It’s Who We Are, page 11
‘These are deep waters.’
‘Mum has always said I’m very fanciful!’
Their food arrived. Wendy took one forkful of her gateau then beamed at her companion. ‘Oh my, that is seriously good.’
‘I know!’ Hannah grinned.
‘You’ve obviously been here before?’
‘Yes, with Mum. I live quite near the Opera House. It was Dad’s place. He’d retired from his Norwich practice but then started working for a private dental clinic in Wimpole Street – and he bought a flat so he could stay some nights in town. Anyway, after, um, the accident, Mum transferred the ownership of it to me. I think she hoped it would cushion the blow of losing Dad and Andrew. And perhaps it has – especially because I used to live in a crowded flat-share in Willesden Green and now I have my very own space, with no mortgage and no rent to pay. Best of all, and most unusually for a studio flat, it has a bath, and I love a soak in the tub at the end of the day!’
‘Oh, so do I,’ agreed Wendy.
Hannah chuckled, then began chatting about something else, while Wendy sat back and listened and enjoyed her. She had often wondered whether her life might have been different had she had a girl. Of course, mothers and daughters were not always close; but it would have been marvellous to produce a child who had turned out like this attractive young woman. Having sons was wonderful, but you never found out about things like hair or eyelash extensions, or what the newest way was to tie a scarf so it looked fashionable and not just as if you were hiding your neck. And would a daughter have left her alone at Christmas?
Probably one of the reasons she had been so upset earlier about Julian was that Rhys had chosen this morning to tell her that he was going to spend Christmas in Boston with his twin. It was understandable; she knew they missed each other. But to have one son in America over the festive season was bad enough. Two seemed like a hammer-blow. She imagined that Robert was paying for Rhys’s flight. He would be spending Christmas with Miss Spiky Hair, so probably he had no reservations about both boys being away. Listening to Hannah, and hearing the hum of conversation of festive shoppers all around her as they merrily recharged themselves with tea, cakes and glasses of Prosecco, she felt suddenly very single and alone.
‘So, do you think that’s awful?’ Hannah was asking.
Wendy felt herself blush. ‘I’m terribly sorry. My mind was drifting. What were you saying?’
‘That I seriously fancy my boyfriend’s younger brother! It all started when I went with Najid – he’s the boyfriend – to the O2 arena to see the Andy Murray final against Djokovic, and his brother Farid came too. Afterwards, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Now, he’s uh, helping me with some, um, research and we’re spending lots of time together. And I’m avoiding Najid, which is very cowardly, I know. I’m supposed to be seeing him later, but I think I’ll duck out of it. I haven’t told Mum, by the way, because she adores Najid. Sorry, I’m going on and on. You’re just so easy to talk to. Are you all right for time?’
Wendy looked at her watch, and then apologised and explained about the carol service at St Paul’s, Covent Garden. Much to her astonishment, Hannah asked if she could come too. Then she offered to settle the bill which seemed both sweet and astonishing. Wendy refused, but was touched. Much as she adored her boys, she was pretty sure they never noticed that she paid for everything. Certainly, neither of them had ever suggested treating her when she was out with them. But here was this smart, funny, lively young woman, just a couple of years older than them, genuinely reluctant to accept her hospitality.
As they began walking along the cold, crowded windswept street, Hannah murmured, ‘This is nice.’
‘It is,’ agreed Wendy happily. ‘And we haven’t even started to talk about your career. Your mum said you were keen to get into television news.’
‘Yes. Just in the newsroom, though. I don’t rate my chances of appearing on camera or anything. But there’s so much competition for even the most basic job, as you know. It was hard enough getting the one I’ve got, which is just researching for a pretty dire game show.’
‘I don’t know what I can do exactly, but I still have mates at ITN. I could put some feelers out and maybe get you a meeting with someone.’
‘But it would be awful if you went to all that trouble and they thought I was stupid or naïve or hopeless.’
Wendy stopped walking, turned to Hannah and spoke calmly but very firmly. ‘You may not be right for them. They may have no vacancies. All sorts of problems might stand in your way. But I can assure you that no one meeting you will see you as anything other than intelligent, articulate and very able.’
Hannah’s face broke into an enormous smile and she threw her arms around Wendy, apparently oblivious to the procession of people pushing by.
‘Mum said you were always really kind and lovely.’
‘I’ve always thought that about her,’ laughed Wendy as she pulled away from the embrace.
‘Come on,’ Hannah said as she took Wendy’s arm. ‘We mustn’t be late for your son!’
Hannah was quick to agree to Rhys’s post-concert invitation to join him and his musical friends for a drink, but Wendy bowed out in favour of a quiet evening at home with a book. Paradoxically, having felt uncomfortably single earlier, she suddenly longed for solitude. But the carol service had generated welcome emotions of peace and goodwill, and she felt calm and happy.
She walked through Covent Garden, dodging all the revellers taking selfies in front of the huge illuminated stag and the Christmas tree, before carving her way through the back streets and out to the Aldwych to catch a Number 4 bus which would deposit her near her flat.
