The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly

9

Early the next morning – shrieks of protest from the twins, abandoned bowls of corn flakes, mad hunts for school reading books, a flustered Eve, a preoccupied Nathan – the phone rang. It was Martin.

‘Minty! We have another son. He arrived late last night. Isn’t that great? He’s big, he’s beautiful – he’s perfect! He’s even textbook weight.’

Oh, that’s lovely. Congratulations.’ I cocked an eye at Nathan, who was departing. We’re thrilled.’ Nathan sent me a thumbs-up and disappeared.

Tiny baby in cot. All limbs and digits accounted for. Clean and sweet after the trauma of its arrival.

A good, happy, successful life.

There was traffic noise in the background of this phone conversation. Martin was clearly on his way to work. ‘Did you get any sleep? Shouldn’t you take the morning off?’

‘I had more sleep than I bargained for.’

‘Oh, was it that fast?’

‘Ask the mother. Paige kicked me out at the final stages. She said it was her business, not mine.’ Martin’s tone altered to convey a touch of anger and disappointment. ‘But both are doing well.’ After a pause, he added, ‘I’m told.’

I cast around for a safe comment. ‘Did Paige manage to finish her shawl before it all happened?’

Martin was at his very, very driest. ‘Paige finished her shawl. She put the final touches to it during the second stage.’

‘Good grief. She’s made of iron.’

‘That’s a rather apt description,’ he said, anger again creeping into his tone.

‘I’ll see her over the weekend. From next week I’m working full-time.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘She disapproves. She thinks it’s frivolous to work full-time when you don’t have to.’

Paige’s disapproval hung over me as I organized a delivery of organic yoghurt and fruit for her, and settled down to making final arrangements: preparing to go back to full-time work was full-time work. Nathan had had fun teasing me about it: ‘You’re not going to war, you know.’ Then, a little later: ‘How’s the supply train?’ Or ‘Do remember that the general requires a slap-up meal?’ The joke ran and ran.

I pinned Eve’s reconfigured timetable to the kitchen noticeboard, and considered the logistics of provisioning, school runs, recorder lessons and swimming practice, and felt a sneaky but shameful admiration for Mussolini: he had made Italian trains run on time.

I ran my finger over the blocks marking off days and hours. There was no going back. Come to that, there was a theory that the First World War had happened not because of the shots at Sarejevo – an archduke or two were expendable – but because the Russians had mobilized the trains. Once that had happened, it was impossible to cry halt.

Eve had walked the twins to school and, to my astonishment, had volunteered to take them for a session in the park afterwards. Already I felt differently: I had waved them off, pleased that all concerned in this household had reached another milestone. Again, I ran over my timetable. It was impressively severe in its just-intime scheduling, with no margin for slack.

I ploughed on. Wardrobe checks. Nathan required new socks, and the twins had grown out of their dungarees. Equipment: Trying-pan,’ I jotted on the shopping list. ‘Food: Menus for the next two weeks.’

The phone rang. ‘Minty.’ Poppy dispensed with preliminaries. ‘Can I ask you something? Do you think you could speak to Jilly?’

This was entirely unexpected. ‘Why on earth?’

Poppy was full of importance. ‘I don’t know if Dad mentioned it but she’s refusing to go to the States with Sam, who’s been offered this fantastic job. Well, you know what that means. Sam will be the target of every predatory female in the state. And did you know that he bumped into Alice? His girlfriend before he married Jilly? She was very cut-up when he went off with Jilly. Personally, I think Alice manoeuvred it. She’s never got over losing him. Anyway, he talked about her last time I saw him, and it set alarm bells ringing.’ I knew Poppy well enough to grasp that it would be a short wait before all became clear. ‘Minty, I’m sorry, but there’s no two ways to put it and I’ll have to be rude. Could you talk to Jilly and explain how the Other Woman seizes her chance? I shouldn’t put it like that, but if Sam goes off by himself, then… who knows what damage Alice will do? Or someone like Alice. She’ll believe it if you talk to her – ‘

My gasp brought Poppy to a halt. I didn’t waste time saying things like ‘Sam would never do that.’ I didn’t point out that it was hardly likely Jilly would appreciate anything I had to say and there was a good chance that she would be very angry. Or I might be very angry. Or that I had no wish to interfere. Or, even, it might be Jilly who found someone else. Instead, in simple acknowledgement of my Other-Womanness, I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Would you? Would you?’ Poppy was surprised by her own success. ‘You don’t mind?’ She rattled on: ‘I know it’s a long shot but I couldn’t think of anyone else. Or, rather, you seemed the best person… and everything seems a bit muddled at the moment.’

