I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  It’s the first day of the Christmas holidays so I’m not going to make a fuss about the girls lying in, even though they have revision for January exams. Who am I to tell them to be sensible? I have no right to set boundaries any more. Not after what I’ve done. I can only hope that Matthew isn’t going to do anything stupid with that photograph. What if he sends it to Stuart?

  No. Surely he wouldn’t do that. But his voice keeps coming back to me. ‘As for leaving you alone, I don’t think I can do that. Sorry.’

  My mind and body feel as though they are spiralling hopelessly out of control. Not only because of Matthew but also because of Dad. What crazy thing is he going to do next? As for Stuart, I’ve hardly seen him because he’s been working late. Or so he says. I’ve thought of having a heart-to-heart conversation about this Janine but I’m scared of stirring up a deeper ‘what are we going to do about our sexless marriage’ talk. Besides, Stuart might be totally innocent. I simply can’t imagine him being unfaithful. Yet he might be thinking exactly the same about me.

  So many questions. And no reasonable answers.

  Maybe it’s best to do what previous generations did. Turn a blind eye and hope that it all passes.

  But our generation is too honest for that. Aren’t we? If we are unfaithful, we move on and destroy our families in the process. My mother was a forerunner of her time. And now, it seems, I have continued the tradition.

  My mother-in-law appears to be the most level-headed person in the house at the moment. ‘How are your jewellery sales going?’ I ask, in an attempt to think of someone else apart from myself.

  ‘Ah,’ says Betty. ‘Well I’ve had to give up on the tin can range. Unfortunately, one of my customers from the church bring-and-buy claims she was cut by a necklace she bought from me.’

  I’m not surprised. Stuart had told her enough times that her tin can jewellery had sharp edges that might do exactly that. My own bare feet have borne pained witness when treading on the cut-offs. As she tells me this, I can’t help thinking that there are some hurts that can be healed. And others that can’t.

  ‘I’m making rope bracelets instead,’ adds Betty. ‘They’re proving very popular.’

  I have to take my hat off to my mother-in-law. If she faces a little mishap, she simply picks herself up and carries on. Of course, she’s never had to deal with anything big apart from Jock’s death. Even then, she coped better than we expected, despite his illness being shockingly brief. I hadn’t realized you could die in three months from pancreatic cancer. I’ve since learned it can be less.

  I go up to my study and stand at the window, looking down onto our long narrow garden and then the fence that divides us from another garden, the same size, with a house that’s similar in design to ours. The symmetry usually soothes me, but not right now. Especially after Doris’s fall. My study used to be the guest room until I set up my business but now any visiting friends have to stay on the sofa bed downstairs. Not that we’ve had any of those for ages. I’m too busy working. So is Stuart.

  The girls, when they have sleepovers, have friends on the floor of their rooms. Betty has a room with an en suite, which we squeezed in when she joined us. That’s it. Us. Our family unit, which, through one crazy night in a Worthing hotel, I have jeopardized.

  Somehow I have to get Matthew off my back. But how?

  Maybe if I ring him, I might be able to persuade him to see sense. But if I do that, Sandra might pick up the phone. I can see them now. It’s 9 a.m. Perhaps he’ll be getting her breakfast or helping her dress. I can’t even imagine the intricacies of doing that for someone who is wheelchair bound. Poor woman! I might not have cared for Sandra but MS is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  Then a terrible thought comes into my head. What if something happened that put Matthew in a wheelchair too; even better, unable to speak; unable to mess up my life again …

  Stop, I tell myself. Don’t even go there. That’s wicked. What kind of woman am I turning into? Or rather, what kind of woman have I already become? I’d always thought of myself as a fairly kind and reasonable person. The sort who would never cheat. But now I don’t know who I am any more. For a start, I should be ringing Dad again to check up on him.

  So I do.

  ‘Call back in five minutes, can you?’ he says now. ‘There’s this good programme about wildlife in Borneo on the telly. It’s just about to finish.’

