I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  ‘Coming up to your twentieth wedding anniversary, aren’t you?’ asks Matthew, interrupting my thoughts.

  I stiffen. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was in that profile piece,’ he says. ‘I still try to keep up with industry news.’

  There hadn’t been much about Stuart in the interview. I’d deliberately steered clear of him in my answers, although the journalist had asked how long I’d been married for.

  I take a swig of Chardonnay. ‘Actually,’ I say, leaning forward. ‘I’ve never told anyone else this but …’

  Don’t! says my brain. Yet the words are almost there. Stuart and I are more like a brother and sister now. In fact, we haven’t had sex for three years.

  It would be so easy to tell him. It’s not as though I have time for friends to share this with. Matthew is part of my past. He would understand. There’s something about someone who used to know you so well that can make you reveal secrets you’d never tell anyone else. Yes, Matthew treated me badly, but I’d only been a bit older than Melissa. And like I said, I can’t hold him to blame entirely.

  ‘But what?’ prompts Matthew.

  Think of something, I tell myself urgently. Something that doesn’t give it all away. ‘But there are never enough hours in the day to get everything done,’ I say lamely. ‘There are moments when I’m only just holding it all together, juggling marriage with motherhood and working …’

  He nods. ‘I imagine that must put a strain on your marriage.’

  No. I don’t want to imply that. I bat his comment away in the air. ‘Actually, we’re fine. In fact, we’re really good. Great. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all, trying to be superwoman.’

  Phew. That’s better. For a minute there, I’d almost dropped my guard. It must be the shock of having the once love-of-my-life sitting beside me. Matthew reminds me all too clearly of the passion I’d once known. I’d almost forgotten how thoughtless he’d been. My mind had repainted the picture. Made him into the man I’d wanted him to be.

  But I’ve saved myself just in time.

  ‘I know.’ Matthew is taking my hand. ‘I’m tired too. Yet the thing is that, unlike yours, my marriage hasn’t been good. I’m desperately sorry for Sandra but things began to go wrong before she got ill. Then when she did, I couldn’t leave her. It would have been cruel.’

  ‘What about me?’ I can’t help blurting out. ‘You left me when –’

  I stop. There is no point in going on. What is done is done.

  ‘Do you ever wonder,’ he now says dreamily, ‘what life might have been like if you and I had stayed together?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say crossly. ‘But you were the one who ended it.’

  ‘And don’t you think I regretted it enough times? You were the only person who understood me.’

  I laugh hoarsely. ‘Do you realize what a cliché that is?’

  ‘That’s the thing about clichés though, isn’t it, Pops? They work because they’re basically true. You know the real reason I’m here? I read your profile in that trade magazine that said you were going to this party and felt I had to see you.’

  ‘Why, Matthew? What good could possibly come from it. I have Stuart and you have Sandra.’

  For the first time, I see him blush. ‘No, Pops I didn’t mean … I just wanted to catch up, you know. Talk to you.’

  Instantly I feel utterly stupid at mistaking his need for friendship for something else. Actually, it wouldn’t be the first time that a married man had made a pass at me. One of the dads on the school run had cornered me outside at a PTA party three years ago and complimented me on my dress. ‘That’s so sweet of you,’ I’d said, thinking he was just being chummy. Then he’d leaned towards me and tried to give me a kiss. Shocked, I’d pushed him away and then withdrawn from the PTA. I felt responsible and agonized over the episode for weeks. Maybe he’d misread my ‘so sweet of you’ as an invitation for more. Maybe I’d been staring at him without being aware of it.

  Perhaps after that incident I’d been on the lookout for similar ‘come-ons’, even when there weren’t any. I’m suddenly aware of a young man hovering by our table. ‘Excuse me, but I’m afraid we’re closing the bar early because of the snow. The staff need to get home.’

  ‘Of course.’ Matthew’s face changes in an instant to one of a composed confident companion. The inveterate actor. I take a bit longer.