There was sufficient upset in Poppy’s voice for me to take a risk. I took a deep breath. ‘How’s the poker?’ I asked. ‘Are you winning?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Then she fell silent. Finally she said, haltingly, ‘Does Dad know?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve said nothing. It isn’t my business. But he and your mother are worried about you.’

Poppy began to cry and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Eventually, I heard, ‘I’m going to have to ask Dad for money. I’ve had a bit of a bad patch…’

‘No, you’re not,’ I flashed back. ‘He has worries enough about money as it is. You know he does. Can’t you ask Richard?’

‘No.’ Poppy sounded terrified. ‘I can’t.’

‘I won’t let you bother your father.’

Poppy stopped crying and her voice was icy cold as she said, ‘As you said, this is none of your business.’

‘Maybe.’ I rolled Poppy’s dislike round my head. ‘But it doesn’t alter the situation.’

We said goodbye, more or less politely, and almost immediately Deb was on the line. ‘Deb, you sound very cheerful. Have you won an Oscar or something?’

The words almost choked Deb, so anxious was she to spill them. ‘Actually, I spent the evening hooked up with Chris Sharp. Quite by chance. He’s fascinating. Done lots of things.’

I supposed – correctly – that this information was the real point of Deb’s call. ‘Chris is your new best friend.’ I tried to make it sound like a question, not a statement.

‘My new best… yes, friend. What I was calling about is Middle Age’ Deb’s incredulous lilt underlined how remote it was from her own situation. ‘There’s a whole new lot of stats come in, one of which gives a rather shocking percentage of widows living below the breadline. Might be something you should build in?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’

‘By the way,’ Deb added, ‘does the name Rose Lloyd register with you?’

‘No,’ I said. No, no, no. ‘I mean, yes. She’s my husband’s first wife.’

There was a small silence. When it was clear I was not going to elaborate further, Deb said, ‘Someone mentioned her as a possible presenter for my city-gardens edition. I’m having trouble finding anyone and apparently she’s considered good news. I think I might pursue it’

‘I thought Barry wasn’t keen on the idea?’

‘I’m not giving up on it,’ Deb said stubbornly.

When the phone rang yet again, about one o’clock, I pushed aside my notes with resignation.

‘This is Sam.’

‘And what can I do for you, Sam?’ If my voice was a trifle hysterical, it was to be expected.

He was taken aback. ‘Are you all right? You sound a bit odd. Is Dad home? I’m trying to track him down and the office said he was on a personal lunch but his mobile’s turned off.’

‘He isn’t here,’ I said, cheerfully enough, but unease and suspicion were running invasive fingers down my spine.

‘Oh, well, not to worry. He’ll be somewhere.’ Sam sounded positive. ‘Did he tell you about my new job? It’s a big leap but I have an idea it’ll work out. Jilly isn’t so happy but I reckon, if I can get her out there, she’ll settle. If not, we’ll just have to improvise… or maybe Jilly can come out every six months. We’ll miss each other, of course.’

‘Sam… do you think that’s wise?’

His tone cooled. ‘We’ll manage, but thanks for your concern. Are you sure you don’t know where Dad is?’

But I was no longer listening. As soon as I could, I terminated the conversation. I was aware, of course, that old habits died hard. That’s how addiction clinics make most of their profits. On the warm summer evening when Rose had brought me to number seven to meet Nathan for the first time, the three of us had discussed loyalty and Nathan had said, ‘You end up being loyal simply because you’ve known someone a long time.’

Rose and Nathan had known each other for ever and there was nothing I could do about it.

I really imagined I’d cracked the problem of the future when I offered Nathan the alternatives to habit of a glossy body, hot blood, excitement, a – to quote Rose – ‘comforting gaze’. I pictured our life together like postcards: a firelit winter scene with snow outside; sunny uplands, with hay baled in neat lines. I had imagined, too, that tenderness and laughter lasted.

I snatched up my bag and keys and found myself in the car, driving down the street, telling myself I had no idea where I was heading.

I lied.

As I approached the river, I lowered the window and smelt the sludge of low water. The city unravelled before me: dirty, assured and industrious, new buildings springing up like dragon’s teeth in every empty inch. This was the city I admired, and melted into. It hustled and busded: unsentimental, indifferent, surviving the knocks. It did not crave love.

There was a space outside Rose’s flat, and I slid the car into it. I turned off the engine and dropped my head into my hands. I considered what I was doing. I considered switching the engine back on and driving away. I considered how badly spies were rated in the food chain.

After a while I raised my head. The building on which I focused was a tiny, pretty, flat-fronted Georgian house with large clean windows.

