by Terry Tyler
Freedom from his marriage?
Then we realised it was nearly eleven; he still had to shower and drive home to the flashy pad in Buntingford owned by his father-in-law.
“I can’t get home later than midnight,” he said. “The key to not getting found out is not taking risks. The more careful we are, the more we’ll be able to see each other.” He kissed me. “And if you’re going to join me in the shower we’d better get on with it, hadn’t we?”
And so I became something I had never thought I would ever be: the mistress of a married man.
***
That winter was wonderful, the happiest time I’ve ever known. Jim and Jean had been together so long that they lived their own lives within the marriage; Jean had her charitable organisations, her younger two children who still lived at home, her father and the house, while Jim had work and me. His main problem was organising his busy schedule so that we could have plenty of time together. We managed two or three whole evenings a week, and lunchtimes in out of the way pubs where we’d try not to show ourselves up by snogging in public. He liked the idea of other men being jealous of him, he said, but thought the sight of a craggy middle-aged man with his tongue down a gorgeous young woman’s throat might put passing drinkers off their pints. We often met on Saturday afternoons, too, while Jean was out shopping with her daughter, and managed odd hours here and there—Sunday afternoons when he’d text me saying, ‘Are you in? If I don’t fuck you I’m going to explode, I can get away for a couple of hours’.
Despite my happiness, though, I experienced the odd twinge of insecurity; I’d defy any person in my situation not to suffer the same. After one of those brief Sunday interludes I couldn’t help asking if it was all about the shagging, really. I think I was in the depths of PMS at the time, too, which was, no doubt, the root cause of my anxiety.
He said: “Don’t be fucking ridiculous, and if you ever insult our relationship like that again I shall chuck you off the Tyne Bridge, love of my life or not.”
I never felt the need to question him again.
We even managed a weekend away. The first of the hotels he planned to build for the company was a World War Two themed one in Calais, overseen by his eldest son, Rob, and we went over there for three blissful days at the beginning of December. I learned exactly how big a source of malcontent this hotel was within the company. Team Jim saw it as heralding the growth of the firm into a different but connected industry, whereas Isabella Lanchester, his big adversary, viewed it as a project to be offloaded once built. When I was there, I could see why Jim had no intention of selling; the place was clearly his pride and joy. It was perfect; large and luxurious but still with a cosy, homely atmosphere, so right for the market at which it was aimed. I was massively impressed, and felt very proud of him. He loved that I felt that way.
“Jean doesn’t take any interest,” he said. “It’s just one hotel; Daddio’s got stacks of the bloody things.”
Jim introduced me as the niece of a squash-playing friend, a freelance PR specialist he might employ to work on the publicity for the Lanchester Normandy and future, similar projects. We took rooms in a nearby, smaller hotel, the one in which Rob stayed when he was over there.
The weather was appalling all weekend, with harsh winds blowing off the English Channel, and I had to walk around the hotel and eat breakfast, lunch and dinner with Jim and his son without betraying our relationship, but we were both so, so happy. On the second afternoon Rob was busy, and we drove out into the countryside together. Every moment was a bonus, and we didn’t have to leave each other’s side for seventy-two whole hours.
“I’d love to have you working with me for real,” he said, when we were alone together at last. “All the ideas you’ve presented to Rob—they’re great, and that’s without you even being paid to do it! You’ve got all the contacts, too; we’d be brilliant together—together being the operative word.”
“Maybe,” I said. Are you wondering why I held back? Well, I loved my job with Bradgate Sports and although I couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than to be with Jim all day, I was scared that it might be too much, too soon. For my emotional security, my strength, I needed to keep a part of my life independent from him. Our relationship was still very new, and I didn’t want to end up like clingy Yvonne, the thought of whom haunted me.
I heard much about the Lanchesters that weekend, mostly Isabella the eldest daughter who, Jim said, would challenge a suggestion to change the air freshener in the Gents’ if the idea came from him.
“She’s a real piece of work,” Jim said. “Neurotic, never shuts up.”
“What will happen when Jasper is old enough to have the final say?” I asked.
Jim and Rob looked at each other and laughed. “Oh, we’ll have him firmly brought round to our way of thinking by then, don’t you worry!”
I heard about the younger sister, Erin, too, and noticed the change in Rob’s demeanour when her name was mentioned. His smooth patter faltered and he kept bringing the subject back round to her even when we’d moved on to something else. Mentionitis, I think it’s called. When we were alone in my room later that night I asked Jim to tell me more, and was not surprised to hear that Erin and Rob had a ‘thing’ which had zig-zagged between all and nothing for some time.
“I can never work out if they’d be a disaster together, or brilliant.” He laughed. “Of course it would be wonderful politically, but I’m guessing my machinations are not their prime concern.”
“He’s in love with her, isn’t he?” I said.
