A Married Man, page 38
‘Of course you did,’ I urged, ‘and I did too, Charlie, I loved like that, and I’d give anything to have it back. To have Ned back. And the thing is, you can have it back. If I were you, God – I know I’d make it work!’
‘Yes, but that’s easy to say when you haven’t killed anyone.’
I stared at him. Took a very deep breath.
‘How d’you know?’
‘What?’
‘I said, how d’you know?’
He looked at me blankly.
‘Charlie, what I’m about to say, I have only ever told one person. One living soul. Because – it doesn’t help anyone. Least of all, me. But it might help you. You see, as far as I’m concerned, I killed my husband, Ned.’
He frowned. Tucked his chin in, sharply. ‘What?’
I licked my lips, wondering if I could go on. If I could finish what I’d started. Make my mouth form the words.
‘But – hang on, I thought you said he died in a car crash? While you were in labour, or something?’
I nodded. ‘He did, and I was. But at the time he died, he was on his mobile phone. He was talking to me. I’d rung him, you see, as I lay there, doubled up in pain on my hospital bed, minutes away from giving birth, alone with my contractions, and furious that I was alone, that he wasn’t with me. Hating him for not being there, as he’d been for Ben. Knowing he was in some dark editing suite, trying to get away, but somehow, not quite getting out of that door. So I lunged for my phone, and I rang him. Got him in the car as he was leaving Soho. Shrieked at him as he tore along – “What are you playing at, Ned! Get over here now! I’m having your bloody child, for God’s sake!”’ My eyes filled up with tears as I remembered. I looked up at the ceiling to contain them.
‘And that’s when he crashed? You heard it happen?’
‘Yes. No,’ I said, blinking hard, slowly bringing my eyes back down. ‘I mean – I was in such a state at the time, I didn’t really register anything. Just a hell of a noise, and then the line going dead. I didn’t think, Oh Christ, that’s my husband crashing and burning. I just thought, Oh damn, the bloody line’s gone dead. I even tried to ring again. And it didn’t even click when my parents came to tell me what had happened, that the lorry driver had said he was on the phone. It was only much later, in retrospect. Hours, days later even, that I realized. That I put the pieces together. But – don’t you see, Charlie? I did kill him. If he hadn’t been distracted, if he’d had two hands on the wheel, if he hadn’t been talking to me, trying to pacify me, hysterical, irrational me, he’d have seen that lorry coming. He’d have rounded that bend perfectly. He’d still be here!’
Charlie looked at me for a long moment. Finally he shook his head. ‘You don’t know that. You can’t possibly torture yourself with that.’
‘I don’t,’ I hissed, leaning forward. ‘Too much, at least, or too often, which is precisely my point. Oh sure, in my darkest moments there have been times, definitely, when I’ve beaten myself up over it, but not continually. And not to the detriment of my family. And only once, in a very grim and drunken moment, have I ever admitted it to one other friend, because, Charlie, there is no point! It’s like pressing the self-destruct button, not to mention being totally destructive to those around you, to your loved ones. And Charlie, you do love Miranda and Ellen – and don’t tell me you don’t – so stop messing around and go back to them! Make it work. Don’t hide in other women’s beds, be a family man again, make more babies – it is not your fault!’ I stared at him, wishing my eyes could pierce holes, bore through his skull, embed my words in his head. ‘You didn’t see him, for heaven’s sake! You didn’t see Nick coming round that corner, otherwise you wouldn’t have come out so fast, would you? Don’t you see? Accidents do happen, tragic ones and there’s nothing we can do about it. Bad things happen to good people all the time, but it doesn’t make them bad people all of a sudden. It doesn’t make you a bad person!’
Charlie didn’t answer. Our eyes were still locked, and for a second or two, neither of us flinched. Then he looked away.
‘OK, if nothing else,’ I whispered, ‘do it for Nick. Do it for him. Because I tell you, Charlie, there are still mornings when I wake up and feel like grabbing a bottle of something and going back to bed, still. But I don’t. I get up, and I make the breakfast, and I carry on, and the reason I do that is not for me, and not for the boys, but for Ned. I make myself believe he’s watching me. Watching me bring his sons up.’
Another silence prevailed. At length he spoke.
