Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman Page 9

  Timon watched me cross the carpet towards his over-sized desk. ‘You don’t look well, Rose.’ He brushed aside my apologies for ringing him on a Sunday and told me to sit down.

  ‘Nathan came to see you. How was he?’ I asked.

  Timon rearranged his papers, which, on the vast desktop, appeared like postage stamps. ‘It’s not easy for anyone. However, I have now had a chance to appraise the situation.’

  ‘I’m sure you agree that I cannot work with Minty’

  Timon picked up a pen and drew a large circle on a notepad with a bright pink cover. ‘I want to get this sorted out quickly’

  ‘OK.’ I was riveted by the bright colour, which fragmented in front of my tired eyes.

  Timon drew a second, less perfect circle. ‘I am sorry you have run against rocks in your private life. Believe me, we have all been there.’ He looked up, and his scrutiny was modulated neither by pity nor understanding. ‘The fact is, we have been taking a good, hard look at the books pages. They need a revamp. As you know, if I had my way we would probably dump them as they have no advertising pull.’

  This was not the conversation for which I had nerved myself, but if that was what Timon wanted, I would summon my energy and play ball. I had facts and figures at my fingertips and I launched into them, but Timon cut me off: ‘I don’t think you get the point. Change is happening faster than ever and we must harness all our energies to keep up. No,’ he held up a finger, ‘not to keep up but to be ahead.’

  It was the rhetoric spouted all over the industrialized world and I was used to responding to it. ‘Fine.’

  Timon was not listening. ‘The pages need to be sharper, sexier. More celebrities. We need radical change.’

  ‘I can do that. Tell me the budgets.’

  ‘Of course you can do it. But the fact is I want someone else to take an absolutely fresh approach, which means that we’re letting you go, Rose. Ten years… it’s a long time in one job. Jenny in Human Resources is cobbling together a package. We’ll treat you properly. No need to call on our learned friends, Rose.’ He drew a third and final circle. ‘You must clear your desk, of course, but I would like you out by lunchtime.’

  ‘I don’t think you can do that.’

  His expression did not alter. ‘Have you checked your contract lately?’

  I held my voice steady. ‘I’m not going to abandon the pages while we’re getting everything ready for press, Timon.’

  ‘Sure, sure, admirable, but Minty will deal with them.’

  ‘I don’t wish her to do so.’

  Timon rose heavily to his feet. ‘Believe me, this is not an easy decision, but the change in your circumstances decided me. I called Nathan in this morning to tell him what was going to happen. I’m afraid I’ve asked Minty to take over your job.’

  *

  I cornered Nathan in his office. ‘Give me five minutes,’ I muttered to Jean, his secretary, as I went past. ‘Private.’

  Ashen-faced, Nathan got to his feet as I wrenched open his door and walked in. ‘Did you know?’ I asked.

  He went over and shut the door. ‘No, I didn’t. You can’t imagine that I wouldn’t have told you if I knew anything. I wouldn’t do that to you, Rose.’

  No, he wouldn’t, but rage streamed through me and I grasped at it with relief. Rage was better than anguish. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t sack me at work, but you’ve sacked me at home.’

  He flinched and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.’

  There was a silence as my rage cooled and I struggled to put things right, to untangle the snarled strands of this situation. I said tiredly, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you were so unhappy? We could have done something about it. Talked. Gone to see someone. Something. Even, even -’ I beat my fist on his desk ‘- you could have had your affair, if you had to, Nathan, if you absolutely had to, and come back.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘It does. It can. If you make up your mind. A good marriage is flexible. Why didn’t you come to me and say, “Rose, I don’t think I’m getting what I need from you.” Or “Rose, you’ve taken me too much for granted, can we change this?” Or…’

  ‘Or “I’ve been measured against another man for a long, long time…”’

  This was a Nathan who had folded himself up and travelled a long, long way away. ‘Please don’t give me that excuse again, Nathan. It’s tired, and not the real one. You’re using it as a convenience for something else.’

  Nathan shook his head and did not reply.

