A Rural Affair

18

As I opened my front gate it occurred to me that I could have spoiled it further for her. I could have had a coughing fit in the choir, made myself known, so that those sharp little eyes would have sought me out, irritated, wondering who was making such a racket. I could have done it during her vows. Looked her coldly in the eye, had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch at the altar, rock back beside her new husband. Yes, that would have been sweet. But would it? Might it not have left a nasty taste in my mouth? I gave a wry smile. It seemed I could spoil her day but not entirely ruin it, even though she’d had no qualms about ruining my life.

Had she, though? Ruined my life? Apart from the claim she was making now, which was decidedly unwelcome, surely I’d have welcomed her, had I known of her existence. Surely, if I’d caught them in flagrante in their love nest, or at the office, say, when on a hunch I’d stormed to London, found them locked in a passionate embrace in a stationery cupboard, surely, after the initial shock, I’d have stood back, waved a genial hand and said, ‘How marvellous! Do carry on. Don’t mind me. Have him!’ Slammed the stationery-cupboard door shut.

I went up the cobbled path, absently deadheading a faded old rose on the way. It dawned on me that my life could have been very different if only I’d discovered them earlier, when it first started, when I was pregnant with Clemmie. I’d have been frightened, sure, to be betrayed and pregnant, but calm and still within a twinkling. So. A single mother. Just me and my baby. Yes, I could have done that. I would have gone to Dad’s for a bit, been quite happy. But then I wouldn’t have had Archie. I sighed. If if, maybe maybe, perhaps perhaps. So many imponderables. Maybe I just shouldn’t have married the wretched man in the first place?

Archie and Clemmie were clamouring for my attention when I got inside, and Peggy, who’d held the fort, was full of praise for their achievements.

‘Archie called me Piggy and then Clemmie drew me with a snout – do look.’ She flourished a wax-crayon picture. ‘Quite adorable. Don’t you love the pixie boots she’s put on my trotters? And the beads around my fat neck?’

Normally this would have had me purring with pride, but today I was distracted. I gave it the briefest of glances, flashed a weak smile and crossed to the sitting-room window.

‘What’s up?’ Peggy narrowed her eyes and sat down, lighting a cigarette, watching my back. The children had run back to their crayons in the kitchen.

I turned from staring out at the road over my little hedge. ‘You know that woman Phil was having an affair with? Emma Harding?’ Funny, I’d thought I was calm but my breathing was erratic. ‘She’s just married Simon Devereux.’

Peggy frowned. ‘Simon? Are you sure? I heard he was marrying someone terribly good-looking.’

‘Well, she is quite good-looking.’

‘But Phil was …’ She stopped.

‘Quite.’ I bit my lip. ‘God knows why women fell for him, Peggy,’ I said softly. ‘Anyway, she’s nabbed Simon now. A much better prospect.’

‘Fast work,’ she murmured. ‘In your church too. Takes some doing. How did she know she wouldn’t see you?’

‘Well, she knew I wasn’t on the guest list, so I imagine she thought there was only a slim chance I’d be bustling round the village, and even then it’s only yet another bride sweeping out of our oh-so-popular church, so why would I bother to stand and stare? And it’s all over bar the shouting by then, isn’t it? When she’s out, showered in confetti? And who cares, frankly, if a scruffy mother of two with egg down her front comes out of the village shop and does a double take?’ My words were coming rapidly, like quick fire. Peggy was watching me closely.

‘I see. She didn’t waste much time.’

‘I’ll say she didn’t; she moved like flaming greased lightning. And the thing is, Peggy, since it is all so speedy, and now that she’s married and everything, surely it negates her claim to Phil’s will? I mean, if she’s relying on another man’s wealth, why should she have some of mine?’

‘Yes, I imagine it might make a difference.’ She looked beyond me and blew a line of smoke. Then back at me, curiously. ‘I should think she got the shock of her life, didn’t she? Not just seeing you, but knowing the financial cat was out of the bag?’

‘Well, I would have found out eventually of course, but yes. I definitely found out sooner than she’d hoped. Ha!’ I barked out a strange-sounding laugh. ‘She can put that in her pipe and smoke it.’

‘Sit down, Poppy,’ she said gently.

I crossed to the sofa and perched, still in my coat. Archie appeared again and toddled across to clamber on my lap.

‘Why don’t you ring your solicitor, find out where you stand?’

‘Really?’

‘Why not? Tell him what’s happened.’

It was the green light I’d been hoping for. ‘You mean now? On a Saturday? You don’t think it could wait till Monday?’ I was already on my feet, setting Archie down, looking for my mobile. Not in my pocket. In my bag? No. Down the side of the sofa, perhaps. I searched frantically, already rehearsing in my head: hello, Sam, it’s Poppy. No. Too familiar. Good morning, Sam, it’s Poppy Shilling here.

