by Jane Corry
I hadn’t realized he’d noticed. Even though Stuart had insisted on using our joint savings to make up the balance of my bank debt, bookings had been painfully slow. A new name – unassociated with mine – might make all the difference. And our regulars like Jennifer, Doris, Ronnie and Karen (with the tattoo) have all pledged their loyalty.
‘I’d put Sally’s money straight into our account,’ I say quickly. ‘And as her assistant, I wouldn’t be responsible for any financial liabilities.’
‘Won’t you mind not being the boss any more?’ asks Melissa.
‘No.’ I never thought I’d say it, but it’s true. ‘It will give me more time for all of you.’
Stuart says nothing, but Betty takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘It will all come right in the end,’ she says softly. ‘You’ll see.’
It’s the New Year. The snowdrops and crocuses have burst through the winter soil. They remind me of the flowers in the Embankment Gardens. And of Matthew. I’d like to say that I don’t think of him, but every now and then he comes back into my head. Yes, he caused me terrible pain. To say he acted badly is an understatement. Yet he might be alive if it wasn’t for me and I can’t forget that.
But there’s another reason I can never block him out. Matthew Gordon is inextricably tied up with my younger self. Little dumpy Poppy Smith with the bright smile and auburn curls who had fallen madly in love with a man, unaware that he was going to break her heart. An eighteen-year-old girl – the same age as my Melissa – who had had such high hopes of being an actress but whose hitherto happy-go-lucky approach to life had been smashed by her parents’ breakup.
I used to think back on that ‘me’ with sadness and disappointment. I don’t any more. Now I look back with acceptance. The past is the past. It is time to move forward. No more secrets. No more lies.
Which is why I needed to have another talk to Stuart. Every day over the Christmas holidays I’d braced myself, and every night I’d failed to say something. The words wouldn’t come. Despite that group hug – and Sally’s unexpected offer – everything was still so strained. We limped on through January and half of February, while at the same time attempting to put on a united front for Daisy. At least now Melissa has just started to send me the odd two-line text from university instead of one word.
If it wasn’t for work, I’d go mad. Sally’s Agency, as she’s named it, is doing surprisingly well. At first I was worried that my presence even as an assistant might deter potential clients. After all, hadn’t people shunned us because of my ruined reputation?
‘Memories are short,’ Sally told me. ‘New casting directors are coming in all the time. Besides, I need you. You have far more experience than I do.’
‘Are you sure you’re not taking me on out of pity?’ I asked.
‘You did the same for me when I came to you after my divorce,’ she pointed out. ‘Just call it quits.’
It helped that our regulars kept their promise to stick with us. Doris was thrilled when I got her a one-line role in an ad featuring Hollywood lookalikes to promote skin care. Ronnie the vicar is going from strength to strength, constantly singing our praises. And Jennifer has found her feet (or should I say paws?) in an animal television commercial where everyone is in costume. ‘THANK you!’ she said, flinging her arms around us both.
I’ve found to my surprise that I’m enjoying my work more now than when I was in charge. I’ve learned to shut down my computer and put my mobile on silent at 6 p.m. every evening so I can have ‘quality time’ with Daisy.
But I’d happily lose the agency a second time, to get my marriage back on track.
Then, one evening when it was just Betty and me at home (Stuart was working late again and Daisy was at a friend’s), my mother-in-law came up with her idea.
‘Why don’t you go down to Devon again, love? You know, I wasn’t too keen on the place at first because of Jock’s behaviour on our honeymoon.’ She faltered for a minute and I put a hand on her arm in comfort, remembering how she’d described his brutality in her prison creative-writing sessions.
‘But later,’ she continued, ‘when things improved in our marriage and we started to take Stuart down as a young lad, I found the sea so relaxing. It helped me to think clearly. It’s why we bought a caravan of our own. Give it a go.’
