Infidelity (17 page)

‘Anyway,' I said, ‘tell me about Frank.'

‘What's to tell? You can see for yourself. He's an utterly self-contained, utterly unambitious bloke who grew up in Winchcombe and thinks getting an undemanding job in the Cheltenham branch of an insurance company was a huge leap. Nothing wrong with that. It's just I assumed there'd be more. I thought he was the strong, silent type, I guess. Hidden depths, all that. Turns out he's just silent.'

‘And the girls?'

‘They love him. He's their dad. I don't know what he thinks about
them
, to be honest. We literally never talk at that level. As you may have noticed, we don't sleep together any more. Haven't for three years. So there's no such thing as pillow talk.'

Amanda seemed remarkably calm telling me this, as if the emotional work had been long done. She and her girlfriends had been over and over it, I guessed, many times. I was not being asked for an opinion or even for a reaction, which was a relief. Being family, I was merely being brought into the loop.

‘So what are your plans?'

‘I'm not sure. But I'm gradually working it out. He'll stay in the house, of course – he's lived there his entire life, for God's sake. His parents only moved into their retirement place when we got married. I'll find a place for the girls and me in Cheltenham and the husband of one of my girlfriends has lined up a job for me that will pay the rent. Frank will support the kids financially, and he'll be able to see them whenever he likes. This won't be one of those acrimonious things. He's a good man, I think. A kind man. Just not cut out to be a husband.'

‘So when . . .?'

‘Soon. Weeks rather than months. Phil knows all about it. He's supportive. Sad, of course. I think he even gets Frank, in a way. Phil's not cut out to be a husband either.'

‘You'll miss Winchcombe.'

‘Yah. I actually think it was Winchcombe I fell in love with. I'll still spend plenty of time there. I just don't want to live there any more. Not with Frank. End of section.' (The Poshterisation of Amanda's speech hadn't rid her of her father's turns of phrase. ‘End of section' was pure Robert.)

She looked at her watch. ‘Time to be toddling. I'd like to show you a bit of Cheltenham before you catch your train – have you seen the spa itself? I want to show you Cheltenham Ladies College, too. That's where I hope the girls will go one day, but I'll have to find someone with more firepower than Frank if that's ever going to happen.'

On the drive back, we chatted about neutral topics and I brought her up to date with Australian politics.

‘It seems like another world,' she said, without interest. ‘Anyhow, with all this happening, I won't be able to afford a trip with the children in the near future, so I guess it would be good if Dad could come over. Mum obviously wouldn't know me from a bar of soap. Probably better not to know what that would feel like. How's the dog?'

‘Last time I saw Monty, he'd slowed down a bit but he was well. Very affectionate to your poor mother and a great comfort to Robert.'

‘We might get a dog when we move.'

‘It sounds as though you're talking quite openly about your plans. Have you told your dad?'

‘Not Dad. Not yet. But, yah, lots of people know. Frank would, too, if he'd been paying attention. I'm not a secretive kind of person, Tom. Frank just needs to ask more questions.'

As we approached Cheltenham, Amanda pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine.

‘There's another item on our agenda, isn't there, Tom?' There was a smile on her face, but I knew a serious point was coming, and I suspected I knew what it was.

‘Phil's told me a bit about Madam Sarah Dela-something.'

‘Oh. Yes. And?'

‘You could guess what I think. Not that it's any of my business. Or Phil's. But we are concerned, Tom, and for quite different reasons.'

‘Go on,' I said, not wanting to give anything away just yet. Amanda had never been morally judgemental, but neither was she famous for subtlety or sensitivity.

‘As he's probably told you, Phil thinks you're heading for more heartbreak. He doesn't like the fact that this lady is married – but that's none of his business either. The main thing – and I think he's sincere when he says this – is that she seems to be holding back and you seem to be plunging in. Is that fair? Does he have a point?'

I was briefly at a loss to know what to say. I appreciated all this concern – from Amanda, from Philip, from Maddy and even from Fiona, God bless her – but I didn't feel like getting into an analysis of the symmetry of Sarah's and my commitment to our relationship. One reason, I knew, was that I was still waiting for a specific declaration of love and commitment from Sarah herself (to say nothing of learning how to adapt to the infamous contract that I had promised Elizabeth never to mention). I certainly didn't want to share any of my private anguish with Amanda, especially as the headline hadn't changed: I was in love with a fascinating and remarkable woman.

