Women of a Dangerous Age (26 page)

‘Sanjeev Gupta. I'm sorry but I can't come to the phone at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you when I can.'

She disconnected without leaving a message, suddenly relieved he hadn't answered. The ability to reinvent herself within their relationship was something precious she didn't want to give up. With him, she could be whoever she wanted. ‘Needy' and ‘reliant' were not the qualities by which she wanted him to remember her. Nor did she want him to think she was rushing him into a relationship where she depended on him – or he on her, for that matter. That wasn't what she needed any more. Keep it casual. She'd said it before but she'd say it to herself again: she did not want another all-involving relationship with a man. Definitely not. She'd done with all that high-maintenance support work. Her energies needed to be directed into the
business and making it work. She'd show Hooker what she was made of.

 

Two hours later, she was back home and just settling into an episode of
Mad Men
– useful resource for sixties fashion and, incidentally, pure pleasure – her supper of salmon and leek quiche, new potatoes and salad on her knee, when there was a sharp knock at the door. Surprised, she balanced her plate on the top of the bookcase and went to answer it. Looking through the peephole, she saw her visitor was Hooker. Four times in one day was definitely too much, she thought, an awful weariness settling over her. He was shifting uneasily from one foot to another, looking away down the path, scratching his jaw.

She considered not answering. Any kind of confrontation was not her idea of a fun evening. The smell of the quiche that she had only taken out of the oven minutes ago was tempting her back to the sitting room where she could hear the seductive opening bars of the
Mad Men
theme tune repeating itself, calling her to press Play. No, she would have the evening she wanted. The day had been bad enough. Responding to the siren calls of the TV and her cooking, she began to tiptoe back towards them.

Behind her, the letterbox snapped. ‘Lou!' Hooker's voice travelled after her like the hiss of a snake. ‘Lou! I know you're there. I can see you, for God's sake. Open the door.'

She stopped in her tracks. Then took another couple of steps in the direction of the sitting room.

‘Please.'

The desperation in his voice made her stop. She went back to the door and crouched down, feeling the pain in her right knee, hearing its signature crunching sound, just like a crisp packet. ‘Debris' the doctor had diagnosed, unencouragingly she thought. Through the held-open letterbox, she had a close-up view of Hooker's mouth. He must be crouching too. ‘Please,' he repeated. ‘I need to talk to you.' His teeth looked unfamiliarly straight and white. Chasing after the orthodontic perfection of his youth – sad, Hooker, very sad. This close, she could make out the beginnings of his stubble.

‘This is not the time,' she said, her mouth only separated from his by the thickness of her front door. Giving in to the discomfort in her knee, she sat down on the floor, her back to the door. Too late, she remembered that she was sitting exactly on the spot she had bathed in vomit. Too bad. She felt too tired to move.

‘No, Lou. Please listen to me. God knows what Ali's told you but I've got a fair idea of what you must think of me. But I can change. I have to talk to you.'

What on earth was he talking about? Change? She didn't know anyone less capable of self-knowledge or with less ability to change. The plaintive
Mad Men
theme tune floated down the corridor, calling her. She winched herself into a standing position, her knee crackling again. ‘No, Hooker. It's late. I'm having supper. I don't want to talk to you any more. We've done enough for one day.'

‘But you've got to give me a chance. You've got to.' She'd never heard him plead like this before.

‘Can't we do this tomorrow when we've slept on things? I'm exhausted after today.' As she spoke, she became aware of a headache forming above her eyes, of the fact that her face felt like melting jelly, that every limb was a dull ache. ‘Where's Rory? Shouldn't you be with him?' Lou had a vision of the boy's face pressed against the window of the car watching his father abase himself on her front doorstep.

‘Tom's at home with him. They know I'm here. I must talk to you about Ali. Explain. She meant nothing.'

Here we go. Lou paused. For the first time that she could remember, she had the upper hand over him. She didn't have to open the door. But if she didn't, she would only be putting off the inevitable. They had to come to some sort of working arrangement for the children's sake, for Rory's sake too. What she wanted to do was to set them all straight about her. She didn't want them to see their mother as someone lacking the guts to run her own life the way she wanted. But neither did she want to be locked in an unending row. She and Hooker should be able to show that it was possible to end their relationship in a civilised way, however much blood had flowed under the bridge. She should lead the way. She reached out tentatively and put her hand on the security chain.

Hooker must have heard its slight rattle. ‘Lou, I'm begging you to let me in. It's beginning to rain out here.'