‘Well, I suppose I did mean Monday,’ Peggy said slowly.

I turned, one hand between the sofa cushions. I must have looked disappointed. My face might even have collapsed.

‘But why not today?’ she said quickly. ‘Everyone keeps odd hours these days and a lot of people work at the weekend.’

‘They do, don’t they?’ I agreed eagerly, retrieving my phone. ‘And he did give me his mobile number.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’ Her eyes were steady. ‘Have you got some lunch, Poppy?’

‘Oh yes, there’s some cheese in the fridge.’

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘Well, there are some eggs.’

‘They’re quite old. A couple of weeks. Why don’t you come across to me and bring the children? I’ll make some pasta.’

‘No, no, Peggy, we’re fine. I’ll pop to the shop.’

I glanced up at her from my mobile, finger poised. Go, Peggy, go. I need to do this alone.

‘And thank you so much for looking after the children,’ I said breathlessly, knowing better than to pay her. She got to her feet unwillingly. Slowly picked up her Marlboro Lights. I walked her to the door so she had little choice but to exit. ‘I’ll see you later. Or tomorrow,’ I promised. ‘Soon, anyway. Thanks so much for coming.’

‘Look after yourself, Poppy.’

The moment the front door had shut behind her, I hustled Archie down to the kitchen and settled him with his sister at the table, with juice and biscuits, making a long arm to flick on the television in the corner. Oh yes, it still came into its own in extremis. Then I slipped back into the sitting room. Adrenalin was rushing around my body like nobody’s business. I liked a plan. Liked it very much. It helped enormously to see a way forward. My heart was racing as I punched out his number. It rang for a bit, then he answered.

‘Hello!’ Deep, but cheerful. Not low and suspicious like Phil would have been if he didn’t recognize the number. No question mark stuck on the end.

‘Hello, Sam, I’m so sorry to bother you on a Saturday, it’s Poppy Shilling here.’

‘Oh, hi, Poppy.’ A hint of surprise there, I thought.

I hurried on, explaining the situation, tumbling over my words, getting a bit muddled occasionally – I should have sat down and thought this through, had a bit of paper in front of me with bullet points – but eventually I got my point across: that my husband’s lover had, moments ago, tied the knot with a man of surely some standing. That she’d seamlessly cruised on in her scheming little way, whilst I groped around in mine. But surely I’d got her this time?

‘And she was so shocked to see me, Sam,’ I rushed on. ‘I’m in the choir, you see, didn’t stalk her or anything, wasn’t lying in wait; she had no idea I’d be there. She must have thought she’d got away with it!’

There was a long silence on the other end. ‘Well, I’m afraid she may have done just that, Poppy,’ he said eventually. ‘You see, it makes no difference whether she marries or not. If she’s entitled to anything, her claim still stands.’

I stared out of my sitting-room window to the road. Felt my tummy shrivel. ‘But – but Simon Devereux is well off! He’s a flipping Sotheby’s expert or something, works in Bond Street –’

‘Christie’s. Yes, I know Simon.’

‘Do you? Oh, well then, you know! His mother practically lives in a mansion – I’ve seen it – and he’ll inherit it, apparently. She can’t take my money and live in the lap of luxury with him, surely!’

‘I’m afraid she can. I’ll look into it, Poppy, but his wealth has nothing whatsoever to do with hers. And marriage, however swift, is not an impediment to claiming on an ex’s estate.’

It was said kindly, but the wind was completely buffeted out of my sails.

‘He wasn’t her ex. He was mine.’

‘I know,’ he said gently. And perhaps with a hint of pity.

I wondered, suddenly, what sort of figure I cut: this wronged, cheated wife, whose husband’s lover was even now greeting her guests at her wedding reception, whilst I was left panicking breathlessly. Rather a pathetic one, that’s what. Someone Frankie might call a loser. All at once my life swam before me. I saw my younger self, charging confidently around London in the Renault Five Dad had bought me and which I’d painted pink, managing three parties a night sometimes, the object of some attention, usually with gorgeous Ben. A winner, surely. How, then, had it come to this? This breathless little widow, still in her coat, hands tightly clasping her mobile, voice getting shriller as she complained to a man she held in some esteem, a man she might even have been looking for an excuse to ring … complained that it simply wasn’t fair? How had I lost so much of myself over the years? Where had it all gone? I felt detached, like a spectator, watching myself seep through holes, like sand disappearing through a clenched fist. Only a tiny bit remaining in the palm.

‘It would be invidious, you see,’ Sam was saying as I sat very still, ‘to discriminate between a woman who was likely to get remarried, and one who was not. A judge can’t possibly say: well, you look like the back of a bus, no one would want you, so we’ll give you lots of money; and to someone like Miss Harding: you can’t have much money because you have every prospect of remarrying.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘No, of course not.’

