The Queen's Margarine (24 page)

But there was a way to save herself, save the second memoir. A plan was forming in her head – audacious and yet foolproof. If Hugo took the chunk she'd written (200 pages, roughly), and added a sort of postscript of his own, he could ensure the book was published to even greater interest and acclaim.
He'd
know what to say; how to keep it brief but tragic: the author had suffered so appallingly, she'd had no recourse but death, and had decided to drown herself in the river she adored. Thus the memoir, although incomplete, had been completed by the act itself – an act that spoke volumes about its subject's gruelling life. She could already see the headlines; hear the buzz, the hype, the sobbing of her fans. It would be a
tour de force
, a masterstroke, so long as it was done with due drama and panache. Death, like any memoir, had to be theatrical. No good wading in to this deserted stretch of river and waiting till the water dragged her down, with no witnesses, no public shock and outrage. Her bloated body would sink unseen, like a broken branch, a piece of mouldy trash. No, she must make her fateful leap from the centre of the bridge, in full view of the traffic. Even at this time of night, the traffic never ceased, so every eye would be focused on the frail, courageous figure in flimsy clothes, with bare and bleeding feet, plunging to her doom.

As she limped along the embankment to the bridge, she imagined one of the drivers rushing to her rescue – the sort of decent, brilliant bloke she had always longed to meet. And, as he dragged her from the water's cold embrace, she would realize there was hope still – hope of love, commitment, a future free from pain.

‘But suppose he doesn't reach you in time?' she asked herself aloud, teeth chattering as she spoke.

‘You'll just have to take that chance, Lauren. What's one more risk, when your whole life's been a gamble from the start?'

She was shivering now from fear as much as cold; her feet smarting on the pavement; her hair blown about by the unforgiving
wind. None the less, she turned on to the bridge with a sense of almost triumph.

Because, however it panned out – tragic death or tumultuous love – it would make the perfect ending to her memoir, the perfect (honest) ending to her life.

‘By the way,' Gerald said, putting down his coffee cup. ‘Henry died. Yesterday.'

‘Who?'

‘Henry.'

‘Sorry, I'm not with you. Do we know a Henry?'

‘We did.'

Eileen watched her husband, noticing how tense he seemed, buttering his toast with unnecessary force, the blade buckling under the strain. ‘When?' she asked. ‘How long ago?'

‘Ages.'

‘What's that supposed to mean? Why are you being so mysterious?'

‘I'm not being anything.' He shook his head impatiently. ‘I'm just surprised you don't remember.' Wrenching the lid off the marmalade jar, he heaped a glistening dollop on to the spoon. ‘Henry …' – he paused, the name hanging in the air – ‘is –
was
– Samantha's husband.'

She choked on her coffee, and began to cough and splutter, almost welcoming the paroxysms, which allowed her time to calm her instant reaction: jealousy, distaste and fear.

‘How … how awful for her,' she said, finally. The news demanded sympathy – an outward show, at least. ‘Although I suppose she must have been expecting it,' she added, trying to sound casual, unconcerned. ‘He was quite a bit older, as far as I recall.'

‘Yes, twenty years. But that still makes him only sixty-one. Which is extremely young to die, these days. It was a heart attack, apparently – mercifully quick. Anyway, I'm going to the funeral.'

‘
We're
going, don't you mean?' she said, instinctively sensing danger.

‘No, just me.' He snapped a small piece off his toast, and fired it, like a bullet, into his mouth.

‘But surely I'll come, too?'

‘I don't think it's appropriate.'

‘Gerald, we always go to funerals together. People will think it very odd.'

‘What people?'

‘Well, the other guests.' And Samantha herself, she didn't add. Too painful even to mention her. In her own personal scheme of things, the woman herself was dead; had been for the last two decades.

‘Eileen, for heaven's sake, I won't know anyone there.'

You'll know Samantha. Again she didn't say it, just sat staring at the label on the marmalade: ‘
Rhapsodie de Fruit
. The natural flavour of hand-picked oranges is carefully conserved through long-established French country traditions …' Why, she thought, with sudden irritation, couldn't Gerald settle for common-
and-garden
marmalade? But then he had always had a taste for the exotic. Hence Samantha, of course.

‘When
is
the funeral?'

‘Next Tuesday.'

‘But that's the day of your meeting with—'

‘I know.' He cut her off; shot a second toast-bullet into his mouth.

‘You can't miss that meeting, can you?'

He shrugged. ‘Seems I'll have to. But I can't discuss it now. I'm already late as it is.' He pushed his chair back, disappeared upstairs.

Mechanically she began to clear the table; swilled his untouched coffee down the sink; saved the toast crusts for the birds. Within minutes, he was down again and giving her his goodbye kiss: brief, though on the lips.

