The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly

8

The following week Barry called me into the office. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I’ve taken so long to get back to you about the job.’

How lucky that I’d made an effort that morning and dressed up – floaty floral skirt and belted black jacket.

Barry eyed me with detachment, and apprehension flickered in me. Maybe things wouldn’t go to plan. ‘You know the Aids series has been green lit?’

‘Yes. Congratulations.’

‘Charles at Channel 4 is very excited about it.’ Barry ticked off the points. ‘Big money. Big foreign sales. And Kevin Stone to direct. Fantastic package.’ Again the speculative appraisal. ‘You know, Minty, you started me thinking.’

Generally when bosses think, it’s bad for someone.

‘I reckon this is how it is for Paradox. I’ve been looking to expand the output and I need plenty of ideas. You can come full-time on a probationary basis. Six months. Then I’ll take a raincheck, see what’s working and what isn’t. We’ll discuss money, et cetera, et cetera, later.’

I noted that Barry was not keen to go over the ‘et cetera’. ‘I’m delighted. Thank you.’

He leant forward. ‘No problems with childcare?’ I raised an eyebrow and he added hastily, ‘I’m asking as a friend.’

‘All taken care of.’

‘Six months, then.’

The joke that had darted like marsh gas through the offices when I left Vistemax had been quite funny. At other times, I would have savoured and dissected its delicious taste of schadenfreude. Which board director uniquely has two wives sacked from the same job? Answer: Nathan Lloyd. ‘What a sap that makes me,’ Nathan had pointed out. Was he blaming me for my failure? ‘And what a fool me,’ I had flashed back.

‘Fine.’

Barry tipped back his chair. ‘Also…’ the word was elongated, ‘… Chris Sharp will be joining Paradox as producer. He used to work for me at the BBC. Bright. Sharp as his name. You’ll be working together. He doesn’t suffer fools.’

I smelt gladiatorial combat but I snapped my fingers in a bullish manner. ‘So he’ll thrive here, won’t he?’

We were introduced to Chris Sharp at the Friday meeting. He turned out to be slight, brown-haired, hazel eyes, dressed entirely in black Armani. All the same, he was not that noticeable. Barry ushered him into the room. ‘Say hello, girls.’ Deb and I obediently smiled a welcome.

Chris raised a finger in greeting and sat down. Deb presented a proposal for a six-part series on gardening, Dig for Victory, ‘ Each programme will be fronted by a different celebrity gardener and deal with a different topic. The format of each programme will be a general overview and two related features. In the cities edition, we’ll discuss a couple of city gardens, one established, one in makeover, then a feature on window-boxes – the pensioner window-box, the window-box for children -’

‘Won’t you need to put in something like the bachelor’s window-box?’ Chris interjected. ‘Otherwise… a little unbalanced?’ His confident gaze shifted round the table, tabulating and assessing. A feline quality was evident, a subtle and determined sniffing out of motive and opportunity. ‘And should you stick to UK gardens if we want to sell in Europe?’

Her certainty punctured, Deb pushed back her North London hair. ‘Sure,’ she said. She retrieved the initiative. ‘I would have come to that.’

Barry muttered about costs and Chris totted up a column of figures. ‘You might have to increase the unit cost initially, but with anticipated wider subsidiary sales your margins are better.’

Barry looked pleased. ‘Nice.’

Next up was Middle Age: End of the Beginning? NB ran the memo to myself: assurance and fluidity.’I see this as a two-parter. One, defining what middle age is. Two, following a selected group and showing how it affects them. The conclusion being, it is a desirable phase of one’s life.’ I went on to show how the programmes would touch on affluence, diet, exercise, plastic surgery and spiritual regrowth. My commentary flowed over the rocks and pools of statistics and attitude, consumer practices and personal histories. Barry pressed his Biro up and down between his fingers. Chris cupped his chin in one hand, observed me carefully and took notes.

Deb got up and poured the coffee. She slid a cup in my direction and Barry’s hand hovered over the biscuit plate. ‘I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.’ The hand dived towards the Jammie Dodger. ‘Middle age sounds like a destination resort,’ he commented, without irony. A spray of crumbs accompanied the remark and Deb got a tissue out of her bag and gave the table a furtive wipe.