‘Our last visit didn’t help,’ I pointed out, thinking how it was there that Stuart had shown me the picture of Matthew and me at drama school. Besides, the sea had lost its charm for me when Mum had left home, staining all those childhood memories of us finding shells on the beach.
‘Like I said,’ whispered Betty, giving me a cuddle, ‘things change. And it will give the two of you time on your own.’
‘Stuart would never agree to that!’ I said. But, astoundingly, he did. Maybe Betty twisted his arm. It wouldn’t surprise me.
Even so, we drive down almost in silence. This isn’t going to work, I tell myself, glancing sideways at his set expression every now and then with a sinking heart. Then we go up a steep hill in first gear and down again. There in front of us are those huge rocks rising magnificently out of the sea that I remember from before. Fields stretch out around us.
‘Beautiful,’ we both say as one.
For a minute we are joined together by stunned admiration. Then Stuart and I go back to polite practicalities as we unload the car and open up the caravan. This time we’d arranged for someone on site to air it and put on clean sheets. There’s a bunch of pink spring blossom on the side along with a pot of local honey, but even so, I’m beginning to have doubts about coming here. Marriages can’t be saved simply by a change of scene. Can they?
‘Shall we go for a walk before we unpack?’ says Stuart in a flat voice.
‘I’d like that,’ I reply, trying to sound enthusiastic.
We go down the slope towards the beach. A fisherman is hauling his boat across the sand. ‘Afternoon,’ he says in a friendly way. If a stranger greeted us like that at home, we’d be suspicious. But here it seems warm and welcoming.
The sun is dipping. The sky is a blend of orange and yellow streaks. Stuart and I walk side by side. Still we say nothing.
But something odd is happening. That breathlessness which has been inside me for so long is beginning to subside. Betty was right about the sea. It is calming, with that gentle rhythm of the waves, lapping onto the sand like a persistent heartbeat that says, ‘I’m still here. Don’t give up on me.’ I’m beginning to feel like a different person away from all the memories of court and the terrible things that have happened.
For a while, we stand in silence. Watching.
‘You know,’ says Stuart eventually, ‘what I love about the sea is that it’s angry sometimes and calm the next. A bit like life.’
I am amazed. My husband isn’t usually the philosophical type.
I want to tell him once more that I’m sorry. But it might spoil things, so we carry on, crunching over the pebbles in silence. Yet, I realize slowly, it has become a comfortable silence. Not a tight one.
That evening we drive down to a pretty Regency seaside town along the coast and buy fish and chips. We munch them sitting side by side on the low wall on the promenade. The sea stretches out as far as the eye can see. Behind us, the line of historic hotels with their blue plaques glow with the warm, welcoming light from their windows. One of the bars has an open courtyard with pretty fairy lights. Maybe we could go there tomorrow evening.
‘Sure you’re happy eating here?’ he says.
I nod, thinking of all those London restaurant meals where we had sat stiffly over the years. Here, we can listen to the sound of the water gently slapping against the shoreline. ‘Definitely.’
‘Me too.’
There’s something between us. I can feel it. But still he doesn’t take my hand. And I don’t dare make the first step in case he rebuffs me. ‘Let’s go,’ he says after a bit. We drive back to the caravan, each wrapped up in our own thoughts.
The bed, which unfolds down f
rom the wall, is small. It’s not so easy to lie apart like we do at home. It’s also cold.
I shiver.
‘Do you want another blanket?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I find myself saying. ‘I want to know where we are.’
He turns on the light. We both sit up, looking at each other.
Stuart rubs his eyes. There are bags underneath. He’s aged in the last few months, I realize. ‘We’ve been through all this before, Poppy. I’m trying to come to terms with everything but it’s hard.’
‘I know it is. But you haven’t been truthful with me either, have you?’
A look of alarm flits over his face. ‘How do you know …?’
I feel sick. ‘So you are having an affair, then?’
His face clears. He lets out a snort as if this was actually funny. ‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Then why have you been turning away from me at night for ages? Long before …’
I stop, unable to say the words ‘before I slept with Matthew’.