  ‘I should have rung my wife again,’ Matthew says, standing up. ‘But it’s too late now.’

  ‘Who is looking after her?’

  ‘I paid extra for an overnight carer in case I was late.’

  So that explains what he’d meant by ‘you’ve got someone with you’. His face is racked with concern. Poor man. Then he touches my arm again. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Actors are renowned for being touchy-feely. ‘How about a coffee in the lounge? I see that’s still open and there’s so much more I want to talk about.’

  I hesitate. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Please, Pops. We might not have this chance again.’

  I realize that, despite myself, I don’t want him to disappear; maybe for ever. There’s a sort of dangerous fascination about him. Besides, the thought of going to my room alone and turning over the events of the evening endlessly in my mind isn’t that appealing.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Wait for me. That snow really has settled, hasn’t it? I’m just going to see if I’ve left it too late to get a room.’

  I both hope he has – and that he hasn’t. Already I’m deeply regretting my confidences just now. And yet it’s so amazing to see him again, even though I should, by rights, tell Matthew Gordon to get right out of my life after what he did. But that’s my trouble. I’m too forgiving. Apart, that is, towards one person thousands of miles away.

  Guiltily, I ring Stuart’s number but it goes through to voicemail. So I send a text instead:

  Had to stay overnight because of weather. Betty knows. Hope you had a good day.

  Then, unusually for me, I add a kiss.

  Matthew comes back.

  ‘Just texting my husband,’ I say pointedly.

  ‘Is he all right about you staying away for the night?’ he asks.

  ‘He probably won’t even notice. He’s married to his work too. To be honest, we lead pretty separate lives.’

  Why did I say that? Hadn’t I just made myself hold back a few minutes ago? Now look what I’ve done.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize things were difficult.’

  ‘They’re not,’ I say quickly, trying to redeem myself.

  His eyebrows rise questioningly.

  ‘It’s just that … well, things change after you’ve been together a while.’

  He nods. ‘Tell me about it.’ He drains his drink. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘the good news is that I was lucky. I got one of the last rooms.’

  But our conversation has made me feel awkward. ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m feeling pretty tired, to be honest. Think I’ll leave that coffee and turn in. Maybe we’ll see each other before I leave tomorrow.’

  It’s a brush-off and we both know it. He looks disappointed but I feel relieved. I’ve done the right thing even if I did open my big mouth just now. Still, no harm done.

  ‘I’m bushed too,’ he says. ‘I often have to get up during the night for Sandra. She needs help with the bathroom and … sorry. You don’t need to hear about this.’

  I feel a flash of sympathy. ‘It can’t be easy,’ I say.

  He gives a tight nod. ‘It’s not, but it’s much harder on her. She’s the one who is ill. I don’t want to complain.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I say quickly. ‘We all need to offload sometimes. By the way, I was only joking when I said Stuart wouldn’t notice me being away for the night.’

  ‘Of course you were. In fact, I’ve forgotten it already.’

  I might not have believed the old Matthew, but this new one is different. More responsible. His attitude towards his wife surely shows that.
>
  We walk together to the lift.

  ‘Which floor are you on?’ he asks.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Me too.’

  We go up in silence and then walk along the corridor, which has a rather tasteful grey patterned carpet. I can’t help wondering how many people have trodden here before. Married couples on weekend breaks from the children; lovers on secret assignations; professionals on stale business trips. I’ve suggested a hotel getaway to Stuart several times but he always says he’s ‘too busy’. Yet again, one more rejection.

  ‘Looks like this is my room,’ I say, checking the number on my key card.

  ‘What a coincidence,’ says Matthew. ‘Mine is just opposite. Perhaps they kept this part of the hotel clear for the latecomers.’

  ‘You could be right,’ I say. Then I remembered that he’d gone to the reception on his own to ask for a room. Supposing he’d asked where mine was? No. The receptionist wouldn’t be indiscreet enough to tell him. Once again, I’m letting my imagination run away with me.