  Surprise winded me – that clever, thoughtful Nathan could make such decision on so little evidence. And so deceive himself. ‘All that was such a long time ago, Nathan. I thought we were over it. Do I ever go on about your love affairs in this way? No, of course not. I thought I’d persuaded you. Don’t our years together mean anything in the way of proof?’ I placed my hands on the desk and leant towards him. ‘Is the real reason that you… don’t find me attractive any more and you’re trying to spare me by dressing it up?’

  Had we shared the bathroom once too often, eaten in silence once too often, heard the other repeat a favourite gripe once too often?

  There was no response and I tried again: ‘Is it because as we grow older we grow less confident? More nervous that we’re horrible to look at, too set in our ways? And we need to re-establish ourselves all over again? Is that it, Nathan? Because if I know one thing, it cannot be your vague anxiety over a long-ago affair that has brought this about. It’s something, perhaps, that you can’t describe or understand, but at least be honest and say so.’

  Either this was too near the bone for Nathan, or he did not understand what I had said, but it was clear that I would get nothing more out of him. ‘I’m tired, Rose. I want a fresh start. I’ve fallen in love with Minty. The children are old enough to take it.’

  I walked over to the window and looked out. Traffic clotted the street, and the shop windows were bright with neon light and spring fashions. I followed the progress of a police vehicle weaving in and out of the queues. Suddenly I realized what had happened. How a shadow had become substance. And an excuse. A convenient mental lay-by. ‘Hal means more to you than he does to me,’ I said slowly. ‘He’s become a fantasy’

  Behind me, Nathan shuffled papers. My anger stirred, ignited, flamed. I swivelled round to face him. ‘Do you know what made Timon decide to sack me? Apparently, it was you and Minty deciding to set up house that gave him the out.’

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, and looked quite grey.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean it to happen but it has.’

  ‘Rose… if you want help on the details, the package…’

  I looked at him helplessly ‘The only details I want to go over with you, Nathan, are our details, the ones we should be discussing.’

  For a second he stared at me with the old tenderness, and there was a hint that we were making progress, that we were going to talk. Properly. Painfully. Honestly.

  ‘Nathan, please, let us think again -’

  Jean opened the door and cut us off. ‘Nathan, red alert in the board room. Now.’

  Nathan’s eyes did not leave my face. ‘Five minutes, Jean.’

  She shook her highlighted blonde head. ‘Now. The minister’s wife has killed herself.’

  Chapter Nine

  The journey, which we knew like the backs of our hands, had been hard-fought down the conveyor belt of traffic stretching from London to Cornwall, but now the packed car nosed round the headland. Since Launceston, Nathan had been humming off and on under his breath and persisted in saying, ‘Yip, sirree,’ when I asked a question. Sam, twenty, and Poppy, eighteen, who had both been at all-night parties and had not been to bed, woke up. Poppy put on her glasses and punched Sam lightly on the arm. ‘You owe me a beer.’

  The car bore its hungry, thirsty pilgrims down the unmade road. Yes, yes, there it was, windows glinting in the sun. Sited in a dip overlooking the sea, which sheltered it, the cottage possessed a pr
ivacy that, in our family, went beyond its physical location.

  By now, we were experts in the light and weather that swept over the coastline: grey storms, pink and gold sundrenched evenings, meditative blue on calm clear days. Sometimes a mist layered the coast and hid the beach. Quite often clouds were pasted over the horizon, which had the curious effect of bringing it closer. Sometimes I imagined myself walking across the water and climbing on to it. If it was blue, we went fishing. If it rained we went in search of fish and chips or hiked over the headline to the village where we ate Mrs Tresco’s cream and treacle, ‘thunder and lightning’ teas and drank beer in the pub.

  ‘Yip, sirree. Nice and blue.’ Nathan stopped the car. ‘I’m going straight out.’

  I folded my hands in my lap and asked sweetly, ‘What about the unpacking?’

  He came round to my side of the car and opened the door. ‘Sod the unpacking. The children can do it. You’re coming too.’

  ‘Sod the unpacking.’ I abandoned the car and its mess of suitcases, papers, empty drink cartons and boxes of food.