‘I meant what I said about you being different, Lucy. I know you think I’m just a terrible old philanderer, a desperate old roué, but I felt – still feel … very deeply about you. Even though we’ve never – well. You know.’
I smiled. ‘I know.’
‘And the terrible thing is,’ he sighed, ‘I think I know why.’ He looked up quickly. ‘Why I fell for you in the first place. You remind me of Miranda. When I saw you, with Max, in London, in and out of shops, on buses, blonde, smiling, pretty, a small boy in tow. Miranda and Nick, holding hands, coming out of school. Miranda and Nick, off to the corner shop for the paper and some sweets. You move like her too, speak like her.’
I thought back. Realized I’d spotted that resemblance, that Lavinia had mentioned it too.
‘I’m not as nice,’ I observed. ‘Not nearly.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘She never used to be so nice,’ he said, almost defensively. ‘Used to be really naughty. Really, really hot stuff.’ His eyes glinted as he remembered, as if lit from behind. ‘And God, we had some times. Before the children were born. After the children were born, even. Wonderful, wonderful times.’
‘And they’ll come back, Charlie,’ I urged. ‘Really they will, because she’s still there, that girl you fell for, that girl you loved. You just need to look a bit harder, that’s all. And she’s still hot stuff. She’s just been put on the back burner, by you. I think you’ll find she’s still simmering gently though.’
‘Ready to burn?’ He looked up at me through his lashes. ‘Like I was convinced you were? Light the blue touch paper and stand well back?’ He grinned, and a hint of the old Charlie came back. I was glad. I smiled.
‘Precisely.’
His smile faded first, though, as if he didn’t quite have the energy any longer. Didn’t have the strength. He looked away, and we lapsed into silence again. I felt him retreat back into his past; slip back down his road in life. It was the same sort of road I’d been on, one filled with loss, and pain, and grief, but I knew he’d been further down it than me. At length I stood up. I swung my bag over my shoulder and bent down to kiss his cheek. He reached out and squeezed my hand tight, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t look up at me, either. I think maybe he couldn’t.
‘Bye, Charlie,’ I whispered.
He nodded, and I stared down at the top of his head, at the swirls of dark waves, with only a few strands of grey here and there, and at his broad shoulders in his blue and white gingham shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I looked for a long moment.
And then I walked away.
Chapter Twenty-six
I drove away, spent, exhausted and full of our collective sadness. The injustice of it all enraged me; it almost seemed too much for two people individually to bear. Who was Mimsy’s God Who let such things happen in milliseconds and then shatter lives for ever? A child thrown in the air, a husband through a windscreen, and for ever after, all that guilt and unhappiness rippling out into the lives of those left behind. It didn’t make sense, any more now, than it had done when Ned had died. And naturally I’d walked all around God then, considered Him from every angle, questioned Him closely, asked Him exactly how much had been down to Him pointing the finger, and how much to my own finger, punching out that mobile number. I knew, from bitter experience, that no answers were forthcoming. I also knew that this way madness lay, together with sleepless nights and horrified, wide-eyed sobs in the bathroom mirror, hating, loathing myself. Oh, I’d been there many times in London, but I’d taught myself too, to fold up that guilt and put it away carefully, to turn the key. And I did that now, with a practised firmness I was almost proud of, so that as I drove along the country lanes, through the snowy banks of cow parsley billowing from either side, I didn’t think of Ned, or my revelation back there in the pub. My mind flooded only with Charlie.
Charlie, who had undoubtedly been to hell and back, but now that he was back, four years on, could surely face up to it, start again, start a new life with Miranda? I knew how terrible the pain had been, but I also felt there was new tissue there, and that it might not tear as easily as the old. I hoped so, for both their sakes. I was aware, too, of how easy it was to make that decision, to start afresh and how hard it was to carry it through. To wake up – on a good day – and say, ‘Right, move on! Four years is enough, no more moping, a move to the country is what you need, Lucy, a change of scenery and – oh yes, a man! And – oh look, there’s one, an attractive one, walking right down your street. He’ll do, perfect!’