‘I've discussed that with Phil,' I said, ‘and I know how he feels. I won't let myself be put in another situation where I'm the . . .'

‘Victim? Were you going to say victim?'

Was I? If I was, I wasn't about to admit it to Amanda.

‘No – I think I was going to say that I wouldn't let myself be put in a situation, ever again, where I was more committed to a relationship than the woman I was in love with.'

As I said it, I thought it sounded plausible. I wondered if it were true.

‘Anyway, my problem is different from Phil's. I think you're a big boy who can look after himself in these messy matters.'

‘Out with it, Amanda. What's your problem?' I said this with as much lightness of tone as I could muster. I allowed myself a quick glance at my watch. I didn't want to miss the train.

‘Kids. That's my problem, Tom. You're a born father, you know you are. I see you with my girls and I think – well, part of me wishes Frank was like that with the girls, but mostly I wish you could find yourself a wife who wanted to be the mother of your kids. There, I've said it.'

I had not been expecting this. It felt like a blow to the stomach.

‘The fact that she's married is a problem you have to sort out between you. That's not my concern – except I hope it can be sorted out without too much bloodshed. But kids, Tom. This doesn't sound to me like a woman who is going to want to be the mother of your kids, no matter how much she loves you, and no matter how quickly she extricates herself from this marriage, if that's what she's trying to do.'

It sounded as if Philip had not told Amanda all the details of Sarah's situation, and I was grateful to him for that. He and I both knew Amanda was not keen on shades of grey. Her decision to end her own marriage was typical of her – and her father's – rather blunt approach to moral issues and to the challenges of personal relationships.

I knew Amanda was right. Sarah was beyond the age where mother­hood was likely and, in any case, I'd never heard her express any enthusiasm for children – her own or anyone else's. (Why did I find myself, first with Clare and now with Sarah, drawn to women who failed to share my joy in the prospect of parenthood?)

‘You're lovely to say that, Amanda. I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I assure you my relationship with Sarah is very new and we haven't got anywhere near the question of children.'

‘Which is precisely my point, Tom. This is not a woman – God, what am I saying? I don't even know her. But, just trying to piece all this together, this sounds like a woman who has probably never wanted kids. She's keen on her career, isn't she? Bit of a star, Phil says? So if you really think you want to be a father, Tom, please think very carefully about what you're getting yourself into.'

I said nothing, because there was nothing I could say.

It was her turn to look at her watch. ‘Better be toddling. We'll look at the school next time. Please think about what I said, but don't hold it against me. I'm not normally a meddler, as you know.'

Hold it against her? Perhaps she had felt she was being bolder and more meddlesome than I did. I hadn't enjoyed our conversation but, coming from someone I'd known all her life, it didn't feel like meddling. Amanda was the closest thing I'd ever had to a sister, and that gave her licence to say pretty much anything she wanted to.

The five-forty for Paddington was right on time. Amanda stood on the platform and waved me off before returning to her car, and her own uncertain future. She was a tough one, always had been, and I felt confident she would manage her way out of her marriage and into something more to her liking. Frank, though, struck me as a different, more worrying case. Whether he would revel in his peace and his freedom from Amanda's expectations of him, or sink into a pit, I had no way of knowing. I might have wished that Amanda would care a little more about his wellbeing, but I knew her focus was on the girls. I hoped that Philip might maintain contact with Frank, knowing he had his father's good heart.

As the train eased into the darkness beyond the station, I pondered Amanda's rather unexpected message about me and fatherhood. Yes, I loved the idea of being a father, but I knew, as the train gathered speed and the familiar rhythms asserted themselves, that my love for Sarah would be more than enough to compensate for any disappointment over not having kids.

As for Philip's reservations, relayed again via Amanda – well, I knew Philip was more cautious than me, and had always been so, even as a small boy. There was no way he would rush into something like this and so I had fully expected him to be concerned on my behalf, not only about the appropriateness of my relationship with Sarah, but also with its haste. Everything must happen at the right pace and in the right order – that was Philip's approach, and his father's, too.