  ‘See you in the morning, hopefully,’ he says.

  ‘Yes.’

  I need to get into the room quickly. Shut the door behind me. But as soon as I do, I sink onto the bed, my face buried in the pillow. Tears stream down my face. Seeing Matthew has brought back the pain that I’d been bottling up for all these years.

  My old boyfriend might look different, but I can still see glimpses of the handsome young drama student he used to be; the one who dried my tears through my parents’ divorce and who stirred up a fire that no one has ever been able to do since. You still love Stuart, I tell myself. But I feel ignored by my husband. Rejected. Maybe he feels the same.

  Then there’s a knock on the door. Rubbing my eyes, I go to it. It’s Matthew! My heart both leaps with excitement and also thuds with terror. Don’t let me be tempted. Don’t.

  ‘Just in case we miss each other at breakfast, could I take your number?’ he says. ‘I’d hate to think we’d lose contact again.’

  He’s holding out one of those notepads that you get in hotels, and a pen. He doesn’t come inside. I don’t ask him to. Instead, I stand at the doorway and write it down. Then he gives me his. I rather like his old-fashioned approach instead of simply punching in my number on his phone.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just that, well, you look as though you’ve been crying.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s just my eyes. They get like that when they’re tired.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he says. ‘I remember. Try cotton-wool pads soaked in cold water. I do that for Sandra if she hasn’t slept.’

  This really is a new Matthew, I realize. A kinder one. A man I’m beginning to warm to – but not, of course, I tell myself firmly, in that way. I’m a married woman and I love my family.

  ‘Night, then,’ he says. ‘It was wonderful to see you again.’

  Then he steps forward and brushes his cheek against mine. It’s the sort of thing people do all the time in my working world but this feels different. My face is on fire. So is the rest of me.

  ‘Night,’ I say, stepping back quickly.

  He walks away but just as he reaches his door opposite, he turns. ‘Do you still do that thing when you go to sleep?’

  No one else knows that I turn my pillow over three times for luck, apart from my husband, as well as Melissa and Daisy, of course, whom I’ve taught to do the same. It’s a tradition – or silly habit, whichever way you look at it – that I learned as a child but which has stuck.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ he replies. ‘I always used to find that really sweet. Goodnight, Pops. Sleep well.’

  He gives me a lingering look. I’ve a feeling I might be doing the same. I shut the door firmly, lock it and lean against it for some minutes before taking a shower and going to bed. Alone.

  It is nearly 4 a.m. before I finally nod off.

  4

  Betty

  Of course, Jock and I desperately wanted to ‘do it’. When he kissed me, I felt all tingly below, like nothing I’d ever felt before. ‘I’ll be careful if you let me,’ he said to me. I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that and didn’t like to ask in case it made me look stupid.

  What I did know was that I was too scared to go all the way in case I got into trouble. Like I said before, my parents would have thrown me out on my ear if I’d got pregnant before there was a wedding ring on my finger. So Jock and I waited, frustrating as it was.

  Every Saturday night we’d go to the local pub, where I would have a bitter lemon and he’d have a pint. Afterwards, he’d walk me home through a little park near my home in Hackney, past the tramps on the benches with their bottles, and I’d be holding my breath with anticipation. Then at last we’d stop and he’d take my face in his hands to gently kiss me. The first time he slid his hands up my jumper, I felt I ought to brush him away. What if he thought I was cheap?

  But the truth was that I couldn’t. I ached for him to touch me there. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he panted, even though he couldn’t actually see me in the dark.

  Then he tried to slide his hand below my waist, but I wasn’t having any of that. ‘No,’ I said in a voice that I hoped was as firm as the longing inside me.

  He seemed to respect that. Instantly he stepped backwards. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a small, boyish voice.

  ‘Don’t be,’ I replied, taking his hand in mine. ‘I want to, but it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and then he went back to kissing me. Snogging was safe. It was also wonderful. Sometimes I think that it would be so much nicer if people simply kissed instead of doing the other. It’s just as intimate.

