The Other Woman, page 30
Iv
‘Your hair, it is cut. It suit you well.’
I murmur a thanks, absently fingering the new outline of my head, the result of a spontaneous walk-in to a half-empty salon after my sojourn in Retiro Park the previous day. I had watched in something of a trance as the young girl wielding the scissors lopped great sheaves off, before starting to shape a slightly impish gamine look out of what was left. I wasn’t sure I liked it, beyond the fact of it being pleasingly different. And something Pete would hate, that was a pleasure too. Long hair had been one of his things.
I peek at myself now in the car’s rear-view mirror, deciding that maybe the all-round shortness is better for my slim head and the way it gives more space for my eyes. ‘I got it done yesterday, on a whim.’
‘Forgive me, but… on a whim?’
‘Oh, I see… well, a whim… is just something you feel like doing, on the spur of the moment, sort of thing – not something you have to do.’
‘I see. Like me driving you to the airport?’
‘A bit, yes.’ I can’t help laughing. It had been such a surprise, emerging from leaving my room key on Catarina’s desk with the sun barely risen, to see the doctor standing, formal and sombre in his usual dark suit, by the guesthouse front door. To say farewell, I thought, until he held up his car key, announcing that he would be driving me to the airport. ‘Catarina order,’ he had added with mock gravity, pulling the old trick of claiming his sister was a harridan as opposed to a saint.
The pair’s continuing kindness was dumbfounding, humbling. Settling up the previous evening, Catarina and I had played a bit of ping-pong with the printed-out bill because all it contained was the basic room-rate, without an extra in sight. When I continued to protest, she had grabbed my hands, kissed the knuckles and laughed, before flouncing out.
Guillermo’s car, a dusty white Toyota, was parked across the road from the guesthouse entrance. To my surprise, little Enrique, in another, better fitting, white and blue football outfit and sleepily clutching a large soft gorilla toy, was curled up on the back seat. ‘I drop him at his friend house and then he have football training after. It is perfect timing,’ Guillermo had explained, taking my shoulder bag and hat and stowing them in the boot.
‘But I am definitely paying you for this,’ I say now, as we accelerate out of the last threads of the city and onto the motorway. The doctor’s expression remains impassive. I have already lost an early skirmish about settling up for my medicines and his consultation fee. ‘What do you think a taxi ride to the airport would cost?’ I continue.
‘I think you are an obstinate lady,’ says Guillermo affably.
I seek refuge in the view. The way he handles the car, his arms relaxed, his gear changes deft and smooth between neat, businesslike checks of his mirrors, suggests competence as well as enjoyment, helping me not mind unduly about the speed at which the scenery is flying past the window. But then I have a thing about men and cars, I remind myself wryly, the young Pete flickering in my mind. I did love him, in as much as any eighteen-year old can know what loving means. Mel being more in the frame didn’t change that. It was the having-and-holding I should have given up on, or at least Pete’s version of it.
‘And you go to London now?’ my chauffeur continues.
‘Yes, the school I work at is in South London, but I shall be living for a while with my brother in Kent.’
‘Ah, brothers, they are good, no?’ He winks and I laugh again.
‘So, Enrique’s mother, your wife, is she a doctor too?’ I don’t know if I imagine seeing his fingers tighten round the wheel. There is definitely a pause long enough to make me start to regret the question, which I have been burning to ask ever since seeing the woman in the red dress in the christening photograph.
‘Ines.’ Guillermo releases the name tenderly, like something that has been saved up. He throws a protective glance over his shoulder, where Enrique is sleeping like a puppy in the tangle of his seat belt and the rangy limbs of his soft toy. ‘Yes, she doctor too. A wonderful doctor. A paediatric surgeon. Very skilled. More skilled than me, for sure. But…’ He shoots me a sad smile. ‘She pass away, it is ten months…’ His command of the grammatical rules of the past tense seem to have deserted him. ‘Cancer de pancreas.’ He says the disease in Spanish, and with a bitterness that sounds weary.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Guillermo. So very sorry.’ I feel cack-handed and thoughtless.
