?’
‘Some dessert for you perhaps, Madame?’
As soon as they got to their room, he slammed the door and grabbed her by the arm. ‘What the fuck was that about?’
‘What? What was what about?’
‘Flirting with the waiters like that. It was disgusting! Were you deliberately trying to humiliate me?’
‘I wasn’t flirting!’ Lucy had protested. ‘That’s just what they’re like in places like this. It’s all part of their job.’
Marcus picked up a piece of brass sculpture from the antique side table and hurled it in her direction. It hit her temple, cutting it open. Lucy, shocked into silence, felt blood on her fingers. Then she started to cry, tears and mucous taking on the colour of the blood and making a rust-brown smear on her upper lip and chin. He came towards her, reaching out for her, but she shrank away, then darted to the door. He blocked her exit by placing his back against it, and shook his head.
‘You’re going nowhere, Lucinda. If you leave me, it will be the last thing you do.’
The memory of that night makes Lucy shiver.
‘Are you okay?’ Jane asks, peering into her eyes.
‘I’m fine.’
Because she is fine, and therefore there’s no need to tell Jane any of this. Instead of telling tales out of school about her marriage, she is going to embark on a campaign of positive public relations. She’ll demonstrate that Marcus is no monster, that he can be reasonable. And she’ll start by inviting the Standishes round to their house for supper.
‘How about next Thursday?’ she asks Jane, consulting the calendar app on her phone. Marcus doesn’t usually operate on Thursdays, and so tends to get home at a more reasonable time. ‘Just a kitchen supper: you and Robin and a couple of other friends.’
If Jane is taken aback by this development, she hides her doubts graciously. ‘Of course, that would be lovely. Fiona says your house is fabulous. Can I bring anything?’
Lucy shakes her head as she pushes her arms into her damp jacket. She’s already planning the menu: things Marcus particularly likes. ‘Just yourselves.’
Four
Lucy decides she’ll invite Helen to supper – one of the women on her university course – and Helen’s partner Pete. She doesn’t really know Pete, but he’s an IT systems analyst so she calculates he should at least be intelligent enough to hold a decent conversation. Helen has a nose piercing and favours dungarees and boiler suits, so won’t exactly be Marcus’s cup of tea. But he’s used to meeting people from very varied walks of life, and so there’s nothing to stop him being at his affable best, even if he doesn’t share Helen’s politics. And Helen and Pete are childless, which is a big incentive for choosing them over her other friends. It will help steer Jane away from the vexed topic of parenthood. And Robin Standish is the easy-going sort who will get on with anyone.
First, and most importantly, she needs to get the occasion put in the diary. Almost every minute of Marcus’s days are taken up with operating, outpatient clinics, private consultations, teaching commitments and committee work. Anything that Lucy and Marcus do together has to be tabled in his appointment diary at work, and in order to do this he insists that Lucy speaks to his PA, Beryl. ‘Beryl’s the only one who knows what I’m doing at any given time,’ he tells her. ‘Everything has to be run by her, or it’s not happening.’
Lucy hates phoning Beryl. She tried arranging to text her instead, but Beryl, who is in her sixties, doesn’t hold with this as a form of communication. In Marcus’s presence, she’s twinkly, smiley, almost flirtatious, but with everyone else she’s a brisk, no-nonsense woman whose smile never reaches her eyes and who can signal disapproval with a single syllable.
‘Isn’t it time Beryl retired?’ Lucy queried once.
‘Nonsense, she’s got as much energy as women twenty years her junior,’ Marcus snapped back. ‘And my life would grind to a halt without her: she’s the only one who knows what’s going on and where I’m supposed to be.’
His life, Lucy noted. Not his work life, but his entire life.
‘And how are we?’ Beryl trills when she picks up the phone on Lucy’s fourth attempt.