  At this time of the morning? Still, if you can’t please yourself at his age, when can you? At least it means he isn’t breaking the law or running up huge bills. At least I hope he isn’t.

  PING!

  A message flashes up on the screen at my desk. I leave the sofa and sit down, my hand poised on the mouse. It’s a message from a production company looking for hippy-type sixty-year-olds. I don’t even need to check my database. I’ve got just the wacky-looking bohemian client in mind, with purple hair and a penchant for floaty skirts. She had a small role in the musical Hair when she was young and has never been able to match it in her career since. She’d love this! I zip off an email to say I have a possibility and then another to the woman in question. I get a flash of pleasure the way I always do when I’m pretty sure, in my gut, that I’ve got a hit. Not only that but my Hair lady will be thrilled. Then I remember Dad again and pick up the phone.

  He doesn’t answer.

  This has happened before, I tell myself, trying not to panic. He’ll have gone to the loo.

  I give him another ten minutes. No reply. I begin to panic now. The usual scenarios play out in my head. He’s had a stroke. He’s cut himself on a kitchen knife. A cold shiver of fear runs through me. Time and time again, I’ve asked him to come up to London. We’d manage somehow. Maybe build an annexe in the garden or perhaps persuade him to use the money from his house to buy a bigger one that we can all live in.

  I ring Dad once more. Still no answer. It’s no good. After another twenty minutes of constant ringing, I am forced to call Reg again.

  ‘I’ll go round now,’ he promises.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  By now, I feel sick with fear.

  There’s another ping. Another production company. They are looking for over-forties for a crowd scene. It’s part of a film about the ‘sandwich generation’ where, says the blurb, a middle-aged woman is struggling with the demands of her elderly parents and teenage sons. I want to laugh out loud. It seems so ironic that this should arrive now. Only fools like me would make it even more complicated by tossing an affair into the pot.

  Downstairs I can hear the girls arguing. They must be up. Coco is yapping too. She should have gone back to Madame Blanche, the French teacher, ages ago but she texted to ask if we could hang on to ‘my darling chien’ for ‘un peu longer’ because she’s been delayed in Paris.

  I’m used to juggling. But I’ve never before had a stick of dynamite in my hands that could blow up my family at any moment. Dynamite for which I have lit the fuse myself. Christmas, I remind myself, is a well-known trigger for divorce. It’s portrayed as this perfect time when we all love each other. Disappointment is inevitable.

  There’s a knock on the door. Unlike everyone else in this house, Betty rarely disturbs me when I’m working. It must be important. ‘It’s your dad,’ she says, handing me the landline handset.

  ‘What are you doing ringing Reg?’ Dad’s voice is furious. ‘I’ve told you before. Makes me look like a complete idiot.’

  ‘But you told me to call back in five minutes and you didn’t answer.’

  ‘I was in the lav, wasn’t I,’ he says, as if I ought to know that. ‘Now you get on with your life and leave me to mine.’

  He’s proud. He doesn’t mean to be hard. It started when my mother left and it’s got worse over the years. But every now and then, there’ll be a caring look or tone of voice that lets me know that my old dad is still there.


  I go downstairs to make a coffee and check on the girls. There are odd half-chewed shoes lying on the floor of the kitchen and a ripped I Love Mum apron the girls had given me for last Mother’s Day. Daisy is sitting by the Aga, cradling the culprit.

  ‘When exactly is that puppy going back?’ I say, eyeing this white mop, not to mention the ugly metal dog cage the French teacher had provided. Apparently it gives them security. I could do with one myself. ‘It’s a real cheek if you ask me.’

  Betty and Daisy exchange looks. Immediately, I can see something is up. ‘Actually,’ says my mother-in-law, ‘Madame Blanche has just texted. It seems she’s got family issues and wants to know if we can have Coco just for a few more days while she sorts things out.’

  What? She clearly thinks Betty is a soft touch. ‘Is she joking?’ I say.

  Daisy promptly bursts into tears.

  ‘Don’t be mean, Mum,’ says Melissa. ‘You know she’s always wanted a dog. And it’s not like it’s for ever.’

