‘I’m exhausted. I’m going to lie down,’ I tell them.
Their eyes do not move from the TV screen. ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ belts from the surround-sound. Engrossed in The Lion King. They are obsessed with it, watching it time and time again, even though they have already seen it at the theatre, on that dreadful outing with Caprice. The time when she was so rude about the restaurant I chose. The time she lost her temper with me during the interval.
I pad upstairs, limbs like lead. I step into our bedroom, collapse onto our bed, and cry. Softly to begin with, but the more I think about my life, the way it is imploding, the more my sobbing increases. Panic throbs through me like a simmering toothache.
The door bursts open. Miles stares down at me, looking handsome in his weekend casuals. Lips tight. Face like stone. He pushes his golden hair back from his forehead.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asks, voice sharp.
I sit up and wipe my eyes. ‘I’m just so worried about the inspection.’
He shakes his head slowly. ‘It isn’t that.’ He pauses. ‘I know there’s something going on between you and Aiden.’
His words stab into me. ‘What? No. Don’t be ridiculous, Miles,’ I reply.
He shrugs. He bites his lip. ‘I saw you together, holding hands in the kitchen.’
I stiffen. ‘It isn’t what you think.’
He walks towards the door to leave. He turns. ‘Isn’t it?’ he almost spits.
I don’t reply. I just look at his ashen face and wither inside. The last thing I wanted to do was to upset my husband again.
‘At least you weren’t kissing him this time.’
His voice pounds against my eardrums like a hammer. My head begins to ache.
130
Miles
‘At least you weren’t kissing him this time,’ I shout so loudly that my jaw vibrates.
I want to storm out of the bedroom and slam the door. I want to go and see Aiden and smash his face. What is happening to me? I used to be a pacifist. I have only ever hit anyone once in my whole life: my brother, when he kissed you. And now I am imagining the sound of his nose cracking. The stench of his blood. I push my violent desire away, take a deep breath to calm myself, and stand watching you.
‘I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with anything right now.’ You roll over in bed, put your head in the pillow and weep. ‘You don’t understand,’ you whimper between sobs.
‘What is there to understand?’ I ask.
You pull your head from the bed, sit up and glare at me. ‘Just how much Aiden comes on to me. Just how often I have to push him away.’
My stomach tightens. Anger builds inside me again. ‘So you push him away by holding his hand?’
‘I was begging him to stop.’
‘Funny way of doing that.’
You get off the bed and walk towards me. ‘I was begging him to stop and I’m begging you to believe me.’
You push your eyes into mine. Sadder than sad. I soften inside. You stand in front of me, with your perfect tear-stained face. I pull you towards me and put my arms around you. Your body melts into mine. You smell of rose and vanilla. Our lips meet. I believe you. I have to believe you. I have no choice. I don’t ever want to lose you. I believe you and forgive you once again.
131
Caprice
I feel discord in the house. It rises from your bedroom into the eaves. It floats on the airwaves and makes me feel happy.
You and Miles are both shouting. Saffron, you deserve my son’s animosity. You never had the perfect relationship, did you? Not like Rupert and me. Rupert, with his strong, wavy copper hair and cheeky smile. He had kindness in his soul, and kindness in his eyes. I was his shining star, his muse, his angel. We kissed every night before we went to sleep. Every morning he told me he loved me. We never had a cross word. Ever.
After one of your tirades, I mentioned this to you, Saffron. You put your head back and laughed. With your sharp pointy nose and razor-blade cheekbones, you looked like a hyena.
‘You need arguments in a relationship. It’s an important part of standing your ground, listening to each other and communicating. If you never have a cross word it must be because you don’t care about each other enough.’
Oh, Saffron, what you said was so wrong. I cared very much. What is wrong with companionable silence, peace and laughter? Your relationships are a complex mixture of anger, and anger management. I overheard Miles accusing you of infidelity again. What or whom have you been doing now? Is it Aiden? Ted? Aristos? Or someone I’ve never heard of, let alone met? A toy boy? A sugar daddy? For a stick insect who wears thick horn-rimmed glasses, you do seem to attract a lot of sexual attention.