I knew I was running up a down escalator, and I knew I'd have wanted to encourage caution if any of my clients had come to me in a similar situation to mine. Rushing things can sometimes bring them undone, I might have said; it's sometimes worth waiting for a while to see if the situation resolves itself. Putting pressure on people only makes them more resistant to change. I could hear myself saying such things, and I would have meant all of them.

I also knew that, beyond the boundaries of such conventional wisdom, Philip simply thought this was all happening on Sarah's terms; that she and I were establishing a pattern of living that he wouldn't personally accept. I knew I wouldn't be able to accept it forever myself. I was living with the confidence that the switch on that escalator would soon be reversed and I would be carried upwards into a richer, fuller version of my present life with Sarah, all doubts dispelled.

As the train trundled towards London, I resolved to speak to Philip again. He and Amanda and their parents were the only reasonably close family I had left – which didn't mean we had to see eye to eye, but it did make me wonder if I should have explained the situation more clearly to Philip. Perhaps he hadn't completely understood the background; the husband-in-name-only status of Perry and the reason – at least, the stated reason – why Sarah still spent her weekends at Littleton. I didn't need Philip's blessing, but I didn't feel comfortable knowing he had these reservations. I wanted him to be ready to accept Sarah when they finally met; perhaps even to enjoy and embrace her as he had once embraced Clare.

And Amanda's reservations? They were of a completely different order – beyond my control and, I thought, in the context of my love for Sarah, irrelevant.

21

I
returned to Vincent Square with a heavy heart, knowing I wouldn't see Sarah until the following night. But when I opened the door to the apartment, I saw a trail of her clothes strewn along the floor, Hansel-and-Gretel style, leading me to the bedroom. I found her in bed, naked, waiting for me with a mischievous smile on her face.

‘A spot of role reversal,' she said. ‘Like it?'

I had never been as pleased to see anyone as I was to see her at that moment: I experienced an immediate surge of renewed confidence. I felt positive that all of Philip's misgivings were unwarranted. Even my need to convince him evaporated.

‘What happened to the village fair?' I asked.

‘I was missing you too, too much. I decided to surprise you.'

‘Mission accomplished.'

I washed away the grime of the journey and banished, for the moment, my lurking anxiety about the possible meanings of that Damoclean word ‘cohabitation'. When I climbed in beside her, Sarah was warm and drowsy and ready for love.

In the morning, I made us tea and we sat up in bed and talked about our separate weekends. Sarah had not been disappointed by her Easter liturgical festivities. She had been thrilled by the choir and organ and had sung her heart out in the hymns. The scholarly visitor had been everything she'd hoped for.

‘I made copious notes, in fact. He even got theological about “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. I'd never thought of that before.
What makes the lamb love Mary so? The eager children cry, Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know, The teacher did reply.
'

‘Very deep.'

‘Tom! Don't be so cynical. He handled the idea of reciprocity quite beautifully. It was in a special part of the service designed for the kids. But he drew the adults in with a lovely segue to William Blake.
Little Lamb who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
'

‘Ah.'

‘And don't say “ah” like that, either!' Sarah poked and tickled me into submission. ‘All right, smarty, tell me something profound about your weekend with your quasi-cousin.'

I told her about Amanda's rather businesslike decision to leave Frank, and about their delightful children. I even mentioned, as lightly as I could, the pang of yearning for fatherhood that struck me. I told her about the visit to Snowshill and the procession on the village green, and confessed to not having entered the church.

I also told her about my futile attempt to use the train trip down to Cheltenham to put something together for the Blair training program, about my lack of interest in trying to prop up Jennifer's ill-conceived system, and about my growing enthusiasm for the idea of a total revamp. (It crossed my mind that this was something she might choose to mention to Jelly.)

We talked about what we might do with this precious day stretching before us. Time passed. We didn't even glance at the clock. Eventually, Sarah said she was hungry and I scrambled some eggs and brought them back to bed. We talked some more, without conviction, about how we might spend the day, what we might do together, where we might go. I pulled the curtains apart to check on the weather. Grey and drizzly.

‘Close those curtains,' Sarah demanded from the bed.

I brewed more tea. (Teabags were banned in Sarah's house.)

We made love lazily. We slept. We woke and held each other and abandoned all thought of making any other plans for the day.

I prepared sandwiches for lunch while Sarah showered and returned to bed wrapped in her silk dressing gown. The afternoon light, barely visible through a crack in the curtains, faded to black.

