Hush Hush (23 page)

Sadie woke up suddenly, gasping with the pain. She
pressed a hand tentatively against her side, smothering the hot
needles under her skin. Her face was damp with sweat, her tablets on
the far side of the dressing table. It would be a long and hazardous
solo expedition. Binky jumped suddenly on top of the duvet, mewling
concern (she liked to imagine). ‘A shame you can’t be
trained to fetch,’ grunted Sadie, swinging one leg slowly out
of bed, encased in an old leg-warmer of Angela’s. As she set
off for the north face of her bedroom, Binky wove in and out of her
carefully paced steps, joining her in a perilous formal dance. ‘Maud
Ambrose was right, as usual,’ muttered Sadie begrudgingly.
‘
Old
relics living alone are better off with a dog.’ She hoped
Angela was having a better weekend. Best not think about the
non-marital sex, though she’d never get used to the way people
behaved
,
marriages
falling apart like cleaved husks, women having sex with men to keep
the man’s interest. So much for women’s lib!

Sadie squeezed out all other
thoughts and focused on the bottle of pills. Almost there. Almost
made it. Oh to be young again ‒ fifty-five would do! She wasn’t
greedy. Didn’t want to relive her shining, frightening youth
when she arrived in London and chambermaided in a big hotel, breaking
her back for a shilling, pinning her hopes of escape on the night
porter at the Imperial, Fenton Feeney, asking her to dance at the St
Patrick’s night social. Quick, quick, quick, quick, slow, no
need to look at their nimble feet, leaving eyes free to feast on each
other.

Now
she was old, lame, partnered by Binky. And not given to self-pity,
she reminded herself sternly, reaching a clawed hand for the bottle
of painkillers.

The food and ambience in Simonetti’s were
rich. Angela began to appreciate her dress properly. The waiter
hovered respectfully, allowing his gaze to linger with professional
appreciation on her velvet-upholstered bust and narrow
shoulder-blades. She’d pinned up her loose, straight hair with
a star-shaped clip twinkling with cheap rhinestones that shone like
white diamonds in the dim-lit atmosphere. Her pasta came, ribbons of
tagliatelle under a thick cream laced with wine and mushrooms. The
place and its tenor were almost offensively romantic.
‘
You
can have the veal cutlet if you want,’ she told Conor
belligerently.

‘Spaghetti carbonara,’
he told the waiter dryly, and topped up her wine.

‘There’s no escape,
Conor McGinlay. What is it you’re not proud of in the collapse
of your marriage? I have to know,’ she added hopefully, ‘so
I can absolve you.’

‘Cheers,’ replied
Conor sardonically, toasting her. ‘Where were we? Oh yes, Shane
was born. A bawling bundle of non-stop demands who copped a lungful
of every stray germ and had to be weaned off antibiotics to go on
solids. Kate gave up work to cope, and I left her to it. As the great
provider, I found ever more reasons to spend time at the office, and
ultimately, abroad. Go on, then, say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘How could I be so
selfish?’

‘You’re a man. Seems
reason enough, judging by examples throughout history.’

The waiter appeared to scatter
Parmesan. ‘Are you still wearing your thong?’ Conor asked
her evilly. The waiter’s hand shook.

‘I’ve come
knickerless,’ replied Angela, addressing the waiter directly.

When he’d scampered away,
presumably al dente, she met Conor’s solemn, self-mocking eyes.
‘I’ve got my sensible pants on. And there seems little
chance of you getting into them tonight, mister.’

‘Well, OK, I deserve that.
But hear me out anyway. Kate confronted me about my absentee
fatherhood. I agreed to spend more time at home. So I converted the
loft, soundproofed it against Shane’s heartier yells, and hid
up there with paperwork. Kate was hitting the bottle quite openly by
then. It was a chicken and egg situation. Did I cause the drinking
escalation or was I legitimately escaping from it? Time’s
muddied the waters on that one ‒ at least for me. Kate started
letting the house go to pot ‒ couldn’t really blame her,
with Shane battering her lugholes all day and night ‒ so I
hired Mrs Turner. Taking the pressure off you, I told Kate. Getting
in someone to spy on me, she retorted. Well, again, that situation
just evolved. I did ask Mrs T to keep a kindly eye turned in Kate’s
direction when I was off the scene. Kate couldn’t be trusted
not to set the house alight, once she’d had a few chasers and
smoked a few cigarettes. Plus, there were added concerns that she’d
go flying down the stairs, baby in tow, or have a blackout at the
supermarket and leave him there.’