So, your relationship is hanging on by a thread. How are you going to manage when your firm goes under? Even though I am tired, so tired, I smile inside as I contemplate your ruin. Will you be arrested for fraud? For money laundering? Will you go to prison? Will you have a mental breakdown? You’ve been showing the signs. Even more irascible than usual. Fretting about the smallest thing. Neglecting the children, even though Social Care wouldn’t believe me.
I rub my back. It’s killing me. The pain is so intense, I stumble out of bed and hobble to the bathroom to fetch my painkillers. I’ll ring the doctor tomorrow. Despite all the pills he’s given me, my symptoms are getting worse.
132
Hayley
I’m up early because I couldn’t sleep. Sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee waiting for the sun to come up. You and Saffron have had another argument. Last night, when I returned from my night out with Jono, I heard you shouting as I walked up the stairs. Maybe Caprice is right. Maybe you will soon be looking for a way out with an attentive younger woman.
Drinking coffee, comparing the men in my life.
Jono.
Twenty-eight years old. Smokes like a trooper. Thin as a rake. Always wears his signature outfit, an out-of-date punk look. Purple, orange, pink or green hair, depending on the latest rinse. Skinny black jeans with rips in. T-shirt. Tight black blazer covered in studs and badges. An eclectic range of badges: armed forces, punk bands, heavy metal, poppies, butterflies, CND, Blue Peter. When I asked him how he got his Blue Peter badge, he said he stole it from his brother. Fingers stained with engine oil. His hair, pink at the moment, is scraped back from his face in hedgehog prickles. He has a weird accent. Studs in his ears and in his nose. And somewhere else. But only girls he sleeps with know about that one.
You, Miles Jackson.
Dreamboat. Thirty-nine years old. Voice resonant. Accent educated. You don’t drink too much (usually). Don’t smoke. You smell of musk and sandalwood. You swim and work out regularly. Figure toned. Intellectual job. Good with children.
There really is no comparison between who I am dating and who I dream of having a relationship with one day. As I sit in the kitchen of this modern mansion I can’t believe I live in, I take a sip of mild Italian coffee, Caprice’s favourite, and think what it would be like to live in this place not just as a nanny but as an equal partner. I imagine yet again what it would be like to sleep with you. We stand eyes locked. You are wearing pale toffee-coloured chinos, Tod shoes, and a white Gant shirt. I lean towards you. You take me in your arms and kiss me.
I am interrupted by the kitchen door opening. You’re standing there in your old towelling dressing gown. The Gant-clad Adonis disappears. The real Adonis is in front of me, even more attractive than in my imagination, running your fingers through tousled hair, blinking in the early morning sunlight. You nod your head.
‘Good morning,’ you mutter.
‘I’ve made fresh coffee if you’d like some. Caprice’s Italian.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Sit down. I’ll pour it.’
You flop into a chair at the kitchen table and sigh. You have bags under your eyes, as if you haven’t slept. Your argument with Saffron must have really got to you. I pour coffee into your favourite mug, carefu
lly adding the right amount of milk, so that it is the perfect strength for you, the strength you always have. I place it gently in front of you, leaning down to expose as much of my breasts as I can manage from my low-cut top. I see you glance. A quick subtle glance. Nothing lecherous. I want to pull you towards me and hold you against them. Desire rises in my stomach.
‘You’re up early, what’s up?’ I ask.
You shake your head. ‘Nothing, I just couldn’t sleep.’
‘Any particular reason?’
You shrug. ‘It just happens sometimes.’
I smile inside. Arguments with Saffron are what happen sometimes. Arguments about Aiden. This is it. Soon I will have an opportunity with you. It was too early last time. But your kindness towards me has continued. You have even implied you would pay for me to do a gardening course at Wisley next year, if I stay working for the family. Why would you want to do that? I watch you sipping your coffee and looking out of the window. A cloudless August day, piercing blue sky. Too hot already, even with the back door open. If only I could take a cold shower with you. You could soap my sweat away, and then we could make love. An idea comes to me.