Don't go, she all but pleaded. Don't leave me on my own.

She was so used to leaving
with
him, catching the same train, heading for her own office, while he walked north to his. In the last two weeks, she had become a fifties wife, waving off her man, then
embarking on the household chores, while he toiled in the Big, Bad World Outside. She ought to don a frilly pinny and a submissive, simpering smile. In fact, she resented her enforced redundancy – this morning more than usual. The whole structure and routine of work would have stopped her dwelling on Samantha; distracted her from the awkward questions seething in her head. How had Gerald
known
that Henry was dead? The man wasn't a public figure, so there wouldn't have been an obituary – a line or two in the
Telegraph
, maybe, but her husband didn't have the time to peruse ‘births, marriages and deaths' columns. Besides, if the death had occurred only yesterday, any notification was unlikely to have appeared yet. Could Samantha herself have somehow been in contact with him?

The very thought made her guts churn, as if she had gorged on tripe and onions for breakfast, instead of nibbling half a slice of toast. Back in 1988, after the woman had discarded Gerald – ditching him at the altar, more or less – she had innocently assumed that the pair had never seen each other again. And, certainly, since he'd married
her
(on the rebound, she suspected), Samantha's name had never passed his lips, not in nineteen years. It had been taken for granted that the subject was a painful one – for both of them – and thus best kept firmly buried in the past. Which made it all the more extraordinary that Gerald knew the details of the heart attack (‘mercifully quick'), as well as the date of the funeral.

She slumped into his chair at the still messy breakfast table and grabbed the jar of marmalade by its smugly slender neck. Its very shape annoyed her – not the usual dumpy jar, but elegantly tall, as Samantha was herself. And distinctive, like Samantha; three times the price of basic Golden Shred. On the one occasion she'd met the woman, she'd been struck by her air of natural superiority: the mane of honey-coloured hair rippling to a tiny waist; the long, coltish legs, tanned a glowing bronze. And her clothes were both original and daring: an exclusive designer top in damson-coloured silk, teamed with a tatty denim junk-shop mini-skirt. She had carried off the combination with enviable aplomb – the same
‘I'll-do
-as-I-please' audacity that had caused her to dump Gerald, while retaining his engagement ring. Henry was the catalyst – a much
older man, who happened to be seriously rich, with a flat in Paris, a couple of villas-in-the-sun, and fingers in numerous lucrative pies. Had the marriage worked out, she wondered now, exactly as she used to in the past? Did Samantha have a brood of healthy children, and her own equally healthy bank account? She would still be only forty; pre-menopausal, fertile; dangerously attractive. Worse – she was suddenly available, a widow maybe hungry for a playmate.

She slammed the jar back on the table, angry with herself now. She was jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence. Henry's body was barely even cold. Samantha would be mourning him, not already on the lookout for a substitute. And, as for Gerald hearing about the death, some old friend from the past might well have given him the news. Her wisest course would be to arrange a little diversion for Tuesday, to keep her mind off the funeral – perhaps lunch with a friend, followed by a shopping spree. In fact, she was lucky to be spared a long and probably tedious
church-service
. Far more fun to sit sipping wine in a restaurant, before splashing out on a pair of silly shoes.

‘Goodbye, darling.'

‘Goodbye. Take care.'

Gerald took a sudden step back in to the house, and, with uncharacteristic tenderness, clasped her hand in his. ‘I'm sorry all your arrangements fell through.'

She shrugged. ‘It's worse for Kay. That's the second time this year she's gone down with tonsillitis.'

‘Well, try to do something else. You could ring Roberta and see if—'

‘No, Roberta's away this week. But don't worry – you get off.'

As he walked towards the car, she tried to see him through Samantha's eyes. Despite being forty-nine, there was no trace of middle-aged spread, and his few grey hairs only served to emphasize the darkness of the rest.
She
had been less fortunate, and was two years older anyway, with thinning hair and a thickening waist. She just hoped he wouldn't compare her with the Girl Who Got Away, who was bound to be still slim. And
honey-coloured
hair would certainly look striking against the black of widow's weeds.

‘What time will you be back?' she asked, following Gerald out to the car.

‘Difficult to say. You know how these things drag on – first the church bit, then the burial and the reception and what-have-you. And it's quite a drive, in any case.'

‘Well, don't forget to ring me.'

‘I
always
ring you, Eileen.'

