Close Relations (35 page)

Indoors, the dirty cups piled up in the sink; the phone went unanswered. Louise and Robert wandered unwashed, pale as ghosts. They sat in their dressing-gowns, like invalids, drinking whisky as the sunlight outside slid around the garden and finally sank behind the church. They talked, round and round in a repeating loop. They talked but it exhausted them, for there seemed nothing to say. With the death of love their words had perished.

Louise's anger had drained away. Robert didn't love her; he loved another woman more. He tried to explain; he tried to be kind. ‘She's older than you. She's not nearly as beautiful. She's not even that clever or amusing.'

‘You really think that helps?' asked Louise.

They sat hunched in the kitchen. The cat brushed against Louise's legs, miaowing for food.

‘When did you stop loving me?' she asked.

‘I never stopped. I've always loved you – been fond of you –'

‘Fond!'

‘Nothing's changed,' he said. ‘None of this changed what I felt for you.'

‘
You
changed,' she said. ‘The past few months.'

‘That was nothing to do with you. You must believe me.'

‘I don't believe anyone any more. I'm too tired.'

‘Lou – we can get over this –'

‘You love her more than you love me. There's nothing more to say, is there?' Louise looked at him. ‘That's the awful thing.'

She sat there, numb. What
had
they ever talked about? Twenty years of marriage dissolved away; all those words, what had they been? Just words; a heap of ashes. She wished she could feel something but all she felt was sick. If she were alone she could try to catch up with the shock of it but Robert was there, trying to be kind, like a poisoner rubbing her with anaesthetic as he administered the lethal injection.

Her head throbbed. What she was going through, it had happened to so many people she knew; it had even happened to her mother. She had comforted them with such blind and patronising ignorance. She had read countless articles about it in magazines but nothing had prepared her for how it felt. She had had no idea.

Nor could she have guessed how Robert would behave. For during those terrible days he was indeed kind to her – gentle, even. He ran her a bath. It wasn't like him but then neither of them was recognisable to the other. He was like a stranger with whom she had nothing in common except the lumber of family life. A corner of her brain wondered what he was like with this other woman – she couldn't bear to call her by name – was this pale, solicitous man the Robert whom
she
knew? Did he run
her
baths, was that where he had learned it?

Louise lay in the water. She lay there for a long time, until
it grew chilly. Her body already looked uncherished, like that of an elderly woman. Her pubic hair looked like an anachronism, like a powder puff left on the dressing-table of somebody she didn't know. For the first time in her marriage she had locked the bathroom door. She and Robert had become modest with each other, undressing separately, putting on pyjamas and lying in bed without touching. Neither of them had moved to another room. They needed the simple, animal comfort of another body lying next to their own, breathing deeply as it pretended to sleep through the interminable night.

In the mornings Robert brought her a cup of tea, as he had done years ago, before the children were born. They were alone, as they had been at the beginning. The house was so silent that she thought that, behind the closed doors, the rooms must be stripped bare. No teenagers inhabited them, they had never played their horrible music, it had all been a dream. She had dreamed a family for herself, and now she had woken up.

She went downstairs. Even this was exhausting. She realised that it was Wednesday morning; two days seemed to have passed. ‘What are we going to tell the children?' Asking a question exhausted her too. ‘What are we going to do?'

‘What do you want to do?' Robert stood, looking out of the window.

‘You want to live with her, don't you?'

He didn't move. She looked at the back of his dressing-gown – maroon and black stripes, she had bought it for him at Liberty. Outside, in the morning sunshine, steam rose off the roof of the stable.

‘You're a born cheat,' she said. ‘You learned it at your mother's knee. But this isn't just cheating, is it?'

He shook his head.

‘If we –' She stopped. She couldn't say
separate
. ‘If you go, she'll leave her husband?'

He nodded. ‘She didn't want to break up our family. She's rather religious.'

Not too religious to shag you,
Louise would have said, if she hadn't been so tired. ‘We'd better do it then. I'm not going to fight. Fighting for your marriage – what's the point, when the battle's lost? We'd better do it. Sell the house, do it. We can't possibly go on now.'