‘We should emphasize to the controllers the spending power of this group,’ I continued, ‘which is underestimated, according to some experts. The grey pound is huge and middle-aged people will want to watch this programme. Particularly if we show them positive things.’

Chris scribbled away.

Barry ate a second biscuit and reflected.

Chris looked up from his notes. ‘It’s an interesting subject, but it’s lacking…’ the cat’s eyes closed briefly ‘… sharper orientation. Shouldn’t we be asking, “Are you, the thirty – or forty-something, irrelevant because you’re middle-aged?’

Paige’s eyebrows climbed Everest, then did so again. I enjoyed the effect.

‘Rose just turned up out of the blue? Outrageous!’ Propped up on some uncomfortable-looking pillows with her knitting, she begged for every detail. It sounded simple – Rose came, she and Nathan talked, I snooped, Rose went – but it wasn’t.

After a couple of false alarms, Paige had been admitted to the People’s Hospital and I had dropped in to see her on the way home from Paradox. The People’s Hospital was the size of an airport and had been billed as the latest and finest, state-of-the-art. State-of-the-art or not, someone had failed to grapple with temperature control and it was far too hot. Also it had taken the entire reservoir of my patience to find the Nelson Mandela Maternity Unit.

Paige listened, her needles clicking. When I had finished, she said, ‘You mustn’t read too much into it.’ Then she laughed. ‘You’ve just described the perfect triangle.’ She finished the row with a flourish. ‘And Rose is at the top.’

‘I’ve realized that Nathan didn’t leave Rose because he was tired of her. He left her because he was tired of himself.’

‘Maybe so.’ She began a new row.

Paige’s one-woman craft industry was a revelation. ‘I didn’t know you could knit.’

The crying of newborns punctuated our conversation. Reedy little sounds from lungs that were still learning how to function.

‘There’s nothing I won’t do for my babies.’ Paige counted stitches. ‘I like to think of them wrapped tight and warm in something I’ve made.’

‘You could buy a shawl.’

‘Not the point. Putting myself out for them is… Ten… twelve… fourteen.’

A woman with long fair hair shuffled past the bed, hoicking a drip after her with one hand, the other clasping her stomach. Flesh bulged on either side of her fingers.

Now I had embarked on the subject, it was difficult to stop. ‘Perhaps she’d been thinking about Nathan and the old days. Perhaps she was missing him. I don’t know. They seemed so cosy together, Paige. It was as if the conversation between them had continued all these years.’

Paige was not a natural knitter and she had trouble looping a stitch back on to the needle. ‘Think yourself lucky it’s just an occasional encounter. In the old stories, Rose would have died of grief, or killed herself, and returned to haunt you.’

‘She does that without having gone to the bother of dying.’

‘What a pity you don’t write or paint. It’s a good subject and your experience is first hand.’ Paige put her needles together, wrapped the work-in-progress round them, and stowed it in a bag.

‘Ah!’ I cried. ‘That’s the trouble.’ The too-well-remembered sounds of the new babies in their plastic cots provided a counterpoint to my cry. ‘That’s the point. Everything I do is second – second-hand. Nathan set up home before. He had children before. He had friends before…’ The frosty Frosts, the disapproving Lockharts. A whole raft of them. Lined up in rows. And Nathan has family – boy, does he have family – which was set in stone before I arrived and has no intention of unsetting itself I paused. And then there is Rose.’

That blew the lid off the jar of maggots in my brain and they were crawling everywhere. Soon I must catch them and put them back. I contemplated my hands. ‘I’m not complaining or anything,’ I said. ‘Just telling.’

‘Well, you are complaining,’ Paige pointed out. ‘But that’s fine. You can complain to me. And I can tell you that Rose is nothing. You’ve built her up into something for no good reason.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to give you an earful. We should be discussing your bump.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting one thing?’ Paige placed a hand on her abdomen. ‘No one else had the twins, did they? That’s not second-hand. Or am I missing something? And, by the way, you’re godmother to the new arrival.’

‘Oh!’ Godmother meant acceptance. Godmother meant a settled role, a place in the hierarchy. ‘Thank you, Paige.’

When Sam and Jilly’s Frieda was born, Nathan went around in a grandfatherly glow. He wanted to know her weight, how well she fed and slept, was she wearing the Babygro he had chosen?