I can see him looking awkward. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I’m always tired. And … well, that does affect the way we men work. I can’t always … you know.’
‘What?’
He looks away. ‘I can’t always do it.’
For a moment I don’t know what to say. That possibility had never even crossed my mind. ‘It’s not because you fancy Janine?’ I ask doubtfully after a minute or two.
‘What? No!’ Stuart shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Is that what you’ve been thinking? Poppy, she’s a colleague. We’re writing a paper together. There’s absolutely nothing between us, I swear to you.’
He is so indignant that, for a minute, I’m scared he’s going to get up and leave.
‘But you made love to me the last time we were in the caravan,’ I point out.
‘I was scared you were going to walk out on me for him,’ he says. ‘It did something to my body.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘It’s difficult to explain. Maybe it’s a man thing.’
But I think I get it.
‘About Janine,’ he says, more slowly now.
My heart catches in my throat.
‘We’re going to be presenting our paper at a conference next month. Would you like to come along?’
I’m so taken aback that I hardly know what to say. ‘Wow. I mean, OK. I mean, yes, I’d love to.’
‘Good.’ He opens his arms. ‘Cuddle up.’
We don’t do anything else. But it feels warm. Comforting. Yet I still can’t help feeling that something isn’t right.
I dress with particular care for the conference. Leaning forward towards the mirror, I check my reflection, wondering if the eyeliner is too much. I do believe him about Janine, but still, I want to look my best.
‘You look very nice,’ says Stuart. He himself looks pretty good in his dark woollen suit and pale yellow tie. But I sense he is on edge.
He’s still nervous as we approach the conference centre, taking his hands in and out of his pockets.
‘This research paper is a big thing for me,’ he replies when I ask if everything is OK. ‘There will be some important people here.’
I give his arm a squeeze. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’
He doesn’t respond. Once more I feel that old flatness coming back. Why can’t he show his feelings more?
We go through the big glass doors into the foyer.
‘Stuart!’
The most glamorous woman I have ever seen is suddenly at our side and kissing my husband on both cheeks. She is blonde, impossibly slender and dressed in a sleek blue suit. I feel my cheeks grow hot. So this is my husband’s ‘colleague’?
‘Poppy,’ she says, turning away from Stuart and extending a hand to me. ‘I’m Janine. Lovely to meet you at last.’
Really?
‘This is Amanda, my partner,’ she continues.
Another woman, equally beautiful, her short brown hair swinging around her ears, sidles up and takes Janine’s arm.
‘We’re so excited about the paper,’ Amanda says, her green eyes sparkling. Those eyelashes are incredible. Can they actually be real? ‘Now hurry up, Janine. You too, Stuart. It’s about to start.’
Amanda and I take our seats. ‘Do you understand what they’ve been working on?’ she whispers in a confidential little-girl tone as though we’ve known each other for years.
‘Not really,’ I confess.
‘Nor me. It’s not my field.’ Then she drops her voice. ‘Actually, this is a big day for Janine and me. It’s the first time I’ve met any of her colleagues. She was worried about what some of the stuffier ones would think.’
I’m not sure what to say. What a relief! But why hadn’t Stuart said? It would have been so much simpler.
‘That’s brave,’ I manage.
‘Just what your husband said. I wondered if he’d told you.’
‘No,’ I say.
Then an idea comes to me. Had Stuart wanted to make me jealous out of wounded male pride? What better way than to have regular assignations and phone calls with another woman? After all, he’d suspected me of having an affair. So I can’t blame him for making me think he was doing the same. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s more to my ‘serious’ husband than meets the eye.
‘Janine confided in him, you see,’ continues Amanda. ‘It was him who encouraged her to be open about her sexuality. You’ve got a good man there.’
The person in the row directly in front of us turns round and shushes us. I flush. Amanda nudges me in the ribs. ‘Here they are.’
