The Benefits of Passion (27 page)

Annie looked away embarrassed. There was a short pause.

‘Listen, I'll show you the pictures another day,' said Mara.

‘Lovely,' replied Annie.

Mara muttered again and left.

‘There you are, pet,' said Johnny. ‘She likes you.' He opened his can and drank and asked how she was keeping. They chatted for a while about babies, and she thought she could detect a wistfulness in his tone. ‘Now then,' he said, getting down to business. ‘Why are you excommunicating yourself?'

‘Oh! Goodness. Because I'm living in sin, I suppose. I thought you wouldn't want to give me communion.'

‘I operate an open policy. If they're willing to come, I'm willing to accept them.'

‘Whatever?'

‘That seems to be the line God takes.'

‘Mmm,' said Annie doubtfully.

‘Well, he accepts me. He can't be that picky.' He lit a cigarette.

‘Rubbish. I'm sure God –'

‘Guess what I do on Saturday nights,' he interrupted.

‘Um . . .' Annie banished her first thought. ‘Write your sermon?'

‘Exactly. Now, fifteen years ago my idea of a good Saturday night was to get drunk, get my leg over – unless I passed out first. Maybe smash a couple of faces in. Nick a car. And if I didn't get locked up, well, that was a
really
good Saturday night.'

‘Which do you prefer?' asked Annie.

He leant his head back and blew a thoughtful smoke ring. ‘Hmm. Tricky one. Sermons, I guess. No hangover.' The ring floated across the room. ‘You know what I'm saying, though.'

‘Yes. But maybe great sinners make great saints,' said Annie. ‘I was only ever a rather feeble sinner.'

He grinned.

She remembered her circumstances and blushed. ‘I meant . . .'

‘I know.' He patted her arm. ‘Don't be a stranger, flower. Come up for communion.'

‘It's just . . . Will –' Annie broke off. Johnny took her hands. ‘I think he loves me, but he won't hear of marriage. I keep trying to tell myself it doesn't matter, that it's the quality of the relationship that counts, but . . . It sounds so old-fashioned. I can't tell if he's really opposed to marriage, or if it's just because of bad experiences in the past. He's been involved with some really horrible women. Maybe he can't cope with commitment.'

‘You'll be all right,' he said. ‘He's a good man. You'll be fine.' Somehow his optimism began to infect her. ‘God's good, Annie.' She looked up into his brown eyes. ‘Trust me,' he said gravely. ‘I'm a priest.'

She giggled.

‘So what's going to happen to your vocation?' he asked.

‘I've abandoned it.'

‘How do you feel about that? Ee, I sound like a bloody therapist.'

‘Most of the time I feel relieved,' she admitted. ‘Perhaps I never had a vocation at all. But the sense of calling seemed so strong at the time. I don't know. I just can't seem to
hear
God any more.'

‘Vocations don't just go away, pet. They lie low, maybe. He'll be in touch. What are you doing with your time at the moment?'

‘Um, writing, I suppose.' She found herself telling him about her novel.

‘Does Will know about it?' asked Johnny.

‘No.' Annie was overcome by guilt that she hadn't told him. This was followed by a cold fear that she had been disloyal by confiding in Johnny. ‘Um, what I said earlier . . .'

‘All in confidence,' Johnny assured her. ‘I know, why don't we form a self-help group? For people with bloody impossible demanding partners.'

Annie glanced fearfully at the door.

‘Listen,' said Johnny, ‘if you ever want a job in the church, just say the word. I could do with a pastoral assistant.'

‘But the Bishop . . .'

‘He belongs to the if-it-moves-bless-it school of thought.'

‘But wouldn't your congregation object?'

‘You'll give a whole new meaning to the term “lay worker”.' He grinned at her outraged expression. ‘Bear it in mind, pet.'

She thought about him as she walked home, remembering his voice singing ‘Amazing Grace' from the church top. She'd never met anyone so full of himself and yet so full of God at the same time. The two were supposed to be mutually exclusive in Annie's theology. Self must be banished and Christ must reign as Lord in every last nook and cranny of your life.
If he's not Lord of all then he's not Lord at all
, ran the slogan. And yet if Annie were God she'd have a soft spot for people like Johnny, be secretly proud of them in fact, and not want them to stop being themselves. Johnny was so brimful of belief. God is good. You'll be fine. It was impossible not to be swayed.