Pregnant myself, I listened to this with only half an ear. I had never reckoned on Nathan being thrown into such a fuss, but he was and that was that. However, there was no fuss over the seating arrangements at Frieda’s christening, and that was that too.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Nathan apologized. He was awkward and out of his depth. ‘Sam and Jilly feel it would be best if you didn’t sit with the family.’

It did not take two wits to picture the kind of conversation that had taken place behind my back.

I grabbed his wrist. ‘Did you stick up for me, Nathan? Did you fight at all?’

He hunkered down beside the chair I was sitting in. ‘Of course I did, Minty. I’d fight a lion for you. But it’s a difficult situation.’

Not that difficult. Divorce and remarriage were not unknown. ‘Are you ashamed of me?’ The words issued from between my clenched teeth.

‘No. No.’

But I knew the question struck a note of truth and, what was more, Nathan was ashamed of himself.

‘Where will you be sitting?’

‘At the front.’

‘With Rose, you mean.’

‘She is the grandmother,’ he said stiffly.

There are not many good things about being pregnant. In fact, there is nothing good about being pregnant – except one thing. If you’re disposed to weep, and I was, it could be employed to advantage. I turned to him as tears drifted down my cheeks, and whispered, ‘I know your family hates me.’

Deposited by Nathan on a back pew in Winchcombe’s village church near Bath, and given a couple of cushions to prop me up, I knew I was the focus of many eyes – some of whose owners longed for me to fall to my knees (impossible at thirty weeks) and declare, ‘I beg pardon for my sins.’ Everyone would have felt much better, including any sinners.

But I was tempted to rise to my feet and declare instead, in ringing tones, ‘Nathan was not happy with Rose. He told me, again and again. Listen! I rescued him.’

My reflections were interrupted. ‘Minty’ Poppy’s Richard edged past me and sat down on the empty seat on my left. ‘Nathan thought you might like company, and I’d like to provide it.’

There was sufficient flirtatiousness in his manner to cheer me up. I smiled at him. ‘That was nice of you.’

He smiled back, sympathetic and not unfriendly. ‘Confession time. Being married to a Lloyd is rather exhausting, don’t you think?’

After the main bit of the ceremony was over, and Frieda had shrieked in the approved manner, Nathan came back down the aisle. What it cost him, I dared not reckon. But that was the bargain I struck with my tears. He slid into the seat on my right and took my hand. ‘Hi,’ he said.

At the point of doing – such as stealing a husband who belongs to a woman you rather love (but not enough) – the exhilaration of the doing and taking is what matters. Only afterwards, during cold, reflective nights, does the enormity of what had happened assume its true shape.

Nathan stuck the photographs of Frieda’s christening into the album covered with red leather he had bought specially. Photograph number one showed Jilly, Sam, and Frieda in a lace gown that had serviced several generations of Lloyds. Frieda’s mouth had dropped open and there was a milk blister on her upper lip. Photograph number two featured Nathan and Rose. Dressed in her favourite olive, a proud Rose was holding Frieda in an irritatingly competent way, and Frieda’s tiny fingers curled round one of hers. But there was a clue to how she had been feeling: she had inclined her head to the left. ‘Left is my best profile,’ she had told me once. Nathan had his arms by his sides, but in a way that suggested he had wished to put one round Rose. Photograph number three was the formal group. In an old-fashioned hat, Jilly stood in the centre with the baby, Sam protectively beside her. Nathan, Rose and Jilly’s parents, plus godparents, siblings and cousins, fanned out from this nexus.

I was not in the photograph. Nor did I speak to Rose during the whole affair. But I caught her looking at me. Many times. I knew this because I had been looking at her…

I seized Paige’s hand, which was slick with sweat. ‘How can I kill Rose off? In my mind, I mean. How can I stop her menacing my marriage?’

She sent me a look filled with pity. ‘I’m surprised at you. It’s simple. Just think of your children.’