‘Yes, it is the greatest tragedy of my life,’ he says simply, ‘and for Enrique also.’
It seems natural to stay silent after that. We are turning onto the airport concourse before he speaks again.
‘One day I hope you will learn to trust once more, Senora Grove. I am thinking of what you say to me on Thursday with the cake, but…’ He pauses. ‘Not, please god, the man who hurt you.’
‘Oh no, don’t worry, my trusting days there are definitely done.’ I manage a smile, touched that he should even care, while inside the question of Pete raises its ugly head. The degree to which I should cut my losses. The balance of my freedom versus letting him off the hook.
‘Women forgive, you know,’ the doctor goes on heavily. ‘They are the softer sex, the peacemakers – it is a big problem.’
‘What I told you then was in fact to do with a different situation… an old schoolfriend… my best friend. It turns out she may have been lying about something – something big – ever since I’ve known her. I only found out that afternoon, just before I saw you and… and, well, I am still trying to work out what to believe, what still matters. I mean, it was about something that happened such a long time ago, you see – literally twenty-five years.’
‘Well…’ He drums the steering wheel with his thumb, appearing, sweetly, to give the question deep thought. ‘It seems to me, Senora Grove—’
‘Fran, please.’
‘It seems to me everyone deserves more than one chance in their life, Fran. But if your friend has told this one big lie, maybe she has told others also? That is your difficulty.’
‘That is it exactly, thank you.’ I cannot help marvelling at his capacity for straight talking and wonder whether it might possibly have something to do with the language barrier – the inability to express more convoluted notions and sentences even if he wanted to. ‘Guillermo, can I just say—’
‘William, please, no?’
‘Guillermo,’ I insist, happy to show off how I have so totally got the hang of pronouncing the Spanish name. ‘You have helped me very much, you and Catarina—’ I have a bit of a speech lined up, but he cuts across me, choosing the same moment to reverse deftly into a spot right outside Departures.
‘Forgive me, Fran… but with this question you just ask, about the lie of the schoolfriend, it tells me you have… how you say… a lot on your plate?’ The car parked in one swoop, he tugs up the brake and turns to look at me. ‘Is that the correct phrase?’
‘Yes, it certainly is.’
‘A lot on your plate,’ Guillermo continues, his fingers on the door handle, but not opening it yet, ‘and so I think maybe this trust problem with your friend, it can wait a little. For now, it is only important to look after yourself.’
Behind us, Enrique stirs. ‘Donde estamos, Papa?’
‘Estamos en el aeropuerto, querido. Senora Grove regressa a Inglaterra.’
‘Ciao, Senora Grove’.
‘Goodbye, Enrique.’ I turn, but the child is already sinking back into sleep, and I am glad because I want to hug the hell out of his father when the moment comes and would hate the little lad to be alarmed.
Standing by the car a couple of minutes later, however, batting away the euro notes I have been trying to press upon him, it is a pointedly formal hand that Guillermo extends for our goodbyes. ‘Your plate is full, Senora, but I think you are strong. Que tenga un buen viaje, y mucha suerte. That means travel well and good luck.’
I lose my courage for the hug – it would be terrible if he thought it inappropriate – and I realise my sore ribs are nowhere near up to it in any case; but our handshake feels strong and sincere.
By the time I glance back through the terminal’s big revolving doors, the Toyota has gone. With the doctor’s wise, simple counsel still fresh in my mind, I park my bag between my feet and tap out a message to bridge the silence between me and Mel. I keep it simple. I tell her I am doing fine, all things considered, and that, for the time being, I am going to be staying with Rob. I tell her about seeing Ed’s comment and give her the bare bones of the extraordinary exchange that followed, explaining that, for all my wanting to believe her, something about what he claimed rang true. I say I now need to process my thoughts, as well as concentrate on the million and one things from the fallout with Pete, including – most important of all – making contact with Harry. I tell her I love her and that we will talk it all out, but can she give me a breathing space first.