While she waited, she searched her handbag for her mobile. Julian had left a voice message, which made her smile:
‘Soooo hung over. Been such a silly boy! It’s another Forza night tonight, so am at ROH. All I’ve done today is post pictures on Facebook and drink coffee. Sorry to have missed you.’
No longer upset about Julian and the party, she wondered why she had been so exercised by it earlier. Sometimes she worried about how changeable her moods were. But recently, she had read a book about dealing with divorce, which had been reassuring about volatile emotions during a break-up.
Julian would almost certainly be on stage at the moment, so she texted rather than called him.
Sounds like quite a party. I’m sure you must have enjoyed it at the time. I’ll take a look at Facebook when I get home and see what you got up to!
That was dishonest, but she was too ashamed to reveal how much of the day she had pored over his pictures, or of how desperately she had minded that he had gone without her.
The bus arrived, and she climbed to the upper deck and found a seat, then reached into her bag for spectacles and her Kindle, keen to get on with her book. But as the vehicle slowed in The Strand’s traffic, she found herself captivated by a group of laughing young lawyers, decked out in gowns and wigs crossing the road from the Royal Courts of Justice, and then setting themselves up to sing carols on the island in front of the illuminated St Clement Dane’s church. After a moment, she could hear strains of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ and she could not resist humming along with them. What a good day this was turning out to be after all.
She heard the sound of the slap on Robert’s cheek followed by his outraged howl and, as her fury abated, she realised that she had hit him.
‘Bitch!’ He spat the word at her.
She marched to the other end of her kitchen where she found an already opened bottle of Fleurie. Breathing heavily, she poured herself a generous measure which she gulped at before turning towards him, the glass held tightly in her trembling right hand.
‘I apologise. I shouldn’t have hit you, Robert. But then again you most certainly shouldn’t have been here when I arrived. You were supposed to have given me your keys. And it’s upsetting to see you when I’m not expecting it. OK, you had things to say, and I listened. I’m not sure if I’m sorry or not that Miss Spiky Hair has dumped you, but it doesn’t alter the fact that we’re getting divorced. So, it’s beyond bizarre of you to think that I might want to take her place on the trip to the Seychelles. And pressing up against me and forcing your tongue into my mouth was not just inappropriate, it was disgusting.’ She shuddered with distaste. ‘You’d better go now, because I’ll probably start throwing things at you if you don’t. I hadn’t actually realised till now how much I hate and despise you, and slapping you was so-oo satisfying, I might not be able to stop.’
Robert extricated his house keys from his jacket pocket and flung them onto the table before reaching for his coat and heading for the hall.
‘Why don’t you take Fran?’ she called after him.
‘What!’ Robert reversed back into the kitchen. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Francesca. Your long-term, on-off lover. The one you had your way with in our bedroom the day the twins were christened, and carried on seeing in between all the other women.’
‘You’ve lost your mind!’
‘She told me, Robert. For God’s sake, do you even recognise the truth? You’ve lived so many lies, I wonder if you do. But that woman probably loves you. She was certainly devastated to hear I was going to divorce you but that you had somebody else. By the way, has Miss Spiky Hair gone for good, or is it a temporary tiff?’
‘None of your business! I had no idea you could be so vindictive and insulting.’
‘Well you know now.’
She almost laughed at the look of disbelief on his face as he gazed at her, briefly, before turning and walking away. He slammed the front door and then there was silence.
For decades, she had lived in dread of the next infidelity. But she no longer had to do it. She had had her say. She had stood her ground.
Leaning against the fridge, she sniffed her wine in an attempt to calm her racing heartbeat. She was lucky. She had a future. She was solvent. Her marriage was well and truly over, and she was glad. So why could she not feel it?
Quickly, she found his details on her phone and called him. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Downstairs – about to leave the building.’
‘Come back for a minute.’
‘Why?’
‘I just feel we shouldn’t end things this way.’
He would have to ring the bell. She paced up and down till he did.
Opening the door, she saw him with freshly objective eyes; a man who at this moment appeared crumpled and defeated and all of his sixty-one years. And for the first time she gained an impression of how he would look in old age.
Without asking him, she poured a glass of the wine she was drinking, and left it on the table near to where he was standing before returning to the other end of the kitchen and leaning again on the fridge.
He ignored the drink for a moment, then cautiously stretched out his hand to pick it up. She could see him debating whether or not to sit down. He decided against it, and stood, awkwardly, trying to catch her eye and assess her mood.
Suddenly, he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘At the risk of making you even angrier, I think you should know that I’ve found you so intimidating and so bloody capable, that it emasculated me. I know that I’ve treated you appallingly. But I like romance, I like the chase. And I really, really like sex.’
‘You think I don’t?’ she asked quietly.
‘I’m sure you do in your own way.’ He smiled and suddenly looked beguiling and boyish – a look she must not succumb to, though it was hard not to capitulate as she had done a million times in the past.
‘I can be romantic and sexy.’
He shook his head forlornly. ‘On the day we found that you were pregnant with the twins, I wanted to go to bed and treasure you and take my time making meaningful and caring love with you, but you were hell-bent on spending the evening talking about how we would manage them. I think you even drew up a business plan of their development and what it would cost, and how much external help we might need.’