She hates me, Lucy thinks. She hates me because I get to sleep with her adored Marcus, and she never will. And she disapproves of me because I’m the flibbertigibbet he left his children for. Lucy knows that Beryl is no fan of Amber either, but to her Tom and Lydia are mini deities.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Lucy says politely, inwardly furious that she has to defer to this woman before she can invite her own friends to her own home. ‘I wonder if you could put something in the diary for next week: we’re having people over for supper on Thursday, 7.30 for 8.’
‘I’ll double-check, but as far as I know, that should be fine.’ Beryl speaks with vinegary politeness.
Lucy pauses a beat. ‘So it’s in the diary?’
‘Yes,’ says Beryl slowly and clearly, a parent being pestered by annoying child. ‘I’ve just said it is.’
They’re having a braised shoulder of lamb, because it’s easy and because Marcus likes lamb. And they’re start with some prawns, because he loves seafood, and finishing with lemon meringue pie, which is his favourite. She spreads a grey linen cloth over the long oak table in the breakfast room and sets it with floral plates, coloured glassware and a vase of bunched jonquils, creating an effect that’s both pretty and informal, then sets about tidying the drawing room. Not that it needs very much doing, because her cleaner vacuumed and dusted in there a couple of days ago, and the room isn’t used much. It’s very much a grown-up room, with its tall shuttered windows, walls painted in Farrow & Ball’s ‘Down Pipe’ and huge magenta velvet sofas. Tom and Lydia are discouraged from coming in here, and Marcus is insistent that their belongings stay in their own rooms. Lucy plumps up the sofa cushions and puts a vase of white tulips on the coffee table, then goes upstairs to change.
At seven twenty-five she hears Marcus unlocking the front door, slamming it behind him and flinging down his briefcase. The slamming and the flinging do not augur well. She has learned the signs over the years; the non-verbal clues to her husband’s mood. When she comes downstairs, he doesn’t compliment her on her red floral dress – which, like her supper table, is both pretty and informal – but instead scowls.
‘I need a drink,’ is all he says.
‘I’ve just opened the wine,’ Lucy says calmly, walking into the kitchen, where the air is filled with a deliciously garlicky aroma.
Marcus follows her then stops, stock-still, in the doorway. ‘What t
he fuck is this?’ he demands, gesturing towards the table.
‘What d’you mean?’ Lucy asks. Her fingers tremble, slipping on the neck of the chilled bottle of wine.
‘All this? Why is the table set for six people?’
‘Because we’re having people over for supper,’ Lucy says, keeping her tone even. ‘Jane and Robin Standish, and Helen from college and her boyfriend Pete.’
‘Why wasn’t it in the diary?’
‘It was,’ Lucy insists, though, of course, she has no way of knowing this, because she is not the keeper of The Diary. She is just the wife. ‘I phoned Beryl about it last week and asked her to put it in there.’
Marcus is shaking his head. ‘No,’ he says coldly. ‘No, you didn’t. It wasn’t in there. If it was, Beryl would have told me. She never makes mistake about these things. It’s her job, for fuck’s sake.’
Lucy feels little currents of anger run down her spine, ending somewhere behind her knees, which start to shake. She grips the back of one of the chairs. ‘I did. I told Beryl.’ She forces the words out between her teeth. ‘And she was supposed to let you know about it.’ The wine in the glass she has just poured slops slightly as she lifts it to her mouth and takes a large gulp. ‘Anyway, what does it matter? You’re here now, and everyone else will be arriving in half an hour.’
‘What does it matter?’ Marcus’s lips curl in a sneer. ‘I’ll tell you why it flaming well matters. I’ve been on my feet since six this morning. I’ve done a ward round, seen about twenty patients all with horrendously complex problems, had a meeting with hospital managers to try in vain to stop them axing the salary of our desperately needed second consultant, and I’ve done surgery to try and save a myocardial infarction case, who then went and died on the table.’
‘But you don’t operate on Thur—’
‘It was an emergency case, you idiot! One that came in via A&E. And, in the middle of all this, nobody said anything about having to come home and entertain a bunch of strangers.’