‘One day, Tom Harper, we are going to look back and say today was the beginning of a new chapter for us. I think this is the loveliest Easter Monday I've ever had in my entire life. You are most certainly the loveliest man I have ever spent an Easter Monday with. I especially love it when you get enthusiastic. Like the way you are about the prospect of reorganising things at Blair. You seem so intense. You're like a little boy.'

‘Not too little, I hope.' I slid one arm around her and began caressing her breast through the silk of her dressing gown. She flinched and I took my hand away.

‘Sorry. Was that too rough? Did I hurt you?'

‘Not exactly. My breast felt sore, that's all. I wasn't objecting, I assure you. Perhaps it's a bit overstimulated.'

We lay in each other's arms and drifted off into another deep sleep.

When we awoke, I instinctively reached for her breast again, and again she drew back.

‘Let me heat us some soup,' she said. ‘There's some in the fridge.'

I stayed in bed, listening to the cheerful sounds coming from the kitchen, including the sound of her soft singing. I thought about that sore breast, and wondered. I wanted to freeze-frame that moment.

‘We'd better have this out here,' Sarah called from the kitchen. ‘We don't want soup and breadcrumbs on the sheets.'

‘Mustn't upset Mrs Hepworth,' I muttered, with a smile.

I pulled on a shirt and pants and joined her at the table. We sat as we normally did, facing each other, but Sarah asked me to come and sit beside her. ‘I want you close to me, Tom. I feel a bit anxious.'

‘The breast?'

‘There's no lump, if that's what you're wondering.'

‘Of course there's no lump,' I said, my thoughts having been running on entirely other, more cheerful lines.

We ate in silence, held hands, kissed deeply, and crawled back into bed with a glass of wine.

‘Ms Delacour,' I said, trying to keep my tone light, ‘may I ask you something?'

‘Anything, Mr Harper. You know there are no secrets between us.'

I turned to her and kissed her again. ‘This may seem an odd question, but when was your last period?'

‘I beg your pardon? That is a
very
odd question.'

‘Odd or not, can you remember?'

‘Oh, I see. This is about the sore breast. I was a bit slow on the uptake. Well, let me reassure you – no, I'm not pregnant, if that's what you're wondering. God help us, I am on the pill, you know, and I'm also rapidly leaving my fertility behind me.'

‘Still, can you remember when it was?'

‘Not really. Why are you persisting? This
is
about the sore breast, isn't it? Why can't you just accept that we might have been rather overdoing it?'

‘We've been sleeping together since –'

‘Sleeping together? How coy! How quaint!
Sleeping
together. That's what my mother calls it. I suppose it's nicer than saying you've been fucking my brains out for weeks on end. That's the way my students talk, even to me.'

‘All right, we've been having regular sex for the past six weeks. Better? The thing is, I think I'd have known if you'd had a period in that time, and you haven't.'

‘You are a sweet man, Tom. Fancy noticing. But, really, my periods are quite irregular. I often seem to miss one, even with the pill. Fox says this isn't unusual for women in their early forties. I might even be heading for early menopause.'

‘But you're still taking the pill religiously?'

‘Religiously? Me? I certainly couldn't claim that. I forget the odd one or two here and there, always have, but Fox thinks I'm pretty safe, given my age. Perhaps the sore breast is just that thing some women have after ovulation. My breasts have felt a bit fuller the past few days, so something hormonal is going on. Perhaps a period is imminent.' She paused, looked solemnly into my eyes, and took my face between her hands. ‘You know, I've never had a conversation like this with a man before, believe it or not. Not ever.'

We drank our wine, turned out the light and talked about the week ahead. Our voices became dreamier and trailed off into familiar endearments and declarations.

I lay with her head cradled in the crook of my arm and listened to her breathing become deeper. Sleep didn't come as quickly to me as to Sarah. I was gripped by the certainty that we would never be able to part, that returning to Sydney without her would be impossible and that my long-term future might well be right there in London. The thrilling thought had also lodged in my mind that, against all probabilities, I might actually become the father of Sarah's child. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the euphoria of such a prospect.

That thought was quickly supplanted by another: a child for Sarah and me would be one thing; a child for Perry's wife, since that was what Sarah had chosen to remain, would be quite another.