  Soon after we got engaged, Jock got me to write down exactly what I earned in the shop and how much I had to pay my parents every week so he could ‘do the figures’. He didn’t tell me what he earned and I didn’t think to ask. I’m aware, Poppy, that all this sounds very naive. The late sixties were a time of change for some. But for others like me and my family, our morals and attitudes hadn’t moved on from the previous decade, or even the one before that.

  ‘It’s going to take us eighteen months to save up for the deposit and the first few months’ rent on a flat,’ he declared. ‘We’ve got to allow enough for bills too, and the reception.’

  That was a sticking point. My parents had said that, although they were very happy for us, they couldn’t afford a slap-up wedding. We’d have to make do with a cold buffet for ‘close family only’ in the Labour hall. I’d set my heart on a ‘do’ at a local hotel. Some of my friends were beginning to get married and they all held theirs there.

  Jock saw my disappointed face and immediately declared that he would make up the balance so I could have my wish. But ‘making up the balance’ meant us scrimping and saving, without any honeymoon. ‘I don’t mind the hall,’ I said when he told me this. ‘Really.’

  His mouth was set in a grim line. ‘But I do. I’m going places, Betty. I’m already in line for another promotion in the factory. I’m not having anyone saying that I made do with a cheap wedding for family only. There are people I need to invite. Influential blokes at work who will then remember me.’

  Jock was a man who knew exactly what he wanted. Back then, I was impressed by that.

  I spent those eighteen months poring over old bridal magazines that Julie, the girl next door (who was going to get married soon), lent me. I made my own wedding dress out of silk I bought from Petticoat Lane. Then Jock’s boss offered to lend us his holiday caravan in Devon for our honeymoon. I was so excited that I floated through the rest of our engagement.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ said our department manager. ‘Love obviously suits you, dear. I wonder whether you would like to take part in our annual fashion show, modelling the new season’s hats?’

  I loved every second! The show was a great success. Everyone clapped me when I walked down t
he catwalk, but that was because Mum had got all her friends in the audience. (Now I’d got a pay rise, she’d started to be proud of me.) The local paper was there too – the journalist seemed quite excited when I told him I was getting married soon, saying it would it a ‘nice angle’, and they ran a big picture of me on the front page under the headline ‘Bride-to-be Wows Audience at Fashion Show’. All the staff, including me, went out for a roller-skating evening – paid for by the manager – to celebrate. Such fun! But I noticed that Jock was a bit quiet the following weekend. He hadn’t called me his ‘wee hen’ for some time either, I realized with a pang. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, running his finger round the rim of his beer glass, something I noticed that he did when he was nervous.

  I could tell that something was up but I didn’t want to push him. Please don’t say he was getting cold feet! Julie, who had lent me the bridal magazines, had been jilted at the altar. She hadn’t been out of the house for weeks because of the shame. I would die if that happened to me. I just knew I would. Maybe I shouldn’t have borrowed from her. Perhaps it had transferred her bad luck.

  I did my best to cheer Jock up as the month of our wedding approached, pretending to ignore his moodiness and those awful silences between us. One night, when we were walking back from the pub, he stopped in the park as usual and took my face in his hands. But instead of kissing me, he looked straight into my eyes. ‘What if we’re making a mistake?’ he said. ‘It’s a big thing, marriage, isn’t it?’

  My heart felt all fluttery, as though it was falling out of my body.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But we love each other, Jock. We’ll be all right.’

  He let go of my face. ‘I hope so.’

  My legs felt weak and I feared they might give way. ‘What do you mean?’ I said in a small voice. ‘Have you found someone else?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Of course not.’

  A huge wave of relief swept through me.

  ‘It’s just that … well, my lads have been saying at work that the divorce laws have changed.’ He shifted from one foot to the other nervously. ‘It’s going to be much more difficult financially for a bloke if a marriage breaks up.’