Robert stood there. She heard the drip of the tap. After he spoke, that moment was imprinted on her memory for ever: Robert's striped, towelling back, the view of the church spire through the window – the view she had gazed at as she had prepared a thousand meals for her family to eat.

Finally, he spoke. He didn't turn round. ‘Louise,' he said, ‘there's something I haven't told you.'

Night had fallen. Louise was sitting in the garden. She had sat there for some time; she couldn't go back into the house, not with Robert in it. She wore her overcoat but still she shivered. Over by the shed, the rabbit shifted around in his hutch.

Behind her, in the house, a window slid open. She willed Robert not to call out. After a moment, the window slid closed. Through the hedge she heard the horse. Skylark moved around in the meadow; she tore at some grass, the ground reverberated as she trotted off. She, too, was restless tonight. It was as if the animals had sensed that something had happened.

It was still Wednesday. It seemed inconceivable that it was still the same day. Over and over Louise thought:
so that was why he was being so nice.
She looked up at the church. It was lit from within; they must be preparing it for Easter. In the stained-glass window angels blew trumpets around the body on the cross; they looked as if they were on fire. Louise had never prayed, she hadn't been taught to. She had stepped inside the church simply to show it to her guests. She thought: if I believed, He would be an avenging God, He would punish the wicked in the flames of hell. He would watch them perish and then He would hold me in his arms, my
Father, and give me comfort. If I believed in God I wouldn't be alone.

She wasn't alone. Someone was watching her.

Louise turned her head slowly. A figure stood in the garden, half-hidden by the yew hedge. It was a woman – a large woman, in pale clothes.

Louise turned away. In the house the dog barked, once, and was silent. Her heart thudded. If she sat still, maybe the woman would disappear. It was that woman, of course, Deirdre. She was standing there, waiting for Robert. If Louise pretended that she hadn't seen her, maybe the woman would take him away.

The horse whinnied. The lights were switched off in the church. It stood there, a black bulk, its spire rearing up into the sky. Couldn't Deirdre wait? Maybe she had some sadistic impulse to watch the death-throes of the marriage she had helped to destroy. Louise held her breath; across the lawn she could almost hear the woman breathing.

Maybe Deirdre couldn't stay away. She had come here to spy on them. Prudence said that she had driven to Stephen's house, once, just to sit there looking at the windows. Maybe the woman thought that Robert wasn't going to leave, could that be possible?

Louise felt furious. How could Deirdre dare to come here? She got up from the bench and walked across the grass. The figure was rooted to the spot, like a piece of garden statuary. Louise stepped up to her.

She was a fat woman. She wore a pale jacket, a skirt and wellington boots. There was something familiar about her. but it took Louise a moment to recognise her. It was Margot, from the General Stores.

Louise asked: ‘Are you all right? What are you doing here?'

‘I want to talk to you,' said Margot.

‘What's happened?'

‘I know everything,' said Margot. ‘About you and my husband.'

Louise stared at her. Margot's face glimmered in the
moonlight. A broad face, her hair curly and somehow inappropriate, like a wig. Louise hadn't seen her for months.

‘What about your husband?' Louise tried to remember what had happened with Tim but her brain felt scrambled. She heard a noise. She turned; the back door had been opened, a beam of light shone into the garden. Robert stood there. ‘We can't talk here,' she whispered.

Louise slipped behind the hedge and across the gravel. She made her way around the back of the stable, to the caravan. Margot followed her. Louise opened the door. Margot's face was blank, as if she were sleepwalking. She didn't seem to find it odd that Louise hadn't invited her into the house.

The street lamp shone through the little window. Louise sat down on the stool. Margot seemed to fill up the cramped interior. She sat down on the bed, breathing heavily from the walk.