  ‘Animals can be a great comfort,’ says Betty. ‘I’ve just been reading about how they can help during exam stress.’

  I give up. There’s too much to deal with right now. ‘I’ll discuss it with your dad,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you!’ Daisy leaps up and hugs me, all tears apparently dried.

  ‘That’s not a yes,’ I warn her.

  But she’s cuddling Coco as if the decision has already been made.

  To my surprise, Stuart comes back at about 6 p.m. from the surgery and suggests some late-night Christmas shopping in town. With everything going on, I haven’t even thought about presents yet. Thank heavens for Betty, who sorted out the tree and all the decorations two weeks ago. She’s also hung the cards on pretty ribbon. They keep arriving. ‘Don’t you want this one?’ she asked, finding an unopened envelope with an Australian stamp in the bin just before I leave with Stuart.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say shortly, avoiding meeting her eye and running upstairs to put on a dab of lip gloss.

  This is the second time in a week that we’ve done something together without the children. It has to be a record. Stuart actually holds my hand – something he hasn’t done for ages. I’d have given anything for that until last Sunday night. But now I feel terrible. Not ‘just’ because of the guilt, but because my husband’s grasp is so different from Matthew’s. Less meaningful. More like that of a friend than a lover. Where is the passion? Does it matter when you have a family? Yes. No. I’m not sure. But I do know that I will do whatever it takes to keep everyone together so the girls don’t have to go through what I did when my mother left. And, of course, I’m aware it’s rather like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted to think like this. But better late than never.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ he says, taking a pair of black leather gloves out of his pocket.

  ‘They’re nice,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. I bought them the other day.’

  That’s odd. Stuart rarely buys anything for himself. He leaves his clothes to me.

  We choose some extra little gifts: a small backpack for Daisy with a picture of a dog on it; fluffy pink earmuffs for Melissa and a stripy fun iPad cover for my mother-in-law. Then we go to a cafe for a hot chocolate. To the outside world, we probably look like an ordinary married middle-aged couple. Only I know the truth. And it’s killing me.

  The stress – and the warmth inside after the cold air – is making me hot. I peel off my jumper, revealing the bruise on my arm where Matthew had grabbed me in the hotel to stop me leaving. ‘That’s quite a shiner you’ve got there,’ says Stuart.

  ‘I bumped it getting out of a taxi,’ I reply lightly. ‘You know me. I only have to slightly knock myself to go black and blue.’

  I need to change the subject fast. ‘How’s your research going?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  ‘Is your research colleague helpful?’ I ask carefully.

  I don’t want to sound suspicious but I am beginning to feel very uneasy about all the hours Stuart is spending away from home – even more than usual. Then again, it’s always people who are unfaithful themselves who are suspicious of their partners. Or so I’ve read.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘She is, thanks.’

  Then he falls silent. I want to ask more but I am scared of tipping the boat. He might ask me tricky questions in return. I might find myself telling him everything. To distract myself, I stir the frothy bit of my hot chocolate and then lick my teaspoon like a child – exactly the kind of thing I tell the girls off for doing.

  ‘By the way,’ says Stuart, watching me carefully. ‘A new patient registered with me today. He doesn’t live in the area but he had an emergency and his usual NHS dentist was booked up. So he paid to see me privately.’

  I nod, trying to look interested. It’s not the first time that Stuart has had patients with the same story. Finding a dentist isn’t easy nowadays.

  ‘Someone recommended me to him, apparently.’ My husband is looking pleased with himself. ‘Interesting man, as a matter of fact. He’s an actor.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I told him my wife had been an actress once and runs an agency for extras.’

  I wince, wishing he hadn’t done that. Even though my work is so successful, my old failure still rankles.

  ‘He seemed very interested,’ says Stuart, taking a sip of his own hot chocolate and then dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin with a holly pattern. ‘I wouldn’t normally mention his name because of patient confidentiality but he specifically asked me to do so. Said he was always keen to keep up with other “thespians”, as he put it. Anyway, he’s called Matthew Gordon. Do you know him?’