Libby, heel!
Annie hurried home and channelled her energies swiftly into her novel before Libby could lollop off and mate with the vicar's trouser leg. After all, it was high time to rescue Isabella and Barney from the hotel car park. This was done easily enough.
At last they reached the cottage . . .
It was Will's cottage in Northumberland, but on a wicked impulse Annie filled it with flowery settees, festoon blinds and little china bowls of peach-scented pot-pourri. She gave the double bed a plush headboard and, as an afterthought, tossed a few heart-shaped satin cushions on the cover. There.

Isabella began to realize that she was on a steep learning curve. She wondered if Barney had got hold of the wrong end of the stick somewhere along the line and was under the impression that the national nookie average was two or three times a night, rather than a week. She could hardly sit down.

‘Barney, I
can't
. You're a wonderful lover, but I'm really, really sore.'

‘But I'll be really, really gentle . . .'

Bastard, she thought afterwards. What am I going to do? I've married a bloody sexoholic! She was not a girl to take it lying down, however. She caught him the next afternoon and tied him naked to the bedroom chair. He submitted to this whim tamely enough, confident he could escape at any point if he really wanted to. But Isabella had not been a Girl Guide for nothing.

She painted her lips slut red and knelt in front of him. Hardstaff nodded approvingly. After a long drooling moment Barney surreptitiously tested the knots. Isabella laughed. He made a more determined attempt. Finally the truth dawned.

She kept him teetering on the brink for nearly an hour. He raged and swore and struggled, but it was all in vain. She went to work with her lipstick, painting his face and chest like a Cherokee brave and putting rings round his totem pole. Sweat trickled down his body as he strained against those badge-earning knots.

‘Darling, you're all hot and bothered! Are you thirsty? Let's open some bubbly.'

‘I don't want any, damn it,' he said, through gritted teeth.

But she made him drink from the bottle till the champagne surged from his lips and ran in icy rivers from throat to groin.

‘Oops!' cried Isabella. ‘We don't want to waste any, do we?' She followed the path with her tongue down his sweating belly. By now his curses had turned to whimpering.

‘Please, please, oh, please, Bella.'

In the end she was merciful.

He lapsed like a good cleric into the language of prayer: ‘Oh, God. Oh, God-oh-god-oh-god, Isabella!
Aaah!
'

Hmm, thought Isabella dispassionately, taking a swig of champagne. So that's what all the fuss is about. She untied him. He collapsed on the bed a broken man.

The phone rang. Annie jumped with a guilty giggle to answer it. ‘Hello?' she said.

There was a silence, then a man said, ‘Have I got the wrong number, I wonder?'

‘I don't know,' said Annie. The voice was very familiar, but she couldn't place it.

‘I was wanting Dr Finlay. Is he no' there, Janet?'

‘Oh! Um, he's out, I'm afraid. Can I take a message?'

‘It's his brother Seb. But that's enough about
me
, he says implausibly. Who are you, darling?'

‘I'm Annie.'

‘Hello, Annie. And you're what? A colleague? The Avon lady? A live-in lover?'

‘Um, well, the latter, I suppose.'

‘Good God! The dead walk, rivers run up hill, Orlando has a love life! This is wonderful. When am I going to meet you? Are you coming to the family festivities?'

‘Yes,' she said, assuming he meant his parents' fortieth wedding anniversary.

‘Please don't worry. We're all painfully nice. You mustn't be offended, though, if I tell you you've picked the runt of the litter. We're all bigger and better-looking than he is. Even Babe. You're not cross, are you?'

‘No. Do you have his sunny disposition, though?'

He laughed. I'm sure I know him from somewhere, thought Annie. ‘I love you already. Listen, would you do me a huge favour and ask him to ring me when he's back?'

‘Yes. Um, I'm afraid I've forgotten your name.'

There was a surprised pause. ‘Sebastian. The luvvie one.'

‘I'll tell him.'

‘Angel.' He hung up.