‘Didn’t you get help
for her?’ demanded Angela accusingly. ‘Poor woman had
just had a baby, and was still battling the unresolved demons of her
youth. While you hid in the attic!’

‘I said I wasn’t
proud of myself. Anyway, Kate wouldn’t set foot in the attic.
Said my master-plan was to chain her up in it, like Mr Rochester’s
mad wife. Course, I didn’t have a clue who she was talking
about. Thought he was an ex-colleague of hers. But I tried to deal
with things, albeit it in my own, hamfisted way. I came out of my
lair, got leaflets from the library about help for alcos and spread
them tactfully around the house. I dangled Shane on my knee, moved
into the spare room without complaining.’

‘Why didn’t you just
discuss the drinking problem face to face? I mean, before it got to
the stage of dropping leaflets and hints?’

‘I’d tried.’ He
looked deep into his glass of mineral water. ‘Kate denied there
was a problem and said she’d take Shane to Northumberland if I
ever raised it again.’ She’d also chucked a boiling
kettle at Conor, just missing him by inches, but he wasn’t
going to shame his marriage by sharing that intimacy. ‘She
meant it, so I let it drop. Couldn’t risk the return of the
prodigal daughter to the family fold, and Shane disappearing behind a
front door that would never be opened to me again. After that, even
leafleting the house was risking things.’

‘Your spaghetti’s
getting cold,’ sighed Angela, feeling almost but not quite
sorry for him. She could just imagine the Conor of fourteen years ago
perfecting the art of problem avoidance while hoping to solve the
problem, developing his grunting, bluff carapace as a shell to arm
him rather than shrink into, when the attic wasn’t available.

He ignored the spaghetti. ‘Let’s
get this over with, and then you can dole out sixty Hail Marys as my
penance or whatever. Kate tore up the leaflets and went for me
bald-headed. The problem was all mine, she said, and I wasn’t
shifting the blame for a crap marriage onto her. She took Shane and
went to stay with a girl friend. Didn’t come back for eight
months. I was lucky it wasn’t Northumberland, and luckier still
that she rang most weeks.’

‘And that’s when you
‒ had your affair?’

Conor’s green eyes
darkened, like lagoons in the shade. ‘With Kate and Shane gone,
I’d come home to silence every evening ‒ and didn’t
like it. Funny how I missed the noise I’d spent months hiding
from. I’d enjoyed converting the attic, so I got into DIY in a
big way, therapy for blokes who can’t communicate. I relaid the
floors, put up shelves, built alcoves, ripped out and reinstalled the
kitchen, working all my emotions into sanding and grooving and
sawing. When Kate came back ‒ on a trial basis ‒ she was
an intruder. She saw straight away what had happened. I’d made
the whole house, not just the attic, my retreat and bolt-hole. But I
took advantage of the situation. Look what I’ve done, I said. I
did it all for you! And so we staggered on from year to year, lie to
lie, until she left a note one morning and disappeared to the
States.’

Angela’s own food was
congealing. ‘Why didn’t she go back to work when Shane
was a bit older?’

‘She did, part-time. It
couldn’t be full-time because I was away so much. Part-time
graphic designing didn’t satisfy her. She was never in line for
the tasty assignments or promotion. Course, she was right to blame
me. I could’ve taken a back seat in my own career so she could
kickstart hers again. But I wasn’t much of a new man. And deep
down, I wanted to punish her for being a secret drunk and marrying me
to spite her dad.’

‘What did her farewell note
say?’

‘That she’d had
enough. And that she didn’t want Shane. You keep him, the note
said. Imagine if he’d read that before I found it!’ Conor
gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘It’s not Shane’s
fault, but he’s a dead ringer for Kate’s old man, right
down to a few mannerisms and his tantrum-throwing technique. Poor
Kate! I think she had to get away from her own son as much as me. And
now the guilt’s hit home. She came to see me a few weeks ago.
She wants to come back.’

Angela started as if she’d
been shot. ‘My God, you kept that quiet! And just when I’ve
been thinking
…’
She went scarlet with embarrassment.

‘Yes?’ He pressured
her softly, his nervousness almost a plea.

‘I was thinking, how far
you must’ve come from strong, silent, emotionally repressed
Conor McGinlay, to sit here like this and spill your guts. And even
analyse your past behaviour in a critical light.’