‘What about a swim? That’ll blow the cobwebs away. I challenge you to a race.’ I pause and smile my best smile. The one that Jono says he likes. ‘Dump the coffee. Go and change. I’ll meet you by the pool in five minutes.’
I stand by the pool in my new designer swimming costume with an under-strung push-up bra. The one I blew £150 on in Harrods last week, and it sent me into overdraft. Hugo Boss. My first designer purchase. It makes me feel invincible. You are standing next to me, in your orange swimming shorts. Your trunk and legs are softly tanned and golden. You push your hair back from your eyes and frown into the sun.
You turn and grin at me. ‘You’re the challenger. Your call. How many lengths?’
‘I always do twenty, every time I swim.’
You nod your head. ‘OK then.’ You pause and put on your goggles. ‘And let’s agree on stroke.’
‘Well I can’t do butterfly, so that’s out.’
‘Let’s alternate. One length of crawl, one length of breaststroke. Beginning with crawl first. Get it wrong and you’re disqualified,’ you say and chuckle. ‘You count to three and let’s do it.’
‘Three, two, one, go.’
I dive in. My racing dive. The one I perfected at Queenstown Swimming Club many moons ago. I flip into the water. It slurps past my face, and the world becomes silent and strange and blurred. When I come up for air and breathe deeply in relief, you are already halfway down the pool, arms slicing through the water like a machine. Why am I doing this? The last time I took part in a swimming race was when I was eight. But then I think about your syrupy eyes, take another deep breath and launch my right arm into the water like a missile, as hard as I can manage.
Twenty lengths later, puffing and panting, I drag my exhausted body out of the water. You’re standing by the pool, waiting for me to finish.
‘I won,’ you say with a grin.
‘Surprise, surprise. As you are quite the athlete.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m not very competitive. I only wanted a race to distract you. You seemed so sad.’
‘Yes, well, you distracting me has cheered me up.’
I stand in my best position. The position I have perfected for selfies. Right leg slightly in front of my body. Head up. Stomach pulled in. I put my hands on my hips and turn my head a little to the left.
‘I’ll distract you any time you like.’
133
Miles
A woman of nineteen with an hourglass figure and perfect creamy skin is flirting with me. Not just any woman, but our nanny Hayley. She has tried it on before and apologised. Now she’s laying it on thick again. She’s pretty in a healthy, energetic, outdoorsy sort of way. Not quirky, unusually flowerlike, and beautiful like my wife. I suppose if I was a promiscuous man, interested in casual sex, I would have already had my way with her. But that is not the sort of man I am.
Saffron says there are two species of men. Shits and saints. Saints treat women with respect. Shits do not. Saints are very much more like women than shits. They understand how women think. They live with their wives all their lives and love them, comfortable in their company. They do not crave a younger woman’s body, because their body couldn’t cope with it; their body is ageing too. Their wife is more than a lover. She is a friend, a companion. Shits really only want sexual relief. Shits, in Saffron’s opinion, are a lower species of male – more animal than human. Not the sort of men she would deign to mix with.
So sorry, Hayley. I’m not interested in you. You are gorgeous. You are kind. You are sexy. But I am a saint, who loves his wife. Not an animalistic shit.
134
Saffron
Depressed, mind and body heavy as lead, I force myself into the office. At least Miles and I have made up. If I don’t have Miles on my side I can’t cope. The heatwave continues. As I sit at my desk, air presses against my skin, so hot it feels solid. The window is open but it makes no difference; there is no breeze.
Julie steps in, bearing a letter. Fingers trembling, the letter shakes as she hands it to me. Ted enters the office, face ashen, and stands watching us. I open it. The words on the page contort in front of me. Somehow I manage to tighten my mind and decipher them.
The complaint against BPC has been dismissed. No evidence of financial or accounting impropriety was found.
135
Caprice
The complaint against BPC has been dismissed.
The Law Society is even more incompetent than Social Care. Next time, Saffron. My next plan will bury you.