But not right now. Lou slid the chain firmly into place. ‘I'm sorry, Hooker. I'm too tired to discuss anything. You can't come round and expect me to fall in with whatever you've decided any more. We've both got a lot to think
about, so I suggest that's what we do.' She turned the key in the mortise lock and put it in Jenny's key box. ‘We should talk. You're right about that. But not now. I'm sorry. I'll call you tomorrow.'

The bolt banged into place. She heard Hooker's tetchy sigh.

‘I think you're being quite unreasonable. I've come here especially. I want you to think about us, about how we belong together. This has all been a terrible mistake. We'll talk.'

With that the letterbox snapped shut and, once again, she heard his footsteps on the path. Belong together. Had he really said that? She shook her head in wonder. What planet was he on? The self-confidence she'd once so envied and admired was shameless and still there, or was he merely exercising some misguided sense of what was his? How furious the idea made her.

He would have forgotten his words by the weekend or at least by the time someone else took his fancy. Put him in front of a woman and on flicked the automatic charm switch. For years, she had watched him at parties with their women friends, dispensing a wink, a fleeting touch, a sympathetic ear and even occasionally a shoulder. She saw them laughing at his jokes, leaning forward to catch every word, letting their eyes meet his before they glanced away, blushing ever so slightly. She'd lost count of the times she'd been told how lucky she was to have found a husband so interesting, so interested, a man who remembered a telling detail from the last conversation he'd held with any one of them, even a year or more later. She used to take pleasure
in the attention he attracted, believing it to be a harmless game. She was the one he came home to. If only those women knew the half of it. He was like a fisherman casting a line. Most of the fish circled the bait and then swam away, but now and then one bit and he reeled her in.

She returned to the TV, bending to pick up the remote that she'd left on the floor. As she straightened up, she took a step back, catching her precariously balanced plate of supper with her elbow. The slice of quiche slid quietly, uncomplainingly, down the back of the bookcase. As she tried to rescue the rest of her food, she tipped the plate the other way so, despite her attempt to catch it, it landed upside down on the floor, potatoes rolling under the sofa, salad flattened, oil and balsamic soaking into the carpet. The
Mad Men
tune played on.

Gardening was not Lou's natural forte. When she and Hooker were finally blessed with a large town garden, they'd employed a gardener to impose order on the ever-encroaching forces of nature, much to the amazement and amusement of their friends and neighbours who all managed perfectly well without. But Hooker hadn't the time, and Lou hadn't the inclination: attitudes that probably summed up their future together. Enjoying a garden was one thing, getting down and dirty with it was quite another. Having expended a fortune on landscaping and replanting, Lou had then spent much of her marriage staring glumly at the muddy recreation pitch that was their lawn, the surrounding plants usually flattened and broken by footballs, tennis balls and rugby balls, wondering whether AstroTurf and netting was the sensible answer. Why pretend? Where the boys saw a space for a kick-about, Nic had shown little interest, preferring an indoor existence with books and dolls. Her specially chosen patch ended up choked with weeds instead of the profusion of brilliant wildflowers promised on the seed packet. No dedicated gardener had
been able to tolerate the routine devastation of their work so one after another, they'd melted away. Eventually the children grew up and order was restored but Lou restricted herself religiously to the sort of gardening that could be done in the early evening with a glass of wine in one hand.

However, since she'd moved, she felt duty bound to look after Jenny's garden herself. Her sister wouldn't have liked a stranger interfering with her careful plans and planting. Unlike Lou, Jenny had found real pleasure in pottering about outside. Her garden had been a perennial source of relaxation and pride. Lou was hoping some of that might rub off on her. So far, there'd been no sign.

She was kneeling on the ground, surrounded by several black plastic pots containing a selection of bedding plants to fill the gaps made by those that hadn't made it through the winter. She picked one up, holding it at arm's length and squinting at the label, her right eye shut. The words remained a frustrating blur.

‘Here,' said Ali, from the comfort of her garden chair. She held out the green reading glasses that were balanced on the open RHS encyclopaedia. ‘These any good?'

Lou winced as she straightened up, then put her hands on her hips and bent forward to ease the pain. ‘My back's killing me after all this bending, I can't see without my reading glasses and I haven't a bloody clue what I'm doing. If Jenny's watching, she must be cracking up. I'm like a bloody geriatric. And look at my hands.' She splayed her earth-covered fingers and stared at them in despair before taking the glasses.

Ali pushed back her large sun specs on her nose and sipped her freshly made lemonade, then shivered as a sharp gust of wind took the edge off the sunshine. ‘Gloves?'

‘Couldn't find them. Besides, it's too late. The damage is done. I stopped looking after them when I stopped work. Don't know why. Some sort of perverse rejection, I suppose. Stupid really.' She picked up the pot again to check it was the blood red
nicotiana
that she hoped would give a splash of colour in Jenny's typically understated design. She was determined to make her own mark here, just as she had inside the house.