‘That’s because of
you, Angela. Believe me, when I met you on that plane, I thought
myself long past meaningful conversation with a woman. And even then,
I was rude and sarcastic! But you’ve drawn me out of myself,
bit by painful bit. You asked me for the whole story, and I’ve
given it to you. Everything I’ve just told you is the first
time I’ve articulated it to a third party. Though I’ve
had years, I suppose, to work it all out in my subconscious.’

Angela looked into her plate.
‘Now Kate’s coming back. Maybe you should’ve told
me before you asked me to spend a weekend with you. Unless,’
she gulped,
‘
this is
the brush-off, the goodbye and thanks for all the fish. Sending me on
my merry way with a good meal and a kickstarted libido!’

‘For Christ’s sake,
woman, give me a chance! Listen. She wanted to come back and live at
23 Pacelli Road as a lodger ‒ take over the attic, no less, and
the whole top floor ‒ to be with Shane, make things up to him.
I would’ve had to convert the house, put in extra doors and
partitions, an upstairs kitchen ‒ take out other things ‒
to turn it into two flats. Kate would’ve savoured that, being
the cause of me mutilating my perfect home! I was prepared to go for
it, too, until Shane himself put the kibosh on the plan. Said he
didn’t want a return to the bad old days of tiptoeing around on
eggshells while Kate and I festered under the same roof. So I’ve
made Kate an alternative offer. If she wants to move back to be near
Shane, I’ll help her buy a place. A nice place, not a dump. At
one point, I was scared she might sue for custody. But she’s
the one who ran off, and anyway, Shane doesn’t want to go
anywhere.’

He took a deep breath and rushed
on. ‘She took the deal a couple of weeks ago. So I decided it
was safe to plough ahead and make this weekend a reality. Before
that, yes, I admit it, I would’ve been stringing you along on a
mystery tour, where only Shane knew the destination. But me and Kate
are history, joined together by Shane and separated forever by our
shitty past and the way we handled it. Do you believe me?’ He
looked at her challengingly.

‘But was there ever a point
at which you could’ve saved your marriage?’

‘Of course. Isn’t
there always?’

‘And now? What I mean is ‒
is there any question it might still be the right thing to do?’

‘None at all. Think of my
marriage as a dinghy cast adrift from the shore by two careless
owners. It rounded Fastnet and went out of radio contact long ago.
The coastguard have called off the search.’ He scowled and
opened the menu with a resounding thump. ‘What’s for
dessert in this gaff?’

Back in the en suite bathroom,
Angela slipped out of her dress, pants and bra, and examined her full
tummy for unsightly bulging. The bathroom’s subtle lighting
tanned her a pale gilt colour, highlighting not crêpey, dimpled
flesh, but soulful hollows on her collar and pelvic bones. She looked
mysterious, womanly, like an African carving.

She went into the bedroom. Conor
was by the window, wearing boxers. He turned to her, a stocky bear
with slightly bowed legs, a broad chest and a refined face. ‘You’ll
catch your death,’ he said, and smothered a small cough.

It was not the line Casanova
would’ve chosen at that juncture. But she didn’t love
Conor because he was Mr Seduction. She loved him because she could be
herself with him.

She got into bed. He joined her.
At first he held back, as if afraid to shove Robert aside. She ran a
finger over his mouth. Her wedding and engagement rings caught in its
nervous cracks. ‘No more guilt trips,’ she said firmly.
‘Here, tonight, this is all about us.’

When she woke in the morning,
everything looked different, even her blue dress from yesterday’s
beach stroll, slung on the back of a chair. She was different too.
Warm and replete.

Conor’s hot, fuzzy back was
pressed into her shoulder. Reluctantly, she rolled away and padded
into the bathroom for a pee.

Shutting the door, she heard his
mobile ring and Conor answer it, grunting. Not bloody Joe from the
office again! Angela yawned, stretched her arms, released a golden
stream from tender muscles. Her stomach was all over the place this
morning, thanks to last night’s rich meal, topped off with
fruits-of-the-forest pavlova. She’d eat like a sparrow at
breakfast.

She went back into the bedroom.
Conor sat on the edge of the bed, his face ashen, the phone lying on
the floor.

Angela stopped. The phone call
telling her about Robert leapt into focus from her warmly hazy mind.
Who was it this time? Sadie! Oh dear God, not Shane.