Annie picked up her biro to scribble Will a note. She'd got as far as ‘Your brother' when the penny dropped. I've been talking to Sebastian Penn! She let out a short scream. That wonderful voice! Of course. Familiar from countless films and coffee commercials. And Will had said nothing. His younger brother was one of the most outrageously successful actors around and Will had not seen fit to mention it to her.

CHAPTER 25

She waited for Will to come home, unable to remember where he'd gone and when he'd promised to be back. Ten o'clock came and went and she became anxious. She got ready for bed. The sound of distant ambulance sirens chilled her. What if he'd met with some kind of accident? By eleven o'clock she was unable to shake off her morbid fantasies. If he's not in by midnight I'll call the police. But what if the police were already on their way? Footsteps on the path, a ring on the bell, two officers on the doorstep. ‘Miss Anne Brown? Can we come in?'

‘Don't be ridiculous!' she scolded herself as her tears brimmed over. Then came the blessed sound of his key in the lock. She flew downstairs.

‘What's wrong?' he asked. ‘Have you been choosing my funeral hymns?'

‘It's not funny! Where have you been?'

‘Got held up at the drug abuse centre. I do a stint there on –' He broke off, seeing her tears. ‘Annie! I'm sorry.' She sobbed in his arms. ‘Listen, another time you can always get me on the mobile phone. I should've thought.'

They went up to bed.

‘Your brother phoned,' she said, remembering. ‘He wants you to ring back.'

‘Which one?'

‘Sebastian. You might have told me, Will.'

‘Why? You've never been remotely interested in my family.'

‘I have! I just thought you wouldn't welcome questions.'

‘All right,' he conceded grumpily. ‘I can see that.'

‘So,' she said, only a few months behindhand, ‘tell me about your family.'

‘Well, my father's a vicar in North Oxford,' he began. ‘My mother does endless committee work and so on. She's also training to be a therapist – typical North Oxford matriarch. They've been there about thirty years. I'm the oldest. Ben's next. He's a book dealer, married to a barrister. They have two vile daughters aged six. Twins. Then there's Seb, who you know about. Then Jake, who's a priest. Then Babe – Robin – who's in his last year at school. He was a happy accident.'

‘And they're all bigger and better-looking than you are.'

He chuckled. ‘But I can beat any of them in a straight fight.'

‘What if all four jumped you at once?'

‘It's been known. Still, my self-defence is pretty good.' He stroked her cheek and smiled. ‘You needn't worry about me out there on the mean streets.'

‘I do, though.'

‘I know. Tell about your family, then.'

She did so, conscious that she was embarrassed by her background.

‘I look forward to meeting them,' said Will.

‘Um, I'm afraid we're not welcome. Until . . . unless . . .' She told him about her mother's hateful letter.

‘I see.' He lay frowning at the ceiling.

‘I'm really sorry, Will. It's not personal. They just disapprove.' Why do I have to have such a dreadful family? She blushed with shame.

‘Are they disowning you?' he asked eventually.

‘No, no. I expect they'll come round,' said Annie bravely.

‘Yeah. A grandchild is a great bargaining tool.' He fell silent. ‘How was the vicar?' he asked, after a while.

‘Fine.' She told him about Johnny offering her a job.

‘Good. Take it. Then I won't feel such a shit. Did you meet his wife?'

‘Yes. She chattered unselfconsciously for about half a second.' He laughed. ‘I think I blundered,' she went on. ‘I asked her if they had children. Do you know if . . .'

‘Can't comment. She's a patient of mine.'

This confirmed her suspicions. ‘She's got a picture of your cousins on the wall. “Big Shit and Little Shit”, she calls them.'

He laughed again and turned the light out. She could tell he was lying awake, thinking. She couldn't sleep, either, and decided to redeem the shining hour by planning her next chapter.

For the first month or so Isabella enjoyed being a curate's wife. There wasn't much to do other than read novels and tackle the hideous house and make love to her gorgeous husband. The wonderful thing about parish ministry was that Barney was in and out of the house several times a day. Isabella suspected he carried a furniture inventory in his mind and was ticking items off one by one as he rogered her on them.