‘A few manicures and you'd be amazed at the difference.' Ali examined her own nails, cut short but manicured to perfection, then returned the hand to her lap, satisfied. ‘Perhaps I could help?'

‘With those hands? You've got to be joking. Anyway, what do you know about gardening?'

‘I'll have you know these are the hands of an artisan – in use every day. And I've got a window box,' Ali protested, stretching her arms out in the sunshine so the shell pink nail varnish caught the sun.

‘Exactly. Look, I'll just get these in and then I'll stop. So what if I muddle them up? Monty Don isn't going to be checking up on me.' She arranged three of the pots in a triangle on the earth, then moved one to the side. Standing up with another groan, she took the spade and started digging, ignoring Ali's unhelpful directions until Ali took the hint, opened the paper and shut up. Lou soon had the plants in. She finally straightened up, screwing up her eyes against the stiffness in her objecting muscles.
Her lower back was like a rusty hinge. She vowed to look up those Pilates classes at the local gym again, even though, deep down, she admitted she'd never go. But knowing they were there was the next best thing to actually doing them.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Ali pouring another glass of lemonade and holding it out to her. ‘Get this down you. You deserve it.'

Lou flapped her large smock to cool herself down as a hot flush took over. As she accepted the glass, she sat in the other wrought-iron chair. ‘I can't think why Jen ever got these.' She adjusted herself until she was as comfortable as she was ever going to get, feeling the imprint of the metal on her bum, then gazed at her handiwork. ‘Perhaps I could get used to gardening after all. Perhaps this is my moment.' She subsided into silence, considering how much had happened since she had moved here, how much she had changed.

After a second, Ali spoke. ‘Lou?'

‘Mmm.'

‘Don's asked me to live with him.'

Lou's head whipped round. ‘He has? But that's great. Isn't that what you wanted?'

‘Yes and no.' Ali stared into her lemonade as if the key to her future was floating there. ‘Part of me feels it's all been so quick. Too quick.'

‘So, what's the problem? There obviously is one.' Lou kicked off her salmon pink Croc and scratched the top of her noticeably unpedicured foot.

‘His being away on his executive think-tank thing last
week really drove home how much I value my own space. I do want to live with him but, at the same time, I hate that my place isn't my own any more. Oh, God, that sounds awful.'

‘No, it doesn't,' said Lou, identifying wholeheartedly with her sentiment. Since moving to Jenny's, she had enjoyed not having the pressure of having to tidy up for anyone else. Nic might raise her eyebrows at the chaos with which she sometimes surrounded herself but living that way came naturally.

Ali's face brightened for a second, obviously relieved to hear the sentiment was shared. Then she frowned, removing her dark glasses so she could look at Lou, as if that would make her understand more clearly. ‘I'd just got everything back to the way I like it and now he's back messing it up again. He's even bought me a new potato peeler because he thinks it's better than mine!'

Lou couldn't help laughing. ‘Listen to yourself. If it bothers you so much, why don't you talk to him about it?'

‘I'm scared.' She picked at a cuticle, pushing the skin back from the nail. ‘We get on so perfectly. He's everything I could want: a straightforward, loving guy who really seems to care about me. I do so love him, Lou, but I'm petrified that I'm going to drive him away.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.' Lou was horrified to hear herself using Hooker's well-used phrase, and rushed to justify herself. ‘At least if you both acknowledge the problem then you can do something about it. God knows, plenty of couples compromise. Separate beds, separate holidays,
different houses: whatever makes it work. “Unconventional” doesn't equal “wrong”.' She put the inverted commas round the words in the air. ‘Just sort it out. Much the best thing.' She stacked up the empty flowerpots and turned on the hose to water in the new plants. ‘Bread and soup OK? she asked as she went inside. ‘Oh, by the way,' she threw over her shoulder as she reached the door. ‘Hooker's suggesting we get back together too.'

Ali's shriek accompanied her inside. As she put lunch on a tray, Lou wondered what Ali's reaction would be when she told her about her last conversation with Hooker. She had called him as she'd promised and had arranged that he would come round that evening to have the discussion he was so anxious for.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly with the two women sitting, warmed by the sun, putting the world to rights, remembering with gales of laughter the moment Ali walked into the shop with Rory – how more perfect could her timing have been? – and discussing the preposterousness of Hooker's suggestion, dreaming up ways to house-train Don, wondering when Lou would next hear from Sanjeev, talking about business. The one subject they didn't touch on was Ali's parents. She made it quite clear that was a no-go area and no decisions had been made. However, they had enough easily to pass away the afternoon, thoroughly enjoying one another's company and opinions until the breeze became too sharp to ignore and clouds crowded the sky.