  Sam sighed. ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ I said. ‘We’ll fix the exchange rate later.’

  Nathan picked up his fishing bag and grabbed my hand. I had time only to snatch up my sweater. Down, down to the beach we went, like the excited children we had once shepherded so carefully. My feet in their plimsolls sped over the turf, sprang over the stones, dug into dry white sand.

  Johnny the Sail had towed the boat down to the beach and left it in its usual place, with the outboard oiled and ready. Nathan unhooked the tarpaulin, wrestled with the stiff, damp awkwardness, stowed it, then threw in his bag. I joined him and we pushed the trailer to the water’s edge.

  Nathan swung over the side and primed the motor. I pulled the trailer back up the beach, and waded through silky ruffles of water towards the boat.

  ‘Come on.’ Nathan held out his hand. ‘Are you going to be all day?’

  Proud of the deftness acquired over years, I slotted the oars into the rowlocks. They dipped into the water, and I began the measured, steady pull, feeling the muscles tighten in my back and arms and the tide working against me. I quickened the pace and, pretty soon, I stopped shivering.

  The wind sharpened at Fiddler’s Rock and I took care to skirt a field of flat, rank-smelling seaweed, which hid rocks with sharp pointy teeth that liked boats for breakfast. ‘OK,’ said Nathan, and I stopped rowing. Instantly there was hush, except for the water slapping against the clinker side of the boat. Nathan pulled at the string, the motor spluttered, roared and settled down. He took the tiller and we rode the waves out towards the place where the mackerel cruised.

  I busied myself sorting out the line. However carefully it was stowed at the end of the season, it always twisted in storage and I had to concentrate so that the hooks did not catch my fingers. Nathan cut the engine and primed it again, ready for a quick start if necessary. ‘You go first.’

  I threw the line overboard, watching the bright bait-feathers swell as they touched the water. The sun beat down on my bare arms, warming flesh that had been hidden in the city. I looked up. Nathan was watching me. ‘We’ll have time together this year,’ he said, ‘won’t we?’

  The line tugged in my hands, the water flip-flopped against the boat and the light was dazzling. I found myself astonished and shaken by joy. It was the joy of being alive, of being part of the mystery of existence, the more simple joy of Nathan’s love.

  An hour or so later, we clambered back up the path to Beach Cottage. I carried the fishing bag, and Nathan carried our supper. Three mackerel: the best ever for a first day’s catch.

  At the top of the path, Sam was scanning the cliff, one hand shielding his eyes. When he spotted us, he started down the path towards us. Lazily, I imagined what he might say. All done. Beds made. Food stowed. Pay up.

  Instead, when he arrived, panting, at the ledge where we had stopped to look at the sea and Nathan had slipped his arm around my shoulders, he said, ‘Dad, there’s been a phone call. They want you back in London.’

  Why hadn’t I put my foot down then, I thought, and at all the other times? Why didn’t I now?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jean. ‘I know you and Nathan had things to talk about, but it was impossible not to interrupt.’ She looked pained, and I knew that she knew.

  ‘It was ever thus, Jean.’

  ‘I know,’ she said sadly.

  The minister’s wife had been only thirty-seven. Judging by her picture on the television screen in the office, which beamed in a constant stream of news, she looked pretty, and very English in a fair, large-boned way. In the photograph, she was dressed in a pair of trousers and a polo-neck sweater, the neat, unthreatening clothes of a Good Wife. There were two teenage children, the younger of whom had discovered her hanging from the banisters.

  Good Wives kill themselves as thoroughly as anyone else.

  Her face was vignetted in the top right-hand corner of the screen as commentators were wheeled in to discuss her death. Accompanied by their modulated tones, I emptied my desk and packed my bag, arranged the piles of books in publication order and deleted files from the computer. I rang Steven to warn him of late pages.

  ‘Leave it for Minty to sort out.’ Maeve was clearly furious. The bush telegraph had been at work and she came over to supervise my career demise – and to learn the details. Her pencilled-in eyebrows snapped together. ‘I don’t know what Timon thinks he’s doing. It’s an outrage.’ But her indignation was tinged with unease. ‘It’ll be me next, no doubt, as I’m no spring chicken.’ She leant over and urged, ‘Go to a tribunal. Fight for the older woman because that’s what it’s about.’