Usually I tune out when Stuart goes into what I call dental-speak. But this time, I try hard to listen. There are a lot of complicated diagrams and phrases and figures. Amanda rolls her eyes every now and then, which makes me want to giggle. Then the audience is invited to ask questions. It’s all too complicated for me! A man near the front puts his hand up.
‘Yes?’ says Stuart.
‘My question is not directly related to your research, but I would be grateful for your advice. I have a patient who is so terrified of dental treatment that I have been injecting him in the mouth with a sedative that is a member of the same drug family as Valium. Could this interfere with the pain relief methods you have been discussing?’
Valium? I stiffen. Sit up straight. Stuart looks unnerved. It doesn’t happen often, but after all these years together, I can tell the signs. His right eye flickers very slightly and the edge of his upper lip goes up on one side.
‘That isn’t something I’ve had much experience of,’ he retorts tightly.
He is fiddling with his cuffs as he speaks. My husband is usually honest. It’s one of the reasons I married him. But my instinct tells me that this time, he is lying.
My mind shoots back to the autopsy. No further questions had been asked about the large quantity of Valium in Matthew’s blood. The doctor had given him the tablets for anxiety. The report had made that clear. But he was also in pain with his teeth. He’d said so in the Embankment Gardens. ‘They really are playing me up and I had to get them looked at even though I get really nervous about seeing the dentist.’
But that was on the Tuesday. The accident had happened on the Friday. A strange buzzing starts in my head. If my husband had given him Valium, surely it wouldn’t have still been in his bloodstream by then? Only the amount prescribed by the doctor unless, as had been suggested by the autopsy, Mathew had taken more than the recommended dose. Hadn’t he been rubbing his jaw just before he’d snatched the package of money from me at Waterloo? Was it possible that he’d been back to see Stuart earlier that day? Even if this was the case, why would my husband have given him extra Valium? To calm him down as suggested by the questioner in the audience? Or to deliberately make him woozy? Even then, Stuart wasn’t to know that this might cause an accident. Although perhaps he’d hoped it would make him unsteady on his feet.
Maybe it was his way of inflicting a ‘wound’ on a man who had tried to take his wife.
So many ifs. So many buts.
I could of course just ask him now. Perhaps there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. But how do I know my husband will tell the truth? Still, I can but try.
‘Well done,’ I say to Stuart during the coffee break before the next speaker. Amanda and Janine are talking to other people. Every now and then, one will touch the other on the arm. No one seems to bat an eyelid. Nor should they. I can’t help envying them for their obvious love and commitment.
‘Your research seemed to go down very well,’ I say.
Stuart nods in acknowledgment of the compliment. ‘Thank you.’
‘I didn’t know that a form of Valium could be injected into the mouth,’ I continue.
Stuart fiddles with his cuffs again. ‘It’s not standard practice.’
‘Especially,’ I say quietly, ‘if someone has already been prescribed Valium by the doctor. That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Stuart carefully, meeting my gaze. ‘It could cause an overdose. But, of course, that would rely on the patient disclosing to his or her dentist that they were on Valium already. And some people don’t always tell the truth because of embarrassment.’
Some people don’t always tell the truth. Would Matthew have? Would Stuart?
I go to question my husband further. Then I stop. What would it achieve? We’ve reached a better place than we were in before. I don’t want to jeopardize it. Not just for the sake of the children but for my sake too. And Betty’s.
Stuart puts his arm round me. ‘Shall we skip the rest of the conference? I think we could do with a couple of hours to ourselves.’
I put the thought to the back of my head. There comes a point, I tell myself, when you just have to trust the person you love.
Epilogue
Poppy
‘Why don’t we move to Devon?’ my husband suggests when we come back from the conference. We’re sitting next to each other on the sofa. Betty is in bed. Those days when I slept in her room seem so far away now.
I look at Stuart as if he’d suggested emigrating to the moon. ‘But what about your work? My work? Daisy’s school?’