But he was imagining her. And he was right. She was good-looking. Not beautiful, but foxy. Sexy, a man would say.

‘But, as I say, I’m not instantly familiar with the law on this. The fact that she and your husband made the money together makes it quite an unusual case. I’ll look into it and get back to you. Steady, Tess.’

‘Tess?’ I blinked. Who was he sharing my most shaming secrets with?

‘My horse,’ he laughed. ‘Sorry, I’m in the saddle at the moment. Riding out with the Armitages. But don’t worry, I hung back when you rang. They’re out of earshot.’

‘The Armitages?’

‘Yes.’

‘The American ones?’

‘Yes, Chad and Hope. They’re keen to go hunting next week so I said I’d lend them a couple of horses from my yard. See how they get on.’

My head swam in bewilderment. I shook it briefly. ‘You’ve lent them …’

‘Two hunters I’ve got spare. They need the exercise, frankly.’

I stared at a damp patch on the wall opposite.

‘Where do you live?’

I couldn’t help it. It just popped out.

‘Mulverton Hall,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘It’s near Leighton Park; not that far from your village, actually.’

I knew it. Of course I knew it. And I knew the story too. Old, pretty, not exactly derelict, but crumbling. And tenanted, because the owner, who no one had ever met, lived in America. Except recently he’d returned, minus his beautiful American wife, who some years ago had left him. Even more recently he’d given up the London house and returned to the one he’d grown up in, in the country. Ditched his City career to work locally, have a different sort of life. He was a lawyer, Angie thought. But no one really knew, as I say, much about him. Besides the fact that he kept horses. I took a deep breath; let it out shakily. The reality that was Sam Hetherington’s life paraded before me in glorious technicolor, like an Easter Parade, with decorated floats, marching girls twirling batons, whistles and drums: an American tradition, of course, but how appropriate. A glorious spectacle. This wasn’t a faintly shambolic solicitor in a chaotic office at the top of some creaky stairs, one that, in a secret corner of my heart, I’d looked at, liked instantly, recognized almost, and thought: I could have a tiny chance with that. This was a very different screenplay to the one I’d dreamily created in my head. The one where he returned to his lonely rented bedsit every night, above a shop maybe, and thought wistfully of the young widow he’d advised that day. This one spelled out in bright, sparkling, neon lights: Out of your league!

This was a man who got on famously with Chad and Hope, the new pin-up couple in our village. Who knew Simon Devereux – no doubt they were family friends in that local, big-house sort of way – and who would soon, no doubt, be introduced to Emma, Simon’s wife. Within a twinkling they’d be having dinner parties. Chad and Hope, Simon and Emma, Sam and – ooh, let’s see … Emma’s best friend, um, Lucinda. Worthington-Squiggle. Squiggs, for short. A leggy, horse-mad beauty, who would take one look at Sam across the dinner table, his easy smile, his relaxed manner, would glimpse his beautiful house which everyone said was heavenly but unloved and surely needed a woman’s touch, and before you knew it I’d be singing the Gloria at yet another wedding. Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, me and Molly – no doubt with a carer apiece – before toddling back to my cottage to cook liver and bacon.

‘Right. Well, sorry to have bothered you, Sam,’ I said, breathing very shallowly. Very unevenly. ‘I’ll, um, wait to hear. Should you decide there’s anything in it for the wronged wife,’ I couldn’t resist adding.

‘I’ll let you know,’ he assured me, no doubt steadying his impatient steed, keen to catch up with the others, and not, therefore, catching my tone; which was just as well, for what was it, Poppy? Sarcastic? Bitter? But he needed to get on. The Armitages were doubtless even now galloping across his immaculate parkland, down by the lake, the grand house perched on the hill: Hope, riding side-saddle, in a full-length black habit; Chad, bareheaded in breeches; Sam, in a dripping-wet white shirt, clinging and faintly ruffled.

We said goodbye. I sat in my coat, on my goose-poo sofa, knees and hands pressed tightly together, cold and knowing. I should light the fire now, get some lunch. Go rally the troops in the kitchen. Not leave my under fives at the table, albeit safely strapped in Archie’s case, but be in there making biscuits, ‘Nellie the Elephant’ on the CD, being effortlessly cheerful. But my life didn’t feel cheerful. I gazed at the damp wall. I thought I’d spotted in Sam someone a bit like me, who needed a stitch or two on his shirt sleeve, a few patches on his life where it had come unravelled. I’d been attracted by that; had perhaps looked forward to some cosy comparisons, some mutual sharing of sob stories. But his life wasn’t like mine. It was in much more shape. Of course, he didn’t appear to have children, which helped, but men were generally more baggage-free anyway, weren’t they? Look at Angie’s Tom. He had two children but was carefree – although according to Peggy that relationship wasn’t without its problems. A liking for extreme sports, which Tom didn’t share, had raised its head, bungee jumping, in particular. Well, Tom didn’t have to bungee jump all day, did he? I hope the fucking rope breaks, Angie had hissed. And even if it did hit the rocks – the relationship, not Tom – men were still, by definition, able to pick themselves up, dust themselves off, slap on a smile and say: hi, Lucinda! Oh, Squiggs, is it? Lovely to meet you. Glass of champagne?