“Aye, I imagine so,” Jim said, “and well he might be, she’s a cracker. Fabulous to look at and she’s got spirit, too; you’d like her. I reckon part of the reason he got engaged to Amy was to make her jealous. Erin tells him she’s not ready for commitment yet—all that stuff men usually say to women.”
“Poor Amy,” I said.
“You’re not wrong there. Doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for, poor lass.”
“Is he going to go as far as marrying her, then?”
“Aye. If he can let go of his feelings for Erin they’ll be okay, I reckon. He’s fond of her but whether or not it’ll last I don’t know. Oh well, we Dudleys have a canny knack for finding women with rich, doting fathers.” He laughed. “I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing! He told me she wants a June wedding because it’s lucky, or something daft like that, but he’s holding off until June 2011; he’s told her he thinks they should wait until he’s finished with this hotel and they’ve got a house that’s ready to move into. I suspect he might be in more of a hurry if it was Erin who was waiting for him at the end of the aisle.”
“A pity someone doesn’t tell Amy to get out and find someone who really loves her, so it won’t matter what month she gets married in,” I said. “You need more than luck if you marry a person whose heart lies elsewhere.”
“She’s all for it, though. It’s a shame; our Rob’s a right soft Jessie where Erin’s concerned, and I can’t see that changing.”
Then we forgot about Rob’s love life; we had champagne in the ice bucket and the prospect of three whole nights together. The frustration of having to assume a business-only relationship in front of Robbie made us even more mad for each other, though on the second night he had to remind me that your average man in his fifties needed not only a longer ‘recovery time’ than the young men I might have known before, but a bit of sleep, too.
“I’m more than twice your age, remember,” he said, rolling me over so we were curled up together in our usual dozing position, with my back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight, and soon he was snoring loudly in my ear, which he continued to do for a while. I cared not; the men of my past with their youthful energy paled into bland, immature insignificance beside him.
Then it was back to England, reality, kissing him goodbye and waking up alone.
“It won’t be like this forever, I promise,” he said.
I didn’t whine when he had to spend nearly the whole of the Christmas holiday up in Northumberland with his family; I knew the score. We spent the evening of December the twenty-third together, wrenching ourselves apart at the very last minute (he’d invented a men-only night at a casino to give him until two a.m.), and on Christmas Eve I drove to Northampton to spend some time with Mum, Dad and Storm.
I’d bought them all huge, expensive cashmere and mohair jumpers; they gave me curious items of pottery they’d made themselves, and a Wiccan calendar. After the expensive restaurant meals I was used to eating these days I found the Christmas nut roast even more bland than usual. In Number 23, Brickyard Court it was Yule, rather than Christmas, except that they didn’t bother with any Wiccan rituals apart from making and eating (dope-laced) Yule logs and decorating the house with holly that Dad had nicked from a posh garden. I don’t think Mum knew much more about Wiccan practices than I did, to be honest. As with their anarchistic ideals, they only practised the bits that suited them.
The house needed a good dust, but once the lamps and candles were lit it felt safe and cosy, just like it had when I was a child, and it was so good to see them all, but I felt so, so out of place. I’d been careful not to come laden with half of Waitrose, because I couldn’t be bothered with Mum picking it all over and doing her inverted snob bit about one half and her enraged vegan bit about the other, but still eating most of it anyway. I played safe with wine, Baileys and chocolates.
I would have loved to tell Mum about Jim, but I couldn’t. To do so would have been self-indulgent; it would only have worried her.
I wanted to talk about him all the time.
On Boxing Day Mum told me, just in conversation, how much she would love to paint the drab, nicotine-stained magnolia kitchen and hall in warm, pale peach and sunshine yellow, so I sneaked out to B&Q before they got up the next morning and spent the rest of my stay up a ladder, covered in paint. Mum had taught us about karma (put good into the world and it will come back to you, pay it forward, et cetera), but I wasn’t only trying to store up credit with the entities up in the clouds; it was a better way of doing something for them than buying stuff they’d criticise. The physical activity did me good, too, as it stopped me sitting around the place going mad with missing Jim. My only comfort was that he was chewing his hands off with frustration, too, playing lord of the manor up in Northumberland. He and his family did all the traditional Christmas malarkey with friends and villagers that rich and/or posh people do.
Then I went home, got far too pissed at Dana’s NYE party, and waited and waited until Sunday, January the third, when he came back to me, at last. For the first time he was actually a bit careless; he just left the house at ten in the morning, straight after Sunday breakfast, he said, ignoring the papers, with vague talk about getting the office in shape before everyone came back on the Monday. We were delirious with the relief of being together again, and left our clothes in a trail from front door to bedroom. He was supposed to go home for dinner that evening, but the clock zoomed round to five o’clock all too quickly.