True. He was a model husband in that respect: considerate and reliable, although admittedly a man of few words; emotionally distant, however much she might try to draw him out. She stood watching the blue Volvo back into the road, accelerate along the street and finally disappear around the corner. She didn't wave – nor did he. She mustn't build this whole thing up – it was little different really from him leaving for work, as normal. What she needed above all was to find another job herself. Retirement didn't suit her, and, because almost all her friends worked, she wasn't in the habit of having girlie lunches or forays to the shops. And since her plan for just such an outing had been scuppered by Kay's tonsillitis, she ought to use today to re-think her life and future. It certainly wouldn't hurt to ring a few employment agencies and discover what her chances were of finding a new line of work.

Having fetched the Yellow Pages, she made a shortlist and rang the first: Reed Recruitment.

‘Yes, I do have good computer skills … Mm, my previous firm was involved in a cost-cutting exercise and made half of us redundant … My age? Fifty-one … Is that a problem, then?'

It
was
a problem. For Brook Street, too. And for Acme Appointments. Apparently, fifty was over-the-hill – indeed, not far off senility. However, two other (less ageist) agencies suggested she call in, and although it was now sheeting down with rain, she decided to brave the interviewers, along with the hostile elements. She would also go to Waitrose, since she had planned a special dinner to welcome Gerald back. He liked proper, well-cooked meals, not the sort of itsy-bitsy snacks on offer at most funerals. She might not have a wasp-waist, nor a cascade of blondish hair, but she
was
an ace in the kitchen, whereas Samantha (so the rumour went) couldn't so much as boil an egg.

Having already turned the oven down at least a dozen times, she finally switched it off and removed the casserole. It was clearly over-cooked; the meat beginning to shrivel, the sauce reduced by half. This was Gerald's fault and, in fact, the entire meal would be ruined if he didn't show up soon. Again, she calculated the timings in her head – a futile exercise, since she'd been doing it all afternoon, yet was still none the wiser as to the cause of the delay. He had left at ten this morning, for a service at eleven, which would have lasted, say, an hour. Another hour for the burial (at most), then back to the house for drinks and snacks and chat – three hours at the outside. That would bring the time to 4 p.m. Add an hour's drive back, and he should have been home by five. It was now getting on for nine.

Odder still was the fact he hadn't rung. And each time she had tried to reach him on his mobile, she'd been greeted by the same frustrating message: ‘The Vodaphone you are calling has been switched off. Please try later.'

If he'd had an accident, wouldn't she have heard? The police contacted next-of-kin immediately, once they'd identified the victim. She closed her eyes a second; saw not his bloodstained corpse but his naked body, very much alive; clamped to Samantha's in threshing, thrusting ecstasy.

‘Gerald, darling, I never thought we'd do this again.'

‘Nor me, my sweet. Christ! I've missed you desperately. Never for a single moment have I forgotten how it was for us. And it's every bit as thrilling now as then.'

‘Can you ever forgive me, Gerald? I made a stupid mistake, let myself be blinded by Henry's age and money. He seemed so mature, so solid, to a girl just pushing twenty. Yet you were the one I only ever loved.'

Such things could happen – easily. He might never have intended making any sexual move; just stayed behind till the other guests had gone, so that he could talk to her in private, and find out what had happened in the intervening years. It would be Samantha, the seductress, who'd have used her wiles to get exactly what she wanted. And, of course, he was much more of a catch now, than he had been twenty
years ago: well-established, prosperous, still in good shape, and with no children to tie him down. In fact, if Samantha had kids of her own, that might double the attraction, since she would welcome a
ready-made
stepfather to help her bring them up. And Gerald would relish the role, as the next best thing to being a real dad. Although why stop there, when he and Samantha could go on to have their
own
kids? It wasn't him who was infertile, after all.

The very word brought the usual stab of curdled grief and shame; every bit as strong now as during those futile years of tests and drugs and scans – in fact, stronger, when she compared herself with Samantha: not only ten years older, and less pretty and vivacious, but lacking in the key component of womanhood. A barren woman was so much damaged goods.

Putting down the phone, she stood staring at her casserole, wondering why she'd bothered. Why expect him back for dinner if he was busy making babies? And could she really blame him if he left? He had probably only stayed so far, because he'd continued to keep hoping – even through her forties – that she would finally conceive. But the menopause had dashed such hopes; every hot flush and night sweat seeming spitefully to underline the point.

‘My wife's no fun now, Samantha. She's always getting headaches, or some tedious pain in her joints. And she disturbs me every night, getting up to change her pyjamas because they're soaked with sweat.'

Samantha wouldn't wear pyjamas, but a baby-doll-style nightie that showed off her astounding legs. And Samantha's joints would never ache.

‘Let's do it with my feet up on your shoulders. I love that way – it makes your cock feel so snug inside me. No, of course it doesn't hurt, Gerald. I'm as supple as a piece of India rubber. In fact, if you want to try a really wild position …'