But before long tensions began to emerge. Barney worked too hard. There was never enough money. Isabella developed a passionate hatred of the swirly carpet. Barney was of the opinion that carpets were expensive and they could put up with it for two years. He came back to bare boards one afternoon.

‘I'm going to have it sanded and varnished,' announced Isabella.

‘How much will that cost?'

‘Oh, I don't know. A hundred quid?'

‘Isabella, we don't have a hundred quid.'

‘Well, I'll do it myself then,' she replied.

She did. It was far harder than she'd supposed, but stubbornness kept her going. Nothing, however, would persuade Barney to spend a penny on getting that essential Persian rug. Isabella seethed each time she crossed the bare floor.

The summer ended.

‘Well,' said Barney with a sigh. ‘That's the slack period over.'

And he meant it. He grew busier with every passing week. Sermons, services, visiting, youth groups, school assemblies, meetings. Endless bloody meetings! Isabella vowed to smack the head of the next idiot who remarked to her that clergy only worked one day a week. Sometimes he was out five evenings in a row. She began to wish he had a nine-to-five job. Something he could leave behind and say, ‘That's it for the day.' But there were always other things he should be doing. Worthy things. Old ladies wanting home communion, Bible commentaries to read, people dying of cancer. And above all – God. How was she supposed to compete with God for her husband's time and attention? I don't get a bloody look-in, she stormed inwardly as she stood at the altar rails. But then she felt guilty for even thinking such things.

She tried to pray for patience. Barney was under pressure and her complaints would only add to his burden. Resentment found outlets in trivial things, however. Why did he leave his bloody dog-collars lying about the kitchen? Why couldn't he put the sodding answer machine on during meals?

‘Why do you have to clutter up the dining-room table?' she snapped one day. ‘You've got a study, haven't you?'

He looked up from his sermon preparation. ‘But I want to be with you.'

‘No, you don't, you wheedling prick,' she said. ‘You just want your own way.'

He sighed like a martyr and carried on reading.

This was the last straw. ‘Stop treating me like your mother!' she yelled.

‘Stop behaving like my mother, then.'

‘It's not me, you bastard! It's you. You just expect me to slot into your life. You haven't made a single concession to the fact that you're married, have you? The only difference is that you don't have to pay a cleaning lady any more and you get to have sex.'

‘I also get to work my butt off and pay the bills.'

Isabella was so angry she almost felt her eyes bulge. ‘Fuck you!'

She stormed out, got into the car and drove to the nearby town. I'm bloody well going to buy a new dress, she thought, slamming the car door. She strode to her favourite shop, which sold the kind of smart, sexy, expensive clothes she liked best. But by the time she reached it she was feeling like a silly spoilt bitch. Poor Barney! She stared mournfully at her reflection in the plate glass and vowed to become a better clergy wife. A notice caught her eye:
Full time Sales Assistant required. Apply within.
Twenty minutes later she walked out with a job.

If Barney was pleased by this development, he didn't say so, but for the next few months they rubbed along quite happily. Isabella got used to the mindless tedium and backbreaking hard work of her job. Christmas approached. She proved to be extremely good at persuading men to part with huge sums of money and reigned supreme in Lingerie.

Barney, of course, was insanely busy in the run-up to Christmas. Isabella watched him one evening as he stood in the kitchen bolting down a sandwich, tying his shoelaces and answering the phone simultaneously. ‘Just a minute! Don't I know you from somewhere?' she asked.

He got back after midnight, too tired for sex.

‘I'm worried about you,' said Isabella.

‘Things will calm down in the New Year,' he promised.

He began double-booking himself. Isabella had to field phone calls from people waiting for him to arrive and take their meeting when she knew he was miles away with the youth group. He was so unhappy that she bit her lip and didn't complain when he couldn't come to her work's Christmas party, although weeks before he'd promised he would.

But at last it was over. They drove up to his parents' house after the Christmas morning service. Barney spent almost the entire holiday asleep on the sofa.

Mrs Hardstaff surveyed her poleaxed son sardonically. ‘So how does married life suit you, Isabella?'

‘It's wonderful,' said Isabella fiercely.

‘If you're married to a sweet-tempered man,' agreed Mrs Hardstaff, with a smirk.