  I was shaking with fury and shock, but I continued to sort out the piles of books. ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that, Maeve.’

  ‘Wake up, Rose.’ She prised a couple of books out of my hand. ‘Stop it. Don’t waste one more minute on them than you have to. You don’t owe them anything.’

  The television commentator stood outside the minister’s house, which was under siege, and reported on the charitable and constituency activities of the minister’s wife, the reaction of appalled friends, and of how the children had gone into hiding.

  With the grief of the minister’s children in mind, and the woman’s death, I could not bring myself to make the gesture of leaving those last unnecessary tasks unfinished. Together, Maeve and I packed up a box with my stationery and pens, my files – the photograph – and left it for delivery to Lakey Street.

  Maeve glanced at the screen where the minister’s solicitor was now making a plea for the family’s privacy. ‘What fools,’ she said fiercely, and surprisingly. ‘Letting themselves get like that.’

  I kissed Maeve, promised to keep in touch, and gave her my mug, which had ‘I is edikacated’ printed on it, and went to see Jenny in Human Resources. Neither of us enjoyed the fifteen minutes I spent in her office, and I emerged with a portfolio of documents I had refused to sign until I had consulted my solicitor. ‘Timon won’t like that,’ Jenny said, flustered, and I toyed with the idea of telling her that she was in the wrong job.

  At the front desk, I surrendered my pass to Charlie. ‘I’m sorry about this, Rose,’ he said, as he cancelled it. He had signed my forty-fifth-birthday card, which had been organized by Jean – over forty signatures spidered over it, promoting in-house jokes (would I remember what they meant?) and wishing me long life.

  ‘I enjoyed working with you,’ I told him, but Charlie had transferred his attention to a messenger.

  I walked out of the building and came to a halt. Only once before in my life had I had no idea what to do, or where to go next. Only once before had I felt as exposed and crushed by the weight of grief and despair.

  I breathed in traffic fumes, a whiff of rotting litter, and the knowledge that, for the moment, I was lost. The book bag hung limply over my shoulder, a symbol of my emptiness.

  A woman bumped int
o me and hurried on. A mother wheeled a baby past in a buggy. A man in a black overcoat shouted at a bus.

  My feet moved forward. The air was pulled in and out of my chest. I continued down the street, but I watched that woman walking along with her empty bag from a great height. I felt an enormous detachment, and a curious desire to laugh. Look on the bright side, Rose. You won’t have to worry about people at work knowing about Nathan.

  Outside the gym, I stopped. Anyone who was anyone knew that this was the place to be. The gossip and deals of the women’s changing room outflanked those of the office canteen. It was private, intimate, naked – the bone of a matter was always reached quickly and thoroughly: the smoothies at the bar, which machines did what to the anatomy and, especially, the air quality were avidly discussed. Some days the air was fine, on others it was dense with sweat sucked up from labouring bodies. At other times, diseases were said to lurk in the pipes.

  It was precisely the sort of place that Minty would choose to make her second home.

  The thick engraved-glass door swung open and shut, open and shut, revealing a receptionist in a tight, acid green T-shirt. A posse of women carrying sports bags streamed in, chattering to each other. The door closed silently, reinforcing the gym’s exclusivity.

  From the outside, I looked in.

  Eventually I pushed open the thick, dividing door and went inside.

  Minty was not in the bar, or in the spa, or on a machine. I tracked her down in the changing room. Hunched on a bench, she was naked, absorbed, oblivious, drying between her toes. Then she stood up and rubbed lotion into her hard, confident body, which she tended so well.

  Pink, white, ivory and black, tumbling hair, long legs, firm stomachs: the room was heaving with feminine flesh. Women padded between the lockers and the showers, hairdryers hummed, a locker door slammed. They were all still young. Their bodies were not yet slackening and disobedient, and the gap between their desires and what was returned had not yet widened to be impossible. Perhaps that was what Nathan was trying to redeem, and felt he could not tell me.