The doorbell went, making me jump. From the kitchen came the sound of the children’s voices: less happy now, more shrill and fretful. Something I should pounce on before it went critical. Archie screamed very loudly in sudden outrage, as Clemmie no doubt pinched his last biscuit. I shut my eyes tight. One read terrible stories in the papers, ghastly ones. But who hasn’t, on occasion, sympathized with the young girl in the high-rise flat, alone with three small children, driven to distraction, driven to shaking her baby? Who hasn’t wanted to jump up, storm into that kitchen, pull Clemmie roughly from the table, shake her arm and shout in her face about being mean to her brother, about being a little cow, then slap her leg hard? Archie was roaring fit to bust now, giving it both barrels. There’d been one in the Mail just the other day, about a girl who’d simply gone away. Shut the door to her flat, two small children inside, and got on a train to Edinburgh. One was only six months old.

The doorbell rang again. A longer, more persistent summons, and this time I got stiffly to my feet. I walked slowly down the hall to the kitchen where Archie, brick-red in the face, was bawling. I calmly unclipped him from his high chair and set him on my hip, then, reaching into the biscuit tin, gave him one, wordlessly. He took it and the shrieking stopped instantly, to be replaced by silent sobs and hiccuping, his face drenched, nose snotty, boiling hot in my arms. I took another biscuit and passed it to my pale-faced daughter, sitting silent and guarded, with her back to me in front of the television. She took it in surprise, guilty eyes catching mine. No words were exchanged. Then, as my doorbell went for a third time, I went back down the passage with Archie in my arms, to answer it. Only the more astute observer might notice I still hadn’t taken my coat off, and that most mothers would have wiped their baby’s sopping face with their hand before answering the door. Other than that, it was business as usual. Oh, and I usually flicked the light on before I opened the door, the hall being so dark, but I couldn’t be fagged. Couldn’t be fagged to turn on a light? An alarm bell sounded somewhere dim and distant and I reached quickly for the switch. Lifted my chin too, as I opened the front door.

‘Oh. Luke. Hi.’

Looking a bit temporary and as if he might well be on his way, Luke Chambers turned, halfway down my front path. He was wearing a pair of old Levis, a white T-shirt and a bright blue V-necked jumper. It wasn’t a bad look. He flashed me a smile, raked his hand through his blond hair and bounced back up the path.

‘Poppy, hi! What kept you? Were you enthroned or something? Compromised in the smallest room? I was about to give up on you and go and do some solitary drinking.’

‘Sorry. Archie was crying. Couldn’t hear the bell.’ Couldn’t raise a smile, either.

‘Oh, right.’ He hesitated, unnerved perhaps by my deadpan expression. And I hadn’t asked him in.

‘Yeah, well, I might not have pressed it hard enough, one never quite knows if it rings louder inside than out.’ He licked his lips as I didn’t reply. ‘Um, Poppy,’ he ploughed on, perhaps a mite nervously for him, ‘I wondered if you and the kids would like to have some lunch? Only I was going to go across to the Rose and Crown to grab a ploughman’s, and they don’t mind children, apparently, I’ve checked. As long as it’s in the saloon bar and not the public one. Oh, and they do a kids’ menu too, if a ploughman’s doesn’t appeal, nuggets and chips.’ It was said eagerly, nicely. Albeit in something of a rush. Rather as my words had tumbled out on the phone just now: the voice of someone who gives a damn.

I considered his offer. Another reason I’d sped out of the church via the side door with Jennie was to avoid Luke, who I knew would be looking for me after the service. It was a plan I’d hatched well before I knew the identity of the bride and groom. You see, I wasn’t sure I was ready for him. For the determined campaign I sensed he was about to wage on me, the steady romantic advance. I knew I was capable of falling for his ardour should he turn up the flame, which he appeared to be doing: this nice young man with his megawatt smile, his floppy blond hair and blue eyes. Eyes, it seemed, only for me. But why was I looking so closely? So minutely? Being so forensic about this? Naturally I’d been badly bitten, but still.

All at once my cold little house, my bickering children, my aged eggs in the fridge for lunch didn’t appeal. And the warmth of the cosy pub opposite, with its open fire and yes, OK, all manner of interested locals, all sorts of gossiping tongues – did. Suddenly it was no contest.

I shored up a smile on my doorstep, the most brilliant I could muster under the circumstances. Felt it wobble only slightly.

‘Thank you, Luke. I’d love to.’