Had it been like that? I wondered, looking back. That random? That arbitrary? And had what Jess had said, about deliberately picking a married one, one that ultimately Would Not Do, now have a ring of truth? Because now that he wasn’t available for selection, was I distraught? Beside myself with grief over the loss of the man I’d loved – and lusted after, I added guiltily – and had now lost? If so, where were the tears? Why the dry eyes? Or was there in fact a sense of relief stealing over my soul, at the narrow escape I’d had? At being safely back on my own again?
I sighed and glanced ruefully in the rear-view mirror. Swept a weary hand through my hair. Not a tear, it was true, but pale and drawn nonetheless, and looking older, too. Careworn. I rubbed the side of my face with the palm of my hand. And had I loved him? Could I have, if I felt so implausibly calm about the whole thing now? Or had I just been going through the motions to get back on track, to no longer be considered derailed; but not in a wholehearted way, and not with someone single, because that would have been too scary, too much of a move towards a proper relationship, another husband even, when, let’s face it – and Charlie’s words came back to me – look what I’d done to the last one. How dare I, he’d said. So how dare I, have another? I gripped the wheel and realized tears were welling, finally, but not for my lost love, for myself. I knew I was opening cupboards I much preferred to keep closed. ‘Shut it, Lucy,’ I muttered. ‘Just shut it!’
I couldn’t though, and my mind sped on. I wondered, for instance, was Charlie braver than me? After all, he really did confront his guilt, daily, because he knew he was to blame, and I didn’t because – well, because perhaps Ned had simultaneously been lighting a cigarette? Perhaps the lorry driver had? Perhaps the sun had been low in his eyes, and after all, he often drove and spoke on the mobile at the same time … but then again I really had yelled down that phone, had screamed blue murder. Sworn at him, accused him of deliberately absconding from the birth of his second child, of letting his squeamishness get the better of him. ‘No. Not down that route, Lucy!’ I cried aloud, furiously banging the wheel. The tears were taking their chance now and pouring down my cheeks. ‘We don’t do that, we don’t go that way, remember?’
I nodded dumbly, mouth taut. I took deep breaths and wiped my face with the back of my hand.
There. Now. Now I was in control. I drove on and tried to clear my head. Tried to think of absolutely nothing at all. After a while, I glanced at my watch. Nine o’clock. My interview with Charlie had been brief, and I’d been driving fast down these lanes, so before long, I’d be home, and it wasn’t even dusk. I didn’t want to go back to the barn. Didn’t want to drive past Netherby, where no doubt, on a balmy summer’s evening, the Fellowes would all be having supper on the terrace, amazed to see my car sweep in, drive past when – hang on, wasn’t she supposed to be in London for the night? What on earth could have happened to bring her back so soon?
No, I decided. I couldn’t go back yet, couldn’t face the interrogation, not until it was quite dark and I could slip in quietly. So, how about if I did drive to London? I’d be there in an hour and a half, could see Jess. I thought of Jess, happy, and at peace with her man – finally. I knew I’d have to spill the Charlie beans, and then brace myself for the ‘I told you so’ scolding which would follow. I wasn’t sure I was up to Jess tonight. Teresa then? Dear, soft Teresa, happily ensconced with Carlo, cooking him something scrumptious in the kitchen, with Hector and Rozanna curled up cosily on a sofa on the floor below, when – oops, hello, a car draws up outside, and it’s poor old Lucy again. Better bring her in from the cold, rally round, give her a drink, pat her hand and – yes, yes, do go and get Theo and Ray too. The more happy loving couples we can surround her with, the better.
I swallowed, horrified at myself, but unable to dispel the sour taste of jealousy in my mouth. Jealous, Lucy? Of your friends? That’s a pretty unattractive emotion. No, I decided, opening the window and breathing deeply to keep calm, no, I wasn’t. I just couldn’t cope with them tonight. Not when I’d just lost my lover. I blanched. My lover. Even I was struck by how shallow and tawdry that sounded. A mistress, in the back of a car, down a shady lane. Childhood memories of being at my grandmother’s in Ireland, with Maisie and Lucas, driving past a steamy car in Granny’s lane, a flash of white legs, high up, wide apart; me, fascinated, and Lucas muttering, ‘Bob Tyler again, with someone else’s wife, no doubt.’ I flushed. And how delighted would they be, I wondered, if I barged in sobbing, ‘Oh God, I’ve just split up with a married man, I’m so depressed!’ No. No, I couldn’t do that, couldn’t go there. So, where could I go? I wondered with that familiar, rising, childish panic I was so prone to recently. Where?