‘I found out about you, you see,' said Margot. ‘Do you want to know how? Are you interested? Stop me if I'm boring you.' She stared into Louise's face; her gaze was unnerving. ‘Something happened to me today. You wouldn't understand it but I'll tell you all the same. The sun was shining, you see, and I felt something happen. I don't know if you know about – the thing that happened, or if you care, it probably means nothing to you –'

‘Oh, I do care, I'm so sorry –'

‘– but for the first time in six years I felt this unusual sensation, so unusual I'd forgotten what it was. Most peculiar. I felt as if a weight was lifting, a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, call it what you will. It was hope. A tiny glimmer of something almost approaching happiness.' She shifted her position; the bed creaked. Still she didn't take her eyes off Louise's face. ‘I'm only telling you this so you'll know what you've done to me.'

‘What have I done?'

‘It's our half-day closing on Wednesdays. I thought,
We'll have a barbecue. Look, it's a sunny day!
I thought,
Tim will be so pleased.
He's suffered, you know, you wouldn't believe. I
thought,
I've got some chicken pieces and a packet of sausages. I'll set out the barbecue, out the back, and we'll do something nice, just for us
. So I went to the shelf and pulled out a sack of charcoal. And that's when I found them.'

‘Found what?'

‘The photos.'

‘What?'

‘Of you.'

Louise froze. Her throat closed up.

‘He says he loves you.' Margot's voice was flat. ‘He's not up to much, Mrs Bailey, but he's all I've got. How can you take him from me?'

‘But I haven't –'

‘What a greedy woman you are. You've got everything and now you've got my husband too –'

‘I haven't!' said Louise.

‘Seems to me, you see – seems to me a little bit unfair,' said Margot. ‘You probably don't think so, people like you probably don't even notice –'

‘You think I've got everything?' Louise leaned forward; her knees bumped against Margot's. ‘Shall I tell you the truth? My marriage has just broken up, that's what's happened.' She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘My husband's leaving me, he's fallen in love with somebody else, he's been in love with her for years. He was only staying with me until the children were old enough for him to go, except I've found out so he's going now. He's fond of me. That's what he said. He's fond of me and I've looked after the children.' She pushed her hand through her hair. She looked around the caravan – the tiny cooker, the flowery curtains. In the lamplight it seemed sinister, a goblin parody of normal life. She looked up at Margot. ‘Shall I tell you something else? Something he told me today? He's stolen all our money, too. He's cheated me over that as well. Last year he took out a loan against the security of our house, and do you know what for? To bail out this woman's husband. His business is going bust, poor thing. So we've paid for it.
That's
how much he
loves her. We've paid for it and we haven't got a bloody penny left. Nothing belongs to us – the house, any of this.' She gestured around wildly. ‘It's all gone. It's all nothing.' She looked at Margot's expressionless face. ‘I don't know why I'm telling you this.'

‘Because I don't count,' said Margot bitterly.

They sat in silence. Far away a dog barked. Maybe it was Monty. Her house seemed to have drifted away, she couldn't imagine ever going back into it now.

She looked at Margot. She seemed too old to have had a child; maybe she and Tim had married late. Maybe they had both been married before. Louise didn't know anything about them. Margot was right; until that moment in the lane she had hardly thought about them.

Margot said: ‘Sometimes, the first few weeks, I'd wake up and think – oh, she'll be late for school.'

Louise gazed out of the window. The sky seemed paler. Maybe they had sat there for so long that it was already morning.

‘What a fucking mess,' she said.

JAMIE TOLD IMOGEN
when she got back from France. He didn't seem unduly upset.

‘They're splitting up,' he said. ‘Dad's got some slag in Essex.'

Imogen burst into tears.

Jamie looked gratified. ‘Chill, sis,' he said. ‘Everybody's doing it.'

Imogen slammed the door of her room and threw herself on the bed. Her heart was breaking. She had read the words so often and now it was happening. Part of her stood back and watched these histrionics – herself flung on the bed, her face buried in the pillow, making noises as if she were being sick. Part of her thought: when I see Karl I'll throw myself into his arms and burst into tears and he'll comfort me. She thought: now I can't show off my tan from France, it will seem too trivial.