New Year came. Isabella made another resolution to be a better clergy wife. After all, she had known he was ordained when she married him. It was time to knuckle down and support and enhance his career in every way she could. This meant mundane things like not giving a derisive snort when the Crimplene ladies told her she was a lucky woman. It meant refraining from saying, ‘I'm not his bloody secretary,' when people expected her to know Barney's movements or take complex phone messages for him. It meant not nagging when he was out every night and worked on his day off.

But these were all negative things. Isabella longed to do something positive. One evening inspiration struck. She rang the Bishop and invited him and his wife for dinner.

‘You're kidding,' said Barney when she told him. ‘Tell me you're kidding, Isabella.'

‘I'm not. They're coming on the seventeenth. Make sure you don't arrange anything else.'

‘You can't do this!' said Barney in horror. ‘Isabella, I'm a very, very junior clergyman. Junior clergy do not just invite bishops round for dinner.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it looks like courting favour.'

‘Well, I am. I want to help you in your career.'

He let out a cry of anguish. ‘Isabella, try to understand. The Church doesn't work like that. The surest way of not getting on is to look over-ambitious.' He sat down and sank his head despairingly into his hands.

‘You want me to ring them and cry off?'

‘We can't,' said Barney. ‘They'll have to come. Just promise me you won't do anything like this again.'

‘Only trying to help,' she said, offended. Bloody stupid organization, the Church.

The day drew near. Watercress soup, mused Isabella. And boeuf Wellington. Would Barney regard two desserts as sycophantic? He had grudgingly promised to be in early to lay the table and entertain His Right Reverence and wife while Isabella stirred the soup.

She got in from work on the seventeenth laden with shopping. Six fifteen. It was going to be tight. She made the pastry and began chopping the watercress. Where the hell was Barney? She opened the wine to let it breathe and started the lemon syllabub. Seven o'clock. She darted upstairs to change out of her work clothes. He's forgotten. The bastard's forgotten. She raced downstairs, scrubbed the potatoes and poured herself a glass of wine. By seven thirty the table was set, the soup was simmering, the oven was hot and Isabella was drunk. She wrapped the beef in pastry and put it on the baking tray. There was something suggestive about its pallid form. I mustn't, she thought. I mustn't, but I'm going to. She cut up the remaining bits of pastry carefully and stuck them on.

The doorbell rang.

‘Bishop Michael! And Mrs Hibbert!' She clutched the door-frame. ‘Come in!'

The Bishop's wife glanced sharply at Isabella as she handed her a bunch of carnations and a bottle of wine.

‘Something smells delicious,' said the Bishop.

They went through to the sitting room.

‘I'm afraid my husband has been inexplicably' – Isabella brought the word out carefully – ‘delayed. Can I offer you a drink?'

‘Sherry, please,' said the Bishop. ‘How kind of you to invite us.'

‘I'm told it isn't the done thing for curates to invite their bishop to dinner. I do apologize. I'm new to the Church,' said Isabella. She handed him a brimming glass.

‘Not at all,' replied the Bishop gallantly. Sherry dripped on to his trousers. ‘We're delighted.'

‘Well, Barney thought you'd think he was currying favour.'

The Bishop made an urbane gesture.

Isabella gave him a sunny smile. ‘Still, if I had to suck up to a bishop, you'd be the one I'd choose. As the actress has often remarked to you, no doubt. Sherry, Mrs Hibbert?'

‘Fruit juice, please,' said Mrs Hibbert, forbiddingly.

And stuff you too, lady, thought Isabella. She slopped apple juice into a glass and handed it to her. A car pulled up.

‘That will be Barney,' she said. Relief broke out on their faces. Isabella peered out of the window and had the satisfaction of seeing Barney stare at the Rover on the drive and mouth, ‘
Oh
,
shit!
' He flew in and shook hands with the Hibberts.

‘Have you been here long? I got held up at a baptism rehearsal,' he explained, with his wonderful disarming smile.

‘Don't worry, darling,' said Isabella. ‘Everything's under control. I've been keeping them entertained.'

Barney stared at his wife with a wild surmise. She retreated to the kitchen but he shot out after her.

‘You're drunk! I don't believe this.' He prised the glass from her hand. ‘Don't you dare touch another drop!'