 

Hooker made himself at home rather more quickly than Lou might have liked. He was lounging on her sofa, his arm extended in a slightly too proprietorial fashion along its back. One leg was stretched out in front of him, the other bent, allowing Lou a glimpse of the striped designer socks she had bought him the previous Christmas. The bottle of wine was by his right foot, which is where Lou intended to keep it, even though there was absolutely no chance of a repeat of the last time Hooker, alcohol and she got involved. He was already halfway down his second glass.

After Ali had left, Lou had just enough time to throw on a pair of jeans and a loose floaty top that hid everything that needed to be hidden. ‘Mutton dressed as?' she wondered as she turned in front of the mirror. Then, banishing the thought as unworthy, she applied the minimum of make-up, wanting at least to look presentable.

Now, they were in her sitting room and he had barely drawn breath since they'd sat down. He was behaving as if nothing had happened, as if Ali didn't exist. The situation had already taken on a slightly surreal quality. Lou had listened to how well he and Rory had got on, how he couldn't wait to have him to stay again, how relaxed Shona had been about the whole thing. Lou was eyeing with some frustration the
Bleak House
boxed set that Fiona had lent her and that was beckoning her from just beside the TV. ‘Play me,' it whispered. She picked up her knitting so she had something to do that meant she didn't have to look at Hooker.

‘The thing is, Lou, having Rory here has really brought home to me what matters.'

The pause that followed seemed increasingly ominous as the seconds ticked by. Hooker rearranged himself on the sofa so he was sitting forward, legs akimbo, arms buttressed on his knees, poised to share his conclusion. Lou waited.

‘Family. That's what.' He paused again as if waiting for Lou to fall on him with delight now that he'd come to acknowledge what she had always known. She didn't move.

‘You did say that, the other night,' she reminded him.

‘You used to think that too. I know you did.' He gazed at her, clearly puzzled by her lack of reaction.

She knew how he hated her knitting, as if it meant she wasn't giving her full attention to whatever it was he was saying. This time, he couldn't have been more wrong.

‘But Rory isn't part of my family,' she pointed out. ‘He's yours.'

‘You don't mean you didn't like him.' Hooker was astonished.

‘Of course I don't mean that. He's a child. But he's not
my
child. Surely I don't have to spell it out for you?' How could they have been married without her realising how emotionally unintelligent he could sometimes be? Their wedding photos had shown a couple so confident in their future together: she pretty in a long, lacy cream dress and fine veil with flowers woven into her hair; he a good-looking man, hair touching the collar of his plum velvet suit. In fact, they had hardly skimmed the surface when it came to their knowledge of one another. These days, Hooker shone with worldly success that was reflected in his neatly arranged hair and his expensively casual jeans and striped shirt. His jacket had been carefully hung on the only hanger in the hall.

‘You mean Shona?' His lips tightened as he sat straighter, carefully arranging his features into something designed to express his need to be understood. ‘But that was a long time ago.'

‘A long time, yes. But it happened. If you can't understand why it matters to me, then you don't understand me at all.'

‘I know I haven't been everything you might have wanted in a husband, but most men slide from grace at some time or other during a marriage.' He let a small smile cross his lips as if inviting her agreement and therefore vindication. But he was disappointed.

‘We're not talking about everyone, Hooker. I don't give a damn about what other people do. We're talking about you and me. And it's not as if Shona was a one-off. There's Ali too.'

The words hung between them in the silence that followed. Lou reached for the bottle, momentarily forgetting her resolve. She filled her glass, then put it on the coffee table. No, she was going to withstand temptation.

Hooker was the first to speak, his eyes dark with anger. ‘If you knew, why didn't you say anything?'

‘Because I didn't know. I only suspected. With the children living with us, I didn't want anything to spoil their growing up. If I'd said something, if I'd questioned you, then everything might have been different. If we'd split up, what would that have done to them?'

‘But we wouldn't have split up.' Hooker sounded incredulous. ‘I'd never have left you. Never. That's not what it was about.'

‘But I might have wanted to leave you,' Lou said,
exasperated at his lack of empathy and by the fact that she had to spell it out. ‘But now it doesn't matter.'

‘Because you've found someone else?' There was something in his voice that she didn't recognise. Regret?

‘No. It's not that.' She wasn't going to share anything of her relationship with Sanjeev with him. That was something she was going to enjoy on her terms without its being spoilt by Hooker's interference or derogatory comments.

‘If I wasn't the perfect husband, I'm sorry. But it's not too late for us.'