  18

  Betty

  By Christmas, Jane still hadn’t got any better. Neither Gary nor I could persuade her to leave the house – not even for a little walk round the garden. ‘Not safe,’ she kept muttering, looking over her shoulder as if someone was following us.

  ‘What do you mean, darling?’ asked Gary. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you.’

  But she kept repeating the words over and over. ‘Not safe. Not safe.’

  The doctor arranged for a counsellor to come round but Jane became hysterical. ‘Go away,’ she screamed, pushing the poor woman out of the room.

  I’d agreed with Gary to keep Alice busy in the kitchen with her baking set that included some sweet plastic heart-shaped pastry cutters that her grandparents had given her but she’d heard the noise and come rushing out. ‘Why is Mummy so cross?’

  ‘She’s not really,’ I said carefully, giving Gary a ‘what-shall-I-say?’ look. ‘It’s just that she’s not very well at the moment.’

  The consultant said it was ‘disappointing’ that Jane’s condition had gone on for so long. It didn’t ‘fit the pattern’ of the last bout of postnatal depression. He prescribed more tablets. ‘I understand if you want to stop coming,’ Gary said to me. ‘You must be fed up with us.’

  ‘No,’ I said, horrified. ‘I love coming here.’

  He gave me a strange look. ‘Love?’

  ‘What I mean,’ I said hastily, ‘is that I want to look after Jane and the children. It’s company for Stuart too. I am sure Jane would do the same for me if I was in her situation.’

  Gary touched me gently on the shoulder. It was only for a second but my skin seemed to burn at his touch. ‘You’re a good friend. I don’t know what we’d do without you. But your husband … surely he must be asking questions by now?’

  I gave a short laugh. ‘No. He doesn’t. Jock is totally absorbed in “working his way up”. It’s all he’s ever lived for and dreamed of. He’s certainly not interested in anything I do.’

  Gary’s voice was low. ‘Then the man’s a fool.’

  I felt myself redden. I could feel Gary’s eyes on me.

  ‘Now,’ I said quickly, ‘what shall I cook you all for supper before I go?’

  ‘There’s no need. Honestly.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  I didn’t really have time to
do this before Jock got home but I wanted to do what I could for this poor man whose life had been turned upside down. Escaping to another woman’s kitchen would also give me a chance to compose myself before I left.

  Even though it was true that Jock never inquired about my day, Mum had started to ask questions. ‘You’re never in when I call round,’ she said. ‘What do you do with yourself?’

  ‘Stuart and I go for walks,’ I said carefully.

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘It’s warmer outside than it is in our place,’ I said.

  That wasn’t the exaggeration it sounded. Our boiler was always on the blink and Jock said we couldn’t afford a new one. (‘Not now we only have one lot of wages in this house.’) Jane’s house was lovely and warm in comparison. It actually had central heating!

  Meanwhile, I had started to take risks by staying later so I could spend a little longer with Gary when he came home from work. I lived for the moment when I heard his key turning in the lock! As the hour got closer and closer, my heart would beat faster and faster.

  ‘How were the girls?’ was always his first question when he stepped in through the door. There was no point in him asking about Jane because he knew I’d tell him immediately if anything changed. Then I’d ask him about his day. I couldn’t help thinking this was the kind of conversation that happily married couples might have.

  When I looked in the mirror, I began to see a different woman. One who was more excited about life. A woman with a definite glow.

  Jock noticed it too. ‘Something’s different about you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got a new face cream,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, I hope it didn’t cost much. We’ve got to be canny with the pennies, you know.’

  But by the time Stuart and Violet turned one, I couldn’t hide my feelings any more. I began to ‘prepare myself’ for Gary’s coming back from work, almost like getting ready for a date. I took care to brush my hair and dab lipstick on. Sometimes I added a little spray of perfume from Jane’s dressing table. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, I told myself, breathing it in. Go on – have some, I could almost hear her saying. You deserve it after everything you’re doing for us and I know you don’t have any at home.