When I look back up, the Toyota has returned and the boot is open. A moment later, Guillermo is being spun out of the revolving doors. ‘You are here, thank goodness.’ He looks more flustered than I have ever seen and is clutching my straw hat. ‘You forget this. In the car,’ he adds, before turning and running back the way he has come.
Chapter 13
I
Marcus’s sturdy legs paddle the air as I try and slot them into the front of the shopping trolley. He is in a hand-me-down pair of voluminous pink elastic-waisted shorts that fit over his nappy, and a new white T-shirt – a recent gift from one of his churchy aunts – bearing the words, I AM A LITTLE MIRACLE. Jo had groaned as she pointed out the caption during the course of handing him over, but Rob, crouched doing up his trainers in preparation for a run, fending off the two overexcited dogs, had pointed out that creatures growing inside each other was pretty miraculous, whether you gave the word a religious tag or not.
I certainly do not need God or the slogan stretched tight over Marcus’ little pot-belly, to know that my square-set, wriggly, resolutely cheerful – unofficial – godson is a marvel. He has just four teeth now, chipmunk-style, two up, two down, and a darkening tinge of auburn to his still downy head. He does his fair share of crying, but unlike my memories of Harry at a similar age – and for years afterwards, come to that – has always the clearest reasons for upset: hunger, thirst, sore gums, a dirty nappy, tiredness, the desire for company. A solution provided to whichever of these problems it is – no matter by whom – and he settles at once, sometimes with a spark of what-took-you-so-long in his beady stare.
I see this spark now as I place a wedge of apple – brought specially for the purpose – into the clasp of both his dimpled hands, as soon as our negotiation of the trolley has been managed. It means I have about fifteen peaceful minutes, possibly twenty-five if a second wedge proves acceptable, Marcus’s preferred approach to such treats being still to suck rather than chew. I set off at speed round the huge supermarket, one of Jo’s too-long, but beautiful skirts, catching round my knees as I lob things off that week’s list into the trolley. It is a list Rob is now in charge of and which is kept sellotaped to the lower half of the fridge so as to encourage all contributors; hence my challenge this Saturday morning to find, among other things, the blue lollies, a request in Tilda’s tidy hand, and why I chuckle at a jumble of letters underneath, composed by her more mischievous and optimistic brother, which reads, my OWN iPad pleeeese.
In the clothes aisle, I can’t resist a few budget garments for myself – a couple of tops, as well as a blue and white stripy dress and some cheap flats that look smart enough for work. The generous pile of offerings from Jo that greeted my arrival, including shoes only half a size too big, have kept me going beautifully – with the aid of belts and a little imagination – but it is a boost to at least start a fresh stock of things I can call my own.
Originally, I had hoped to make a lightning, lunch-hour raid to collect some belongings from the house, but it turned out Pete had changed the locks. The cabbie, whom I had splashed out on and asked to wait, shook his head in bemusement when I hurried back down the path saying I had changed my mind.
I find it soothing being in the supermarket, obeying the list, pulling faces at the baby. Three weeks in and it is a ritual that already feels integral to my new holding pattern of a life. Other systems have been developing too. Ways of being. On weekday mornings, Rob drops me at the station to catch the very early train necessary for my commute to Chalfonts, before heading back to cover the school run with the twins and managing his own work day. Or, if he is tied up, I drive myself to the station using Jo’s little run-around. Though an exhausting routine, just to be back in the rhythm of school feels like a luxury, together with the added thrill of the promotion to aim for. I made sure to report my altered circumstances to Camille on the very first morning back, receiving exactly the response I needed – sympathy without drama, followed by a quick shift of focus to the challenges of the second half of term.