136
Saffron
When the euphoria of relief dies down, I don’t know why, but the heaviness inside me rises again. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
‘Let’s get back to work,’ I announce.
‘We haven’t got much,’ Ted replies.
‘Small detail. Off you go. Onwards and upwards. “Per ardua ad astra,” as the RAF would say.’
Ted and Julie sidle out of my office. I close the door and scrutinise the report. It concluded that the delay in releasing the funds was caused by the client. He thought he had sent an email to us to release the funds but it had bounced back. The email was nowhere in our system, not even in spam. So why did he bother to complain to the Law Society three years later, when his deal had come in anyway? He had posted on our website feedback form about the delay in funds being released, and I had left it up because if all our comments were too five-star and shiny they wouldn’t look real. But as it was such a minor incident I never worried about it. I need to get to the bottom of this. I need to talk to Andrew to understand why three years later he lodges a complaint that risks ruining my life.
I pick up the phone and dial his number. He answers.
‘Cunningham, Andrew.’ Voice is as brusque as ever. Resonant and clipped.
‘It’s Saffron Jackson here. If you’ve got time I’d love to meet up. Find out a bit about why you complained to the Law Society. We like our clients to feel satisfied. I wouldn’t like to disappoint a client like you again. I’d be most grateful for your time if you could spare me half an hour?’
‘Yes, Saffron. That’s fine. I guess I owe you an apology.’ He pauses. ‘I’m coming to a meeting near your offices this afternoon. Why don’t we meet up for a quick coffee and a sandwich.’
Tom Tom’s coffee bar. Andrew Cunningham is approaching. He hasn’t changed. He is about the same age as me, but I like to think he looks much older. He is wearing a pinstripe suit, with a pink shirt and red tie. Red and pink clash with his bold chestnut hair. His mouth gapes a little at the sides, as if he is perpetually about to speak or smile. I stand up and shake hands with him.
He shakes my hand with his bear of a handshake. ‘Good to see you again.’ He guffaws and then sits down opposite me.
I return his smile, tight-lipped.
We order. Falafel, salad and
herbal tea for me. Bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich and chips, and black coffee, for my companion.
He leans forwards. ‘Come on, Saffron, what is it you want to know?’
I stir in my chair. ‘I want to know why you made a complaint about us to the Law Society, so many years after we acted for you.’ I pause and take a deep breath. ‘Why didn’t you just ring me to discuss it? I was hurt. I thought we got on rather well.’
‘It was Caprice Jackson who encouraged me. She put me up to it. She said you had to be stopped.’
I gasp. It was you, Caprice. A shock. And yet … and yet … deep down inside it is what I suspected. It is so awful, I did not want to be right.
‘Not a word in advance. Not a request for an explanation. Just a complaint that could have ruined my firm, my career, and me. That isn’t the Andrew Cunningham I used to know. You realise, I am sure, now, that you forgot to send the email to release the funds at the right time. It was your fault, not ours.’
Andrew shakes his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Saffron. Caprice Jackson sounded so convincing. I shouldn’t have let her make me suspicious of you. I should have trusted my own judgement.’
‘Did you know she was my mother-in-law?’
He nods his head, as he takes a bite of his BLT sandwich. Mayonnaise squidges from the side of his wide lips. ‘She did mention it.’
‘How did she manipulate you?’ I ask.
He wipes his mouth. ‘She said you swindled her out of money.’
I frown, caught off guard. ‘Do tell me how?’
‘By making sure the charge she had against your house was incorrectly drafted.’
‘But … but …’ I splutter. Then I laugh. ‘I had nothing to do with it. Her solicitor drafted it. As far as I know it is of full force and effect. She hasn’t even tried to action it yet. And if she wanted her money out, my husband and I would give it back immediately. She has never asked. It was a lot of money way back then, but the house has gone up so much in value, we could easily borrow more money against it and pay her back any time now. She lives with us. She has never mentioned the fact that she wants to move out.’
The Unwelcome Guest Page 19