And there was Rose. She was sitting in what appeared to be the bedroom of her ground-floor flat talking to someone out of sight. She was dressed to go somewhere smart, in a black linen skirt and tiny jacket to which was attached a fake camellia corsage.

She picked up her brush, ran it through her hair and the sun caught a glint of diamonds in her earlobe. Then she shook her head in an impatient gesture, ran her fingers through her hair. She looked grave – the exchange between her and the unseen person appeared to be intense.

Just discernible in the corner of the window, the bed was covered with a blue and white vintage quilt. Very pretty, very Rose. Rose sat down on it.

Had Nathan occupied that bed? Had he sneaked away from the office with a bottle of champagne? Had he drawn his first wife down on to the blue and white expanse and placed his lips on her bare shoulder as he had on mine? Had he propped himself up on his elbow and asked ‘Can you forgive me, Rose, for what I did to you?’ Or, had he murmured, ‘I can’t live without you’?

Was he sitting there now, out of sight?

I turned my head away, so sharply that my neck protested. Rose might have been beaten by the circumstances of her life but, plain as day, she had not. I don’t know quite what I had envisaged – that she should live out her life on some prison ship with hard labour? And I have no idea why I thought that someone to whom I had done such wrong should suffer more. But I did.

I could taste my hatred and despair, and I could smell the musky odour of sweat springing under my arms in the heated car. I turned back to look through Rose’s sparkling windows, and I was peering into my mind’s secret mirror, with its reflected darkness and turbulence.

A man bearing a bouquet of spring flowers – meltingly beautiful, whites, yellows and pale greens, crossed the road and let himself into Rose’s front garden. He was tall, with sun-bleached hair, wearing scruffy old trousers and a brown jacket with leather patches at the elbows. I knew him well from the photographs.

He rang the bell. It took Rose a minute or so to open the door. A minute when she would have said to the hidden Nathan, ‘What’s your story?’ And Nathan would reply, ‘There’s no point in hiding it any longer.’

Rose appeared on the doorstep. ‘Hal,’ I heard her say. ‘Oh, good. Oh, good’ She reached up and kissed him, and his arm snaked round her. Then I drew a sharp breath as Rose called over her shoulder, ‘Mazarine, he’s here,’ and a smartly dressed woman came out.

The three chatted for a while. Mazarine was a small woman, with carefully dyed hair, who gesticulated a lot. Hal was less vocal, but amused, his arm round Rose’s shoulders. When he smiled the lines on his face were etched deep. And Rose? She was radiant, her happiness almost palpable and living – something she woke up to each day, which defined the seconds and minutes as they slipped past.

Those time-tested loyalties stretched between the three. Even had I not known who they were, it was clear that they were old friends. But I did know who they were: years ago, Rose and I had sat over salad lunches and discussed most things, including their friendship.

Nose buried in the flowers, Rose went inside, then came out again to lock the door. Hal linked arms with both women and they walked on to the street. They were too busy talking to notice me. As they passed, I heard Rose’s friend say, ‘C’est tu bêtise, Rose. Tu sais. Hal is impossible…’ Rose turned her head and looked at him.

Together they turned in the opposite direction and disappeared.

When I got home, I went up to the spare room and searched for Nathan’s notebook. It was no longer there. Up on the wall, the painting of the white roses presented its challenge. The bruised, dying petals scattered at the base of the vase sent a mocking message. It was all so brief.

Downstairs in Nathan’s study, my shameful search continued. I scanned the bookshelf, opened drawers, rifled through the filing trays.

Nothing.

Was I going mad with suspicion and supposition? Possibly. I glanced up and caught a blurred reflection of myself in the window. There was a woman in danger of being suffocated by hatred and guilt.

After a while, I had to accept defeat. Nathan had withdrawn from the conversation I had tried to hold. He was covering his tracks, and denying me the tiny glimpse he had given me of himself.

Perhaps, if I had remained silent, in the true, repressed English way, it would have been different. Perhaps if he had known that I knew but had not tried to turn it into words, he would have been satisfied. NB No marks here to Successful Relationships.

A scarlet woman possessed the virtue, at least, of being useful. We need sinners in order to feel superior. To be the other woman, as Poppy had indicated, also had its uses. The role of second wife trailed way behind in interest and excitement. But that was what I was left with. No doubt the moralists would rejoice, and I was prepared to allow it – after I had insisted on having my say. Nathan had been unhappy with Rose.

Downstairs, in Nathan’s study, I picked up the Post-it pad, and scrawled on the top one: ‘Don’t go.’

I stuck it on the filing cabinet.