On the home-front, Jo remains the priority. Rob is a marvel, but if we are both out all day, then a local girl called Jenny comes by for a few hours to help with the children. ‘You poor darling, you are so welcome,’ was her immediate greeting when Rob and I walked in the door from the airport, along with a brief, intense embrace that seemed to leave her drained. ‘And lovely hair,’ she had murmured, falling into a corner of the kitchen sofa. Later, she talked expansively about being so much better, thanks to the medicine and the counselling to which Rob takes her on a Friday morning.
No words, however, can mask the fact that my once inspiringly vibrant sister-in-law is still an echo of her former self: glassy-eyed, remote, sleepy, between bouts of determined cheeriness that are almost harder to bear for the glimpses they offer of what remains lost. It’s as if she has been turned inside out; her inner fragility laid bare for everyone to see. I have to pinch myself that the arrival of the sweetest baby in the world and the saving of dear Tilly’s life, on that surreal, sunny Easter Sunday, are what have caused this unravelling. The riverside picnic feels more and more like part of another world now, a naïve, distant idyll in which Jo was healthy and I was hanging onto belief in Jack; when Harry was back in my life, his old gauche, loving self; a time when even his father – thanks to his jaw-dropping heroics with Tilly – could still provoke a sliver of ancient faith in our marriage.
The only good thing about Jo’s plight is that it keeps mine out of the spotlight, which is exactly where I want it. On my own bad days, when Harry’s unrelenting silence in particular threatens to get the better of me, it is also a poignant reminder that being derailed by life is not my own speciality; that being happy, getting things right, is a tricky business for everyone. Best of all, I relish the opportunity it presents to be a useful houseguest, to give something back, instead of being yet one more burden in the midst of all their recent difficulties.
‘You are family,’ Rob had said simply, after I had I scolded him for the surprise pick-up at the airport, my heart still bouncing from the shock of spotting the beacon of his messy red hair among the waiting crowds of taxi drivers holding signs and people jostling for first glimpses of loved ones. Looping arms for the walk back to the multistorey, doing my best to answer all his questions, never had I been more aware of my brother’s physical solidity, a life raft in a storm.
During the drive to Kent, he even tried to take a little too much charge. He wanted Pete confronted and punished, he told me. The police needed to be involved, as well as lawyers. He wanted justice for his sister. And when I got to Mel, he was a little too quick to denounce her as having always been out for herself, not deserving of my precious energies.
I had stared straight ahead while he talked, faintly panic-stricken, thinking how much easier everything had seemed from the vantage point of Spain. Once he had run out of steam, I explained calmly and carefully, digging deep into my still settling courage, that launching straight into a pitch battle with Pete would stop the lovely sensation of being free of him; that I wasn’t yet sure about taking any steps that might convert Harry into some sort of cannon fodder, destroying whatever shred of a chance remained of he and I reconciling; and that, above all, I needed time to regroup. It was a relief to feel Rob’s hand reaching for mine across the gearstick.
‘Okay, sis, I get it. But there’s this great local lawyer called Diana Shears, who you should at least talk to. She helped a friend of Jo’s with a car-crash of a divorce a few years ago. She’s kind and clever and won’t charge the earth – and I can pitch in with money anyway until you get everything sorted. Just ask okay, if you need me? Otherwise I’ll do my best to keep my big brother nose out. Scout’s honour.’
On the drive back from the supermarket, Marcus dozes, his head lolling like a drunk, his new T-shirt stained with apple-dribble. The motorway is clear and the fields gold under a clear indigo sky. I wind the driver’s window down to get a blast of air onto my face, savouring the summer scent of freshly cut grass and the pleasure of a little time alone. I think of Harry, trying to keep the worry at bay, telling myself he will come round eventually and drawing comfort from the fact that Diana Shears, Rob and Jo’s warm, wise lawyer friend, who is now representing me, thinks so too. We have met several times in her converted garage office for sessions that have felt more like normal conversations than the sort of intimidating meetings I had imagined. A woman in her early fifties with a firm but gentle manner, she has the knack of making everything seem not only less daunting but highly possible.