I dug in my bag for the magazines I’d brought for her and handed them over. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Linda’s in charge, and Martin takes over in the evening.’ Paige frowned. ‘I have a funny feeling that Linda’s thinking of quitting, which she absolutely cannot do.’ She bared her teeth. ‘If she does, I’ll throw the book at her. Being here is a big nuisance. I wanted to be at Jackson’s form play. I’d planned a huge tea-party, with all the works, and invited his teachers. This baby isn’t scheduled to arrive for two weeks. I’ve been telling it off very severely, and it’s not listening to me.’ Filaments of knitting wool clung to the front of her nightdress. I picked them off and threw them away. ‘Thanks.’ She raised herself gingerly up the pillows and settled back with a tiny shriek. ‘Ouch! That’s my sciatic nerve. Martin’s temper hasn’t improved. He didn’t really want this one. He says we won’t have time to breathe.’ She raised her eyes to mine. ‘Did I mention I tricked him into it? It wasn’t pretty, but it was the only way – ‘She stopped mid-sentence. ‘It’s acting up again.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Stop it.’

‘Paige, I’ll call at your house and check things for you. Is there anything you’d like?’

‘Actually, yes. A huge bloody steak with a plate of chips.’

A group of male and female nurses were conferring by the nurses’ station. One of the men, in a pretty blue uniform, headed for Paige’s bed. ‘Hi, I’m Mike. Just making sure you’re not worried about anything, Mrs Hurley.’

‘Nothing at all, except the small matter of heaving a huge baby into the world.’

He patted the bedclothes. ‘You’ve done it before.’

‘Precisely, Mike,’ said Paige.

He consulted his clipboard. ‘I thought we’d run over a few things with you, give you a timetable to work with. At midnight tonight, we’ll give you…’

Unwilling to listen to these intimacies, I moved away, only to be confronted by more intense ones: mothers feeding, changing their babies, groaning as they shifted in their beds. Some seemed bewildered, an emotion I recollected perfectly. There was an almost sinister quality to the hopefulness of others and their visitors who clustered round the cots. Each time a baby was placed in one, it was assumed that a good, successful, loving life lay in store.

I glanced at Paige. Mike was writing on his clipboard, and Paige was talking at him, arguing in a decided way. I found myself smiling. How very like Paige to try to organize the ultimately unorganizable such as birth or, for that matter, death.

Mike bustled away and Paige beckoned me back. ‘I rather like being asked by nice men if there’s anything I’m worried about.’

The drugs trolley was progressing down the ward as I bent over to kiss her goodbye. ‘I must go – it’ll take me hours to find my way out of here.’ There was an unmistakable smell coming from Paige, the milky odour of giving birth. ‘What made you decide your children should come before your career?’

Not an iota of doubt clouded Paige’s serenity. ‘Simple. When Jackson was a baby, he cried at night and I was the only person who could shut him up. He needed me, and only me.’

Nathan was already at home when I got back, reading to the twins who were tucked up beside him. Number seven was warm and hushed. Eve had put a stew into the oven, Nathan, Felix and Lucas presented a tangled, contented tableau, and I halted in the doorway to savour the moment.

I inspected the boys. Damp, soap-smelling and tousled. ‘Lucas, have you put on your cream?’

He had a rash, but resisted every attempt to make it better. Beneath his father’s arm, he shook his head. I fetched the tube. ‘Come on.’ Reluctantly, he tilted his head, and I dabbed cream on the red patches by his ears. Beneath my fingers, his skin was both dry and soft, softer than anything else I had known.

Nathan rubbed his knee. ‘That’s sore.’ He spoke lightly. ‘Falling apart.’

‘Poor you.’ I sat on the bed, buttoned Felix’s pyjama jacket and smoothed his hair. ‘Maybe you need some exercise.’

‘Too tired for that.’

I glanced up as a spasm darkened Nathan’s expression and I knew what my husband was thinking. If I had been Rose, I would have gone upstairs, searched out embrocation and insisted on rubbing it into his stiffening muscles.

Secret grief.

I could picture this intimacy – the collusion – to the last detail. No, I could feel it: a warm cosiness, with no spectre of the past to cast a chill. Nathan and Rose had acted in tandem. Which school for the children? Did the hall require painting? Hey! They had talked to each other over breakfast, after a night of sex that had left them with burning eyes and aching flesh. We can take it.

Was Rose aware of how lucky she had been? She had helped herself to the young, strong Nathan, the one who had carried a laden breakfast tray up to her in bed as if it had been thistledown, the one who had balanced job, wife and children in his palm with the skill of the juggler, Look, I’m not tired. Look, I cannot fail.

I switched off the light and we stood in the doorway as the twins settled under their duvets.

‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.

Nathan slipped his arm round my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. ‘Nothing very much,’ he said.