As I drove along, feeling increasingly sorry for myself, I realized I was driving through Frampton. I slowed down, leaning my head out of the window to cool my burning cheeks, and nearly swerved off the road as I approached the manor house gates. For a moment I thought I’d spotted … yes. Yes, it was. It was Kit. Kit, in his front garden. Tall, lean, and in a bright blue shirt, strolling amongst his box hedges and lavender parterres, pulling a stray leaf here, a dandelion there. Kit, a friend, surely, albeit a new one, but would he want to be bothered? I raised my hand, tentatively, and at the same moment he saw me. His hand shot up in the air, and he waved back. I grinned with relief and slowed to a stop as he strode towards the gates, smiling broadly. He had a glass tumbler in his hand, clinking with ice and lemon, and as he approached, he raised it quizzically to his lips, eyebrows cocked.
Oh yes, I thought with a rush of relief, yes please. Dear, kind Kit; dear, kind, safe Kit, more to the point, particularly after what Mimsy had told me. What a good idea. I nodded back enthusiastically, and he came down to swing open the old iron gates for me.
Perfect, I thought, crunching up the gravel drive. Just exactly what the doctor ordered. A large gin and tonic on his sunny terrace, chatting happily of Hepplewhites and Chesterfields, the sun sinking low behind his apple orchard, the dragonflies humming and dancing in the gathering gloom, oh that would do the trick, for sure. And maybe we’d even talk of Charlie too? He was, after all, a close friend, and I would like to know more. Would like to indulge in a little melancholy post-match analysis. Try to expunge the sadness. I jumped lightly out of my car and slammed the door, smiling.
‘Well, what a pleasant surprise,’ he called, striding down the drive towards me. He swooped to plant a chaste kiss on my cheek. ‘I was just thinking, What a glorious evening, and no one to share it with. No one to escort round my garden, glass in hand, admiring my borders and my wildflower meadow, and now here you are! Perfect. What’ll you take for it, my dear? You are stopping for a tincture, I hope?’
‘Certainly I’m stopping, and I’ll take exactly what you’re having. A large gin and tonic by the looks of it, and definitely followed by a stroll around your magical garden. Feeling a bit Lord of All I Survey with no one to survey it with?’ I teased.
‘Precisely,’ he grinned. ‘It’s absolutely no good having all this to show off about and no one to show off to. That’s half the fun.’
‘I can imagine.’
He chuckled and ushered me inside to collect a drink.
For a while we stood chatting in the dark hall, leaning on the lowboy which housed the bottles, and then, fully equipped, clutching drinks and – oh, a bowl of olives, Kit decided, dashing back on an impulse – we sauntered around the back of the house to the terrace. It issued onto the glorious wild garden where the musky scent of nicotianas mingled with poppies and cowslips, and beyond that, the apple orchard, with its ancient gnarled trees. Under their branches, golden farmland rolled away into the distance, haystacks piled high, all ready after an early harvest.
I sighed with relief, settling down on a bench in the shade of a huge canvas umbrella. I felt quite weak after the emotions of the pub. Quite shaky. I swallowed hard and concentrated instead on the fabulous scenery.
‘You know, you’re right, Kit, this is an enchanting garden. Far more enchanting than Netherby, which for all its grandeur seems – I don’t know – tucked up. Very tamed, controlled. All that manicured parkland and immaculate rose beds with neat edges – it’s all a bit repressed, somehow, don’t you think?’
‘I do, but then it’s much easier to keep it like that. This is the hard bit,’ he said, sitting beside me and surveying the casually haphazard scene before us; the mown paths cutting swathes through the long grass, poppies and ox-eye daisies nodding beside old roses, stocks and delphiniums. ‘Tarting something up to look neat and tidy is easy, but it takes ages to achieve the natural, wild look, as any woman applying her make-up will tell you. And speaking of wild women …’
Rococo padded up the terrace steps from the garden below, and put her huge head in her master’s lap; brown eyes doleful, tail slowly wagging.
