The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly Page 11

  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 th
e 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.

  10

  Nathan never mentioned whether or not he found the Post-it.

  I did not refer to it either. But I did say, in passing, ‘You’re not letting things slip at Vistemax?’

  Nathan had never been a fool. ‘Do you know something?’

  A nerve flickered in my cheek. ‘I don’t know anything. But it’s a jungle out there and you have to keep up.’

  ‘Has Gisela said something?’

  ‘No, but I don’t trust Roger.’

  ‘Shall I tell you something? Neither do I.’ He placed a finger on my shoulder and pressed down. ‘Let’s hope nothing happens. Otherwise… Well, a lot of things, but money will be a problem.’

  His finger hurt. I thought of Nathan steering a path through the rough jungle. He would need all the help possible. I gave him what I had. ‘Gisela has a lover, Nathan.’

  Nathan went very still. ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘I promised I wouldn’t, but I thought you should know. It might help. You’re my husband and we share things and I know whose side I’m on. He, the lover, wants Gisela to leave. But I don’t think she will.’

  Nathan removed his finger. ‘Yοu never know what people are capable of doing.’

  No. One was never sure. ‘Really?’ I replied, but what I really meant to say was: ‘Will you being seeing Rose again?’

  Gisela rang me in the office. ‘How’s the new routine?’

  I told her that, two weeks in, it was going fine, and she asked if we could have lunch. ‘I know it’s last minute,’ she said, ‘but I do have something to discuss.’

  I scribbled ‘Dance? Series?’ on the article I was reading about ballerinas in Harper’s magazine, and we agreed that she’d pick me up at twelve forty-five.

  She was in Roger’s Vistemax company car. The interior had been sprayed with a manufactured flower scent that made me long for the smell of Tarmac – or manure, even, anything normal. The comfort of the leather upholstery provided insulation from the real world – which, presumably, was why a company executive had favoured it.

  My head was full of ideas, the ones that ached to take flight. ‘What do you think about a television series on modern dance? Salsa, tango…’ I rattled on until I noticed that Gisela was not paying attention. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Several things,’ she replied enigmatically. ‘Vistemax for one. But let’s enjoy ourselves first.’

  ‘How’s Roger?’

  ‘A bit gloomy. A lot of boardroom activity… There’s talk of selling off the Digest, and of launching a free newspaper. Apparently the younger generation doesn’t read newspapers and the advertisers have spotted this. But Roger’s capable of dealing…’ Gisela checked herself and pointed out of the car window. ‘Did you see those shoes?’

  I pictured the scene. Nathan and Roger in shirtsleeves at the gleaming boardroom table, mineral water, crystal glasses, biscuits and a plate of fruit – exotic stuff like paw-paw or star fruit, the chef’s fantasy, which no red-blooded male would dream of eating.

  Gisela said dreamily, ‘Roger gives me a nice life, you know. And he’s promised me a merry widowhood. Don’t look shocked, Minty. Roger and I have discussed it many times.’

  The car slid along Piccadilly and turned left, then into one of the small streets off Bond Street and stopped in front of a gallery with a bow window and discreet gold lettering, that read ‘Shipley Fine Art’.

  Gisela swung gracefully out of the car, thanked the driver and instructed him to return in a couple of hours. She was wrapped in a leather jacket, so supple it was like silk, so well cut that not one wrinkle marred the line across the shoulders. ‘Come.’

  The gallery was a rectangular room, painted cream with antique-stained floorboards. At one end there was a desk with a flower arrangement in pink and white and a couple of spindly chairs. There was no evidence to suggest that money changed hands, no paperwork, only a stack of catalogues.

  Two men stood by a large painting at the far end of the room. It depicted three boxes of differing sizes suspended in a night sky dotted with stars and planets. The boxes looked as though they should fit into each other, but on each an attachment made it impossible. The first, painted red, had a chain looping over the sides from which hung a ball inscribed ‘Poverty’. Dozens of naked babies clung to the sides of the second, so numerous that – shockingly – a couple had let go and were falling through space. A tree grew out of the third, a pretty arching shape with withered leaves. The painting was entitled Slow Apocalypse.

  ‘So good,’ Gisela breathed in my ear.

  ‘Is it?’

  She smiled. ‘We shall have to educate your eye.’

  No doubt this was an oblique – and unflattering – reference to Nathan’s taste in Cornish pictures. Gisela’s eyes widened a little, but even if I had been in complete sympathy with her I could not have dropped Nathan into the black hole of flawed taste.

  She smoothed the sleeve of her jacket, and my uneducated eye immediately noted that her hands were trembling. ‘That’s Marcus.’ She indicated the taller of the two men.

  Everything fell into place. My main reaction was surprise. This was the man with whom Gisela had a special friendship, whom she probably loved, and there was nothing out of the ordinary to single him out. Marcus wore a linen suit, rather rumpled, with a gold watch-chain. He had thick, unruly hair, smallish but nice eyes and a pleasant expression. He gestured a lot and talked fluently. ‘Simple to ship… a couple of weeks. Insurance…’ He acknowledged our presence by raising a hand.

  ‘OK.’ The client was American, expensively dressed. ‘I’ll phone you the details.’

  Politely, Marcus ushered him out of the gallery and whipped round. ‘Hello.’ He touched Gisela’s shoulder. ‘This must be Minty’ We shook hands. ‘Forgive me, I was finalizing a sale that had been a long time cooking.’ The pleasure of the sale shone in his eyes, and his voice was surprisingly deep. ‘Good, eh? I’ve only just opened here, and the rent has to be paid.’ He lifted his shoulders i
n a gesture designed to include me in his despair at the iniquity of landlords. ‘Shiftaka is an extraordinary painter. I hope you’ll take a look at the rest of the exhibition.’

  There was sufficient suggestion that I was extraneous, and I took the hint and moved away. But not before I saw Marcus draw Gisela close.

  For a second or two, Gisela relaxed against him. ‘How are you, Marcus?’

  ‘You know exactly how I am.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you were going to be difficult.’

  ‘Don’t bother with games, Gisela.’

  And Gisela – cool, determined Gisela – still trembled. ‘Sorry’

  In the back room, I studied an oblong painting, Submission. It featured a series of broad horizontal stripes running through the red palette, from brick to palest pink. The eye longed to remain anchored to the red at the top of the canvas, and it took a conscious effort to pull it down through the spectrum, which, I suppose, was the point. It was only after I had examined the bottom section of the picture that I realized the pale pink contained a misty outline of Africa. The link between the pretty pink and the implication that Africa had been bled dry was intended to shock, and it did.

  In the other room, the murmur of voices was punctuated by Marcus raising his. ‘Haven’t we muddled around for too long?’

  Gisela said something unintelligible, and Marcus added, ‘End of the road, Gisela.’

  I edged back into the main gallery. Marcus was leaning against the desk, inspecting his shoes. Gisela was flushed and upset, fingering the necklace of Persian coral round her neck.

  ‘I think I should go,’ I told them.

  ‘I’m coming, too.’ Gisela grabbed her bag.

  Marcus rolled his eyes, and levered himself upright. ‘OK.’

  Gisela snapped open her bag, got out a mirror and, in a now familiar gesture, dabbed at the area below her eyes. ‘Give me a minute.’

  I turned to Marcus. ‘The artist? Tell me about him.’

  Without a blink, Marcus shifted into another gear. ‘Abandoned on the streets of Kyoto, he was fostered by a retired geisha. He’s a political painter…’