“Fuck it, I’m staying with you,” he said. “Let’s go out somewhere nice for dinner.” He picked up his phone, and I heard him talking to Jean, something that hadn’t happened before. “Aye, Nick wants me to go for a pint. Aye. Oh, usual time. About eleven. I’ll get something. Might go for a curry. Aye, I know it’s Sunday. Jean, I’ve just spent nearly two weeks with you and the family. No. Okay. I won’t.” No words of endearment, not even a ‘goodbye’.
He turned around and grinned at me as he snapped his phone shut. “See? Easy!”
“She didn’t like it, though, did she?”
“No. But I’ve done my duty. It’s our time, now.”
Soon it was spring and our affair was six months old, and I couldn’t help but wonder about that future of which he talked. I asked him straight out, of course.
“Never doubt that I intend us to be together,” he said, “You’re not hanging on for a man who’s got no intention of leaving his wife. But I need my position at Lanchesters established first. When I tell Jean I’m leaving her, her da’ will use his influence to make things as difficult as possible for me. I know him, pet! Listen—Calais will be ready to open in late September, which will mean hiring staff in July and August, and it should really take off over Christmas and New Year. The land’s already been bought in Arras and Rouen, I’m getting the plans drawn up next month. We’re continuing with the war memorial theme, which is going to be huge in 2014, it being the hundred year anniversary of World War One, isn’t it? They’re going to be Lanchester and Dudley hotels, though. This is what I’m bringing to the table; I’ve done all the work, the whole project is my baby, I’m a shareholder—I want my name on them, too.”
He sounded so positive and excited about the venture; I had no doubt he would pull it off. “How’s that going down with Isabella?” I asked.
“She doesn’t know yet!” He tapped the side of his finger with his nose, and laughed. “She may have some daft degree in business studies, or whatever, but she’s not that savvy when it comes to knowing what’s going on in her brother’s company. No, I’ve got my own people on the case. Tim Wyatt in Sales and Marketing, Tony Risley in Finance, and the right people in Legal. Erin’s all for it, too.” He smiled. “When I was head of Operations I learned how to keep certain projects away from Miss Isabella’s disapproval.”
“And Jasper?”
“Oh, the lad’s excited about his hotel; Will’s taking him over to see it in August.” He lay on his back as he told me this, smoking, as he always did when relating tales of his business plans and triumphs. “I’ve got it all worked out. Once young Jaz has seen Calais I’ll start work on him to sell me more shares. His aunt Dahlia is the custodian of them.”
“What’s she like?”
“Lives up in the Highlands, doesn’t have owt to do with the company, bit round the bend, but if you must know I think she’s got a bit of an eye for me, and I’m going to use that to its full advantage.” He looked at me, saw my worried expression, and laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t mean that! Phone, e-mail and Skype only. And I’m treading carefully; timing is everything. It’s a long game I’m playing.”
“How long?” I asked, trying and failing to sound casual.
Jim stubbed out his cigarette and pulled me to him; I noted that ‘recovery time’ was over. “As long as it takes,” he said, “but now I’ve got even more reason to make it happen.”
I summoned all my willpower and held him away from me. “Uh-uh. You don’t get round me that easily. I want you to promise this is all for us, our future together.”
He lifted my leg so that it was wrapped around his, and my willpower gave way. “Why do you even question that?” he said, shaking his head with a slight frown. “Okay. I’m looking at one year. It’s all coming together now. Calais has got to do well over Christmas, but in August I’ll talk to Jasper and Dahlia anyway. Erin will help, she’s told me. I need to have this all underway before I take the leap, but I won’t spend longer than one more Christmas away from you. One year, at most. This time next year we’ll be together. Can you wait that long?”
He moved against me in the way that made me weak with lust, and I was lost. “I can’t even wait five seconds,” I murmured, and struggled no more.
It wasn’t all blissful romance, though. We were apart for ten long days at Easter, while he took a family holiday at the Spanish villa, and the furthest I went was Greylings Estate, Northampton and down to The Tyburn Tree to dull my senses with wine and loud music with my friends from work. Then one night shortly afterwards I let go of my cool, for once; we’d had a particularly intense and beautiful evening, and when he had to go home, I couldn’t deal with him just getting up and leaving. I cried and yelled at him, something I’d sworn I would never do, but March 2011 seemed so very far away. He was very understanding, considering the amount of expletives I came out with. You know, I started pulling on my clothes and
telling him I couldn’t stand being his bit on the side any longer; I must have looked ridiculous, especially when I tried to put my head through the sleeve of my t-shirt. I also asked that stereotypical ‘mistress’ question: did he still have sex with his wife?
“Aye, of course I do, now and again,” he said. “We’re married. But it’s nowt, there’s no passion; it’s like having something to drink when you’re thirsty. If I didn’t do it occasionally she’d smell a rat. And it’s so far away from what happens between me and you that it’s not even comparable, before you ask.”
Which was absolutely what I wanted to hear. If he’d pretended they never did it I’d have known he was lying; worse, it would have meant that he didn’t know me.