‘Somebody had to be practical.’
He went on, ‘Sometimes we’ve had sex in the afternoon. Not often. But I would cheerfully have spent ages more in bed, having sex, then reading a poem maybe, enjoying a little snack and glass of wine, and then making love again, but you always sprang up eager to get on with whatever it was that drives you.’
‘Well, why couldn’t you ever just think – that was really good, but there are loads of other important things to do? You always seemed to be wanting more, and wondering how soon you could do it again.’
‘That’s how men are.’
‘Really? All men?’
‘Probably.’
‘I suppose mistresses make time for the sort of elongated sex you have in mind? But isn’t that just part of their job description? After all, they’re not bringing up your children, or providing meals three times daily, or organising the laundry, or sorting out when people should be going to the dentist.’
‘I used to ask what I could do to help, but you always said that if I had to ask it wasn’t worth telling me and that it was quicker to do it yourself.’
Wendy blushed as she heard her own words recited back at her.
‘And you know,’ he continued, ‘recently, I tried one night to cook a romantic dinner and I lit candles – but I could see you thinking that I hadn’t put quite enough mats on the table and that the wax might drip on the polished wood. I would always assume that that kind of thing wasn’t important so long as the mood was right, but you’d be thinking that the gesture wasn’t worth it because of the mess it would leave.’
‘You make me sound…’ she took a deep breath as she searched for a suitably damning phrase, ‘heartlessly functional.’
‘I’m not making excuses for my infidelity,’ he mumbled, almost to himself. ‘Not really. But maybe I’m offering one or two reasons.’
He drained his glass and placed it carefully on the table. Then he took a step towards her, but she shook her head.
‘I suppose I needed to hear all that,’ she whispered, ‘though it made painful listening. Still, there are women out there who will doubtless indulge all your romantic gestures, and I will carry on somehow – probably by being the controlling, capable and pragmatic being that I am.’
Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat he had not removed, he studied the tiled floor. ‘I love you, Wendy, in my own inadequate way.’ He sighed. ‘But you’re right that we have no future.’
‘I’ve loved you too, Robert,’ she murmured. Then with a bolder tone, she added, ‘This is a better ending. But could you go now?’
Chapter Nine
Julian winced as he lowered himself into the hot bath, holding his breath as he waited for the warm water to ease the discomfort.
It was five days since the party, but he had not fully recovered. Was he never going to learn? Never going to stop allowing himself to be used by men who inflicted severe pain while pursuing their own pleasure?
He sighed. The soreness would disappear soon, but his sense of shame would linger.
Perhaps he could confide in Wendy. He would see her tomorrow at the choir’s Christmas concert. However, despite her being so liberal and worldly, he feared that sharing such sordid details might shock her.
The magnificent church of St Mary Magdalene in Little Venice turned out to be a wonderful venue for the concert. Everyone was in festive mood, and the chorus had added touches of glitter – tinsel, sparkly brooches, colourful cufflinks or diamante earrings – to their uniform of black suits or dresses.
The sound was sublime too. The sopranos’ voices floated upwards, apparently effortlessly, and filled the roof of the late nineteenth century church with exquisite melody. Even the tenors sounded passable. He was singing with them this evening; as a baritone, his voice added substance and tone to the middle and lower notes. Fortunately, he had no nerves about this performance, and even though he had had to resort to falsetto on a couple of the higher passages, he felt his contribution was improving the balance of the chorus.
Some of the members had asked him if he minded that he was not conducting the concert. But he had no illusions about his baton technique. He was good at rehearsing his singers – getting the notes into their heads, helping them listen to each other so they were more aware of pitch, and showing them how to breathe correctly so that they sang the phrases more musically. However, when it came to all that ‘waving your hands about’ as Wendy called it, he lacked style and confidence. So, he had persuaded the committee to bring in a talented young woman from the conducting course at his alma mater, the Guildhall School. He had also suggested booking a small chamber orchestra from the conservatory, as well as four singing soloists.
‘They won’t expect to be paid though, will they?’
The question had come from their Chairman, a hedge fund owner, and therefore – Julian surmised – someone who was worth millions and had never been asked to work for nothing. Other committee members had weighed in, keen to elaborate on what good exposure it would be for these young musicians to be performing with them – and how they could invite agents and friends, and how indeed ‘it might lead to something’.
Julian had listened, biting his tongue to prevent himself from launching into a furious tirade about money and the arts. Eventually, he had taken a deep breath and stated, quite quietly for him, that ‘exposure’ did not pay the rent or put food on your table, and that he would resign unless the chorus paid a small fee to all the students taking part.
One or two of the committee had had the grace to look shamefaced at his stance, and there had been some muttering along the lines of, ‘Of course. Point taken.’
It was true that many of the choir were pensioners who were not – if appearances were anything to go by – rich. But the younger choristers included bankers, doctors, and heads of HR departments; individuals who would have no clue what it was like to be a freelance artist. It felt good to have struck a blow for fellow musicians as well as for decency and common sense. Even better, all these youngsters were doing a great job.
